I scoff. “If you start sounding like Alex with the ‘boys will be boys’ crap, I swear I’ll disown you. Anyway, he’s hardly a boy. He’s thirty-two, Whit.”
I bet he has a couple of gray hairs. I bet he has a bad back and gets heartburn. Nobody with gray hair and heartburn has any business fucking around at rodeos every weekend.
“So then why don’t you appease Mom? Invite him over so she can see how different he is, and maybe she’ll quit talking about him.”
“Oh, yeah, as if he won’t come in and turn on the charm for her. I’m banking on her forgetting about this soon. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow when I pick up Jonas. I’m gonna try to”—I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time—“never mind,no time to finish my yoga. I have to head to the clinic.”
—
Dr. Brickham’s office—which I suppose is also mine now—is a hole in the wall at the far end of Wells Canyon’s Main Street. An unassuming brick building, likely one of the first things constructed in town, nestled beside the Anglican church. The glass front door swings open, tripping a trio of tinkling bells to alert Wanda, our receptionist, of my presence. Despite the dingy walls and worn parquet flooring, Wanda maintains a relatively warm and welcoming atmosphere in the small waiting room. It always smells clean, the room’s lined with neatly arranged chairs, and magazines are perfectly fanned out across the coffee table—if Brickham could be bothered to put a little money into this place, I’m confident Wanda would make it shine.
She pops up from behind the oversized oak desk with a smile that nudges her thick glasses up her nose. “Good afternoon, Blair. Mr. Davidson canceled his appointment for today.”
“Of course he did.” I sigh. It’s not surprising. I saw his wife a few weeks ago, and she was eager to have somebody other than Brickham to help manage his diabetes. But like nearly every other farmer and cattleman around here, I knew he wouldn’t show from the moment his wife booked him in.
At least that gives me a minute to breathe.
I stride across the empty waiting room to my office door and slip inside. The candle warmer I evidently left on last night gives the room a moody, amber glow, and I don’t bother with the overhead lighting. Instead, my body melts into the plush desk chair, and I take the first full exhale of my day.
Then I stare down at the stack of files Wanda color-coded for me. I’m still not entirely sure if it’s hazing or him making the best use of an extra person in the office, but Brickham’s managed to slam me with every bit of paperwork possible. Prescriptions, supply orders, exam requisitions, doctor’s notes…you name it, I’m the one filling it out.
Homing in on a thick binder of workers’ compensation paperwork, which I accidentally put off for so long Wanda felt the need to add hot pink Post-its indicatingurgent, I pluck at my wrist blindly, searching for a hair elastic.Nothing.
Fuck. I must’ve left it on the outside table at home.
I groan and sort through the cluttered top drawer of my desk, until I finally come across a bright green rubber band. It’ll probably rip out a bunch of my hair with it, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay so I can focus on work without the distraction of hair in my face.
After securing the ponytail, I wrangle a pair of earbuds from their case and pray Taylor Swift can help me through this mind-numbing task. And she does. I’m so deep into data entry and thefolklorealbum, I don’t notice somebody entering the office until they’re scaring the ever-loving shit out of me by yanking a stack of papers from under my nose.
“Denver.” I breathe out his name, trying to calm my racing heart now that I know I’m not about to be murdered. Myearbuds slip into the case, and a harsh exhale blows the wispy baby hairs fallen across my eyes.
“Blair,” he says with that stupid singsong voice and that equally stupid smile. “Terrible bedside manner, as usual—keeping a patient waiting for fifteen whole minutes. Thanks to you, I now know all about Wanda’s Yorkiepoo…though I still don’t really know what that is. A dog, maybe?”
He drags an empty chair across the room with an obnoxious screech and plops into it on the other side of my desk.
“Yes, Winston is a dog.” I gather the paperwork I’m in the middle of completing, pushing it to the side of my desk before sifting through the remaining stack to find Denver’s X-ray results. “Well, it looks like your collarbone healed fine.”
“Told ya so.” He smiles, leaning forward and tapping the paper between us with his finger. “Now you can sign this, and come watch me kick ass at the rodeo this weekend.”
“I’ll sign the form because it’s been six weeks, and I don’t have a legitimate medical reason not to. But I’m not going to sit there and watch you hurt yourself again.”
I can’t. I lost all my senses last time. I don’t know how I managed to watch him risk his life weekend after weekend when we were kids, but just thinking about it makes my palms clammy. And he’s not even mine to lose now.
Mouth agape, he clutches his chest like he’s been stabbed. “Damn, that’s how little faith you have in my riding abilities? I’ll have you know I almost never get hurt.”
“Good. That means I don’t have to worry about you being a frequent patient here.” I bite my cheek and wince as his face falls.
Quickly recovering from my verbal slap, his tongue darts out briefly, leaving his lower lip glistening as his sullen expression turns into a small smirk. “On second thought, I might start throwing myself off the horses. Make a habit of getting injured.”
“Of course you would.”
“You know…I probably need a complete physical. Full body exam.” He makes like he’s about to undo his belt, and I throw a hand up to stop him.
“Great, I’ll schedule you an appointment with Brickham. I’m sure he’d be happy to give you the full rundown. Maybe even a prostate exam.” I nod, pretending to be looking at scheduling on my computer—as if Brickham would ever keep a digital schedule.
“Hard pass.”
I sign the rodeo association’s health form and slide it across the wooden desktop toward him. “There you go. Have fun this weekend.”
