Craving Her Rough Diamond Doc. Amalie Berlin

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      The little mantras calmed her enough to get her hand under control, but Imogen still couldn’t bring herself to look at him, knowing her eyes would be glassy and wet. Instead, she focused on the window. “Amanda is effusive with everyone.” As the landscape rolled past, her vision cleared and her mind followed. “She’d take candy from a stranger then invite him home after announcing she lived alone and the nearest neighbor was a mile away.”

      “She’s not that bad.” Wyatt chuckled. Like any of this was funny. “But you had it right about the friendly-to-strangers bit. Not insanely trusting but friendly.”

      “I don’t know how to be Southern and candy-sweet.” Distance. Keep distance. Keep calm. He didn’t know any better. His opinion didn’t matter. Do the job. Go home. Pretend to drink the Kool-Aid, just don’t swallow it.

      “All I’m saying is be nice. Friendly. Think of something to say to personalize your interactions. Compliment patients, ask their advice, engage them somehow, and don’t use any of your annoying tricks.”

      “Back to thinking I’ll purposefully antagonize the patients? I have some training, you know.” She took a deep breath, counted to ten and smiled past the lump in her throat. She could fake a smile. It was the least offensive mask she had, even if perhaps not the most healthy. “Anything else?”

      Wyatt looked at her a little too long, but the road demanded his attention and, let off the hook, she looked back out the window.

      “Two more things,” Wyatt said. “One: there isn’t much black and white out here—the law, and how stringently it’s followed, is fluid. Don’t get involved unless something is likely to harm the patient or someone else.”

      “Like?”

      “I’ve treated and not reported a hunting accident before,” Wyatt answered without hesitation, so matter-of-factly that he might have simply expressed his love of potatoes.

      “A shooting?” That just seemed wrong. Dangerous.

      “Shot himself in the leg, but missed any major trauma.”

      “That’s…”

      “Illegal. I know.” He didn’t seem fazed by it, though. “The patient was hunting in the off-season, which is to say: illegally. But the way I see it, and the way pretty much anyone in the area would see it, a man has a right to feed his family. Happened on his land. He’s not well off, but he’s making the most of what he has. I wouldn’t want him punished for making sure his kids didn’t go without.”

      “That’s why you wanted me to stitch you up…” Imogen murmured, realization coming in a flash.

      “That’s why I wanted you to stitch me up.”

      “He could have lied about being the one to shoot him, you know.” People lied all the time.

      “I know, but he wasn’t.” Wyatt still seemed unfazed, and so sure of himself. Ego.

      She nodded, still processing this information. The idea of putting her license on the line didn’t appeal, but she could understand his logic. There was a certain kind of nobility to the decision, whether she would’ve made the same call or not. “At least it won’t be boring.”

      “Last thing. If you have questions or concerns about one of my calls, make them in private—later, ideally. I need you to trust me and follow my orders without hesitation.”

      “I’ll try,” Imogen murmured, mostly because she wasn’t ever sure exactly what she was going to do from moment to moment. And even if she’d never questioned a doctor’s call in front of a patient before, she wasn’t feeling too sure of anything. The job. Why she’d come. Him. Her worthiness as a nurse or a person. Amazing how fast all that could come rushing back. And she had thought she was past someone having the ability to make her feel so off. So small.

      He turned the bus off the road and into a gravel lot beside a tiny white church, the kind quickie-wedding places and photographers liked to clone for ambiance.

      “Do better than try.” He sounded distant suddenly, and more than a little icy. Dr. Beechum had just arrived. A new mask came down, and Imogen didn’t know which Wyatt was the real one—the one who walked her through stitches, the surly wild man on the mountain, or this icy man now walking to the back to start setting up.

      Ditching her cup, she rubbed some warmth back into her suddenly chilled hands.

      She hoped it was the last of his masks she’d have to watch out for.

      She’d learned early on that when the masks came off, the monsters came out.

       CHAPTER THREE

      “EMMA-JEAN?” Like an immigrant to Ellis Island, Imogen had been renamed. And this time it wasn’t a patient mangling her name.

      The first couple of times she’d heard her name mispronounced by patients, Imogen had wanted to correct them. But in the spirit of following Wyatt’s Grandpa Law she’d held back. That and because the patients seemed no more interested in talking to her than they might be to a wandering taxidermist who offered to kill and stuff their favorite pet for them.

      Most of her smiles went unreturned. No one even wanted to talk about the fabulous weather, how green and lush everything was, how wonderful it smelled outside, with the honeysuckle blooming, or pretty much anything else she brought up.

      Her efforts to find common ground with one older gentleman had even resulted in her being called a “damned dogooder” for offering him a cup of coffee. Further alienating the patients wasn’t high on her frustrating list of things to do. Coffee had been her go-to for common ground. Who didn’t like coffee?

      With a deep breath and after a few seconds to unclench her hands, Imogen turned to face Wyatt, who’d called her new name. He looked smug. He also looked like he needed someone to stomp on his toes. Someone like her. Later. After she played his stupid game.

      “Yes, Doctor?”

      “Next patient.” He could’ve just said that, but that would have deprived him of the perverse pleasure he took in her predicament.

      She stepped off the bus and made for the serene little church, today’s waiting room, feeling not at all serene. Red carpet, wooden benches carved on the ends with crosses, an open stage in the front for the kind of preachers who needed room to wander. So quaint and peaceful it almost took the edge off her day. Her little oasis away from Wyatt.

      Inside, a handful of people sat—most of whom had spent the day there, chatting while people came and went from the bus. She snagged the sign-in sheet from the table beside the door and called the last name on the check-in sheet. “Mr. Smith?”

      Day almost over. Just one more patient.

      An older man stood with some effort and as he turned to look back, ice lanced through her middle.

      Blue skin.

      Oh, no. His skin tone rivaled a blueberry, bluer than anyone she’d ever seen. She’d coded patients in her time, she just hadn’t expected it to happen on this job.

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