The Baby Doctor's Bride. Jessica Matthews

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      “But you haven’t heard the details. The least you can do is listen. Please?” Trying not to beg, she added, “It’s important.”

      “It always is,” he mumbled, before he set the bag of seed on the ground, reattached the lid to the feeder, and strode toward the cabin’s front door. “I suppose you’d better come inside.”

      It wasn’t the most gracious welcome, but he was willing to hear her out, so she’d find her victories wherever she could.

      In spite of his gruff manner, he courteously held open the screen door for her. “Thanks,” she murmured, equally polite.

      As soon as she stepped across the threshold into the main living area she instantly felt at home. Because she spent nearly all of her day seeing patients in claustrophobic cubicles, open spaces appealed to her. If she had a place like this to come home to every night, she’d be one happy lady.

      “This is quite impressive,” she said, taking in the rough-hewn log walls, the flagstone fireplace, the bear rug in front of a leather sofa and the overall “Southwest” interior design. At the opposite end of the great room stood an old oak table, large enough to accommodate eight comfortably, and a kitchen area that boasted modern appliances.

      Furnishings aside, Ethan Locke dominated the space.

      He clicked off the television, then crossed to the table, where a half-empty bottle of water stood, and drank deeply. “I’m sure you didn’t drive this far off the beaten path to discuss my accommodations,” he said when he’d finished.

      “No, I didn’t,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by every inch of his six feet plus lean frame or the frown on his ruggedly bewhiskered face. “I need your help.”

      “Oh?” Everything about him exuded skepticism, from the way he folded his arms across his massive chest to the suspicion shining in his blue-gray eyes.

      “Actually, the whole town needs you.”

      He raised one eyebrow. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

      “It’s true,” she insisted. “With our only family practitioner, Walt Griffith, gone—”

      “What happened to him?”

      “Nothing, but his brother in Phoenix had a stroke and he went to visit. Apparently he’s not doing well, and Walt thinks he could pass on anytime, so he doesn’t want to leave. Which is okay because a friend of his, Jed Richardson, has taken over.”

      “Then I don’t see a problem.”

      “Jed’s an internist, which means I’ve inherited all of Walt’s pediatric patients. I’m a pediatrician, too, by the way.”

      “Lucky you.”

      She ignored his comment, although she wondered at the reason for his attitude. “To make matters worse, I have seven kids with whooping cough.”

      He frowned. “Aren’t you encouraging your parents to vaccinate their children? Or don’t they teach that in med school these days?”

      “The ink may not be quite dry on my board certification,” she ground out, irritated by how easily he’d jumped to the wrong conclusions. She could quickly imagine what he’d think if he knew she’d moved here less than a month ago. “But Walt and I are both well aware of the importance of childhood vaccinations. Three of my cases are eight years and older, and are current with their shots. The other four are babies who haven’t received the full immunization regimen yet. They aren’t sick because of parental or physician negligence.”

      He let out a deep sigh and stroked his face thoughtfully with one hand, which wasn’t an apology, but a reluctant acknowledgment of his wrong assumptions.

      “What do you want from me?” he asked in a more modulated tone.

      Hope rose and Ivy stepped closer. “Your help,” she answered promptly. “Your hands. Your expertise. I’m working twenty-four hour days, and I can’t be effective if I continue at this pace. It isn’t fair to my patients.”

      “Hire a locum.”

      “I’ve tried, but no one’s available until the end of the summer. You, on the other hand, are here and—” she met his dark-eyed gaze “—available.”

      “I’m on vacation.”

      “For how long?”

      “Indefinitely. Think of me as being on sabbatical—which means I’m not sitting on the back porch, birdwatching.”

      Picturing his huge bag of birdseed, she suspected he was, but it would be rude to correct him. She couldn’t risk alienating him more than she apparently already had. “Regardless of how you describe your stay, technically you’re free.”

      “It means I’m not punching a clock or taking orders from someone else,” he countered. “And I’m not going to.”

      She eyed him carefully, irritated by his refusal, and desperate to gain his cooperation. “Give me one good reason why you won’t help.”

      “I don’t want to.”

      “Not good enough.”

      “What if I said I was sick?”

      She gave him a quick once-over, noting how casually he stood straight and tall on muscular legs. His biceps and forearms were well developed, too, as if he lifted weights on a regular basis. He’d also carried a fifty-pound bag across the yard with the easy grace and sure footing of a panther. While he didn’t have the deep tan of someone who spent his days in the sun, he certainly didn’t possess the washed-out, pale color of someone who either was or had been ill.

      The only thing she could say about him was that he looked like a man on vacation—a man who hadn’t taken time to shave that morning, a man whose thick hair was longer than she guessed he usually allowed it to be. But underneath the grubby look she saw a tall, suave, sophisticated man in his late thirties, who had an intensely serious expression capable of drawing women to him like metal shavings to a magnet if he’d only smile. Or smile more often.

      “I wouldn’t believe you,” she said smartly. “According to Lew at the gas station, you’re retired.”

      “He’s wrong.”

      “Obviously,” she said dryly. “So you came to Danton for a vacation, but—”

      “An extended and well-deserved vacation is what I intend to have. Find someone else if you need an extra pair of hands.”

      “There isn’t anyone else,” she insisted. “Look, if you want to spend your days resting and relaxing, great. But can’t you spare a few weeks out of your busy schedule? I’m not asking you to work twenty-hour days, either. Nine to four, Monday through Friday. I’ll take care of the night and weekend call schedule.”

      Her offer was quite generous, in her opinion, but if he wanted more—such as working only three days a week—she’d agree to his terms, because any assistance he could give was better than none.

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