Kissed By The Country Doc. Melinda Curtis

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      The Monroes were coming.

      Folks had seen the announcements in the media about Harlan Monroe’s death. He’d owned the town, lock, stock and barrel. According to those in the know, it was only a matter of time before some of his heirs showed up. The locals had made a pool as to what was going to go down.

      The Clark sisters from the Bucking Bull Ranch sunk twenty dollars on the Monroes sending a real-estate agent to evaluate the place. Mitch Kincaid, mayor and innkeeper, put in ten dollars toward at least two Monroes showing up expecting a five-star hotel. Eli Garland, the homeschooling coordinator for the county, put his money on the Monroes not showing up until summer. Mackenzie and Ivy, who ran the grocery and diner respectively, plunked ten apiece on the Monroes arriving in a stretch limo. Their bet inspired Roy Stout, the town handyman, to wager they’d pull up in a Hummer, because how else was anyone supposed to get up to Second Chance in January without four-wheel drive?

      Noah was among the residents who hadn’t bet. Luck hadn’t been kind to him lately.

      “I’m making French fries and milk shakes for the kids,” Ivy called to Noah from the diner’s kitchen. She pampered the town’s handful of children and encouraged Eli to hold home-study sessions in the diner. “Can I get you anything, Doc?”

      “No, thanks.”

      Ivy served food that could only be classified as fuel. Unlike the fancy meals Noah had enjoyed in New York, there were no culinary delights to be had on any of her plates. But the coffee was strong and cheap, and the price of hanging out for a few hours was a mere armload of firewood for the fireplace, which meant it was the warmest building in Second Chance.

      Noah set his logs on the woodpile and then began to shed layers—parka, knit cap, muffler. The black leather gloves he kept on, a fact several children noticed. He had no idea why the kids were still here. If he’d known they’d be lingering, he would’ve stayed in his cabin. He shoved a couple dollars in the coffee jar and poured himself a cup.

      Mitch pulled out a chair at his table for Noah. They’d met at DePaul University when Mitch was prelaw and Noah was premed. They’d kept in touch on social media and through a fantasy football league. Mitch had hired Noah after his accident.

      “I was just saying we need to be united when the Monroes get here,” Mitch said. “I know I don’t have to remind anyone about our nondisclosure agreement with Harlan.”

      Noah nodded, because Mitch was looking at him. He’d signed a nondisclosure agreement about the old man, but he’d only been here six months and had never met Harlan Monroe in person. He couldn’t have picked his benefactor out of a police lineup. Unlike other residents who’d sold their property to the millionaire and might have been privy to something important about the old man, Noah had no secrets to divulge.

      “Moving forward,” Mitch went on, “it’ll help if we negotiate as one entity. Ideally, we keep our low leases. Worst case, we buy back our places for less than we sold them to Harlan. In either case, don’t make this easy on them. We don’t want Harlan’s heirs thinking this is the next Idaho town to be developed for Hollywood vacation homes.”

      There were worried head nods of approval and agreement. Nobody wanted Second Chance real estate to skyrocket or for it to become a soulless haven for celebrities.

      Noah didn’t nod. He sat. Unlike the other residents, the small home Noah lived in was rent-free. It was a stipulation of his contract as the town doctor. Granted, it wasn’t where he thought he’d be, but if he couldn’t be an orthopedic surgeon to sports superstars, it was better to be a nobody from nowhere.

      Aptly put, his snarky inner voice whispered.

      “You ready for a blizzard, Doc?” Roy sat at the next table over, facing the highway. He wore stained blue coveralls over a pair of yellowed long johns. His wiry, knubby elbows rested on the white Formica tabletop. A fringe of peppery hair was visible beneath his blue ball cap.

      Noah shrugged. “Will it really be any worse than the storms we’ve already had?”

      “Yep.” Roy chuckled, revealing his gap-toothed smile. “More snow. More wind. More freezing temperatures.”

       More boredom.

      Noah squashed that thought. He wasn’t here for the intellectual challenge or the thrill of new, emergency limb-saving techniques. He wasn’t here for experimental procedures or medical accolades. He wasn’t even here for a research sabbatical. He’d accepted Mitch’s invitation to become the town doctor because he could no longer be the surgeon who could perform miracles.

      “Storm after storm after storm,” Roy murmured happily. “I love winter.”

      Up here, winter lasted six months or more.

      Mitch straightened, running a hand through his dark hair. “There’s a car pulling in.”

      Mackenzie, who owned the grocery store and garage, moved to the front window along with Roy. “Maybe they’re just passing through and need a bathroom.”

      “Or something to eat.” Ivy was craning her neck, trying to see over the cook’s counter.

      “That’s no car.” Roy slapped his skinny thigh. “It’s one of those Humdingers!”

      A long black Hummer parked in front of the diner.

      “It’s them Monroes.” Heedless of his audience on the other side of the window, Roy pointed and raised his voice. “I knew it. I just knew it.”

      “We don’t know anything yet,” Mitch said in a put-out voice.

      A man in his thirties opened the diner’s door for the carload. He had wavy brown hair in a neatly styled haircut and was inappropriately dressed for the mountains—slacks, leather loafers, a light winter jacket. No cap. No gloves.

       A case of frostbite in the making.

      Noah hid a smile behind a sip of his coffee.

      A woman hurried inside. Bright red hair. Pale complexion. Black leather jacket over a black tunic sweater, black leggings and black boots. Something about her seemed familiar. She spotted the restroom sign and hurried toward it.

       Carsick.

      Whether they were the Monroes or not, they were providing Noah with some much-needed entertainment.

      Another woman scurried in. She had wavy brown hair, pointy features and frazzled brown eyes shaded by dark circles that her glasses did nothing to conceal. She held the hands of two twin toddler boys, who clumped in wearing matching dark green unzipped jackets and white sneakers that flashed bright red beams from the heels as they walked. She followed the first woman to the restrooms.

       Single mom in need of a good night’s sleep and proper hydration.

      A third woman entered, stepping to the side so the man could close the door behind her. Her hair was blond, her eyes a bright blue. She had a sprinkling of freckles and the kind of glowing skin that never tanned. She was the only sensibly dressed one of the lot in a navy stadium jacket, snow boots and a knit cap. The toddler she carried had the same coloring and wore a pink snowsuit.

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