Trading Secrets. Christine Flynn

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СКАЧАТЬ of rain on the roof and the road in front of her. Though she kept her focus on what she could see in the beam of her headlights, her awareness was on the man occupying her passenger seat.

      She really wished she hadn’t said what she had about the detectives.

      “You said you live in the last house on Main,” she reminded him, desperately trying to think of how to fix her little faux paux. “Do you mean Doc Wilson’s old house?”

      “That’s the one. He and his wife retired to Florida.”

      “Doc Wilson’s wife always wanted to live in Florida,” she mused. “I just hadn’t realized they’d gone.”

      She glanced over, found him watching her, glanced back.

      “By the way, I’m sorry I doubted you back there. About being the doctor, I mean. Since my mom moved, I don’t hear much of anything about Maple Mountain.”

      “Forget it.” Absently rubbing his shoulder, he distractedly added, “I just appreciate the help.”

      She lifted her chin, kept her eyes straight ahead.

      In the rain and dark, she couldn’t tell if anything had changed along the narrow two-lane road into town. She doubted anything had. Little had changed in the twenty-two years she’d lived there before moving on herself. So it wasn’t likely that much had changed in the four years she’d been gone. Teenagers probably still stole their first kisses under the old covered bridge. The old men who gathered to play checkers at the general store, probably still discussed the weather and farm reports with the same laconic zeal they always had, and regarded anything invented after 1950 as newfangled. The good-hearted-but-opinionated church ladies probably still baked pies for every function. Every season and major holiday was celebrated with a festival or a parade on the town’s four-block-long main street. And with the way the locals loved to talk, something the disturbing man beside her had noted himself, there was rarely such a thing as a secret.

      The uneasiness she felt turned to dread.

      There was so much about all that had happened to her that she didn’t want anyone here to know. And Dr. Greg Reid already knew part of it.

      Her tires hummed on wet pavement as she passed the white scrollwork sign that let visitors know they’d arrived—Welcome To Maple Mountain, Population 704.

      “You should come by the clinic in the morning and let Bess check you over.”

      He had a delicious voice. Deep, rich, like honey laced with smoke and brandy. Without pain tightening it, it also held authority, and thoughtfulness.

      “Why?”

      “Since you didn’t want to deal with the police, I assume you didn’t bother going to a hospital, either.”

      She gripped the wheel a little tighter, forced herself to smile. “All I have are bruises.”

      “Your pupils looked fine, but I should have taken a look at your forehead.”

      He’d checked her pupils? “It’s just a scrape. Nothing a little makeup won’t cover.” Fervently wanting to forget that morning’s incident, wishing he would, too, she cut a quick glance toward him. “You’re the one who needs to be checked over. You could have broken something. Or maybe you hit your head and didn’t even realize it.”

      His only concern had been his arm. Considering the pain he’d been in, and the intense and rather intimate relief they’d shared once his body parts had been aligned, she hadn’t thought to be concerned about anything else herself.

      She turned her attention to the street, mostly so she wouldn’t hit the truck parked in front of the general store, partly because thinking about how he’d sagged against her did strange things to the pit of her stomach.

      “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to St. Johnsbury?”

      “Positive. I’ll leave a message for Bess to stop by when she gets in.”

      “But what if she’s late? If you did hit your head, you shouldn’t be by yourself. Is there anyone home to take care of you?”

      “I live alone, but I’m fine. Honest.”

      She sighed. “Are you right-handed or left?”

      “Right.”

      It was his left arm he was holding, even with the sling. “At least you can undress yourself,” she concluded, “but I’m still worried about your head.”

      She was worried about him.

      “You don’t need to be,” Greg assured her, unwillingly touched that she was. “I only hurt my shoulder. You’re the one who hit her head.”

      She went quiet at that.

      The storm and the dark had cleared the street of summer tourists. Cars lined the block in front of Dora’s Diner and the video-and-bookstore seemed to be doing a fair business. Something appeared to be going on at the community church, too. The square white building was surrounded by vehicles, and its simple spire was lit and gleaming like the blade of a sword. But the end of the street was nearly deserted as they left Maple Mountain’s not-so-booming commercial district and passed two blocks of tidy little homes.

      Greg’s was the last house on the right before the road through town disappeared into a forest of birch, maple and evergreen trees. It was a comfortable old place with a porch that wrapped around three sides and, as far as Greg was concerned, more rooms than a bachelor needed. But use of it had come with his contract with the community, and he could walk to the clinic. Because of its size he’d also been able to convert the pantry into a darkroom so he had something to do during the long winter nights.

      He should have left the porch light on, he thought. Without it, with the rain, he couldn’t even see his front steps.

      Jenny Baker seemed to notice that, too. In the green glow of the dashboard lights, he saw her hesitate only a moment before she reached to turn off the engine of her cramped little car. “Stay put for a minute. I’ll get the door and get you inside.”

      “You’ve done enough. Thank you,” he quickly added, softening his abruptness. “But I can take it from here.”

      Cold, wet, and with the steady ache reminding him that his arm had been literally ripped from its socket, getting inside was exactly what Greg wanted to do. He wanted a hot shower. He wanted to get ice packs on his shoulder before the swelling got worse than it was.

      He had no intention, however, of further imposing on the intriguing and rather mysterious woman now turning toward him. He didn’t want to be intrigued by her. He didn’t want to think about what he’d felt when she’d held him. He didn’t want her on his mind at all. There were questions about her that begged to be answered, but he didn’t want to be that interested.

      “Are you sure?” she asked, the concern he’d heard in her voice now evident in her face.

      “Positive. Thanks.”

      Jenny opened her mouth, closed it again. He wasn’t simply being stubborn. He didn’t want her help anymore. And if didn’t want it, she wasn’t about to impose it on him.

      She СКАЧАТЬ