Outcast. Joan Johnston

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СКАЧАТЬ by his rottweiler.

      He’d changed out of the bloody white T-shirt and khaki pants he’d been wearing. He was dressed now in a short-sleeved gray T-shirt and jeans. The well-worn black leather jacket that had fallen on the examining table this morning had been replaced by a well-worn brown leather bomber jacket, which lay tossed over a nearby orange plastic chair. He had on comfortable-looking brown loafers but no socks, even though the early October evening was chilly.

      He was engrossed in a paperback. Not a good sign. How long was the wait, anyway?

      Anna wasn’t sure whether to say hello to him on her way to the reception desk. He hadn’t exactly exuded charm earlier in the day. He sat slumped in his chair. The David Baldacci novel he was reading suggested he didn’t want to be bothered by anyone.

      He glanced up at her as she passed by. As she opened her mouth to greet him, he frowned and returned his gaze to his book.

      Anna would have felt insulted at being dismissed so absolutely, except she knew exactly how he must be feeling. Her day hadn’t exactly been a bowl of cherries, either.

      Many of Anna’s patients were MPD cops, District firemen and U.S. government employees who came to see her because of stress that affected their job performance and personal lives. This afternoon, she’d seen a new patient, a young fireman who’d recently responded to a violent car crash in which a little boy—the same age and with the same hair color as his own son—had been torn limb from limb by the crushing force of metal when the child restraint straps held his body snug in his car seat.

      Now the fireman had trouble driving in the car with his son without his throat swelling closed and his breathing becoming erratic. He had nightmares and had wakened his wife crying. Which made him afraid to go to sleep. He was suffering from sleep deprivation and not functioning well on the job.

      Anna had known she was dealing with a classic case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, more commonly called PTSD. She’d been able to give her patient suggestions for how to deal with his condition, but the sad truth was that PTSD was insidious. Even years later, some small, insignificant thing could trigger a physiological and psychological response to the original traumatizing incident.

      When Anna checked in with the urgent care receptionist, she learned she might be waiting a long time.

      And she didn’t have a book.

      She took the empty seat farthest from the mother and two rambunctious boys, across from the stranger. Which meant she either had to stare at him or at her feet.

      She didn’t remember him being so good-looking. She knew he was tall, because she was 5’10” and he’d looked down at her in the vet’s office. She knew he was strong, because he’d come in carrying a hundred-pound dog. But she hadn’t focused on his face. She found it fascinating.

      His cheeks were hollowed and stubbled with dark beard, and the cheekbones looked as though they’d been carved from stone by a loving sculptor. His lips were bowed. They looked soft in comparison to the hard muscle and sinew she saw in the rest of his body. He had black hair, expensively cut. She didn’t know how she knew that, but it wasn’t a stretch, considering the price of real estate in Georgetown.

      He looked up at her as though he’d been aware of her intense perusal and glared.

      Anna knew she was supposed to be intimidated into lowering her gaze. But she wasn’t. And she didn’t.

      “How did you get your dog to let go of your arm?” she asked.

      “It wasn’t my dog.”

      He returned to his book, as though that was the end of that.

      Anna’s brow furrowed. “Not your dog? I don’t understand.”

      With obvious irritation, he raised his eyes—an icy blue, like glacier water—to her and said, “I saw the dog get hit by a car. The driver didn’t stop.”

      She waited for further explanation, but when it didn’t come she said, “Oh, I see.”

      “You see what?”

      “The dog bit you, even though you were trying to help, because it was hurt and you were a stranger. That was a very kind thing to do.”

      “I didn’t have much choice,” he said curtly. “The dog was about to snap at a kid.” He made a point of turning the page in his book and started reading again.

      She saw the white gauze bandage on his arm was stained with blood. “Henry would never forgive me if I didn’t ask.”

      He looked up, clearly annoyed. “Who’s Henry?” Then he said, “Oh, yeah. Your kid.”

      She smiled and said, “Henry isn’t mine any more than the dog was yours.”

      At his questioning look she said, “Henry lives across the hall. He takes care of Penelope—my cat—in the afternoons.”

      He made a “get to it” sign by rotating his hand.

      “How did you get the dog to let go of your arm?”

      “The vet injected him with a drug that put him to sleep. He was going to have to do it anyway to treat his wounds.”

      “Oh.”

      “Is there anything else you’d like to know? So I can read in peace?”

      “Is the dog all right?” she asked.

      “He was when I left.”

      “You must live nearby.”

      “Close enough.”

      “I live a block south and two blocks east. I walked here. Wish I’d worn a coat.” Anna pulled her three-quarter-length gray wool sweater more tightly around her. “It was colder out than I thought it would be.”

      Anna wished she hadn’t volunteered the information about where she lived. Especially since the stranger didn’t seem at all interested.

      Which was when Anna realized that she was.

      When was the last time she’d been on a date? Three months ago, at least. And why was that? She had reasonable office hours, and Penelope could easily be left for the evening. Anna had even been asked out a couple of times. She simply hadn’t been intrigued enough by any of those men to say yes.

      She was intrigued now. And being completely ignored.

      She looked for a wedding band and didn’t see one. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved with someone. Except, he was so surly, she was sure he would have used that excuse to be rid of her if he could have.

      She wanted to know more. She wanted to know him.

      “I just thought of something,” she said. “Do you have to get rabies shots?”

      “Someone who knew the owner must have seen or heard what happened, because the owner showed up at the vet’s,” the stranger replied. “The dog had been vaccinated.”

      “That was lucky.”

      “Lady, СКАЧАТЬ