Craving Her Rough Diamond Doc. Amalie Berlin

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      She took a deep breath and engaged all-terrain on her four-wheel drive, eyeing the deeply trenched gravel drive supposedly leading to the forested mountain home of Dr. Wyatt Beechum, Amanda’s cousin and boss—owner of a modern medical oddity: his family practice was housed on a bus.

      This looked like the right place. Unless the hand-painted numbers nailed to a tree meant something other than the street address. Amanda’s directions were written in her usual wandering fashion: mentioning every landmark along the way. Mile markers on the road. The number of bridges she’d cross. And Imogen’s personal favorite—indications of where things used to be. As if Imogen had any clue where things used to be around there. She wasn’t even sure she could find things where they were currently located.

      And yet, when asked for the insights into Wyatt that Imogen needed to plan her approach with him, the usually talkative Amanda had been tight-lipped. Recently returned home for his father’s funeral after years and years away. Lost his mother and brother when he was young. The traveling clinic was in danger of losing funding. Sad stuff, but not very telling. None of it especially helpful. So it came down to charm and playing it by ear. Her plan was simple: find the doctor; charm the doctor; and get him to let her cover Amanda’s maternity leave.

      He needed a nurse to help keep his two-person traveling practice going, so he should be happy to agree. Easy-peasy. Just as soon as she drove up this creepy, dirty, graveled incline into a dense forest.

      She reached for her phone. No signal. No double-checking the location with Amanda.

      This dark forest drive was probably quite normal for the area. Every new place required a certain amount of adjustment. She just needed to acclimatize. Nothing scary waited at the other end. No crazy hillbillies with too much moonshine and chainsaws awaited her. Just a man. A normal man. A doctor, she hoped. She could handle one measly doctor. No problem.

      She got a run at the incline. Better she stalk him here than at work. The car bounced up the path, now and then hitting potholes large enough to jar the fragile glass mementos packed in the back. Not hard enough to break them. They were okay. Not that any sane person should be so attached to cheap trinkets.

      Six months from now, she’d get back on the road and life would return to normal. Any time she stopped moving too long, someone expected her to stay forever. Imogen couldn’t do forever. Besides, that wasn’t going to happen this time. She and Amanda had lived together all through college, and they had both survived parting. If only the world had more Amandas.

      Dr. Earp, as she’d come to think of him, should be glad she was willing to head down to Banjoland to help out. Excellent nurses available on twelve hours’ notice were hard to come by.

      A shiny black pickup sat in front of an old blue school bus with curtained windows. Someone lived here, or was here at least. Beyond it, she could see the beginning stages of a cabin. It was only a few logs high, but connected to a beautiful riverstone chimney.

      Praying the rise in elevation had given her a signal, she reached for her cellphone again. She’d even take one stupid bar. Was it too much to ask for enough connection to send a text? Apparently.

      She killed the engine, checked her hair to make sure she looked fairly presentable, and climbed out. Behind the cabin, lying parallel to one another up the slope, were several long straight trees. As she rounded the bus, a man came into view, looking all sorts of rugged and manly. Black hair, disheveled and longer than the white-collar type she had been expecting. Worn blue jeans. Work boots. White T-shirt. Handsome. And tall. Very tall. With safety goggles.

      Which was when she noticed the chainsaw.

      The man jerked the cord to send the blade whirling and angled it into one of the logs. Wood chips flew everywhere as he made a series of shallow cuts, and Imogen went unnoticed. Must be the safety goggles obstructing his vision.

      Not emotionally ready to approach a big mountain man with a chainsaw, Imogen occupied herself by checking her presentability again in the dusty bus windows—which seemed more important now that she’d seen this broad-shouldered man with a chainsaw. Streaks of pink in her pale blonde hair stood out like beacons. Out of place. Oh, well, maybe it’d make her exotic. And after the hot contractor told her where she could find Wyatt, he could take her out for drinks and help her pass the next six months.

      And maybe he could also explain to her why she could see a bed and old console television between the gaps in the bus curtains.

      The outrageously loud buzzing quit, drawing Imogen’s attention back to the rugged outdoorsman. “Hello?”

      No answer. Instead, he took his shirt off, balled it up and used the wad of material to brush from his corded bronze arms the tree shrapnel he’d created with the chainsaw.

      Probably not Wyatt. That tall, broad-shouldered man with the back of a chiseled god could not be him. The only doctors she’d seen with their shirts off had been pasty and usually somewhat pigeon-chested. The profession didn’t naturally lend itself to buffness. Probably why she always ended up with the rough-and-tumble lot. They looked good, and were rarely given to the deep, soul-baring conversations you started building forever on. Imogen knew that road. Dead end. Full of potholes. Kind of like the road on which she’d just driven up the mountain.

      She started up the incline, which got his attention. Their eyes met through the scratched plastic protecting his eyes. That probably should’ve made the experience less exhilarating, but Imogen found herself smiling like an idiot and resisting the urge to toss her hair and add extra wiggle to her walk. “I’m looking for Dr. Wyatt…something. You’re not Wyatt, are you?”

      He extracted earplugs and stuffed them into his back pocket. “What do you want?”

      Well, that was a crappy greeting. But that’s okay. With those shoulders, Tall, Dark and Cranky could work for her. “I’m looking for Wyatt Beechum…B. E. E. C. H….Actually, I don’t know how it’s spelled.”

      He dropped the now still chainsaw to his side, letting it dangle as he impatiently spelled “Beauchamp” for her then repeated, “What do you want?” Hot contractor had bad people skills.

      And might not be the contractor.

      “I don’t think that’s right. That’s all…French and whatever. This is like the tree, maybe? Beechum.”

      “That’s how it’s said around here,” Likely Wyatt muttered. “Guess no one saw fit to modify the spelling.”

      “Oh. Well, I’m Imogen, a friend of Amanda’s.” She stuck out one hand and approached, ready to shake and be friendly.

      “I know. My cousin is a picture hoarder. Has you in several on her walls.” He looked at her hand, but didn’t shake it. Which was better than being chainsawed at least—which might be the only way she’d feel less welcome. She could only pray his bedside manner was better.

      “I’m going to assume you’re Wyatt and not another cousin lurking about.” On the plus side, working with him would give her plenty of time to convince him to show her the sights. And anything else he wanted. He was taciturn enough that he didn’t seem inclined to long talks about his hopes, dreams, and future two point five children. She could just pretend he was mute as long as his shirt was off.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ