I pushed his legs back and sat on the edge of the bunk. “I didn’t think I was. Honestly, if your dad hadn’t offered, I’d probably stay in. But, Doc, when am I ever going to get an opportunity like this? It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted to do. And if I can help George out on the farm, I can stay out of your hair over here on the—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he growled. “Dammit, Major, you know I’d be overjoyed knowing you were here on the ranch. I’d love nothing more than to know you were here watching over my family and this land. Don’t think for one single minute I don’t want you here.”
His words were a relief. “Good. Okay…. good.”
I leaned back across his covered legs until my back was against the rough wooden wall. “Marsha’s not doing too good.”
“Yeah. Betsy told me.” Doc sat up and held out one of the bedcovers. “Here, you’re going to get cold.”
I pulled it over me, trying not to notice the Old Spice scent of him on my blanket. “How’s work?” I asked.
“Crazy busy. But good. I’m learning a ton. It’s better now that I have my feet under me a little. The internist I’m working under is brilliant. The man knows it too, but I don’t mind. He’s a good teacher.”
I met his eyes. “You thought about specializing?” For as many times as I’d wondered, I kind of didn’t want to know. It would mean more time in residency—more time away.
He shrugged and looked down, away. “I love emergency medicine, but I need some more time in family medicine if I’m going to open a practice in Hobie.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“It makes the most sense.”
I reached out and put my hand on the top of his head to spin his face around until he was looking at me. His dirty-blond hair was silky to the touch. “Doc, is that what you want to do?”
He swallowed and looked at me with those clear eyes I loved so much. “I want to watch my kids grow up. I want to be here for my parents. I don’t want my entire life to be about the job.”
His words socked me in the gut like a punch. My entire life had been about the job.
“Good,” I grunted, letting go of his hair before I was stupid enough to start caressing it. “Smart.”
Doc reached out and grabbed my wrist, holding it until I met his eyes again. “What about you? Is this what you want to do?”
I looked at sleepy Liam Wilde, hair messed up and vulnerable in my bed.
“Yes,” I said gruffly. “More than anything.”
Chapter 17
Liam “Doc” Wilde
Late the following summer, we laid Marsha Hobart to rest in Betsy’s family plot in the town cemetery. I was two years into my three-year residency and could barely think straight, but as I was standing in the steaming August rainstorm holding Betsy’s hand under the funeral tent while they shoveled wet dirt onto the coffin, I suddenly remembered something I’d seen the week before at the hospital.
I leaned over to whisper in her ear. “When was your last OBGYN exam?”
That was the wrong damned question to ask a woman at her mother’s funeral, especially when Marsha had died from GYN cancer.
Shit.
I squeezed my eyes closed and felt my dad’s hand rub the back of my shoulder in sympathy.
After putting my arm around Betsy and pulling her close, I whispered again. “I’m so sorry. I just… I…”
She turned her tear-streaked face to mine. “You don’t want to end up like my daddy. I know.”
I looked over at devastated George Hobart and saw the major holding him firmly by the elbow. Wes stood there in his full dress uniform, and it was so covered in ribbons and medals, I wondered how he held himself upright.
Honestly, until that day I’d never realized just how decorated the major—Lieutenant Colonel—was. I was in awe of his service as I had been many times before. Weston Marian was truly one of the best men I’d ever known.
On that day when we buried my mother-in-law and I mourned more for Betsy’s loss than my own, I realized my life overflowed with riches. It wasn’t fair. Out of the corners of my eyes I saw George and Major, Betsy and the kids, and my mother and father. Not to mention the entire town of Hobie had shown up to mourn Marsha. Her church guild and tennis ladies, her fellow women’s club volunteers and the kids she’d mentored on 4-H projects. All around us was the reason I never should have left Hobie in the first place.
When we got back to the Hobarts’ place afterward, the place was filled to the rafters with townspeople and casseroles. I noticed Major standing in the kitchen with three-year-old Jackie propped on one hip and eight-year-old Brenda hiding behind him with one of her hands in his uniform coat pocket where we all knew he kept a collection of interesting things for busy hands. The selection varied depending on the day. Sometimes “Uncle Major’s” jacket pockets held a duck feather, a Buffalo nickel, a nut-and-bolt combo, and a porcupine quill. Or sometimes it was a marble, a seashell, a tangle of rubber bands, and a four-leaf clover. No matter what it was, there were always at least four items of interest in his pockets—one for each of the kids.