The Doctor's Do-Over

With his own sorry hide easily taking first place.

Chapter Three

Mel was grateful to see that her cousin—who as a teenager would scream like a banshee if she nicked herself shaving—had either overcome her heebie-jeebies at the sight of blood or was doing a damn good job of hiding it from Quinn, seated on the counter and looking a little woozy herself. April had hidden the boo-boo, as well, wrapping it tightly in a paper towel and holding Quinn’s arm up over her head.

“Oh, sweetie …” Mel rushed to her blood-smeared daughter—yeah, that top was history—forking her fingers through Quinn’s curls as April, bless her heart, beat a hasty retreat. “What happened?”

“There’s a dumb nail sticking out of the back door, I didn’t see it,” Quinn mumbled, then squinted at Ryder, who’d plunked his coat and bag on the kitchen table and was now rooting around inside it. “Who’re you?”

“An old friend of your mother’s,” Ryder said with a kind—and yet, still killer, go figure—smile for the kid as he carted a bottle of antiseptic and assorted packets over to lay beside Quinn on the counter. One hand propped on the edge of the worn laminate, he hooked the other on his hip. “I’m also a doctor. Convenient, huh?”

Quinn shrugged. “I guess.”

On a soft chuckle, Ryder washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel, then ripped open a package of latex gloves, snapped them on. “Mind if I take a peek?”

“April said to keep my hand up ‘cause of the bleeding.”

“Lots of blood, huh?”

“Like you would not believe.”

“Then April did good. But I think it’s okay to lower it now.” When she did, he carefully removed the blood-soaked towel. Aiyiyi. Mel told herself it would be very uncool to throw up, even if the sink was right there. “It seems to have pretty much stopped now, so that’s good. You’ll be back to playing the violin in no time.”

Quinn giggled. “I don’t play the violin, I play the piano.”

“You don’t say?” Another smile. “You any good?”

Not nearly as good as you are, Mel thought ruefully as her daughter’s shoulders bumped. “Not really. But I’ve only been taking lessons for a year.”

“Yeah. I took ‘em for ten. Loved every minute of it.”

“Really?”

“No,” he said, and Quinn laughed again, and Ryder’s smile melted Mel’s heart, dammit to hell. Especially when he turned it on her and all—well, most—of her man-hating crazies scurried away, whimpering. “I assume her tetanus is up to date?”

“Not sure. She might be due for a booster?”

“We can take care of that, too. Okay, honey, I want you to hold your hand over the sink, I’m going to pour a bunch of this antiseptic over the wound to clean it. It’s probably going to sting, but it won’t last long. You ready?”

Quinn sucked in a deep breath, then nodded and gingerly stuck out her hand, wincing as Ryder cleaned it. “Almost done, you’re doing great … there. Now I can see what’s going on.”

As he carefully inspected the gash, Quinn actually leaned closer to get a better look. As opposed to Mel, who was perfectly happy to let someone else tend to this side of things, thank you. Especially if that person was the same one who’d always been the one to patch up her various scrapes and cuts and owies when they were kids. That inline skating thing? Hadn’t exactly been a natural talent—

“I’m gonna need stitches, huh?” Quinn asked, sounding more curious than worried.

“Oh, I’d say at least a hundred,” Ryder said, deadpan, and Quinn giggled, and Ryder lifted his eyes—all sweetly crinkled at the corners, of course—to the little girl, and Mel saw in those eyes … too much. That while she didn’t doubt that Ryder was every bit as kind and funny with all his younger patients, it was patently obvious Quinn had already grabbed his heart.

And, judging from the grin on her daughter’s face, the feeling was mutual.

Ah, doom. You again, is it?

Then Ryder turned his gaze to Mel, all business, except not, and now that the urge to barf had passed she noticed a dullness in those dark eyes she hadn’t noticed before, and it occurred to her how one-sided their catch-me-up conversation had been. That she had no idea what was, or had been, going on in his life. Was he married? Divorced? No ring, but that didn’t mean anything—

“Actually,” he said, “if the cut hadn’t been where she’s likely to pull it apart in normal use, I’d say we’d be good with a butterfly bandage. But to be on the safe side I think a couple of stitches are in order. Piece of cake,” he said with a wink for Quinn, and Mel thought, If only, buddy boy.

If only.

If only, Ryder thought, removing his gloves a few minutes later after stitching up his niece’s wound, one could stitch back together the ragged edges of one’s life, and heart, so easily. If all it took to repair the damage was training and skill and patience. A strong stomach wouldn’t hurt, either.

The booster shot administered and the wound dressed, Quinn skipped off to watch the monster, old-school TV in the gathering room—after giving Ryder a hug that scraped his still-tender heart. His eyes fixed on the kitchen doorway, he asked, “Is she always that affectionate?”

“It depends.” She paused. “On whether she feels she can trust someone or not. Guess you passed.”

He lowered his gaze to hers, just long enough to make her blush, then walked over to the offending nail. “Then I’m honored. She’s a fun kid.” He opened the door, the chilly damp barely registering in the drafty old house. Now why the heck would somebody hammer through the panel from the outside? “You got something I can pound this sucker out with?”

“Probably.” Watching Mel as she began yanking open, then ramming shut, assorted swollen drawers, guilt shuddered through Ryder that he was even noticing how the soft jersey of her hoodie, the even softer fabric of her worn jeans, hugged curves that had very nicely matured—

“Sorry about the house,” she said, still rummaging.

“Why? Since I assume—” he scanned the mountains of detritus “—you didn’t make the mess.”

“True. Still. Oh, looky …” Amidst much clattering, she hauled a decrepit-looking hammer from one of the drawers, her brows drawn as she inspected it. “Although Noah probably used this to build the ark.”

Ryder extended his hand. “If it worked for Noah, I’m good.” Two whacks and the nasty thing was history, safely disposed of in the trash where it no longer posed a danger. “Next question—why isn’t the heat on?”

“The thermostat’s not working—”

“Where is it?”

“In the dining room, but—”

“Be right back.”

A few minutes later he returned triumphant, loving Mel’s dumbfounded expression when the radiators started to clank. “How’d you do that?”’

“Thermostat’s fine,” he said, opening cupboard doors until he found a half dozen flowery, albeit dusty, tin containers which still held an assortment of teas. “Boiler pilot light had gone out. All fixed now.” He hadn’t been in the house much when they were kids, and then only after Amelia had deemed her granddaughters old enough to be left on their own, but he remembered these. And, in the first one he opened, he hit pay dirt—a stash of Earl Grey. He dug out two bags and held them up. “Kettle?”

Mel frowned. “And I’m guessing those would be Mrs. Noah’s tea bags.”

“Eh, the boiling water will kill whatever needs killing.” He waggled them, and Mel sighed. But she dragged the kettle off the stove, rinsed it out five times, then filled it and set it on the burner. “You actually went down into the basement?”

“I did. It’s even scarier than it was when we were kids.”

Mel sighed, then angled her head at him. “Why are you still here?”

Because the thought of going back to that empty house makes me crazy. Crazier.

“Because I’m cold as hell. And you’d hardly begrudge the man who just saved your daughter’s life a cup of tea, would you?”