Читать книгу The Doctor's Forever Family - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 11

“This is it?”

Disbelief permeated Dan’s every syllable. It was a struggle not to allow his mouth to drop open in sheer, stunned amazement.

What the hell did I just get myself into?

That was his initial reaction to the two-story, ram-shackle seventy-five-year-old building that was to serve as both his home and the medical clinic. The ground floor was devoted to a couple of exam rooms, an office he could barely stretch out in and a reception area. The second floor was where the last doctor had lived thirty years ago.

Joe had once again volunteered to be his guide and had brought him here, leading the way in his Jeep, after the welcoming party had wound down. When the deputy had come to a stop before this building, Dan had followed suit. He’d gotten out of his sedan in what felt like surreal slow motion. His eyes were riveted to the dark, inhospitable and, undoubtedly, rotting building.

Dan felt like someone trapped in a nightmare he could only hope would end quickly. Except that it showed no signs of ending any time soon. The building loomed before him like a refugee from a bad, grade B, 1950s horror movie. All that was needed were bats.

Joe shifted ever so slightly, picking up on the other man’s disbelief. In comparison to what he’d known, the old building was in good condition.

“Yeah, this is it,” Joe acknowledged.

Still stunned, Dan turned to the deputy. Maybe this was some kind of a hazing, a prank the town was playing on “the new guy.” How was he supposed to work with this? The place probably leaked when it rained. And if it looked like this on the outside, what did it look like inside? What kind of equipment would he find?

Would he find equipment?

“You’re kidding,” he said to Joe, in fervent hopes that the stoic man had a warped sense of humor.

Joe’s tone was low, soft. Soothing. “It doesn’t look like much now—”

Now, there was a world-class understatement. “Did it ever?” Dan asked, cutting in.

How the hell was he supposed to work in a place like this, much less live in it?

Granted, he was accustomed to places like his late uncle’s spacious house in the Hamptons or the Fifth Avenue apartment that he and Warren had shared during their residency at NYU. Maybe that might have made him a snob in some people’s eyes. But there had to be a happy medium between where he’d come from and this.

The place looked hardly worthy of the label Rundown Shack. He had strong suspicions a massive collection of termites holding hands kept the walls up. If they ever let go, the walls, not like at Jericho, would come tumbling down without any kind of a warning.

He recalled that Warren had seen photographs of the place. The diner woman, Miss Jane or Joan or some name that began with a J, had sent them to him. His brother had never showed the photos to him, but he’d been excited about “the possibilities.”

The only possibility Dan saw was if the house was knocked down and someone started from scratch. And even then, he wasn’t so sure.

How could Warren have willingly agreed to live in this house? In this town? There was dedication and then there was insanity.

“Yeah,” Joe answered his question about what the building had looked like once. “It did. And with a little work,” he maintained rather firmly, “it can look that way again.”

He’d obviously insulted the man’s sense of loyalty to his place of birth, Dan thought. And he hadn’t meant to, but, hell, hopeless was hopeless. And this was hopeless. “Define a little,” Dan muttered under his breath.

“Okay,” Joe allowed reluctantly, “maybe a lot of work. But compared to the place I grew up in, this house looks pretty decent.”

“You grew up in a homeless camp?” The quip was out before Dan could think better of it.

The solemn man was quiet for a long moment. But it was clear that Joe had taken no offense as he replied, “Almost.”

The deputy sounded so serious Dan instantly regretted the offhanded remark. He hadn’t wanted to be disparaging. People were saddled with poverty through no fault of their own. He’d never been, but he and Warren had been two of the lucky ones—at the time, he amended. Until Warren’s luck had run out.

He could feel his gut twisting.

He’d never been good at apologizing, but he gave it a shot. “Hey, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to—”

Joe held his hand up as if to push any further apologetic words away. “That’s okay. I grew up on the reservation. It’s not all that far from the other side of town,” Joe added in case the doctor was unaware that there was a reservation in the area.

What Joe didn’t bother touching on was any of his history, or the fact that he’d been orphaned at an early age and raised by a more or less disinterested committee of distant relatives, all of whom had felt he was someone else’s responsibility.

“Things turned out okay.” He turned to look at Dan. “And you might not think so now, but this will, too. Things have a habit of turning out around here,” he assured Dan.

Dan sighed, looking at the building again. He hadn’t come here for a vacation, he reminded himself. This was all part of the penance he felt he had to undertake.

He frowned, his eyes sweeping over the structure. No question he would have to find a better place to attend to the patients lining up to see him—and soon. The inside of that building was a breeding ground for every bacteria known—and unknown—to man.

What had Warren been thinking when he’d agreed to put down a bid on this place?

A bid.

Dan found the term humorous. A bid would indicate that some sort of competition to secure this pathetic house/office. Who in their right mind would want this place?

Warren. Maybe his brother had seen something here that he wasn’t seeing, Dan speculated. But then, Warren had always been the one to bring home strays and try to mend their broken limbs as well as their broken spirits. This place certainly qualified for that. If ever he’d seen anything broken, this house was it.

First thing tomorrow, he would get on the phone with-some local contractors to make this place inhabitable. Since he’d seen no sign of a hotel in the area, he supposed he would have to rough it for tonight.

He fervently hoped that there was at least running water in the place, but he wasn’t about to place any bets. Bracing himself, he walked up onto the wooden front porch. The moment he did, he heard the wood groan beneath his shoes. It continued to groan with each step he took.

Joe glanced down at the offending slats. “That might need fixing,” he suggested.

Dan deliberately looked down at the boards beneath his feet. “Good guess,” he cracked.

The front door was ajar, with just enough space between it and the doorjamb to allow a medium-size furry invader to slip in. The thought did little to warm Dan’s heart.

Hand on the doorknob, Dan tried it and found that neither the doorknob nor the door would budge.

“Here,” Joe offered, politely edging him out of the way and placing his own torso in front of the offending door. “You don’t want to risk hurting that shoulder of yours.”

“And you can?” Dan asked.

“Part of the job,” was all Joe said.

Anything else he might have said in response died away as both he and Dan became aware of the sound of vehicles approaching in the distance. Dan turned from the house to see several cars, Jeeps mostly, but there was a truck or two as well, coming closer. Was it starting already?

“They don’t give you much time to set up here, do they?” he asked the deputy.

Well, whatever their complaints were, unless it pertained to a heart attack or a gunshot wound, the good citizens of One-Horse Town were going to have to wait until he had a chance to settle in and get the medical office in some kind of working order. He had his medical bag with him but he had a feeling that he would need a lot more in his supply closet before he could consider the place up and running.

Joe made no attempt to answer him. Instead, the deputy left his side and walked up to the first vehicle. He shouted out several names, greeting the people who were now disembarking, spilling out onto the front yard like the inhabitants of a circus clown car.

And every single one of them, man, woman and child alike, carried tools.

Confused, Dan looked to Joe for an explanation, but the deputy had moved on and was now busy, talking to a slender, dark-haired young woman with a quick smile and green flashing eyes. Dan didn’t remember seeing her at the diner. Probably couldn’t wiggle her way in, he speculated. The place had been crowded beyond belief by the time he and Joe had left.

And now they were all here. Why they had come with tools, he couldn’t begin to fathom—unless they were looking to barter, trading an item they thought he might need or want in exchange for his medical services.

He was fairly certain he was right. It felt like that kind of a place. A throwback to a simpler time.

Dan made up his mind to address his patients en masse. It saved time. “I can’t see any of you until I’ve had a chance to sanitize the exam room.” Assuming that’s even possible. He might just be taking things for granted.

“That’s why we’re here, Doc,” the sheriff told him, making his way to the front of the gathering. “We thought an extra pair of hands—or seven—might just help that along as bit.”

Burning the building down to the ground and starting from scratch would help even more. But Dan thought it wise to keep that observation to himself.

Instead, he saw more vehicles approaching on the horizon. “Looks like more than just a couple of extra pairs of hands to me.”

The sheriff flashed a grin as he inclined his head in agreement. “Math was never my strong suit. C’mon,” he urged, “let’s see how bad it really is.”

One hand holding on to a rather massive toolbox, Rick placed another hand on Dan’s shoulder, acting as if they were old friends instead of two men who’d met only a couple of hours ago.

As the sheriff urged him into the house, with Joe and a man who’d introduced himself earlier as Mick Henley, the town mechanic, bringing up the rear, Dan saw yet another vehicle pull up in front of the house. Tina, the blonde he’d talked to at the diner, and the sheriff’s wife, Olivia, got out. Between them, the women were carrying a rather large, unwieldy cooler.

“Miss Joan thought you might need this,” Olivia said, addressing her words to her husband.