His Best Friend's Wife Page 2

  “I’m Isaac.”

  “No way. Isaac Larsen’s a little guy about this tall.” Paul demonstrated by holding out his hand.

  “Grandpa says I’m growing like a weed,” Isaac offered, setting aside the sticker books.

  “Your grandpa’s right about that. Are you taking good care of your mom?” Paul asked, offering his hand to Isaac.

  “Yup.” Isaac accepted the handshake and gazed up at him. “I feed our dog and help bring in eggs from the chicken coop. Me and my dad used to do that, but he died.”

  Annie’s breath caught in her throat.

  “I know.” Paul’s tone was solemn. “I still miss him.”

  Listening to their exchange made Annie’s chest tighten. Although they hadn’t seen much of Paul in person, she had known he and Eric kept in touch, mostly by email and the occasional phone call. Of course Paul would miss him. After the funeral she should have done a better job of staying in touch.

  “So, tell me about horseback riding.” Paul took a seat on a wheeled stool that brought him to eye level with her son.

  “Auntie CJ’s giving me riding lessons.”

  “That’s pretty cool. English or western.”

  “Western.” Isaac’s enthusiasm was contagious. “I’m gonna be barrel racing at the junior rodeo and when I’m bigger I’m gonna be a real cowboy.”

  Paul laughed, then exchanged a quick smile with Annie before he turned his attention back to her son. “What’s your horse’s name?”

  “Zephyr.”

  “Good name for a horse.”

  Annie forced herself to stop hovering and took the chair next to CJ, who was rolling her eyes.

  What? Annie mouthed.

  CJ placed a hand over her heart and pretended to swoon, and it was Annie’s turn for an eye roll. Behave!

  “Can you tell me what happened this morning when you were riding Zephyr?” Paul asked.

  “I fell off.”

  “You did? Is Zephyr a bucking bronco?”

  Isaac giggled again. “Nope. But I’m gonna ride one when I’m a grown-up cowboy.”

  Over my dead body, Annie thought.

  “Were you wearing a helmet?” Paul asked.

  Isaac nodded.

  “Good.” Paul pulled a small instrument out of his pocket. “This is a flashlight.” He demonstrated by pressing on it and generating a beam of light. “I want you to look right at me so I can take a look at your eyes. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good job,” he said, slipping the penlight back in his pocket. “Pupils dilating just the way we like them to.”

  Annie knew his comments were more for her benefit than her son’s. She appreciated his thoughtfulness even while she ignored CJ’s I-told-you-so elbow jab.

  Paul held out his hands, palms up. “Now I need to see if you’re strong enough to be a cowboy. Can you press down on my hands as hard as you can?”

  Isaac enthusiastically demonstrated his superhuman strength, repeating the test by pressing up, out and in against Paul’s hands. He laughed when one foot and then the other swung involuntarily in response to a tap to the knee with a little rubber hammer.

  “Dude, have you been working out? Lifting weights?” Paul asked. “Training for the Olympics?”

  “Nope. I help my grandpa, though. He has a wheelchair and he lets me push him around sometimes.”

  “How’s your grandpa doing?” Paul looked to Annie for an answer as he ran both hands along her son’s arms, then gently flexed them at the wrist, elbow and shoulder.

  “He rides horses, too,” Isaac said before she had a chance to answer.

  Clearly surprised, Paul looked to Annie for confirmation.

  “He’s amazing,” Annie said. “And yes, he rides. CJ runs a therapeutic riding program at the farm. Our dad was her test case and now he helps with the kids from time to time.”

  “Kids with disabilities often lead sheltered lives,” CJ said, jumping into the conversation. “Seeing a man get from wheelchair to horseback and canter around the ring can be a real eye-opener for them. And for their parents, who can sometimes be a little overprotective.”

  “No doubt,” Paul said. “Good to know about your program, too. Do you take referrals?”

  CJ grinned. “You bet I do.”

  Annie watched as Paul had Isaac lie back on the exam table and flex his legs while he talked to CJ. Apparently all checked out there as well.

  “Can you sit up for me, champ? Good stuff. Now, do you remember how you landed when you fell?”

  Isaac pointed to his left shoulder.

  Paul turned to CJ. “Where was he riding? In a field, on a gravel road?”

  “Oh, no. I give lessons in a covered arena. The floor has a thick layer of wood chips.”

  “So you had a pretty soft landing,” he said to Isaac. “Can you peel off your T-shirt so I can take a look at that shoulder?”

  Paul didn’t offer assistance, and Annie had to resist the urge to jump up and help. Instead, he closely watched Isaac’s movements as he bent and twisted and wriggled his way out of the shirt. Paul popped the earpieces of his stethoscope into his ears and held up the chest piece.

  “Do you know what this is for?” he asked.

  “Listening to hearts.”

  “That’s right. I can hear what’s going on inside your lungs, too.” He reached behind Isaac, ran the tip of a finger along her son’s shoulder blade as he did. “Can you take a big, deep breath and hold it for me?”

  Isaac’s narrow chest swelled.

  “Good, that’s it. Now breathe out.”

  Isaac let out a whoosh.

  Paul moved the stethoscope. “Again.”

  After several repetitions, he draped the stethoscope around his neck and examined her son’s shoulder more closely before he turned to Annie.

  “You have a healthy little cowboy here. No sign of concussion, no broken bones. Even a hairline fracture would be causing some pain. He has the makings of a dandy bruise here on his shoulder, though.”

  Annie stood to take a look. Sure enough, a red-and-purple streak marred her son’s pale skin. She lightly ran her fingers over it.

  “Does that hurt?” she asked.

  Isaac shook his head. “Can we go now? I’m hungry.”

  “Sure. We’ll have lunch as soon as we get home.” She felt silly for rushing here, assuming Isaac might have a head injury but not checking to see if he had any scrapes or bruises.

  Paul caught her hand in his as she withdrew it from Isaac’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze and held on. “You did the right thing, bringing him in to be checked out. His shoulder might be a little stiff and sore for a few days. An ice pack will help with that if you can get him to sit still for a few minutes.”

  “Thank you. I was so worried.”

  “Perfectly understandable. Anytime you have a concern, bring him in or give us a call. That’s what we’re here for.”

  She noticed he didn’t say that’s what he was here for. It was a silly thought. Why should he? He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, though, before he let go and helped Isaac put on his shirt. She wrapped her other hand around the one Paul had released, wanting to hold onto the warmth and reassurance of his touch.

  “Now that you’re back in town, you’ll have to come to the farm for a visit. Coffee, maybe, or dinner.”

  He looked at her, his gaze a little intense and completely unreadable. “Coffee would be great. My shift here starts at ten so I could run out in the morning before I start work.”

  “Tomorrow?” Is that what he meant when he said in the morning, or had he meant some morning? She wished her question hadn’t sounded so hopeful.

  “Tomorrow works,” he said without missing a beat. He hel
d out a hand to steady Isaac as he jumped off the table, then ruffled his hair before opening the door of the examining room. “You let your mom put an ice pack on that shoulder, okay? Doctor’s orders. CJ, good to see you again.”

  “Likewise.” Not one to stand on ceremony, CJ wrapped her arms around his neck. “Good to have you back in town.”

  “Good to be here.” He turned to Annie. “See you in the morning.” Then he was gone.

  Her heart fluttered and the tip of her nose sizzled.

  CJ looked her square in the eye.

  “Don’t you dare start with the I-told-you-so’s,” Annie said. “You heard what Paul said. Bringing him here was the right thing to do.”

  Her sister flashed an impish grin. “You were totally right. And hey, you even managed to land yourself a date.”

  “Shhh.” She glanced at her son, but he was already out the door, sticker books tucked securely under his arm. “It’s not a date. It’s coffee with an old friend.”

  “It’s a date,” CJ said.

  “It’s coffee,” Annie insisted. “At the house, in the kitchen, with all of you hanging around.”

  CJ slung an arm around her shoulders and they followed Isaac to the parking lot. For once, she seemed willing to let Annie have the last word. But as soon as they were in the truck, CJ was grinning again as she backed out of the parking space.

  “I can’t speak for you. But Paul? He thinks it’s a date.”

  “What’s a date?” Isaac asked.

  “It’s when two people go out to dinner and a movie,” Annie said. “You know, like Auntie CJ does all the time.”

  “Auntie CJ never goes for dinner with anybody. She always has dinner at home, with us.”

  “Oh, that’s right. She does, doesn’t she?”

  “Ouch. That was a low blow.” For a few seconds CJ put on her well-rehearsed I’m-the-baby-in-the-family pouty face, then the evil little grin was back. “Riverton isn’t exactly overrun with eligible men but you know, now that Paul Woodward’s back...huh. Maybe I’ll ask him to take me out for dinner and a movie.”

  When are you going to learn? Annie asked herself. CJ never settled for anything short of having the last word. But two things were certain—having coffee with Paul was not a date, and no one else in her family was going to date him, either.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PAUL SAT IN a cubicle behind the nursing station, added a final note to Isaac Larsen’s chart and set it on the growing stack to be filed. He had grown accustomed to working with computerized medical records at Mercy Memorial in Chicago. After he settled in at Riverton Health Center, he would explore similar systems for this facility. If he decided to stay. Until his father’s illness had progressed to the point he could no longer work or take care of himself, returning to his hometown to live and practice medicine was never an option.

  Now, with his blood still simmering from Annie’s casual embrace, he couldn’t decide if coming back was a good idea or the biggest mistake he’d ever made. She was more beautiful than ever, more devoted to family than ever, more... More Annie than he remembered. The hug had given them both a little jolt—he’d felt her awareness collide with his—then she had quickly pulled away as though she had accidentally touched an exposed wire. He knew she would deny her reaction if asked, so he wouldn’t. But he would take her up on the invitation to go for coffee tomorrow morning. Nothing would get in the way of that.

  For now, though, he needed to make it through his first day.

  Glancing at the roster, he saw he had one more patient to see before lunchtime. Mable Potter. Huh. She’d been his high school English teacher. Her daughter had made the appointment and was bringing her in to have her checked for memory loss. With her chart in hand, he sat a moment longer, trying to clear away thoughts of Annie, wishing he had the luxury to do nothing but dwell on them.

  He had not been prepared to see her. Not like this. He’d had it all planned out. He would spend a few days settling in, then he would call her. In his head, he had rehearsed the conversation, steeled himself for the rush of emotion he would feel at the sound of her voice. He would act casual, off-hand, even though that wasn’t his style. She would be happy to hear from him, invite him out to the farm.

  He had considered dropping by unexpectedly, as his long-time friend Jack Evans would have done, but that wasn’t his style, either. Too unpredictable. What if she wasn’t home? Or, worse yet, what if someone was there with her? Not that she was seeing anyone. Jack had assured him she wasn’t. It was too soon since Eric’s death, and that definitely wasn’t her style.

  As these things tended to go, Paul’s carefully thought-out plan to see Annie on his terms—after he had mentally prepared himself for their first encounter since her husband’s funeral—had gone out the window. Instead, after a hectic morning of meeting the staff, seeing patients, figuring out the routine of a small but busy clinic, there she was. Tall and slender, wearing curve-hugging jeans and an orange-and-white, wide-striped sweater. Not a blond hair out of place. Troubled blue eyes.

  Even now, the eyes haunted him.

  The sadness, the lingering grief, was not a surprise. But the unexpected emotions that niggled his conscience, tugged at his heartstrings, were. Loneliness, a lack of purpose, fear. Her fear had troubled him the most. He had picked up on an almost obsessive conviction that her son had suffered a serious injury when, in fact, the kid hardly had a scratch and only minor bruises that would fade in a few days. Yes, an understandable reaction for someone whose young husband had died six months ago, but so unlike Annie. He had always seen her as the confident one, the person who fixed things, not the person who needed things fixed for her.

  Still, if she was looking for a shoulder to lean on, he’d be happy to provide one, acknowledging that the idea was far from selfless. If he played his cards right, she might even be willing to lean on him more than a little. A guy could always hope.

  Tomorrow, he reminded himself. Right now he had a patient to see, so he made his way to the examining room, tapped lightly on the door, let himself in.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Potter. How are you doing today?”

  “Do I know you?” The elderly woman’s steady, blue-eyed gaze swept him back a couple of decades. The woman sitting next to her, probably in her late forties or early fifties, wasn’t familiar.

  “Twelfth-grade English. You were one of my favorite teachers at Riverton High. It’s good to see you again.”

  Mable beamed at that. “I had a lot of students over the years,” she said. “I wish I could remember all of them.”

  “No one would expect that,” he said, extending his hand. “But they all remember you. I’m Dr. Woodward.”

  She didn’t accept the handshake, shook her head instead. “No, you’re not. Don’t be making up stories, young man. I know Dr. Woodward, and you’re not him.”

  The woman next to her placed a gentle hand on Mable’s arm. “Mother, this is Dr. Woodward’s son. He’s a doctor, too.”

  “Are you?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Well, then. He must be proud.”

  Mable’s daughter gave him a look that begged for understanding. “I’m Olivia Lawrence. I mean, Potter—I’m using my maiden name again. I’m Mable’s daughter. Everyone calls me Libby.”

  “Nice to meet you, Libby.” He accepted her perfunctory handshake and returned his attention to her mother. “My father is an excellent doctor. I only hope I can live up to his standards.” The words were true enough. His father had been a great physician, just a lousy parent. “Now, how can I help you today, Mrs. Potter?”

  “Well...” She glanced nervously at her daughter. “I don’t remember.”

  Libby gently took her mother’s hand. “It’s okay, Mom. We all forget things from time to time. Right?” She looked to Paul for affirmation.


  “We sure do.” He sat on a wheeled stool. “The important thing to figure out is if you’re more forgetful than usual. Do you live alone, Mrs. Potter?”

  “I did after my husband passed on, but now I have my daughter home with me.”

  Libby smiled and nodded. “I’ve lived in St. Paul for many years—I’m a teacher like my mother—but I’ve had some recent, um, changes in my life and now I’m back in Riverton. I’ll be living with my mother and teaching second grade at Riverton Elementary starting next week.”

  “Very good. You must be happy to have her with you.”

  The elderly woman brightened. “I am. Especially since that good-for-nothing reprobate of a husband of hers didn’t come with her.”

  Libby sighed. Paul suppressed a chuckle, trying to recall the last time he’d heard the word reprobate used in a sentence. Probably not since twelfth-grade English. “I remember you always were one to speak your mind, Mrs. Potter. Now if it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “You go right ahead,” she said. “As long as they’re not too personal.”

  Libby closed her eyes, shook her head.

  After all these years, still not pulling any punches, Paul thought. The poor woman probably knew things weren’t quite right and she was scared witless. Geriatrics weren’t his strong suit, but for now he would go easy on her, he decided. Depending on what he learned, he might refer them to a specialist in the city.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If you feel any of the questions are too personal, then you don’t have to answer them.”

  “That seems fair.” But she clung to her daughter’s hand like a lifeline.

  “How long have you lived in Riverton, Mrs. Potter?”

  “All my life.”

  He looked to Libby, who confirmed the answer with a subtle nod.

  “So you must know pretty well everyone in town.”

  “I suppose I do. I’ve taught a lot of them, too. And their children and their children’s children.”

  “She even taught me,” Libby added, her soft voice filled with affection.