No Good Doctor Read online

  But he doesn’t say a word.

  He just makes a soft “ch” sound under his breath, then sweeps out in a last snapping flare of his lab coat.

  I let out my shaky breath and press my forehead against Jake’s. “Well,” I whisper. “That was weird.”

  A wet, warm, raspy tongue slides over my cheek. I laugh, shoving gently at Jake’s oversized, shaggy head. Even if my boss is cold and strange and makes me feel way too jumpy every time he’s around...

  The clients aren’t half bad. It’s just their owners that make this job hard.

  “Come on,” I say, wrapping my arms around Jake so I can help him down from the table without straining his weathered joints. “Let’s get you back on your leash and send you home, boy.”

  Out in the lobby, Arielle waits as I lead him out and hand him over, while Doc murmurs with Pam, the receptionist, over scheduling.

  We’re such a small practice we don’t have much equipment and it’s expensive to operate, so sometimes more complicated procedures have a waiting list. But it looks like we’ll get Jake in again soon. While I’m trying not to be obvious about peering at the screen over Pam’s shoulder, every other woman in the room fixes their eyes on Doc, watching him, waiting to see which name he’ll call next.

  He still doesn’t say a thing.

  Still.

  He just finishes with Pam, turns around, and walks into the back without looking at anyone.

  A collective sigh sweeps through the room. Shaking my head, I lean my arms against the counter and dip my head to murmur to Pam. “Is it like this every day?”

  She chuckles, reaching up to tuck her graying curly locks back without hardly missing a beat in her machine-gun typing. “Only Friday afternoons, hun.” Her slow Southern drawl says she’s not from this little Northwestern mountain town, but then neither am I. “People get out of work early and, well, single ladies get bored when we’re not exactly a nightclub town and the only entertainment on weekends is Brody’s.”

  I peek surreptitiously over my shoulder at the cluster of hopefuls. “Does it ever work? Bringing their pets in.”

  She eyes me cannily and smiles, pleasant but shrewd. “Are you trying to find out if the good doctor is single, Ember?”

  “No!” I hiss, eyes widening, shaking my head, my heart leaping up into the back of my throat. “And don’t say that so loud!”

  She might as well paint a target on my back.

  I’m not about to piss off every single woman in Heart’s Edge by even pretending to compete for their man of the hour.

  Having Jake’s owner glaring at me was bad enough.

  Besides, someone as cold and restrained as Dr. Caldwell would never look at me, anyway.

  He looks like he’d date...I don’t even know. Some icy, elegant redhead with sultry lips.

  I’m too small, too young, too mousy.

  I’m wallpaper. I blend in, September Delwen style, and people don’t really pay attention to me.

  That’s why I like animals so much. They don’t need you to be spectacular or witty or cute or sexy –

  or able to walk a straight line without tripping over your own toes – to love you.

  They just need you to love them back.

  Still, it amazes me that all it takes is one strange, mysteriously gorgeous man to pull in this many people in a town this small. The cozy size of Heart’s Edge is the whole reason I moved here.

  I wanted to spread my wings, leave the nest, and find a place to start my life without my mother hovering over my shoulder, but I didn’t want the overwhelming noise and press of a big city.

  I just want to find home.

  But let’s be honest, I’m searching for the impossible.

  In my heart, home is a place where Dad never died. A place where things are better when he’s around.

  And that place won’t ever exist again.

  I can’t go back there.

  So I decided to go somewhere else.

  As I watch Pam call the next client, only for the woman to practically launch into the back with her wild-eyed and very confused cat, I stop and wonder.

  What if I’ve wandered into a whole other kind of trouble?

  Nah.

  Dr. Caldwell is just my boss. I don’t have to worry about his crazy dealings with the rest of the town. I just need to show up on time, do my job, and be good to people’s pets.

  Easy as pie.

  Or not.

  My back sure as heck doesn’t feel easy by the time we close up and I’m finishing after-hours cleanup. So many kennels to be scrubbed, and even when I’m done there’s still paperwork to review, prescription call-ins to verify, and records to check against the database entries in our patient tracking system.

  But just as I’m plowing through it at Pam’s workstation to start closing things out, the front door of The Menagerie opens with a faint jingle of the bell. I look up as a woman steps inside with a soft click of heels, a plain tan carrier hanging from one of her well-manicured hands.

  My eyes widen. You know the feeling when someone just totally doesn’t fit?

  Yeah. She’s like a stiletto in human form, and I don’t even have to be a local to know she’s not from around here. The locals dressed to impress.

  She’s dressed to slay.

  All black, her tight black bob framing a severe, model-worthy face graven with the calm authority of creeping age. But just because she’s older doesn’t mean she’s not beautiful, sleek, elegant.

  Kind of like Doc.

  Her stylish black coat, black stockings, and simple heels make her look like she just stepped out of a catalog. She’s smooth. She’s lethal. She’s stunning.

  And just like Doc, she’s got that aloof, careful air around her that spills out into the room, like she’s got a thousand secrets, but she’ll never tell you a single one. Not unless she kills you.

  And her smile? It’s almost knowing as her sharp, dark grey eyes land on me. “Good evening. Is the doctor in?”

  I blink, shaking myself from my bewilderment and telling myself to stop freaking staring.

  Offering her an apologetic smile, I fold my hands together. “I think he’s already gone for the day, and we closed about half an hour ago. Unless it’s an emergency, you can come back in the morning or make an appointment for–”

  “I really don’t know if it’s an emergency,” she replies coolly, even if that smile remains. All teeth. Sharp. “I’m not a veterinarian. I do think the doctor could tell me if my Baxter needs emergency medical care.”

  Baxter, I realize, is the cat in the carrier – as jet-black as her clothes and hair, this little midnight inkblot whose only distinguishable feature is a pair of wide, curious golden eyes peering through the wire mesh door.

  I bite my lip. It’s after hours, but what if her furry little munchkin needs help?

  I can’t turn this woman away. If she really, really wants to see Doc, though, taking a look at Baxter might be enough to placate her until she can come back tomorrow.

  So I stand.

  Catch my foot in the spokes of the chair.

  Wobble.

  And catch myself on the desk.

  Awesome.

  Clumsy me might just be my natural state.

  Honestly, it’s a miracle they ever let me handle sharp objects in veterinary school.

  Acting like nothing happened, I drag a smile up from the last dregs of energy I have left after an insanely long day. “Go ahead and bring Baxter in the back,” I say. “I’ll have a look.”

  Her eyes narrow. She watches me cautiously, considering – I don’t know what.

  I don’t really think I’m much to look at, so I don’t know why she’s staring at me that way, but after a moment she deigns to nod.

  “Thank you,” she says, and sweeps past me toward the exam room without a second glance.

  It’s then that I notice she’s wearing gloves. Long black leather gloves, when it’s late spring and getting hot out. Too hot for that long blac
k coat, too, with its feathery fur collar.

  But she’s still as cool as ice.

  Weird.

  I follow her into the back, where she’s set the carrier on the exam table. Slipping my fingers through the carrier door, I let Baxter sniff them gently.

  He – or she? – is almost too big for the kitten-sized carrier but doesn’t seem bothered. The cat just smells my fingers before butting its head imperiously against them.

  “So what’s wrong with Baxter?”

  “She started throwing up everywhere,” the woman says. She’s quiet, distracted, looking around the sterile examining room with a thoughtful, critical eye. “I haven’t changed her food or her treats, so I’m worried she ate something poisonous.”

  I carefully ease the carrier door open. Baxter eyes me, but then takes the opportunity to slink out, immediately thrusting her head against my palm and making no attempt to escape the table as some pets do when they feel threatened in a strange place.

  It’s not hard to tell she’s a social kitty. The way she purrs and relaxes for me even though my scent is new gives it away.

  Even if this woman doesn’t know enough to get her cat an adult-sized carrier, she’s clearly spent a lot of time giving Baxter affection and care. Which is hard to imagine.

  It’s also pretty clear there’s nothing wrong with this cat at all.

  Weirder.

  Is this stranger another one of Doc’s hopefuls? She’d make unlucky number thirteen today.

  I’m not even going to contemplate how fitting that is, considering how she looks like the Grim Reaper’s latest Tinder date.

  Still, I make a point of looking the cat over. “Hm...do you have any lilies around your house? Any flowers at all?” I ask, checking Baxter’s eyes. Dilated pupils often indicate animals are poisoned, but Baxter’s are perfectly normal and react like they should, contracting and expanding as I flick my little pocket pen light over her face. “Lilies are the most common troublemakers, but azaleas and tulips are close runners-up. A lot of people don’t realize until they get a bouquet and the petals start falling off, and one of their pets gets curious and eats them.”

  “No,” the woman says tonelessly. “I don’t keep flowers. Too high maintenance.”

  “And I doubt anyone’s sent you any, have they?” A voice drifts across the room, echoing coolly from behind us.

  Uh-oh.

  I suck in a breath, pivoting quickly. The woman stays calm, turning, like she just expects to find Doc standing there in the doorway.

  And watching us with his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a thin line.

  I don’t have to know him to know there’s something different about him. He’s been stiff and withdrawn from the moment I met him, but right now – despite his cool control – he practically bristles.

  Like a green-eyed jaguar crouched in the shadows, completely motionless. Yet his entire body primes for the instant he’ll pounce and strike. His gaze goes over me, his eyes locked on the stranger with a focused intensity.

  It’s not hard to tell.

  These two have history.

  “So let’s hear it,” he says with a sort of hard-edged indifference, subtly mocking. “What brings you back here?”

  “Baxter,” the woman answers airily. “I think all the stress of moving must be getting to her. She’s throwing up constantly, and really...she’s so skittish. Quiet. Hardly any appetite.”

  There’s something pointed in the way she says it, in the way she looks at him.

  Wowza. There are two conversations going on right now.

  The one I can hear. And then the one I’m totally oblivious to.

  I’d might as well not be in the room.

  Doc inclines his head slightly. “I take it my assistant has already looked at your cat?”

  “Oh, she’s been looking,” the woman retorts, eyes glittering. “Isn’t she a bit young for you, Doctor? Or have I been wrong about your appetites all this time?”

  That I don’t miss. It’s about as subtle as a brick to the face.

  Holy crap.

  Worse, I blush up to my ears, my whole body burning hot. I’m not sure how I wound up in the crossfire between my new boss and this wraith of a woman, but here I am.

  Shaking my head quickly, I dart a look at Doc. He can’t possibly think it’s anything but a joke thrown at him by this lady who clearly has a mean axe to grind.

  “I’m sorry, I...it’s not. I d-don’t–”

  Apparently, I don’t know anything right now except all about slurring my words.

  “That’s enough, Ms. Delwen,” he interrupts, still not looking at me.

  But if I’m not mistaken, there’s almost a touch of gentleness in his voice, the same tone he uses with animals while ignoring the humans attached to them. “If you could wait in my office, I’ll handle Baxter and our guest.”

  Somehow, I don’t think Baxter is the one he intends to handle here. And the way he says guest might be the kindest substitute for bitch I’ve ever heard in my life.

  I’m frozen for another moment. This has to be the weirdest day of work in my life, and when I was sixteen, a naked flasher in a trench coat showed up at my ice cream shop during my first shift and demanded two scoops of Rocky Road in the middle of his hairy chest. I gulp hard, heart hammering, then nod quickly.

  “S-sure,” I manage. “Excuse me.”

  And without another word, I go skittering from the room, tumbling through the door, managing to bang my shoulder on the frame. But I don’t breathe again until the door shuts behind me, latching firmly and cutting off one last hard, strange look from Doc.

  Can a girl kill herself with too much shame? I think we’re coming close to finding out.

  I slump against the wall, pressing a hand over my chest. Something about that little encounter has my heart rate going full roar, ramping up to a hundred miles an hour.

  Some people fight with bluster and force and shouting and violence. Not today. Even if there’s no denying there’d been a battle in there, a confrontation that took place in nothing but silence, knowing looks, and lingering words.

  I couldn’t tell if Doc and that woman hated each other, or something more.

  Maybe a bitter ex?

  Or maybe they’re still together, and things aren’t going that well.

  Ugh. I don’t know anything about him, honestly. The possibilities are endless.

  A sour smile pulls at my lips. Because if that’s his taste in women...

  The hopeful ladies of Heart’s Edge won’t catch up in a million years.

  I lift my head, though, at the sound of voices from inside. They’re muffled. Secretive.

  I can’t make out many words. Not enough to figure out what’s going on, but it doesn’t sound like a lover’s quarrel.

  I catch something about the number nine, and something that sounds like...strike team? Huh?

  Strike team.

  That’s military terminology.

  Or police.

  A team of people sent in to do a job quickly and efficiently, and then get out fast with as few dead bodies as possible. More emphasis on the time than the body bag count, if thriller flicks have taught me anything.

  Now I’m just confused.

  Why on earth would a small-town vet, no matter how handsome, be talking about strike teams with a woman who just showed up with a barfy cat?

  And just what have I gotten myself into, signing on to work here?

  Deep trouble, I realize when the door opens so abruptly, I jump with a little squeak, stumbling to one side, then right myself and clap my hand over my mouth.

  The woman emerges with her cat carrier. She pauses mid-stride when she sees me, looking down her nose briefly, before turning and walking away.

  There’s not a single sound save for the deafening click of heels on tile and a single plaintive mewl from Baxter.

  Why do I feel like I just dodged a bullet? I take a few shaky breaths. Standing there, while that woman looked at me like I was
trash, felt like being locked in gunsights, my entire body tingling with nerves.

  Then another jolt hits me as Doc’s voice comes from behind me.

  “Ms. Delwen,” he says flatly, “I believe we need to have a chat about proper clinical procedure.”

  2

  Dog Days (Doc)

  Hiring a new vet tech was, I think, a stunning mistake.

  Especially one as young, fragile, utterly guileless – and utterly clumsy – as this one.

  Ember.

  The name on the application form was September, but from the moment we met, she’d told me to call her Ember.

  The name suits her.

  She’s just a small glimmer of warmth against a vast and echoing darkness, barely flickering in and out like a tiny firefly.

  And she’s staring up at me in abject terror now, her blue eyes so wide in her heart-shaped, sweetly innocent face that she looks like a little girl who’s just seen the bogeyman for the first time.

  At least she didn’t fall this time.

  God damn it.

  Part of me wants to discipline her for clearly eavesdropping on a private conversation.

  But it’s extremely hard to be cold, to be cruel, to someone who looks like she’d crumple in an even slightly blustery wind.

  It’s not Ember’s fault I’m so pissed, anyway.

  It’s Fuchsia’s.

  It’s been years, and she hasn’t changed. She’s the same woman, just a touch older, a touch more stately, a touch deadlier.

  She still has that damnable talent for ambushing people at the worst possible time, and then slicing them open with the razor edge of her tongue.

  I don’t want her here again. Not in Heart’s Edge, not in my life, and certainly not with the baggage and demons she brings with her. Definitely not because the fact that she’s back at all means nothing good.

  But at the moment, I have other problems.

  Like the girl waiting for me to tell her she’s fired when honestly?

  I can’t afford to lose her.

  Not after my last tech quit. Ran off to Oklahoma to be with some fellow she met on some asinine dating site.