Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1 (6 page)

Her one and only paying client. The relief washed over her, but she fought to keep from looking grateful.

One eyebrow snuck up, giving him that playful look again. “How long with no treatment?”

“One to three years.”

“Yup.”

Yup? Yup
what
? Nothing this man said made a lick of sense, except for the parts that pissed her off. She understood those just fine.

Finally, he started translating. Mr. White Mouse nodded as Rebel went on. Occasionally, the two of them would look over to her, like she was a candy striper instead of the head honcho around here, but that was it.

After what seemed like an eternity in the waiting room for Hell, Mr. White Mouse shook Rebel’s hand, nodded at her and walked out.

She looked at Mr. White Mouse, at Rebel and back to Mr. White Mouse. “What the hell did you tell him?

“To go to a sweat lodge.”

“Excuse me?” That did it. She was going to lose it, right here, right now. In the three days she’d been here, she’d had a nameless man with an unreported bullet wound, a horse in the clinic, and now this—a strange man with a stranger name sending her patients away against medical advice. No wonder the last guy only made it five months. This place was insane. She yanked the curtain shut so she could at least pretend she was losing it in private. “What the hell is a sweat lodge?”

“Calm down, ma’am.” His voice dropped a notch and he turned to face her.

Oh, he was going to do the old speak-in-quiet-tones thing, the very thing she did when she needed to calm a patient? Screw him. “I’m not your ma’am. I’m Dr. Mitchell to you.”

He leaned in, so close she could feel his breath on her flushed face. “You’re really Madeline, aren’t you?”

The air crushed out of her chest and her heart, which had been moving along at a nice, super-pissed clip, threatened to stop entirely. All at once, she realized they were obscured from everyone else in the clinic by the curtain. They were almost alone. And he was almost going to kiss her.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, dipping his head down to hers. He waved his hand—not touching her face, not touching her hair, but she felt the coolness of the air move over her. “Madeline.”

He was outflanking her, plain and simple. Mesmerizing her with his deep voice that said her name like it was something sacred, something worth protecting. Holding her with his soft eyes. Hypnotizing her with his easy movements. Waiting until she was completely defenseless. And then he’d go for the kill.

So what if she wouldn’t mind being taken down right now? Dr. Madeline Mitchell didn’t go down without a fight. “You tell me what a sweat lodge is. You tell me why you sent my patient away against medical advice. You tell me what your real name is, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” She wanted to wince at that last part. She had no idea if she could have him arrested or not. But it was too late. It was out there.

If he only had a longer nose, he’d look exactly like a wolf grinning at his prey. Her.

“I didn’t send him away against medical advice. You said so yourself—he’s got about three years, one way or the other.” He leaned back, his heel tapping again. Always moving—but not moving in on her now. She let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “
Even if
he had the money to pay for tests and surgery and chemo and radiation,
even if
he had a car that could get him to Rapid City and back,
even if
he let you poison his body in hopes of saving it, he’s got about three years. He’s sixty-eight. He’s already lived longer than most of us will on this rez.”

“So you won’t even try? You won’t even let
me
try to cure him?”

He scrunched up his face with disdain. “With surgery and controlled poisoning? You might
cure
his body—that’s a big might—but you will not
heal
him. We’ll go into a sweat lodge, and the elders and I will heal him. That’s what he needs in his twilight.”

Sweat lodges? He was speaking her language, and she still had nothing. “I could still have you arrested.”

He called her bluff without blinking an eye. Damn, those eyes—those eyes would do her in. Here she was, trying to kick him out, and he was looking at her like...like...like she didn’t know what. Those eyes didn’t give away much. “Rebel is my real name.” He tipped his hat, old-school. “Madeline.”

And then he was gone.

And all she could do was watch him walk away.

Chapter Four

At 8:15 on Thursday morning, Rebel was in the waiting room, sitting next to Irma Speaks Loud. He was fully aware that he’d been here every single day this week and that he didn’t have to stick around for Irma’s appointment—her English was just fine. He was also aware that he could not get his leg to stop jumping and that Tara was staring at him out of the corner of her eye.

He was more than aware that Dr. Madeline Mitchell was wearing a skirt today. A blue-jean skirt that came to just below her knees but hugged everything it touched like an old friend. Her legs were pale, almost milk-white. Those legs said she didn’t normally wear skirts. Those legs said she had a good reason for wearing that skirt.

She had on those boots again too. They were right pretty boots, he figured, chestnut with blue stitching. Matched her eyes. But they pinched her feet. He could tell by the way she splayed her feet out to the side when she walked. Probably blisters on the heels. He thought about making her a pair of mocs, then realized he was thinking of the pair he’d seen in the vision. They’d look good on her.

However, even if he made her a nice pair of mocs, she might very well throw them back in his face. After all, she’d seriously considered calling Tim on him yesterday—as if Tim would actually arrest him. But she didn’t know that.

She spun around and caught him watching her. Her hands flew to her hair again—this time, it was tied in a low tail. It swung down to just between her shoulder blades. He liked it down, but something about it seemed off. Not quite right.

A fact that was not helped by the way her face twisted into something ferocious as she walked up to him. “Hello,
Rebel
.” She sounded like she’d hit a piece of gristle in the middle of a good steak, but it didn’t matter. She’d said his name. It had the potential to be music to his ears. “Back again?”

He willed his leg to be still, and it ignored him. “Brought Irma in.”

Her eyes shifted to Irma, and she softened. It was a pretty thing to watch, to see the woman inside try to come out. “And you’re here to translate?”

Irma cackled, her good humor filling the room. “I don’t need no translator. I figure if I got to have someone drive me in, I might as well get someone easy on the eyes to do it, yeah?”

He chuckled with Irma, which helped keep him from staring at the prairie-fire blush that flamed across Madeline’s cheeks. Damn, she just got prettier all the time.

“Well. That’s...good.” She did a damn fine job of ignoring her physical reactions, Rebel decided. She was relieved that she wouldn’t need a translator, but she acted like it was no big deal. The boots were clearly rubbing her wrong, but she wore them anyway. She blushed like a schoolgirl, but refused to even acknowledge that he was getting to her.

Somewhere, deep inside a pissy doctor who couldn’t stand the sight of him, was a woman named Madeline. He thought he’d seen her yesterday, right about the time he’d thought about kissing her in the middle of the afternoon, just to see what she’d do. But the pissy doctor had overruled the woman named Madeline with such ease that she probably didn’t even know she’d done it. Second nature, that’s what it was.

He wanted to know what her first nature was. He could be patient if he had to be. But he wasn’t feeling patient today. Hence the fact that his leg would
not
stop jumping.

She was staring at him. And not in the good way. “Was there something else you needed?”

He’d bet money that particular look didn’t exactly win her friends, wherever she came from. She was
that
good at it. “Nope.”

Her lips thinned. “I’m sure you’ve got someplace else to be.”

“Not really.” She didn’t like someone challenging her directly, that much was clear. She was used to being in charge. Probably the oldest child, he decided.

Her hand slicked back, smoothing her ponytail again. As far as personal tics went, it was odd. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

He settled his butt into the chair. “Not today.” Not when he could sit here all day and watch her fight herself. Beads would keep.

In a flash, her demeanor changed and she smiled, the smile of a woman who got exactly what she wanted. His blood ran hot. “Good. Then I’m sure you won’t mind helping Clarence unload the supplies. Since you’re so familiar with my stock closet.”

Oh, he’d like to be familiar with a whole lot more than that. But if she wanted him to prove himself by carrying boxes, then so be it. At least then he’d have a good reason for still being here. “Yes, ma’am.”

“The white Jeep,” she said, dismissing him with a wave. “Irma? Come on back.”

He had to look around, but he finally found the white Jeep parked in back. He should have guessed that a vehicle that nice and new was hers. Not many cars like that around here. And who would buy a white car? Back when he’d gone off the rez, white cars were all driven by drivers paid good money just to take wealthy old ladies from point A to point B. She didn’t look that old.

Clarence had a stack of boxes on a hand truck. “Hiya, Rebel,” he said with a grunt as he lifted another box.

“Hiya, Clarence. That’s a lot of boxes.”

He looked from the hand truck to the Jeep. “I think she managed to get forty boxes in here. And so far, they all weigh a ton.”

Rebel peeked in. Boxes were crammed in, floor to ceiling, window to window—passenger seat included. “What on earth did she get?” He’d only given her a grand. A grand went a long way for him, but he didn’t think it would cover this much. He picked up a box marked
FRAGILE. X-RAY FILM
.” A ton didn’t begin to describe it.

“Everything, I think. There’s got to be five thousand bucks’ worth of stuff in there.”

Wow. That’s why she bought a white Jeep. She was a wealthy lady. Just not old. “I brought Irma in. I can help until she’s done.”

Even with the two of them, it still took over an hour to get all the supplies in. As they wheeled the last boxes in, Rebel noticed Tara was smiling. It didn’t happen very often, not unless Nelly was behaving herself. “Better day today?”

Sipping a Diet Coke, Tara nodded. “She hasn’t yelled once. It’s been almost pleasant. I thought she might be even grumpier about spending all that money...”

His curiosity got the better of him. “How much?”

“More than eleven grand.” Tara’s voice was a true whisper, like she was afraid to name the number out loud. “She gave me the receipts to file. That’s a lot of money.”

Rebel whistled. That wasn’t a lot of money. That was a
hell
of a lot of money.

Who the hell was Dr. Madeline Mitchell?

It took nine hours to unpack eleven grand worth of medical supplies. He even took Irma home and then borrowed her car to come back and keep helping, much to Blue Eye’s disappointment. When Albert showed up, Tara left to get Nelly at four thirty, marking the official end of the work day. Clarence held out until five thirty before he bailed. Albert asked if he should help, but she must be picking up on some of the language, because she yelled from the stock room that Albert was sweet for asking, but he should go home and check on Jesse, which Rebel duly translated.

And it was just the two of them.

By seven, they were done. She sprawled out at Tara’s desk, her head down as she ran her hand over what was left of her pony tail. There wasn’t much there, but damn it all, it was smooth.

Rebel took up residence on the floor in front of the fan, watching her through narrow eyes. She was exhausted. Would she own up to it, or pretend everything was fine?

“Thank you for your help, Rebel.” It was muffled by the crook of her arm, but he heard it anyway. It wasn’t the first time she’d said his name, but it did mark the first time she said it without sneering.

The fan wasn’t cooling much. “Glad to help. That was a hell of a lot of stuff.”

“I believe the technical term is a
shitload
of stuff.” She pulled her head up and smiled weakly as she rotated her head from side to side. She was funny. He found her unintentionally humorous, but she could even be funny on purpose—when she wasn’t trying to run the world.

“You got all that last night?” True, he was dancing around the eleven-thousand-dollar question. But every pass got him closer to some of her truth.

She shot him the
I-got-what-I-wanted
look. With her mussed hair and tired smile, she definitely looked like she belonged in a bed. Or at least a sleeping bag. “That medical supply place didn’t want to stay open past eight, but money talks, you know.”

Getting closer. He edged away from the fan. “That didn’t look like money talking. That looked like money screaming.”

Her back stiffened and she spun the chair away from him. He was losing her. “Don’t worry about it.”

He didn’t want to lose her, not yet. “Can I worry about you?”