Skin Heat (3 page)

After asking the usual questions, she performed a routine prelim exam, but as she’d suspected, it would take a CT to know for sure what was wrong. She hated this part of the job because she was almost sure she wouldn’t be able to offer a cure. If Amos had brought Duke in sooner, maybe. But not now. The dog was just too weak.

Still, she had to try. Her instincts, while good, were not infallible. Neva scooped the dog into her arms and took him in back. He didn’t fight as she laid him on the table. Julie came back to assist, but she paused in the doorway when she saw how much Neva had done on her own.

“Are you okay?”

She heard the question in the tech’s voice. Julie had a boyfriend and a life outside work and she was ready to be done for the day. “Yeah, I can handle this. Go on home to Travis.”

It didn’t take long to find the problem—tumor on the spleen. Fatal. This one was such a good size, it was no wonder the dog didn’t want to eat. There wasn’t room inside him.

Neva closed her eyes and took a deep breath, bracing herself for the encounter to come. Then she squared her shoulders and picked Duke up, cradling him with the same tenderness most people would show a small child. His yellow fur contrasted with her white coat as she carried him back to the exam room.

Amos came to his feet with an anxious look. “You find out what’s ailing him?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Using her doctor’s voice, she explained the medical condition and his options. He could take some pain meds home and let the dog live as long as possible, or she could euthanize tonight. “I understand it’s a tough decision. I can give you some medicine for him if you want to think about it.”

His face fell. “So there’s nothin’ you can do?”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, wishing she could fix it.

No matter how many animals she saved, this never got any easier. The losses always overshadowed the wins. Sometimes she thought it would break her heart, but quitting would just prove her parents right. She’d refused the life they’d chosen for her; they must learn to accept her on her own terms . . . or not at all, though that wasn’t what she wanted, either.

But he surprised her. “Let’s get it done then. I don’t want Duke in pain.”

“If you’re sure, I have some forms for you to fill out.”

An hour later, she finished up. Amos was in tears when he left, and she felt heavy as a carton of bricks. Neva hated days that ended like this.

She jumped a little when a man stepped into view through the frosted glass of her front window. If he held a sick animal, she just might cry. Her lunch had consisted of a soggy sandwich ; she was starving and she needed some rest.

Halfheartedly she pointed at the “Closed” sign. In answer, he indicated the “Help Wanted” sign on the other side of the door. As she peered at him, she realized she knew him. He’d helped her the other day when she was stranded. Zeke Noble, the tow truck driver had said.
A good Samaritan, and more importantly, not a stranger, thief, or vandal.
If he’d wanted to hurt her, he’d had a better shot at it on that lonely road. He’d struck her as strange and wary, but not dangerous. So there was no need to call the sheriff to shoo him off.

Counting herself lucky that was all he wanted, Neva pulled an application off the pad on the front desk—covered with pictures of Julie’s family, her boyfriend, and her dog—and then went out into the dark.

The woman looked
tired, Zeke thought. Her scrubs were stained, and she wore a long tan jacket over the top of them, carelessly unbelted. It was chilly but not freezing today. The extremes ranged wildly; one day it could be below thirty with frost on the ground, and the next it might be sixty-six with threat of tornadoes. Tonight it was about forty-five, and she really should have her coat buttoned up.

Zeke stepped back so as not to crowd her. He didn’t often care what people made of him, hadn’t for years, but he didn’t want to scare a woman after dark, especially not one he hoped would give him a job. She locked the door behind her and then turned, offering him the form. Nodding his thanks, he took it and headed toward his truck. Her voice stopped him halfway there.

“You’re not much for talking.”

He recognized her voice, though he hadn’t gotten a good look at her the other night. She spoke with a honey-sweet drawl that almost made him retrace his steps. The power of those soft, almost teasing words flowed over him in a soothing wave; he’d like to listen to her a little longer, and maybe the knots in him would unwind. Right now he felt ten kinds of exposed—twitchy—as if unfriendly eyes watched him from all dark corners.

Zeke imagined how angry dogs must listen to her whispering reassurances until their hackles smoothed and they stopped showing teeth. Pretty soon they’d be belly up, whining for a rub. He knew that because he fought the same urge.

“Reckon not,” he answered at length.

“You never let me thank you.”

So she knew him, too. Tim Sweeney had told her his name, but they’d met before, a long time ago. Not that she’d remember. There was no reason for Geneva Harper to recall the boy who’d mowed their lawn while she was away at college. Their paths had only crossed the summer she came home instead of taking extra classes. He’d watched her a lot, those months, with quiet, hopeless longing.

The one time they’d spoken, she had come into the kitchen while he was eating his lunch to ask the cook to make some lemon squares. She’d said hello to him and given him a sweet smile. He’d mumbled something, hoping she’d linger, hoping she wouldn’t. She didn’t.

Zeke turned then, watching her cross the pavement toward him. She’d put on some weight since he’d seen her last, but she carried it well. Back then, he’d thought she looked like a fawn, all legs and eyes. Now she had curves, the kind that made a man want to see how deep the softness ran. But she still had the big brown eyes and pretty skin. Her hair was brown, too, caught at her neck in a clip. And she was smiling at him.

Annoyance surged through him. It was full dark; she should be more wary. Even though it was a small town, bad things happened here.
He
ought to know.

“Thank me with a job.” He emphasized the words with a rattle of the paper.

“I just might. Bring it back during business hours.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her smile flickered. “Don’t. Ma’am makes me feel old.”

You’re not old.
The words stuck in his throat, too personal to be spoken. He just inclined his head.
Best not rile her.
At this point any job would do, and he’d visited every other business in town before stopping here. Nobody else had looked thrilled when he asked for an application. They remembered him from his mother, he supposed, and later, his father had done the family name no service, either. If things got worse, he’d heed the voices in his head telling him to slide deeper into the woods and never come out again. But Zeke wasn’t quite ready to give up. Not yet.

She smelled of blood and death. He’d fight hard to get past that, if he went to work here. Beneath the disturbing scents, she had others: honey, almonds, and warm cotton. Maybe it was just because he hadn’t been with a woman in over a year, but disturbing urges coiled up inside him. He wanted to pull her hair out of the clip, knot his hands in her hair, and
growl
as he—

No more. You’re
not
an animal.

“Sorry, Ms. Harper.”

“Neva,” she corrected gently.

Zeke hadn’t known people called her that. But then why would he? They didn’t travel in the same circles; he felt like he’d been granted an undeserved intimacy. It was vaguely shaming that he wanted her to remember his name—and that they’d met before—but she never would.

“Won’t keep you,” he muttered. “Thanks.”

Before she could stop him again, he wheeled and headed for his truck. He climbed inside, and by the overhead light, he looked at the job application. He had a stack of them on the seat beside him. And
none
of them made sense. The letters kept changing shape on him, translating into symbols that made no sense. He’d once understood what they meant. At least, he was pretty sure he had.

Now he could only figure signs out based on past experience. He knew what an exit sign looked like, and he’d seen enough “Help Wanted” signs to recognize one in red and white because it was two words and the correct number of letters; he just couldn’t make them out separately as words. And it helped a lot that public bathrooms had pictures on them. His hands trembled as he put the form atop the others. There was no way he could fill these out without help and it enraged him.

“What the hell did y’all do to me?” he asked aloud.

With a little snarl, Zeke started the truck, and then he realized he’d waited until Neva made it to her car. In town, with lights all around, he could see it was an old Honda Civic—same one that’d stalled on his road, so she must’ve gotten it fixed; it was a little surprising Geneva Harper didn’t drive a more expensive car. Only after she drove away did he feel free to do the same. Weird, but his inner hound relaxed its guard once he knew she was safe.

To fill out these applications, he needed help. And there was only one person he could turn to.

 

Half an hour
later, he sat in his aunt’s kitchen, listening with half an ear to her complaints. His excuses didn’t matter—nobody would believe the real story anyway. More importantly, with his mother’s history, he couldn’t
trust
anyone with the true story. Not even Auntie Sid, much as it grieved him.

“I was worried,” she concluded with a scowl. “I can’t believe you just run off like that. What would your daddy say?”

Nothing,
Zeke thought.
Being dead and all.
But nobody mouthed off to her. Not if they knew what was good for them. Sid was short for Sidonie; it was a French name, as she never tired of reminding people, because their people had moved to Alabama from New Orleans. She was a small woman, barely came up to his chin, and her hair had more silver in it than it used to. He hoped the crow’s feet around her eyes weren’t because of him. It was lucky she didn’t look anything like his father, or he might have a hard time looking at her. People said he favored her around the eyes.

He mumbled something apologetic and ate the last of his pie—Granny Smith apple, and one of the pleasures he’d forgotten during his captivity. Luckily he remembered to use a fork. His cheeks burned with remembered embarrassment. With any grace, he would avoid humiliating himself like that in front of folks.

Once she wound down and joined him at the kitchen table, he said, “Need your help with these,” and scooted the stack of forms toward her.

With reading glasses perched on her nose, she looked a lot like his mamaw, too, but there were no dark memories attached to his grandmother. She’d passed on before everything turned at the farm.

Sid had always been his favorite auntie; the others didn’t have much time for him. They were a big family, lots of cousins and such, but Zeke had never felt connected to any of them. As a kid, he’d spent his time in the woods, looking for frogs and trying to save squirrels that his kin wanted to shoot.

“Something wrong with your writin’ hand?”

Now he’d have to lie to her. Trying not to squirm, he answered, “Need glasses but I gotta work ’fore I can pay the eye doctor.”

She nodded like that made good sense. “Well, I’m just glad you’re back. Don’t take off on me like that again, hear?”

It took everything he had to answer her questions like nothing was wrong. Like he couldn’t hear the mice scurrying in the walls. Once she’d gotten all the facts for the first form, it was simple for her to fill in the blanks on all the applications. Most had pictures on them so he could tell which ones needed to go back to what businesses. By the time she finished, Sid was complaining her hand hurt.

“Sorry for that. But anything I can do . . .” He glanced around her kitchen, looking for work. A few of the cabinets looked loose. Tomorrow he’d come back and fix them.

“Psht,” she scoffed. “You’re the first one I’ll call, something needs doing. The rest of these Nobles are a shiftless lot, I tell you what.”

Zeke stood. “Need to get on home.”

“Guff. You’ll stay until you’re back on your feet. I know dang well you don’t have power at the farm.”

His aunt had a cozy little bungalow in town, so it would be nice to stay with her. But he was afraid of what he might say or do. Sometimes dreams came, and when he woke, he wasn’t where he’d been when he went to sleep. Best not to expose her to that. Reluctantly he shook his head. “Can’t. You done enough.”

He read the love and concern in her face as she hugged him. “Then I want you for dinner, once you get one of these jobs. Hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Be careful in that truck. It’ll be the death of you.”

She might not be wrong about that.

 

“You smell like
dog,” Lillian Harper said.

Neva felt her smile slip. “I do not. I showered.”

“Stay away from James Marchand. He’s allergic.” Her mother lifted her chin in greeting at a newly arrived guest and swept away in a slim Chanel cloud.

Harper Court teemed with people invited to the country for a long weekend. It could be long, despite the lack of any corresponding holiday, because most of the guests had money and were not engaged in the business of making it. The next holiday would be Thanksgiving, and if her mother had any say in it, the house would be full then, too; anything to drive off the silence.

I put on my good black dress for this?
These days, she had only the one. Her wardrobe consisted of scrubs, jeans, and T-shirts. When she got her own place, she’d given her old clothes to charity. And she still heard about it.
Why you live in that terrible firetrap when you have a lovely suite at Harper Court, I will never understand.