CHAPTER TWO
Eight minutes later, Kit was waiting by the back door that led to the parking lot. She could see his truck, and the snowmobile in the back of it, from here. There weren’t many cars in the lot on a day like this.
“That’s what you’re wearing?”
She turned to find Dillon striding toward her, dressed in full snow pants, fleece-lined work coat, heavy boots, stocking cap, scarf, and thick gloves.
“It’s what I have,” she told him.
“You’re going to wear scrubs and tennis shoes out in a blizzard?”
“It. Is. All. I. Have.”
He sighed, as if totally put upon by her. Yeah, she knew the feeling.
“You’re going to freeze.”
“I have three pairs on,” she told him, lifting a leg. “And we’re not going to be out in it. Once we get to each house, I’ll go in and warm up.”
He shook his head. “Whatever. I am not treating you for hypothermia or frostbite.”
“Like I’d want you to treat me,” she shot back.
But he would treat her. And she would want him to. Dr. Alexander was the best physician she knew, and part of that was the fact that he’d never turn his back on someone who needed him. Even if that someone drove him beyond crazy.
“Get in the truck,” he said resignedly. “But I swear, I’d better not hear one word bitching about the cold.”
She did as she was told and stubbornly refused to so much as shiver as the arctic air hit the thin material of her pants. She had a coat on—though admittedly, the red wool was more for fashion than true protection against the elements, too.
Dillon got in and cranked the heat without a comment. So she didn’t comment, either. Like with a thank-you. Instead, she sat, hating that he could make her act like a twelve-year-old. He reached behind the seat and pulled out another knit cap and a pair of heavy work gloves.
“At least put these on.”
She looked at the items, then up at him.
“I know they don’t match your outfit, Doc. But I don’t want you to lose a finger. I like you having all ten.”
She felt her eyes widen. Because when he said stuff like that, her mind flooded with memories. How could it not? Something most people didn’t know about Chance’s very own superhero, Dr. Dillon, was that he was a dirty talker.
“You should not say stuff like that,” she admonished, taking the hat and gloves. “If we’re going to be living here and working together, we have to put all of that behind us.”
Dillon draped an arm over the steering wheel and twisted to face her. “Say stuff like what?”
“That you like my fingers.”
His gaze grew mischievous, and Kit worked to control her thundering pulse as the impending sense of Oh crap washed over her. Dillon was a big, smart, demanding, badass know-it-all. And that got her going—despite her best intentions and all the self-talk she knew and taught patients. But when he got charming and playful, her resolve—and her panties—seemed to just dissolve.
It was very rare that he was anything but serious and bossy and determined. Which was probably why his fun-loving side was so potent.
“Why, Dr. Derby, I have no idea what you’re referring to. I meant that as a professional who needs to do a lot of writing and typing, you need all ten fingers to do your very important job for this town. What did you think I meant?”
She huffed out a breath and pulled on the hat and gloves. “Bullshit, Dr. Alexander,” she told him. Then decided that there was no reason not to be very direct and clear in her communication with him. That was what she would have advised a patient in her position, after all. “You were referring to liking things I’ve done with my hands . . . with you . . . in the past.” She faced him. “Like letting you lick hot fudge off them, and when you wanted me to touch myself, and, of course, the hand jobs.”
The air in the cab of the truck heated easily twenty degrees as Dillon sat staring at her. Kit bit back a smile. She felt rattled when she was around him on a regular basis. It was nice to know that she could make the superhero doctor speechless.
Finally, he shook his head, then pulled off his hat and gloves and tossed them onto the seat between them. “Thank you for that. With those memories, I’m not going to need anything else keeping me warm for a while.”
He put the truck in drive, and Kit told herself she should feel smug for shocking him.
But, strangely, she felt like he’d turned the tables on her. Again.
Cute was not a word that Dillon would have typically assigned to Kit Derby.
Hot, sexy, snooty, sophisticated, and classy. Those were all spot-on. But right now, sitting on his passenger seat, wearing his stocking hat pulled down over her ears and his gloves, which were huge on her, with her expensive high-fashion coat and scarf, hospital scrubs, and white tennis shoes, she definitely looked cute.
And he wanted to scoop her up into his arms and replay every one of the memories she’d just put into his head.
Damn her. This woman knotted him up like no other. Ever.
It was bad enough that he’d found her in his office looking up information on episiotomy. She was always trying to get better and learn more, and he respected the hell out of that. Because he was the same way. Which was why he’d headed back to Sarah’s room to be sure she was doing okay emotionally after the delivery.
Kit got into his head; there was no denying it. For the most part, he thought that was a good thing. At least when it was professional. When it got personal—and it didn’t get much more personal than talking about hand jobs—then it was . . . not as good a thing.
He was grateful for the snow-covered roads and poor visibility because they forced him to concentrate on the job of getting his truck out to the highway instead of on Kit Derby. And her fingers.
He maneuvered the truck over the snow and ice that the city hadn’t been able to clear yet. With the rate of the snowfall and the wind, they simply couldn’t keep up, and they were focused on keeping the roads that more people needed—like the one in front of the hospital and the one leading to the ER entrance—open right now.
The truck bumped over the drifts, and the only sound in the truck cab was the heat blowing through the vents as they headed as far out on the highway as they could get before needing the snowmobile. They finally got to the end of the road. Dillon wasn’t sure that he’d be able to get the truck out again, but the closer to the start of the road that led to Jack’s place, the better. Even if Kit wasn’t dressed in only scrub pants on her lower half. He shook his head as he parked and went to get the snowmobile unloaded. He really didn’t want to worry about her, and he knew that she wouldn’t welcome his concern. But damn. She was going to freeze. And he couldn’t help that the thought led to images of all the ways he’d be happy to warm her up.
He had the snowmobile fired up and the supplies he needed strapped onto the sled he attached to the back before he headed for the passenger door. Snow swirled inside as he pulled it open, but Kit didn’t even blink. She slid out onto the snowy ground, ignoring Dillon’s offered hand.
Kit wasn’t a snowmobile kind of girl, but she climbed on behind him as if she’d done it a million times. She slid her arms around him, and Dillon realized this was the worst idea he’d had in a very long time. It didn’t matter that the frigid wind was biting at his cheeks, or that there was absolutely nothing sexual about the way Kit was touching him, or that there were a good four or five layers of clothing between them. This was as close to Kit as he’d been since the June tornado. They’d been stuck in that storeroom together, and it had taken about two minutes for the scent of her body lotion to get him to the “What the hell” stage. The stage he always ended up getting to when he and Kit were together alone for any extended period of time. But that storeroom was a new record. Prior to that, it had taken him two hours, an hour and twenty minutes, fifty-six minutes, and ten minutes consecutively on the four occasions where he’d abandoned all common sense and given in to the desire to touch her. And taste her. And tell her things that he had no business telling her. Ever. Like all the fantasies he had about her.
By the time they pulled up in front of Jack’s place, Kit’s teeth were chattering, but Dillon knew better than to comment on it or ask something inane like “Are you cold?”
Dillon got Jack hooked up to his new oxygen tank, accepted the offer of coffee that he typically would have turned down—so that Kit would also say yes—and then got Jack talking about his time with the railroad, knowing that it would be at least forty-five minutes before there was a break where they could get going.
As they climbed back on the snowmobile, Kit said, “You’ve heard that story before.”
“How do you know?” he asked, pulling his hat lower on his ears.
“Because everyone’s heard that story before,” she said.
Dillon braced for her to tell him that she didn’t need him looking out for her and that she could take care of herself.
So when she said “Thanks,” Dillon took the thump in his chest as relief that he wasn’t getting chewed out. Because it shouldn’t have anything to do with Kit’s softer side or the husky tone of her voice right near his ear.
At Millie’s house, they were not only offered coffee but also cookies. They’d each had a brownie at the hospital, but Dillon was pleased when Kit kept her lips zipped about that and picked up a shortbread without hesitation. He also noted that she sat on the end of the couch closest to Millie’s blazing fireplace. So he took his time checking the older woman’s incision and going over the instructions and setting up another follow-up visit for a few days from then.
Finally, he glanced at Kit, and she gave him a little nod. Ah, so she knew he’d been stalling. And she appreciated it. And she was ready to go.
How he knew all that from one tiny nod, he couldn’t say. Except that he knew Kit. Had known her for a long time. And she very rarely nodded affirmatively at him.
They were headed to her grandmother’s place next. Dillon felt a stupid stab of disappointment as he started the snowmobile for the third time. At Grace’s house, Kit would actually be able to stay for an extended period while Dillon took Grace back into town. She’d be perfectly comfortable. And warm. But their civil time together would be over. Frigid wind in your face on the back of a snowmobile in a blizzard made conversation difficult, but he’d still felt more camaraderie than they usually had between them. In fact, the last time they’d worked closely—and well—together had been the June tornado.
That tornado had produced a lot of trouble and stress. But Dillon simply couldn’t look at it as a total catastrophe. Not then and not in hindsight. Not only had the town come together, and both of his cousins, Jake and Max, and he had decided to move home permanently, but . . . Kit. They’d kissed, they’d worked side by side, they’d helped rebuild their town, and they’d tended to the physical and emotional issues of their neighbors, friends, and family in the aftermath.
Maybe this blizzard wasn’t all bad, either. And wasn’t it just perfect that he and Kit needed disasters to find a way to get along?
They pulled up in front of Grace Derby’s house ten minutes later.
Kit led the way to the front door through the knee-high snow. At Jack’s and Millie’s, there had been some snow on the front walks, but someone had obviously cleared their paths at some point since the snow had started. It looked like every inch was still in front of Grace’s house.
Kit tried the front door, found it locked, and turned away. Then turned again. And again.
“What’s going on?” Dillon asked.
“I’m looking for the little garden gnome she hides her key under.”
Dillon chuckled. The gnome, and everything else in Grace’s front yard, was buried. “I’m surprised she locks the place clear out here,” he said, moving to the door.
“She didn’t until about two years ago,” Kit said, stepping into the drift next to the front steps. “And now she only does it for spite.” She plunged her hands into the snow, apparently feeling around for the gnome.
Dillon did the same on the other side. “Spite?”
“She locks it when my dad or uncles are going to come out. Then she pretends she forgot they were coming and that she doesn’t hear them knocking. She also moves the gnome around the yard. So they have to search for it to find the key to get in. She feels like it’s just enough of a pain in the ass to pay them back for their lectures about her being safe out here.”
Dillon laughed out loud. He’d always liked Grace. “I’m not sure I’d worry about Grace on her own against an intruder.”
Kit looked up with a bright smile that punched Dillon directly in the gut.
“I know, right?” she said, walking on her knees a few feet to the right and digging in the snow again. “If someone came out here to try to steal something, she’d start pointing out all the stuff she wants to get rid of. She’d help load up his car, and then she’d feed him before he left.”
Dillon grinned and resisted commenting that he knew exactly where Kit got her spunk. Kit’s mother was a quiet woman who had always struck him as stuck-up and, frankly, bitchy. Gretchen Derby didn’t smile much, and she was always perfectly put together. Kit’s father, Brad, on the other hand, seemed friendly enough. He was one of the top insurance agents in town, and he interacted with the people and took part in community events much more often than Gretchen did. But neither of them showed the fire and ice that Kit did. Except Grace.
“Got it!”
He turned to see Kit holding a garden gnome triumphantly overhead.
“And the key?” he asked.
She looked from him to the gnome, then to the snowy ground. “Crap.” She dug back in, searching for the key in the snow. After a moment, she mumbled a curse and pulled off her glove with her teeth, then stuck her bare hand back into the drift.
“Not bare-handed.” Dillon scowled as he knelt beside her.
“I can’t feel a tiny little key with those big gloves on.”
“You’re going to get frostbite.”
“Not if I find the damned thing and we can get inside.”
This was ridiculous. Dillon stomped up to Grace’s door and pounded on the frame. “Grace! It’s Dillon and Kit! Grace!” he shouted through the wood. The door had a big window in it, but it was covered with a curtain. Still, he could see that there were no lights on in the room right behind the door. “Grace!” he shouted again, banging his fist against the wood. “Grace!”
He glanced behind him. Kit was still digging and now had both gloves off. That was it. Dillon eyed the old door, the knob, and the lock. He was going to have to buy Grace Derby a new door. He backed up, lifted his foot, and kicked in the door.
The wood splintered just as he heard, “I found it!” behind him.
Well, crap.
He turned to find Kit staring at the now-open door, holding up the key. She looked at him, back to the door, then at him again. “Um . . .”
He wasn’t the kind of guy to get off on stuff like fighting or fixing engines or . . . kicking down doors. At least, he hadn’t thought he was. But he could not deny that there was a lot of testosterone coursing through his bloodstream at the moment. So his actions could be—and later on would be—chalked up to that. He headed straight for Kit, bent, and lifted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. As she gasped, he turned and carried her into the house.
“Dillon! For God’s sake!”
He put her on her feet in the short entryway just inside the front door and then closed what was left of the door. “We’re inside.”
“Yeah, I noticed. What the hell?”
“It’s freezing out there, and you’re not dressed for it. You’re digging in the snow with bare hands. We needed to get inside. Just . . . go check on your grandmother,” he said, not really able to answer the “What the hell?” question at the moment. “The walk isn’t cleared, her door is locked, and she’s not answering her phone or our pounding on the door.”
Kit looked like she had a few more words for him, but all that sank in before she could get started telling him how crazy he was acting. As if he didn’t know.
“Fine.” She turned on her heel and headed down the short hallway and into the house.
And Dillon took a deep breath.
He wasn’t completely shocked by the kicking-down-the-door thing. He’d done it once before, and hey, sometimes you had to do these things. But the touching-Kit thing. Yeah, that did shock him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. Often. But he didn’t do it. For two very good reasons—she wouldn’t be okay with it, and because the touching was never innocent. Not even if he was carrying her inside from a snowstorm.
It was the epitome of stupidity that it bothered him that she was cold. She was a grown, very capable, extremely intelligent woman who had been taking care of herself for a long time. Even during Nebraska winters. But it did bother him. Enough to break down a door and carry her inside.
Dillon scrubbed a hand over his face and reluctantly followed her inside. The entryway was closed off from the rest of the house by another door, and Dillon felt a bit better about breaking the outer one. The house would stay warm with the interior door shut. Still, snow was already swirling into the front entry and would likely begin to accumulate soon. What was left of the door would block some of it, but he needed to find some boards or at least a sheet to tack up there until he could get back out here to fix it.
“She’s not here.”
Dillon stopped in the wide doorway between Grace’s kitchen and living room. “What?”
Kit shook her head, looking distressed. “She’s not here. I looked all over.”
Dillon frowned and glanced around. “So . . . what now?”
“I don’t know.” Kit’s brow was creased in a deep frown, and her eyes were worried when she lifted them to his. “Do you think she tried to get out and is stuck on the road somewhere? Or did she try to go out to the barn for the lambs? Or . . . I don’t know.”
Kit Derby always knew. She was the one who was cool in a crisis, the one who could, literally, talk people off ledges. Dillon knew from experience that when Kit started acting out of character, he got a little crazy. Like when she was tipsy and got giggly. Or like when she got worked up about a final exam. Or like when she looked up at him with desire in her eyes and said, “God, I want you.”
He cleared his throat. Yeah, all those times she’d been acting unlike her usual capable, got-it-all-together self.
He took the few steps that separated them and grasped her upper arms. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find her,” he told her firmly. Seeing her upset now made every protective instinct he had roar to life. “Where do you think we should start? Would she head to town, or would she go to the barn?”
Kit just stared up at him. Dillon gave her a little shake. “Kit.”
“I don’t know . . .”
Bullshit. She knew. She was letting her thoughts spin, fueled by emotion. Kit knew people, especially those she was close to. She would know exactly what her grandmother would have done in the storm. She just needed to focus.
“Think, Kit. Think about Grace. Would she head for town when she knew the storm was getting worse?”
Kit worried her bottom lip.
“Come on, babe. Stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong. Stop picturing her stuck in a ditch. Stop picturing her walking out in the snow by herself. I want you to picture her here in the kitchen, listening to the weather report, making a decision. What did she do?”
Kit’s breathing was coming faster, and Dillon knew that she was panicking. Fuck. He could recognize the signs of stress, and he could treat her for hyperventilation, but he was, clearly, really sucking at getting her to calm down and focus. Where was a syringe of sedative when he needed it?
“Kit.”
She swallowed. “Yeah?”
“Do not get pissed at me for this. I’m trying to help.”
Her brows drew together. “For what?”
Dillon lowered his head and kissed her.
It wasn’t the same thing as talking her through the moment, but he was better at this than talking. And it would get her thoughts off her grandmother wandering around in the whiteout conditions outside. He hoped.
But a moment later, satisfaction burst through his chest as she wrapped her arms around his neck and went up on tiptoe to get closer to him. He pulled her into his body, cussing the thick layers of clothing they were wearing. But he focused on her mouth, the only part of her he could really get to. He deepened the kiss, parting his lips slightly and tipping his head to the side. She was the first to open her mouth fully, but Dillon immediately swept his tongue over her bottom lip and then against hers.
Then she slid her hands to his neck. And her fingers were freaking freezing.
He pulled away with a gasp, and she sank onto her flat feet, staring up at him. He grabbed her hands before they fell away from his neck, though, pressing them against the warm skin under the edge of his coat collar. “Hang on. You just surprised me,” he told her huskily.
“Sorry. I . . .” She trailed off but took a deep breath as her fingers flexed against his neck. “I forgot my hands were cold for a second there.”
He grinned down at her, covering her fingertips with his. “Let’s just be sure they’re not.”
She wet her lips and took a ragged breath. “Why did you kiss me?”
“To clear your mind.” Did that sound cocky? Maybe. He didn’t care. Because it had worked. “You needed a reboot.”
“A reboot?”
“Like when your computer freezes up and needs to be shut down and turned back on.” Turned back on. He sure as hell was turned on now.
“So I could focus on my grandma,” Kit said, pulling her hands from his neck. “Right.”
Yes. Because of her grandma. Of course.
He let her go. “Right.”
Kit swallowed. “She would go to the barn first,” she said.
Well, the kiss had worked to focus her. That was something.
“Okay, I’m heading to the barn, then,” he said.
“I’m coming wi—”
“No.” Dillon knew his tone was harsher than it needed to be, but this woman didn’t listen to anyone. Especially him. “You are staying right here.”
“But—”
“Kit, I can find a freaking barn. And you’re not dressed for this weather. You stay here and start calling around, see if anyone’s heard from her since your mom called.”
He could tell she wanted to argue further, but she nodded and reached into her coat pocket. Then she frowned and reached into her other coat pocket. Then she patted her pants. But the scrubs didn’t have pockets. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she groaned.
She’d lost her phone. Dillon pointed to the landline mounted on the kitchen wall by the cupboards. “You know how to use one of those?” he asked.
She frowned at him. “Of course.”
“Then you’d better start dialing.”
“I just don’t . . .”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t know anyone’s phone numbers,” she admitted with a sigh.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, you’re in luck. I have numbers in my phone.” He did so love saving Kit Derby’s day, even in tiny ways.
“You don’t have my mother’s number in your phone. Or my cousins’ or my uncles’.” She paused and frowned. “Do you?”
“I do, in fact, have your uncle Bill’s number,” Dillon said, pulling it up. “I also have Cass and Evan’s number.” Cassidy was one of Kit’s cousins on her mother’s side.
“How do you have those numbers?” Kit asked.
“Bill is a patient, and I gave him my number in case he needed anything. And Evan is going to build a deck on my house this spring.”
It was no surprise at all that Dillon would have people in common with Kit. They had a whole town of people in common. Chance was a small town, and they’d both grown up here. But it still clearly irked her a little. He’d been officially, fully, back in town for only a few months, but Kit was going to have to get used to this. He wasn’t going anywhere.
“But I have something even better,” he went on.
“Oh?”
“My mother’s phone number,” Dillon said, reaching for the pen and paper on the counter. “And, as you know, she can get any information anyone needs in this town.”
Where Kit’s mom was cool and detached, Kelli Alexander, Dillon’s mom, was involved and connected. Almost to a fault. Kelli was one of the Montgomery triplets, and the Montgomerys were a founding family in Chance. Kelli had spent her whole life in Chance, and she loved the town and its inhabitants dearly. She would have, or would be able to get, any phone number Kit could possibly need.
Kit took the sheet of paper from him with a sigh.
“Make some calls. I’m going to the barn.”
He was at the door before he heard her quiet “Dillon.”
He turned back. “Yeah?”
“Be careful out there. Don’t take too long.”
Dillon fought the grin that threatened. “Of course.”
He’d go out there for anyone.
It was all about Grace, not Kit.
It was actually even more about Dillon.
Kit told herself all of the above as Dillon headed back into the storm to check the barn for her grandmother.
No way would Dillon Alexander sit around inside the house if there was even the slightest possibility that Grace had gotten stuck out in the barn in the storm. No way.
But Kit was practically conditioned to react to his hero tendencies.
Dillon had been her nemesis from third grade on. She’d been the best student in the class in third grade. And second grade. And first. When the teacher had asked for people who wanted to participate in the spelling bee, Dillon hadn’t even raised his hand. Until Kit had been about to win. Then he’d piped up with, “Mrs. Anderson? I changed my mind. Can I try?” Mrs. Anderson, only one in a long line of females who couldn’t resist Dillon’s charm, had said yes and brought him up front. Where he’d beaten Kit by spelling beautiful after she missed government. Dillon had quickly risen to stardom as the first and only person in their grade—or the grade above—to outscore Kit Derby on something. And she’d never, ever, ever spelled government wrong again.
They’d competed at everything from then on.
In spite of his charm and humor and good-guy side.
She didn’t deny that those existed. She just denied that they had any effect on her.
Until the night of the thunderstorm when Kit had gotten a flat tire and Dillon had stopped to help her. She’d been horrible to him that day at school, but he’d still pulled over in the pounding rain and changed her tire.
And thus had started her crush. Her very, very secret, never-let-him-know crush. Not only because he made her nuts but because she liked Abi, and she and Dillon had been so obviously in love, even at such a young age.
Kit drew in a big breath.
Her reaction to Dillon’s heroics was a huge problem. Because he was heroic a lot. Especially when she was trying desperately not to react to his . . . anything.
Shaking herself out of the thoughts of Dillon as a charming, happy teen who had turned into a driven, save-the-world badass, she reached for her grandmother’s rotary phone and dialed Dillon’s mom’s number. She liked Kelli and knew that she would be able to help. Kit just felt more than a little sheepish about needing the help. Who didn’t know her own mother’s phone number?
A woman who was constantly on the go, relied on her planner and speed dial far too much, and who didn’t call her mother all that often.
Kit sighed as she waited for the rotary dial to come back from the eight. She put her finger in the plastic hole to dial a six when her eyes focused on the calendar hanging on the wall next to the phone and then the sheet of notebook paper pinned up next to that.
A list of all of Grace’s important phone numbers. And Gretchen’s number was the fifth one down—behind Brad, Kit’s dad and Grace’s son; Kit herself; Kit’s uncle Bill; and, of course, Dr. Dillon Alexander, whose name had been written over the smudged spot where Grace had erased Dr. Wagner when she’d switched her care to Dillon.
Kit rubbed a finger over the center of her forehead. Of course Grace had switched her care to Dillon. As had more than half the women in town. Ugh. Kit wasn’t sure she could handle her grandmother wanting to spend time with Dillon because he was good-looking and charming.
Maybe mostly because he wasn’t all that charming with her.
Kit shook that off. That wasn’t fair. Why should Dillon be charming with her? She wasn’t all that nice to him, either, if she was being totally honest. And he didn’t need or want anything from her.
He sure kissed you like he wanted something from you. Her whole body warmed as she remembered the kiss Dillon had just laid on her. It had been to distract her. Okay, fine. It had worked. But it also hadn’t seemed . . . innocent. That kiss had not been just a favor.
Kit made herself focus on the digits of her mother’s phone number and dialed quickly.
“Hello?” Gretchen answered a moment later.
“Hey, Mom, I’m out at Grandma’s and—”
“We’ve been worried sick! I called your phone a dozen times with no answer, and then I called the hospital, and they said you’d gone out in the storm with Dillon to check on patients. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Kit assured her. “I’m sorry. I lost my phone. But we’re at Grandma’s now, and she’s—”
“She’s at Tina’s,” Gretchen interrupted. “That was the first thing I was calling to tell you.”
“She’s at Tina’s?” Kit repeated. “Since when?”
“She came into town this morning because she heard the weather was going to get bad. She and Tina have been playing rummy all morning and drinking apple cider.”
Kit closed her eyes. She knew what that meant. Cards and cider? The cider was spiked, and they were no doubt playing for big stakes. Grace had lost a car to Tina sometime in the nineties, and Tina had owed Grace almost $500 for the past year or so. The women were sisters, and they loved each other dearly—and fought like cats and dogs.
“Will they be okay?” Kit asked. “I could take Grandma to my house.”
“They’re fine,” Gretchen said. “She plans to stay there for the next couple days.”
“But . . . what if she ends up losing the farm to Tina?” Kit said drily. That would hardly be the end of the world. For one thing, Tina didn’t want it. For another, Grace would have to move into town, then, and maybe behave herself.
“Oh, they promised they’re only playing for dishes this time.”
Their mother, Kit’s great-grandmother, had owned a huge set of antique china. When she’d passed away, her daughters had divided it up . . . and proceeded to bribe, buy, and steal pieces from each other over the past thirty years.
“Are you sure she should stay there?” Kit asked, thinking she’d shoot Bree a quick message and maybe have her check on things over at Tina’s later on. Kit paced away from the wall and was brought up short by the phone cord. Right. She didn’t have her phone. No texting. No receiving texts or calls, either. Crap. She had patients who might need her. One in particular whom she was a little worried about—or, rather, the patient’s wife. Dammit. Where the hell was her phone?
“They’re fine. At least she’s in town where she’ll be warm and fed and with someone,” Gretchen told Kit. “Don’t worry.”
Kit looked around the kitchen. “Okay, well, we’re heading back in, then, I guess.” As soon as Dillon came in from outside. And he warmed up some. She could extend the same courtesy he’d been giving her all day.
“Well, don’t wait too long. It’s getting dark, and the temps are supposed to start dropping even further,” Gretchen warned.
“Okay. Talk to you soon.”
She disconnected and glanced at the clock. It was nearly five. It wasn’t just getting dark. In another hour it would seem like midnight outside. How long had Dillon been gone? Did he know her grandmother’s place well enough to not get turned around in the whiteout? What if he’d fallen and twisted an ankle? Or hit his head? Or—
The door to the kitchen banged open, and Dillon stomped inside. Kit let out a long breath, realizing she was glad to see him. She didn’t know what it was about this storm that was getting her all riled up. She didn’t let her thoughts spin, and she didn’t get anxious about things. She was the one who kept the calm, who talked people through panic attacks. She was also a Nebraska girl, born and raised. This wasn’t her first blizzard and wouldn’t be her last. But this storm felt . . . different.
Lately everything in Chance had felt different. Ever since the tornado in June, things felt off-center. Like they hadn’t quite gotten a firm foundation back. Like there was an unpredictability in the air now that wouldn’t go away. It felt like things were changing. Or had already changed. And she just wasn’t adjusted yet. She really hated that feeling—the out-of-control, not-sure-where-I’m-at thing that she felt swirling around her.
Dillon shook the snow off his gloves, brushed off the front of his coat and pants, and then pulled his hat from his head, and it hit her—he was definitely part of the problem.
Things had absolutely changed. Dillon, Jake, and Max were back in town, and nothing would be the same again. Jake and Avery were together. Max and Bree were together. And Dillon and Kit were . . . in each other’s way constantly.
“Looks like she fed the lambs and the cats,” Dillon reported. “They have enough bedding and food and water to last for a couple days. But she’s nowhere. Do you want to get back out on the snowmobile and go looking?”
Kit licked her lips and shook her head, pulling herself together. “She’s not here. She made it into town earlier today but didn’t tell anyone. She’s with her sister and planning to stay through the storm.”
“Thank God,” Dillon said with a big grin. “She and Tina can keep each other company, and Tina’s liquor cabinet should keep them plenty warm.”
Dillon knew this town and the people as well as Kit did. She knew that, cognitively, but when he said stuff like that, it hit her in the heart, too.
He’d come back to be closer to his family and friends and because he was ready to settle down. At least, that’s what the rumor mill reported he’d said. Kit hadn’t really let herself think about the reasons he was back, focusing instead on all the consequences it brought instead. Like her inability to forget about him for days on end the way she had for the past ten years. But she did wonder what his return meant. If he was “settling down,” did that include marriage? Kids? Could she live in a town where Dillon Alexander would be out and about with a woman he loved, raising his kids, going to community events as a happy little family? Would she be able to watch him hold hands with, and maybe even kiss, another woman? Would she have to endure Christmas parties at the hospital where Dillon would bring along his gorgeous, accomplished, sweet, and smart wife and kiss her under the mistletoe? Would he—
“Kit?” Dillon snapped his fingers right in front of her nose.
Kit jerked back, her face flushing hot. What the hell was wrong with her? She coughed. “What?”
“I asked you about three questions while you were zoning out there. Are you okay?”
Dillon was watching her closely, and Kit knew she had to be careful. He had not only known her for a long time, but he’d studied her—as she had him—cataloging weaknesses to use against her in their competitions. Whether it was running for class president or shooting for a higher ACT score or doing a better cadaver dissection, she’d learned not to blink when Dillon was around. He kept her on her toes and, deep down where she would never, ever admit it to anyone else, she owed him a lot of her success. If he hadn’t been there pushing her, she might have slacked off or even given up a time or two. Or ten. But wanting to be better than Dillon, to wipe that smug smile off his face, to see his name under hers on a list, was always worth staying up a little later, pushing a little harder, reading a few more pages.
“I’m fine,” she told him, lifting her chin. “I was just thinking about my grandma.”
“Yeah, and I asked if she’d care if we raided her pantry and where her extra towels are,” Dillon said.
Kit blinked at him, taking in his words. All she could come up with in reply was, “Why?”
“We’re staying here tonight.” He was only about a foot away from her, and when he unzipped his coat and shrugged out of it, snow showered her feet.
But she couldn’t worry about the puddles of melted snow on the floor right now. Dillon had just said something really disturbing.
“We’re staying here tonight?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”
“It’s dark, the snowmobile is now under a drift of snow, and it’s dropped at least ten degrees. I called the hospital, and everything is covered. They’ve got three paramedics on, Tom is there, and Dan’s on call, so we need to stay here until morning when things die down and it’s light again.”
Tom and Dan were two of the other physicians in Chance, and Dan lived only two blocks from the hospital. So everything there was fine.
But the hospital wasn’t what had her concerned. She was the only mental-health professional in town, so Tom and Dan couldn’t really cover for her. She had patients who might need her.
But that also wasn’t really what had her concerned.
“We can’t stay here,” she said quickly. “We can make it back. Come on, it’s not that far.”
“It’s fifteen miles,” he said, starting to slip his overalls off, folding them down to his waist and showing off the flannel button-down shirt underneath. “And it’s freezing and dark. It’s safer to stay out here, and there’s no reason not to.”
She watched as he bent to unlace his boots, toeing them off and tossing them toward the door, then continuing to shed the overalls, revealing blue jeans that were faded and worn.
When he dressed like that, he looked like a Chance boy. Not a world-renowned trauma specialist who had braved other continents to help and heal. Not the Army National Guardsman who worked in horrible conditions to rescue and patch up people caught in Katrina and other catastrophic situations. Not the polished physician who spoke at national conferences about medical management in natural disasters. And he looked amazing in fatigues and in suits. But it was more than his lean, muscled body that she appreciated in the blue jeans and T-shirts. In denim, Dillon looked like the young, optimistic charmer she’d fallen for in high school.
“We can’t stay out here,” she blurted. She and Dillon had a . . . dicey . . . history when in close confines with each other for long—or short—periods of time.
He kicked off the overalls. “Why not? Heat’s on. That’s really the most important thing.”
Finally, Kit dug deep into the well of experience and maturity that the years and her training had provided. And she met the issue head-on so it could be dealt with. “It seems to me that whenever we’ve spent time alone together, things happen that later cause some . . . unwelcome feelings and . . . responses.”
Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly head-on. But at least she’d brought it up.
Dillon propped his hands on his hips. “You mean we end up sleeping together.”
So he got the head-on points. She sighed. “Yes.”