“A very long time ago.”
True enough. Twenty-four years ago, her mother had left Doc Sinclair and the California Sierras, taking their six-year-old daughter with her, never to return. They’d gone big city, complete with the attitude that went with, apparently—
Whoa. There she went, picking up that big ass needle again. As she came close with it, sweat beaded on his forehead. “Yeah, I don’t—”
Her hand, gentle but firm, pressed on an uninjured portion of his chest and pushed him flat to the table, and in the next second, she stuck him.
“Ouch!”
“Hold still.”
He didn’t have a choice. She wasn’t a big woman by any means, but she had strength. Sturdy as a rock, she managed to both hold him down and shoot him full of the stuff that was supposed to make him numb. Picturing the needle going into his head, nausea rolled through him.
“You’re doing fine.” She promptly pulled the needle out and poked him again.
He saw spots.
“Stay with me,” she said.
“He’s a wuss with needles.” This from TJ, who’d apparently finally finished on the phone and was getting his ass back in the room. “They make him faint.”
“They do not,” Stone grated out, sweat pouring down his back.
Emma’s baby blues met his. “If you’re good, I’ll”—she paused to move the goddamn needle around—in his head!—“give you a sticker when we’re done here.”
TJ snickered.
Yeah. His brother was going to have to die.
Then TJ leaned over him, peering closely at the cut on Stone’s forehead. “That’s nasty.”
“Thanks, man.”
“You probably shouldn’t have tried to stop yourself with your face.” He shook his head. “Rookie mistake.”
“Again,” Stone said tightly. “Thanks, man.”
TJ looked up at Emma. “So what do you think, Doc? Four stitches? Five? Twenty?”
“Oh, God,” Stone muttered, sweating profusely.
“Maybe we should just amputate at the neck, what do you think?” his soon-to-be dead brother asked with a crooked grin. “I could sit on him for you.”“Seven.” Emma looked at Stone. “Just seven stitches. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
Stone closed his eyes as she began. TJ wasn’t sitting on him, but he was holding him down just in case, though just in case of what, Stone had no idea. The bones in his legs were imitating overcooked noodles and he wasn’t going anywhere.
He was fine with that, except…except, Jesus. He could feel the tug of the stitches, but no real pain, not that that helped when he could feel the slide of the needle going into his head.
In and out.
In and out.
Oh yeah, he might be sick…
He was doing his damnedest to pretend he was somewhere else, anywhere else, when Emma patted him gently on the shoulder. “Done.”
Thank God. He opened his eyes and met hers, expecting to find a wry amusement at his expense, but he didn’t see anything but a sharp intelligence and steadfast determination to simply do her job.
He looked at her for a long beat, admitting to himself that he was waiting for something more from her; a heat, a flicker of awareness of him as a man, a hint of an attraction, but she turned away without giving up anything of herself, heading to the sink to drop in her used equipment while Stone once again struggled to sit.
TJ helped him, but when Stone would have gotten down off the table, Emma glanced back over her shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He didn’t know, but it was going to be as far and fast from here and any more needles as he could get. “A drink. I need one. You?”
“We’re not done here, Stone.”
Oh, yes they were. So done. “We could go swimming at Fallen Rocks, it’s going to be a hot one.”
Dr. Uptight Barbie merely jerked her chin in TJ’s direction.
Stone knew that look, the intent behind the chin movement, but before he could process and move his aching-like-a-sonuvabitch body, his brother was suddenly blocking him from getting off the table.
The doc was right there, too, standing at his hip again, holding a tray filled with a stack of fresh gauzes and some antiseptic that looked as if it was going to hurt like hell. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” he said.
“You have gravel in your wounds, Stone.” She picked up a piece of gauze and doused it, then picked up a tool that looked like a fancy set of tweezers.
TJ had the decency to look queasy, which didn’t help Stone any.
“Really,” Stone told them both. “I’m good. Some Band-Aids, that’s all I need.” Why wasn’t anyone listening?
Emma eyed his shorts, specifically the areas where blood was leaking through. With a very bad feeling, he shook his head. “No. No way. They’re staying on.”
“I have to clean the wounds,” she repeated. “All of them.”
Oh, Christ. Dr. Barbie? Try Dr. Evil. She wasn’t backing down, and rather than suffer the indignity of letting her—or even worse, TJ—take down his shorts, he did it himself, and then lay there buck ass naked with his eyes closed. “I feel so cheap,” he muttered. “You didn’t even buy me dinner first.”
TJ snorted, but the doc ignored him. “I also want to x-ray your ribs and your head,” she murmured as she began the torture. “And anything else you haven’t yet revealed to me that might be cracked, fractured or broken besides your good sense.”