Now Trace glanced over at his son, who, cradling his injured arm, was staring out the window.
Eli’s small jaw was set; his eyes were red from the tears he wasn’t about to shed. His breath fogged against the passenger window, which was already smudged with nose prints from their dog, Sarge, a mottled stray who’d shown up half starved the year before. Part Australian shepherd, part who knew what, the dog had become part of their little family. Today, when Trace received the call from the principal of the school and took off for his truck, Sarge had galloped after him, then had stood at the gate, disappointed, when Trace told the dog, “Next time.” Despite the cold, and the fact that the shepherd could get into the warmth of the barn, Sarge would probably be waiting at the gate when they got home.
As if he felt his father’s gaze upon him, Eli muttered, “I hate Cory Deter! He’s a jerk.”
“Cory do this to you?”
Eli lifted a little shoulder.
“Come on, bud. You can tell me.”
Doodling in the foggy glass with the index finger of his good hand, Eli coughed, winced, then said, “He pushed me. We was on the jungle gym, way up top, and he just hauled off and pushed me.”
“And you fell.”
“Yeah.”
“Where were the teachers?”
“Under the covered area.” He slid a glance over his shoulder. “Miss Wallis wasn’t there.”
“I didn’t ask about her,” Trace said with more bite than he’d meant. He flipped on the wipers.
“I know.” Again the shrug.
Trace felt like an idiot. What had he been thinking, going out with his kid’s teacher last year? It had been a mistake, and he’d known it from the second she invited him to dinner. He’d told himself that it was because of Eli, that she wanted to discuss his son and the trouble Eli was having in school, but Trace had known better, sensed it.
And yet he’d gone out with her four times. Well, five, if he included that last night of their final argument after trying to rekindle something that had never really sparked.
He’d only ended up disappointing everyone involved, himself included.
He sighed. Jocelyn Wallis had thought she could be the woman to heal the scar left by Eli’s mother walking out on them. She hadn’t believed Trace when he’d told her he wasn’t interested in a relationship, that he was okay raising his kid alone.
She wasn’t the only one. Eli couldn’t seem to forget the few times that his father had been with his teacher.
Yep, he’d made a royal mess of things.
Now his son said, “She wasn’t at school today.”
“Miss Wallis? Doesn’t matter. Someone was. Someone had playground duty.”
“Mr. Beene was on duty ’cuz Miss Wallis wasn’t there. He’s a substitute.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Eli assured him. “It was that stupid butt Cory Deter!”
“I know you’re mad, but no name calling, okay?”
“But he is.” Eli swiped at his nose with the sleeve of his jacket and set his jaw again. “He’s a stupid butt.”
“C’mon, Eli. It’s not nice to talk about someone like—”
“He pushed me!”
“And that was wrong,” Trace agreed equably.
“Yeah, it was!” Eli glared at him, offended his father didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of Cory Deter’s actions.
“Okay, so maybe he is a stupid butt.”
Eli relaxed a bit.
“Just keep it between us, okay?” Trace pointed a finger at Eli, then swung it back toward himself, repeating the motion several times. “Our secret.”
“Everybody already knows he’s a butt.”
“Okay, whatever. You don’t have to say it again.”
“But Becky Tremont and her friend Tonia, they laughed at me.” Eli’s face was suddenly flushed with color. Embarrassment. Even at seven, what girls thought mattered.
“Don’t worry about them,” Trace said. “Hang in, okay? We’re almost there.” They reached the bottom of the hill just as the railroad crossing signs flashed and the alarms clanged, and Trace gritted his teeth as a train with graffiti-decorated boxcars and empty flatbeds sped past. Traffic backed up behind the crossing bars.
Come on, come on, he thought, frustrated with anything that slowed them down. He was worried about his son, wondered how badly he was hurt. “We’re almost there,” he said again and patted a hand on Eli’s small shoulder.
Eventually the train passed, and they, along with a snake of other vehicles, were allowed to pass. One more stoplight and they’d be at the clinic.
“Got an emergency,” Heather said as she poked her head into Kacey’s office. “Eli O’Halleran. Seven years old. Hurt on the playground. The school called his father and sent him here.”
“He’s a patient?” The name didn’t ring any bells with Kacey. Seated at her desk, she’d just opened a container of blueberry yogurt for lunch. She hadn’t had a chance to catch her breath since the minute she’d walked through the door to exam room two. Elmer Grimes, her first patient of the day, had taken up more than his allotted time with her. She’d been running late ever since.
“Eli O’Halleran hasn’t been in before. The boy’s pediatrician was Dr. Levoy over in Middleton.”
“And he retired last year.” Kacey nodded, already pushing the yogurt container aside. She’d received several referrals from patients who hadn’t been happy with Levoy’s replacement, and though she was a GP, rather than a pediatrician, she’d spent a lot of time in pediatrics in medical school. She liked kids and had considered going back and specializing in pediatrics, but then all hell had broken loose in her personal life and she’d decided to return to Grizzly Falls.
“The school sent him here rather than over to St. Bart’s as we’re closer,” Heather said, mentioning the nearest hospital. “They came in about five minutes ago, and I’ve already taken all his insurance and personal information. I’ve also got a call into Levoy’s office, requesting the boy’s files.” She offered a knowing grin. “I figured we could squeeze him in before the afternoon patients. That you wouldn’t turn him away.”
“All right, let’s take a look at him.” Kacey pushed her chair away from the desk.
“He and his dad are in exam three. I’ve set up his preliminary info on the computer.”
“Good.” Kacey was already slipping her arms through the sleeves of the lab coat she’d just shed. She’d gotten used to having her life interrupted at the most inopportune of moments. All part of the job of country doctor. “You said you talked to someone at the school?”
“The nurse, Eloise Phelps.” Heather peeled off toward the front desk as Kacey made her way to the examination room, tapped lightly on the door, and pushed it open.
She found a slim boy sitting on the examination table. With a shock of unruly dishwater blond hair, he was whitefaced, blinking hard against tears and sniffling as he cradled his left arm, which was supported by a sling.
His father, expression grim, stood next to the exam table.
Dressed in battered jeans, plaid shirt, and worn boots, which were a staple around this part of Montana, he was tall, maybe six-two, with a rangy build and wide shoulders. A day or two’s worth of dark hair covered a square jaw, and he stared at her with deep-set, angry eyes. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he looked about to spit nails.
“I’m Dr. Lambert,” she told the boy and, glancing at the chart on the laptop Heather had left, added, “You must be Eli.”