any one person should have to deal with in one lifetime.
Ivy had changed the radio station on him.
A frown bit into Ryan’s forehead as he walked into the warm, coffee-and-pancake scented kitchen, his hair still damp from his shower. Country music whined softly from the small radio on the windowsill; except for those times he needed to keep an ear out for the weather, he usually kept it on the classical station out of Tulsa, a habit inherited from his mother. Living alone had its definite advantages. Like being able to count on the radio station staying set where you left it.
Not to mention being able to cross your own kitchen floor without dodging three other bodies. Generally Ryan considered himself pretty mellow, but he tended to get ornery when confronted with an obstacle course between him and his morning coffee. In fact, he nearly tripped over Noah, who for some reason decided to back up just as Ryan got behind him to reach for the coffee pot. Ryan grabbed the kid’s shoulders to keep them both upright; the boy jerked his head up, his eyes big, growing bigger still as Ryan scowled down at him. He hadn’t meant to, it was just that between his not being able to figure out what to do about Maddie and her kids and his caffeine withdrawal…
Oh, hell.
Ryan quickly rearranged his features into a smile, but the damage had been done: Noah dashed back to Ivy’s side like a frightened pup, glancing just once over his shoulder at Ryan before returning his full attention to Ivy.
“What’s that?” the kid asked, pointing to the baby’s tummy.
The midwife held the nearly naked baby in a secure football grip, suspended over the pockmarked porcelain sink as she gently sponged off the little head. “That’s her umbilical cord, honey,” Ivy said, patting the baby dry with a towel, then launching into a detailed description of placentas and umbilical cords that apparently fascinated Noah. For at least two seconds. Then having apparently recovered from his close encounter with the bogeyman, he wandered over to the back door and looked out into the large backyard. There wasn’t anything that would be of any interest to children, Ryan didn’t think—a bunch of overgrown oaks and maples, a badly neglected rose garden, a wooden shed—but Noah timidly asked if he and Katie Grace could go outside anyway. Ryan said he didn’t see why not, since the sun had come out, burning away at least some of the moisture from the leaf-strewn, fading grass.
The children—and his first cup of coffee—gone, Ryan poured himself another mug, then leaned against the counter, squinting against the sunlight slashing through the curtainless, mullioned backdoor window as he watched Ivy in action. Little Amy Rose Kincaid, less than two hours old, was wide-awake, her dark eyes intent on Ivy’s face as the midwife dressed the infant in a miniscule T-shirt, booties and a plain yellow sacque with a drawstring bottom. The baby stared at her so hard, she nearly went cross-eyed. Ivy laughed.
“Looks like she’s trying to figure me out.”
“Tell her there’s a hundred bucks in it for her if she does.”
Ivy rolled her eyes, then said, “Probably wondering what I did with her mama. Isn’t that right, precious?” She swaddled the baby up in a receiving blanket, scooped her up onto her shoulder. “Bet she’s gonna be a sleeper. Her Apgar was fine, by the way,” she added, then scowled at Ryan. “Probably better than yours would be right now. That your third cup of coffee?”
“Second.” He frowned. “You keeping track?”
“Well, shoot, boy, somebody’s got to. You’ve got some nerve, you know that, lecturing people about their diets when you still eat like a college kid yourself. And a dumb college kid, at that.”
He shrugged. Took another swallow. “A doctor’s prerogative.”
“Foolishness, more like.” She nodded toward the stove, ancient when Ryan had first seen it as a kid, more than twenty-five years ago. But it still worked. Apparently. Since he’d broken down and gotten a microwave last year, he avoided the thing almost as much as he did paperwork. “Go on,” Ivy urged. “There’s some sausage and scrambled eggs left. I’d make you pancakes, but I’ve got my hands full right now.”
No point in arguing. Not that he wasn’t hungry. It just seemed cruel to give his stomach something it wasn’t going to get on a regular basis. But he grabbed a stoneware plate from the drainer, his heavy socks snagging on the wooden floor as he lumbered over to the stove, where he piled on a half dozen links, God knows how many eggs. A lot.
“And get yourself some juice, too,” Ivy commanded. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you about antioxidants.”
Ryan got the juice, sloshing it over onto the eroded Formica counter when he tipped the pitcher a half inch too far. Ivy clucked—Ivy clucked a lot—then wiped up the spill one-handed.
“When you gonna get yourself a housekeeper, is what I want to know.”
With a groan, Ryan sank down onto a kitchen chair, some fancy Victorian press-back number Suzanne had picked out when they were still engaged. He shoveled in a bite of egg before replying. “For one thing, I don’t need to be tripping over some stranger in my own kitchen every morning.” Noah’s dark, frightened eyes flashed through his memory, making him frown. Harder. “And for another, what am I supposed to pay her with? My charm?”
“Oh, Lord. Then you would be in trouble.”
Ryan shrugged, took a swig of coffee, downed another forkful of egg.
“Of course, you could get yourself a wife instead, you know.”
Yeah, well, he’d figured that was coming. “You applyin’ for the job?”
“Don’t be fresh.”
He almost grinned. The caffeine must be kicking in. Not to mention the food. After a gulp of the juice, he said, “Anyway, if I don’t have the money or the charm for a housekeeper, how in tarnation am I supposed to take care of a wife?”
Of course, both of them knew the problem went much deeper than that, although Ivy had flat-out told Ryan his objections were nothing but bunk more times than he’d care to remember. For some reason, though, judging from her squinty eyes—which meant she was more carefully considering her response than she was normally prone to do—this was apparently not going to be one of those times. He’d no sooner breathed an inward sigh of relief, however, when she slammed into him from another angle.
“Well, I don’t suppose I can do much to shake the stranger-in-your-kitchen business,” she said. “But there’s no earthly reason you should be having money problems, and you know it. You got enough patients to keep three doctors busy, and most of those who don’t pay private have insurance or Medicare or something. The house is free and clear, you don’t have any dependents and you went to school on scholarship, so there’s no school loans to pay back. So what gives?”
“Criminy, Ivy!” So much for his better mood. Still chewing, Ryan lifted his bleary gaze to hers. How other folks survived morning conversations was beyond him. “What lit your fire this morning?”
With a loud sigh, she dropped onto the chair opposite him, rubbing the baby’s back. “I’m worried about you, is all. Figured that fell to me when your mama died. She’d be all over your case, and you know it.”
This, he didn’t need. On top of having people cluttering up his kitchen, a woman he didn’t quite know what to do with in his guest room and a practice that kept him running ragged but close to the
