Derrick slammed the door and took off in a jog down the road.
Quinn watched the penlight bob across the field and into the backyard and finally disappear into the house before he turned the truck around and drove back to the cabin.
* * *
The next day, the Family Medical Clinic was jammed with sick people, and Gena’s brain vacillated between medical mode and stressing over Derrick and the untenable situation with her cranky neighbor.
Her sister had been right. Quinn was a player, a user. He didn’t even remember.
She ripped off a prescription and handed it to her latest patient, the owner of a local café, The Buttered Biscuit, who’d contracted a mean sinusitis complicated by otitis media.
“I’m prescribing some antibiotics for the infection, Jan. Three times a day for fourteen days. Take all of them, even if you think you feel better. Ear infections can be tricky to clear.”
Jan nodded her head miserably, then winced at the pain the movement generated. “I’d eat rocks for a month to get rid of this. I sure don’t want it to come back.”
Gena smiled. “Smart woman. You can take over-the-counter pain reliever if you need it. Which I’m guessing you do. The same with a decongestant or nasal spray. Call me if you don’t see improvement by Friday.”
“Thanks, Gena. You’re a blessing.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to get some rest, let someone else run the café for a few days.”
“I feel so awful, I will. Abby can handle it.”
Abby. Fiancée to one of the Buchanon boys. As if she needed another reminder of that prominent family today.
Gena opened the exam room door and let the woman pass before going to the sink to wash her hands.
Moving back to Gabriel’s Crossing had seemed like the best solution when Derrick began acting out. Here was a familiar place where she knew people and had roots that she could share with him, a place where he could learn small-town values, a place with a mortgage-free home in the country and a medical practice that needed her. Now she wondered if she’d done the right thing.
Maybe she should move back to Houston, away from the danger of Quinn Buchanon.
She scrubbed harder, soaping her wrists, zoned out in thought. Houston didn’t have Quinn, but her parents’ city had plenty of other worries, especially concerning her nephew.
She loved it here in Gabriel’s Crossing, loved living in Nana and Papa’s house with its wonderful memories and quiet woods and pretty yard. Nana had planted something for every season, even winter, when the red berries against deep green holly fed the birds and the spirit. Spring would soon arrive and Nana’s lilacs and forsythias would brighten the world.
She didn’t want to move again.
Since she’d joined Dr. Ramos last September, her practice had grown rapidly. She loved knowing her patients on a personal basis, seeing them at church and in stores. People liked her personal involvement, her follow-up phone calls, the smart, concerned care she gave. She was a good certified registered nurse practitioner, and she wanted to practice in a rural town where doctors were in short supply. Gabriel’s Crossing was perfect. Almost.
Derrick was furious with her about the kittens and had locked himself in his room with his computer, refusing to come out until this morning. Oddly, he’d been up and dressed but his eyes were red rimmed and tired, as if he hadn’t slept much.
He worried her out of her mind. And she felt guilty about the baby kittens. Had Quinn fed them? Would he?
Quinn. The biggest problem of all.
Lord, what am I supposed to do? I can’t break my promise, but I can’t return to Houston. Derrick is better off here in a small town where I can keep a close eye on him. But what if—
Someone tapped on the exam room door. “Gena?”
“Come on in.” She glanced up.
Alabama Watts, both nurse and friend, poked her head around the door edge. “Mr. Chard in room three and little Clara Jameson in five are both ready. And Dr. Ramos wants you to take his patients for the next couple of hours. He had an emergency at the hospital.”
Gena shut off the water and reached for a paper towel.
She was needed here. Badly.
“Who’s first?”
“Mr. Chard. I set up a suture tray. His hand is wrapped in a towel but bleeding through. Chain saw bit him, he said.”
“Ouch. Let’s go see.”
The rest of her day was wildly busy, so by the time she arrived home, the sun had set. She parked the SUV under the carport and opened the side entry door, frowning to see no light glowing from Derrick’s room. The bus ran by the house around four. He should have been home three hours ago.
“Derrick?” She tossed her keys and bag on the kitchen counter and went to his room.
The door was shut. She tapped. “Derrick, honey. I’m home.”
Nothing.
“Are you hungry?” Wasn’t he always?
Still no answer, so she tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. With a deep breath, she stepped into his bedroom. It was empty. His laptop was open and on but dark. His books had been dumped on his unmade bed. If he had homework, he’d likely not done it.
With an exasperated growl, she knew where he’d gone. Quinn’s. The kittens.
Wearily, she rubbed at her temples.
She’d been foolish to believe she could avoid anyone in a town this small. Derrick’s blatant disregard for her rules meant he was sure to do exactly what she forbade.
As she started out, some gut instinct stopped her. She stared at Derrick’s laptop.
She’d not checked his history in a while, and from his weariness this morning, she suspected he’d stayed up late last night trolling the internet. With him out of the house, it was a good time to have a look at his search history without starting another war.
She tapped the touch pad and the screen lit up.
Facebook. Dandy. He wasn’t old enough to have an account. But when had she been able to stop Derrick from doing something he wanted to do?
She stared at the selfies of the handsome young boy with the sullen mouth and that blasted black hoodie pulled low over his eyes.
With a tap, she refreshed the screen and scrolled, checking out his friends and messages.
The more she read, the colder she got. One “friend” flashed gang signs and puffed on something that looked suspiciously like a marijuana joint. One urged him to hitch his way back to Houston. Another bragged about a “piece” he’d stolen from his old man.
A piece? As in a gun?
