it when that happens. But that’s okay. I’ll just have to ask again when you’re not so busy. See you around, sweetcakes.”
Flashing his dimples at her, he stuffed a tip in the tip jar, grabbed his coffee and the doughnut she’d sacked for him, and walked out with an easy animal grace that Rachel couldn’t help but appreciate. She wasn’t the only one. When she finally blinked back to attention, every other woman in the bakery was watching the long, tall drink of water saunter out of the bakery.
“I’ll have some of that,” Dixie Hicks sighed dreamily from a nearby table. “He’s cute.”
Next in line at the counter, Hilda Stevens cackled, “He certainly is. Reminds me of my third husband. I never should have let him go—he was a fantastic lover.”
Three years past eighty and showing no signs of slowing down, Hilda loved nothing more than talking about her ex-husbands…and shocking people. Amused, Rachel just rolled her eyes. “Now, Hilda, you know I can’t let you talk about the exes. We’ve got schoolkids here….”
“Oh, they’re trying to decide what doughnuts they want,” she scoffed. “They’re not paying any attention to an old woman.”
“Kids hear everything, Hilda. You know that.”
“They’re not going to hear the good stuff. Anyway, this is about you, not me. Why didn’t you take that boy up on his invitation? I’m not interested,” she mimicked, scowling. “Of course you’re interested! He was cute as a button. Maybe you’re working too hard. I think I need to talk to your grandmother.”
“No!” She was already getting enough grief from her grandmother—she didn’t need more! “I appreciate your concern, Hilda, but I don’t need help from Gran or anyone else. I can get my own dates.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” the older woman retorted. “Look what you just let walk out the door!”
It had been a long time since a woman had turned him down for a date, Turk Garrison thought with a grin as he headed back to his house. His timing must have been off. That was okay—he’d ask her again. He knew where she worked. Even if he hadn’t, he could walk the length and breadth of Hunter’s Ridge in less than an hour. Finding her again wouldn’t be a problem.
And that’s what he loved about Hunter’s Ridge…its size. He’d grown up in Dallas, in the shadow of his father, who was one of the most well-known heart surgeons in the city, and all he’d ever wanted to be was a small-town doctor like his grandfather. For his father’s sake, however, he’d tried to follow in his footsteps, but he’d hated it. He’d given it two years—that was all he could manage. Now he was going to do what he wanted to do.
Have you lost your mind? What kind of career can you have in a small town? There’s no future there. No money! You’ve got the hands of a heart surgeon. It’s in your blood! You can’t walk away from that to play Marcus Welby in Small Town, America! It’s insane.
His father had never been one to pull his punches, and he certainly hadn’t when he’d informed him last month that he intended to resign from his father’s practice and open his own clinic in Hunter’s Ridge. He’d ranted and raved and tried to reason with him, and when that hadn’t worked, he’d used his most powerful weapon—Janice, Turk’s mother.
To her credit, his mother had sympathized with his dream of having a less-complicated life and practice. But ultimately, she, too, had stressed how much he would be giving up if he chose Hunter’s Ridge over Dallas…wealth, prestige, professional affiliations with some of the top surgeons in the country. How could he give that up? Why would he want to?
Watching a family of ducks walk across River Road to the river, Turk would never understand how his parents understood him so little. There was no question that his father was successful when it came to making money—but he often passed patients on the street and didn’t have a clue who they were. Turk’s grandfather, on the other hand, not only knew his patients, he knew their children, their hopes and fears, their birthdays and anniversaries and where they planned to be buried.
That was what Turk wanted, what he intended to have.
Even though he’d told his parents he was settling in Hunter’s Ridge, they hadn’t really believed he’d leave Dallas and turn his back on the kind of career he could have there. That, however, is exactly what he’d done. He’d found office space in the town’s newest—and only—strip mall, spent the last two weeks hiring staff and advertising the fact that Hunter’s Ridge had a new doctor in town. The clinic opened for business tomorrow, and it was only three blocks from his house. He’d be able to walk to work every day.
“You’re not in Dallas anymore, Doc,” he told himself with a grin. And that was never more apparent than when he strolled up the front walk to his house.
There was no doubt that it was a fixer-upper. A block off Main Street, it was a hundred years old and looked it. It hadn’t been painted in years, the gutters were drooping, and there was more than one rotting eave that needed to be replaced. The wiring was iffy, the plumbing hadn’t been updated in fifty years, and the pier-and-beam foundation obviously needed some major adjustments—windows and doors throughout the house didn’t shut properly. But the place had good bones. It had ten-foot ceilings, crown molding and stained glass, and it reminded him of his grandparents’ house. He’d taken one look at it and bought it on the spot.
His friends and family thought he was crazy, but he was doing much of the work himself. He enjoyed the physical labor and liked the idea of putting his own stamp on the place. He’d been tearing out Sheetrock almost from the moment he’d moved in two days ago. Once he had it all out, he’d have to bring in an electrician and plumber and a foundation repairman, but in the meantime, he was having a hell of a good time.
Unlocking the front door, he stepped inside and grinned. His mother would have had a stroke if she could see the way he was living. It would be months before the house was no longer a construction zone, so he’d placed all his furniture in storage, then bought a few secondhand pieces to use in the house during the remodeling. He had an old wooden straight chair and a TV tray that he used in the kitchen, a scarred bed and dresser in the huge master bedroom, and an ancient recliner in the living room. And everywhere he looked, there was a fine coating of Sheetrock dust. And he’d just started tearing it out. He could just imagine what the place was going to look like in a few weeks.
From the backyard, Daisy, his yellow Lab, knew the instant he walked into the kitchen. She gave a sharp bark at the back door, but he only laughed. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he called through the door. “I want to work on the Sheetrock, and if I let you in, I won’t get a thing done. Wait a second. I’ve got a treat for you.”
He found a steak bone in the refrigerator from last night’s dinner and opened the back door to offer it to Daisy. She wasn’t a pig when it came to snacks—taking the bone very delicately, she turned and trotted into her doghouse. Turk knew she wouldn’t come out again until the bone was history. Grinning, he grabbed his hammer and nail puller and went to work.
Five hours later, he had a mess on his hands. The floor in the master bedroom was a foot deep with broken pieces of Sheetrock and enough dust to choke a horse. And that was just from the demolition of one wall. Pleased, he attacked the debris on the floor with a commercial broom and dustpan, then spent the next thirty minutes carting it all out to the Dumpster. When he finished, one wall was bare of Sheetrock, and the floor was broom-clean.
Planning to start on the west wall of the bedroom next, he’d just walked into the kitchen to see about making
