Page 51 of Auctioned to Dr. Daddy

There’s a flash of recognition and understanding in her eyes, but it’s quickly smothered back up by that cold fury. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do for my daughter. I know her better than you, and I know what’s best for her: having her parents in the same house!” She snorts. “You know nothing about children. I can tell just from the looks of you.”

A pang shoots through me, splitting straight down the line of my spine.

My stomach flips.

I tell her, “You should go,” and then turn on my heel and vanish into the nearest patient’s room.

By a stroke of luck, the door closing doesn’t wake her up. Mrs. Vandersmear is eighty-nine and deaf as a cavefish. I brace my shoulders against the closed door and let out a shaky breath. My hands are trembling when I press against my belly.

I don’t have kids of my own. Not yet, at least. But I’ll have one soon enough. There’s something like uncertainty crawling through me again. After having such a good time last week with Tabitha, I had become more confident in my ability to handle young children.

Infants still scare me but I had been starting to think that I could do this. I could be a mother.

I had even been growing confident in telling Nathan!

But… If Emma is so determined to win the man back…

Nathan’s gone back to Emma three times, according to hospital chatter. And while he’s been away from her for a long time, the fact that Emma’s trying to get back together makes me nervous.

What if he does decide to go back to Emma?

I don’t want to cause any more issues for Tabitha than I have to. I’ll just wait a little longer to tell Nathan that I’m expecting. Just until I’m certain that we’re going to stay together.

Thankfully, Emma is long gone by the time I step out of Mrs. Vandersmear’s room. The rest of my shift passes without incident, and I’m very much looking forward to going back to Apple Green and spending some time in the barn.

I need to do something familiar to clear my head.

The sun has long since set, but the barn is equipped with bright lights, and it’s easy to get one of the more calm horses from the stall and hook the gelding up to the cross ties. His hooves shuffle over the hard rubber mat on the floor.

Chester is the most uncreative name that I’ve ever seen anyone give a chestnut thoroughbred, but it somehow manages to fit him. The horse has a naturally short forelock and a thick tuft of fur on his top lip.

“Hey, buddy. I know, you look like you’re having a rough day too. Was Michelangelo bullying you again?” I run my hand over the gelding’s shoulder and then curl my arms around his neck.

There’s a knock at the front of the barn. “Demi, there you are. I’ve been trying to catch you all week.”

“Sorry.” I turn and smile at Mindy. “Work’s been pretty hectic. What’s going on?”

Mindy is a tall woman, with a weather-worn face and crow’s feet that are noticeable even when she’s not smiling.

Her brown hair has been worn in a ponytail pretty much always, and she dresses just like you would think an old-fashioned cowgirl would dress—worn jeans, a plaid shirt, and a turquoise-covered belt buckle. Her boots are expensive but well-used, and she’s never bothered to do up her nails in all the years that I’ve known her.

She leads me over to one of the nearby tack trunks. We sit down on the big, dark green plastic box. Mindy takes one of my hands in both of hers. I can instantly tell that this isn’t a friendly kind of conversation.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Mindy frowns. “My mother isn’t doing any better.”

She fell a few months back and broke her hip, then promptly decided that she wasn’t going to stay in a care home.

Mindy continues, “I can’t convince her to do what the doctors are saying over the phone. If I don’t go up, I think that they’ll call social services on her. And she’ll never have anything to do with any of us, after that.”

“Okay,” I say, frowning a little bit.

“California is a long way off,” says Mindy. “And I’m going to be there a long time. I’m not getting any younger either.”

I can feel the shoe being lifted up high above me and start bracing myself for the drop. No clue what it might be, though.

Certainly not expecting her to follow it up with, “I’m selling the farm.”

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