Page 26 of Brotan

Something tells me Gus's cabin is nowhere near Crow's normal patrols, but I let the thought drop. "Pneumonia," I say, already mentally cataloging the supplies I'd need. "Probable pneumonia. How old is he?"

"Pushing eighty. Wife died years ago. Only really talks to Silas."

I grab my bag, energy surging through me. "I need to see him to come up with the best treatment plan. Can you give me directions? I'll head out there now."

Crow blinks, genuine surprise crossing his features. "You've been up for over a day. You're dead on your feet."

"I've gone longer." I'm already sliding out of the booth, fatigue temporarily forgotten. "Pneumonia kills seniors fast. We can't wait."

"Jesus, slow down," Crow growls, though there's a hint of grudging respect in his tone. "If you just tell me what to do, what to bring him, I can handle it. Old man doesn't like strangers anyway, and you need sleep before you collapse."

So now he wants to show concern for me. "Not happening," I cut him off. "I need to examine him myself. Auscultation, vitals, and decide which antibiotics based on his condition." I'm already cataloging supplies in my head. "I've got everything at the clinic. We can stop on the way."

Crow stands, his massive frame blocking the aisle. "You're really gonna do this? Now? After a night from hell?"

"That didn't stop you from riding out to check on him this morning." I meet his gaze directly, unflinching. "Someone needs help. That's what doctors do."

Something shifts in his expression—respect, definitely recognition. "Not all of them."

I don't miss the echo of earlier words in his speech. "I did what any good doctor should have. Now, let's get to Gus while we can still help."

"Bike's outside," he says, the words simple but show his compliance.

"Meet you there in five. I need to grab my emergency kit from the car and a few things from the clinic."

Twenty minutes later, I'm on the back of Crow's motorcycle, arms wrapped around his waist as we speed down country roads. The vibration of the engine travels through my body, a constant hum that somehow keeps me alert despite my exhaustion.

I try not to focus on the solid warmth of him between my thighs, the way his muscles shift beneath my arms as he navigates turns. Try not to inhale the scent of leather and smoke that clings to him. Try desperately to maintain professional detachment.

And fail spectacularly.

Gus Whitaker's cabin sits at the end of a dirt road so rutted it nearly dislodged me from the back of Crow's bike twice. The structure, a log cabin that looks as old as its owner, sits nestled into a grove of tall pine trees that easily hide it from the road. If I hadn't come with Crow, I'd have never found it.

Crow is helping me dismount and handing me my bag when the old man greets us with a shotgun barrel jutting through the cracked door.

"Told you not to bring nobody, Brotan," he rasps, using a name for Crow I've never heard before. The sound of it jars me, but I'm too focused on the task at hand to question it further.

"And I told you to stop being a stubborn ass," Crow replies, climbing the porch steps and not flinching at the weapon trained on his chest. "Put the fucking gun down, Gus. She's a doctor."

"Don't need no doctor." The words dissolve into a wet, hacking cough, which confirms that he absolutely does.

"Then why are you sweating through your shirt in sixty-degree weather?" Crow counters, taking a step forward rather than back. I don't miss how he's angled himself so I'm behind him and out of range if Gus decides to pull the trigger.

"Go the fuck away and take her with ya." The gun barrel wavers.

"Come on, old man." Crow swats the shotgun with his hand, moving it to point to the ground instead of me. "She's patched me up twice, and you know how I feel about humans."

The shotgun lowers slightly. Bloodshot eyes peer at me from behind the door's crack. "That true? You've patched up this asshole?"

"Twice." I step forward, medical bag clutched like a shield. "Dr. Maya Johnson."

"Hmph." The gun drops completely. "Prettier than old Doc Morris, I'll give you that."

"Yeah." Crow mutters as he pushes the door open, forcing Gus to step back. "I hadn't noticed."

I pretend I didn't hear him.

The cabin's interior smells of mentholated rub, stale coffee, and decades of dust. Despite the clutter of a lifetime's possessions, there's a military precision to the arrangement—canned goods on shelves with all labels facing out, boots aligned perfectly by the door, a neat stack of newspapers next to a fireplace still smoldering from last night. Gus shuffles to a threadbare armchair, lowering himself with the careful movements of someone whose joints betray him daily.

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