“But?” I prompted.
“But this was a warning,” he said gravely. “TIAs often precede major strokes. They’re like the body’s way of signaling that something’s wrong.”
My throat tightened. “What does this mean exactly?”
“It means changes need to happen immediately. No more stress, no more late nights. He needs to slow down, or the next one might be the real thing.” Dr. Maxwell’s tone was gentle but firm. “And at his age, a major stroke would be devastating.”
The words landed like a weight in my gut. If Doc couldn’t continue to run the saloon, what would happen to it? That place was his life—had been for nearly twenty years. It was more than a business; it was his identity.
“Can I see him?” My voice came out smaller than I’d intended.
“Of course. He’s awake and stable. Follow me.”
Lucy and I trailed behind Dr. Maxwell through the double doors and down a corridor lined with exam rooms. He led us to a curtained-off area where Doc sat propped up in a hospital bed, hooked to a monitor. The sight of him—smaller somehow, despite his color having returned—made my heart twist.
“Well, look who’s here.” Doc’s voice was stronger than I expected. “Come to check on the old man?” His gaze slid to Lucy. “And brought me another pretty visitor, too. Hey, Lucy.”
She flashed him a smile. “Hey, Doc.”
“Guess you’re not bulletproof after all”. The traitorous wobble to my voice undermined the attempted joke.
Doc waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing. I got a little lightheaded is all.”
Dr. Maxwell cleared his throat. “It’s definitely not nothing. I was telling your granddaughter, you can’t keep doing this. The late nights, the stress, it’s all gotta stop. You need to slow down, or next time you won’t be so lucky.”
I watched Doc’s face harden into that familiar stubborn expression I’d seen a thousand times. Before he could argue, I stepped closer to the bed.
“I’ll step in at the bar until you’re ready.” The words came out before I’d fully thought them through. I had no idea how I was going to juggle that with my actual job, but that was a problem for later.
Doc studied my face, clearly wanting to protest. But whatever he saw in my eyes made him reconsider.
“Okay, fine,” he conceded with a sigh. He turned to Dr. Maxwell. “When can I get out of here?”
CHAPTER 6
DIEGO
I hadn’t slept well. Three hours of restless dozing didn’t count as actual sleep, but it was all I’d managed after our shift ended. Memories of Doc on that stretcher, of Gillian’s face tight with fear, had chased me through what little rest I’d gotten.
Now, squinting against the afternoon sun, I drove across town to Doc’s neighborhood. The modest ranch homes with their neatly trimmed lawns were a stark contrast to the historic downtown where the saloon sat. Doc’s place was easy to spot—the only house on the block with a porch swing and those distinctive wrought-iron railings shaped like horseshoes.
I told myself I was only checking on Doc. The town grapevine had already confirmed he’d been discharged this morning—Mrs. Kovalchik had mentioned it when I’d stopped for coffee at Pour Decisions. A welfare check wasn’t unusual. People looked out for each other here.
But I knew better. This wasn’t about Doc, not entirely.
It was about that moment in the Emergency Department when Gillian had stood alone in that sterile waiting area, fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across her pale face. She’d wrapped her arms around herself like a shield, shoulders hunched inward, looking smaller and more fragile than I’d everseen her. Even during that last awful fight before she left for law school, she’d never seemed so breakable.
My hands had physically ached watching her stand there, fingers twitching with the overwhelming urge to cross that linoleum floor and pull her close. To wrap my arms around her trembling form and absorb some of that raw fear radiating from her in waves. The need had been a physical weight in my chest, making it hard to breathe properly.
But I’d forced myself to stay rooted in place, knowing that crossing that line would only complicate things further. How leaving her there in that cold, antiseptic hallway had torn something open all over again—the same wound that had never quite healed since the day she’d chosen law school over whatever we might have built together.
I’d wanted to stay with her through the long night ahead, to be the steady presence she could lean on. But duty had pulled me away, the radio crackling with another call, another emergency that demanded my attention. The job always came first—it had to.
Four years hadn’t changed a damn thing, apparently. One glimpse of her standing in that doorway, hair mussed and worry lines creasing her forehead, and I was right back where I started—wanting to be her shelter when the storms hit, her safe harbor in whatever chaos life threw at her. Even knowing she’d never wanted that from me, not really. Not enough to stay.
I parked at the curb, noticing another car already there—a blue sedan I didn’t recognize. As I walked up the path, I caught sight of someone on the porch. A woman in a floral dress stood with her back to me, hand raised to knock.
The door opened, and there was Gillian, framed in the doorway. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, stress etched in the lines around her eyes.
