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“She must hate me right now.” As she spoke, she scooped her hair up with both hands and refastened the locks with her holder.
“The trashcan was lined with a plastic bag,” he argued logically. “It won’t take anything at all to clean.”
She glanced over and sent him a dry look. “I wasn’t talking about the trashcan.”
He snapped his mouth shut. After a moment, he answered, “You know, I think she’d be a lot more forgiving if you married me and made an honest man out of me.”
B.J. rolled her eyes but didn’t bother to answer. As he pulled into the drive of a ranch-style brown house, she sat up and blinked.
“Where are we? I thought you were taking me to the hospital?”
Before Grady could answer, she caught sight of the man in the yard, pushing himself to his feet where he’d been kneeling in a flowerbed.
She gasped. “Oh, my God. Grady, you took me to Dr. Carl’s house? We can’t just barge in on him when he’s home, relax—”
“He won’t mind.”
At the confident note of assurance in his voice, B.J. arched her brows, impressed. “Well,” she said. “I always knew the Rawlings name held a lot of sway in these parts, but—”
“He better see me whenever I want,” Grady growled from between gritted teeth. “The man was holding a bloody knife in his hand and standing over my wife when she died.”
As B.J.’s mouth dropped open, he glanced away. He didn’t blame Dr. Carl for Amy’s death. He knew the doctor had done everything in his power to save her. But neither would he ever forget the stunned look on the man’s face as he gaped at the heart monitor blaring out one long, continuous beep.
“I didn’t even think,” B.J. said. “Of course, he would’ve been her doctor too, wouldn’t he?” Her face went pale as she glanced at him. “God. If you want me to find another OB/GYN—”
“There is no other baby doctor around here,” he muttered and pushed his way out of the truck. He nodded a greeting to Dr. Carl, who was already striding forward to meet him.
“Grady,” he said, stretching out his hand. “This is quite a surprise. What brings you by?”
After giving the older man a brief handshake, Grady reached into the cab of the truck and tugged B.J. out through the driver’s side. “She just passed out and hit her head. Hard.”
The doctor blinked at B.J. and then whirled back to Grady. He didn’t have a medical degree for nothing. From the utter shock in his expression, he caught on immediately. Grady had impregnated B.J. Gilmore.
“Oh,” he whooshed out the word and then seemed to return to reality. “Well then, B.J. Why don’t you step up onto the porch for minute?”
As he took her elbow and drew her forward, B.J. said, “I’m fine, Doc. Really. Noggin’s a little sore, but that’s to be expected.”
Grady trailed them with restless impatience. A little sore his ass. “Her skull hit a wood floor so hard I swear it bounced.”
Ignoring B.J.’s scowl at Grady, Dr. Carl said, “Why don’t we just have a seat up here.” He pulled a black steel swiveling stool out from the tall round table under his covered porch and patted the seat. “I’ll have a look for myself.”
“She threw up too,” Grady said. “Two times. I’ve never seen anyone vomit as much as she did.”
The doctor nodded and disappeared inside the house.
“Tattletale,” B.J. muttered.
Glancing up in time to catch her sticking out her tongue, then folding her arms over her chest and turning away from him, Grady should’ve been amused. Instead, a vision of Amy laid out in her casket—only an empty, lifeless shell—hit him hard and fast. He couldn’t picture B.J. dead. She was too lively, spirited, animated. Like Grandpa Granger, she was meant to grow old and sassy, zipping around in a wheelchair and flirting with the younger generation.
She could not die.
Grady was tempted to grab her and yank her to him, kissing her till she lost her irritation, kissing her while she was still so alive and healthy. But Dr. Carl saved him from making a fool of himself, returning with a stethoscope and a handful of other medical goodies.
The doctor studied B.J.’s pupils before he checked her blood pressure and took her temperature. “Nausea is perfectly common among pregnant woman.” He plucked the stethoscope plugs from his ears and turned toward Grady.
Grady merely shook his head. “Amy had a queasy stomach a few times when she was pregnant, but she never threw up,” he insisted, “in either pregnancy. And she certainly never passed out.”
When the doctor sent him a sad, sympathetic smile, he ground his teeth. God, he hated this. He hated the helpless fear, and he hated everyone feeling so damn sorry for him.
