Chapter 6: The Room Over the Diner

The room over the diner had a slanted ceiling, one window and a bed that fit my grandmother's quilt exactly.

Wyatt carried the last box up the narrow stairs and set it by the door.

He had driven three hours with a trailer on his day off and hadn't said why.

"It's four hundred a month," Pru's mother said from the landing, holding a pie.

"Pru told me to charge you six hundred, but I like your face."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Eat the pie," she said, and went back downstairs.

Wyatt stood in the doorway.

The ceiling was low enough that he had to bend his neck.

"You'll get used to the noise," he said. "The grill starts at five."

"I work nights half the time. I won't hear it."

"Then you'll hear the trucks."

I laughed, and it surprised me.

It was the first time in a week.

He looked at me for a second too long, and then he looked at the quilt.

"Welcome to Harlow Creek, Bethany," he said, and went down the stairs.

I started my first shift twelve days later, on a Monday at seven.

By eight an old rancher in a straw hat was sitting in bed two with his arms crossed.

His chest kept jumping under his shirt.

He was seventy if he was a day.

"I want Doc Roark," he said.

"Dr. Roark is in the trauma bay with a car crash," I said. "I'm Bethany. I'm his nurse."

"I'm not letting some city girl stick me."

"Sir, your heart is skipping every third beat. I've got the strip right here."

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