janet dailey- the healing touch (6 page)

"What kind of treatments?"

Michael could tell by the half grin on Katie's face that she knew she was being teased. He also noticed that Rebecca's chatter was keeping Katie's mind off the fact that she was examining the cut. Okay, so she was good with kids. So what?

"The special treatment," Rebecca said thoughtfully. "Well, let me see.... Oh, yes, I remember now. We have to make a poultice for it. Do you know what that is?"

"Isn't it a name for chickens and turkeys and geese and stuff like that?"

Rebecca laughed, and so did Michael, in spite of himself.

"No," she said, "that's poultry, not poultice. A poultice is a mixture of stuff that you make and spread it on a wound to help it heal."

"What kind of stuff?"

At that moment Bridget entered the living room, Rebecca's medical bag in hand. "Here you go, dear," she said, handing it to Rebecca.

"Tell me, Bridget—" Rebecca reached into the bag and pulled out cotton, antiseptic, gauze and tape "—do you have onions in the kitchen?"

Bridget looked puzzled. "Yes, of course I do, but-"

"And hot mustard?"

Again Bridget nodded. "Why do you—"

"We need to throw this stuff in the blender and then smear it on Katie's foot. How about garlic and chili peppers?"

Bridget grinned. "Aye, we've got lots of those."

"How about raw liver?"

Katie's self-control reached the end of its tether. "No! Yuck, no liver! I don't want slippery, slimy liver on my foot!"

"And, of course, you have to wear it to school, every day for a month."

By the time Katie had recovered from the shock of wearing such a disgusting and smelly poultice to school, Rebecca had disinfected and bandaged the small cut.

"There you go, kiddo," she said, gently patting the child's foot. "Good as new. Almost."

Michael felt a stab of jealousy when he saw the look of adoration in his daughter's eyes as she gazed at the vet, spellbound and brimming with affection. Besides, he was the only one who called her "kiddo."

In a small corner of his brain, he knew he was being petty, but the rest of him didn't care. This woman was trying to usurp his position with his daughter and he didn't like it one bit.

Rebecca looked up and their eyes met. He could tell that she was angry with him, too. But, probably out of consideration for the child, she wasn't saying so.

She was pretty, in a down-homey sort of way. No makeup, but then she didn't really need it. She wore her chestnut hair in a simple, no-nonsense cut—shoulder length and blunt. Her slightly damp T-shirt and shorts were covered by a plain denim shirt. Not exactly a fashion plate, but then, businesslike attire wouldn't have been practical for her line of work.

Too bad she wasn't more pleasant.

"Thank you, Dr. Barclay," he said, rising from his chair. "I appreciate what you did. May I see you out now?"

There. That had been pretty blunt. Surely she would get the idea that he wanted her gone.

"No, thank you," she said, standing up and collecting her things into the bag. "I can find my way out alone."

"But I insist," he replied, following after her as she headed for the door.

"Goodbye, Katie.'' She bent over the girl and placed a quick kiss on her forehead. "I'm sorry you got hurt, but you did a wonderful job with your swimming lesson. I'll drop by to give you another one soon."

She nodded a goodbye to Bridget, then headed out the door. He followed at her heels.

"Just a minute, Dr. Barclay," he called to her as she was about to climb into her pickup. "I'd like to have a word with you."

"Well, I don't think that I want to have a word with you. Unless, of course, you're going to offer me an apology for your rudeness."

"Not on your life! What do you mean 'apology'? You're the one who took off with my kid without asking me first. You're the one who got her hurt. And what"s this about you teaching her to swim? You've got a hell of a nerve, Doctor. But you'd just better back off when it comes to my daughter."

"Mr. Stafford..." She drew a deep breath. "You are acting like a first-rate jerk. I haven't known you very long, so I can't tell if it's because you are a first-rate jerk, or maybe it's just a temporary lapse in your social skills due to indigestion, a painful hangnail or constipation. For Katie's sake, I'm going to assume the latter."

She spun on her heel and climbed into the pickup. He tried to think of some great, smart-aleck retort, but he was so mad that his mind was blank.

"I suggest," she said, "that you take a big healthy dose of castor oil and sleep with a coat hanger in your mouth. Maybe you'll wake up tomorrow morning with a load off your mind and a smile on your face."

He sputtered. He fumed. He thought of a perfect rebuttal. Scathing, insulting, crude... almost vile. Absolutely perfect.

But, unfortunately, by then Dr. Rebecca Barclay was five miles down the road and long out of sight.

Chapter Four

Are you mad at me, kiddo?" Michael studied his daughter's bent head as they helped themselves to the last two pieces of Double, Double, Cheese and Trouble pizza on the platter.

He had taken Katie to her favorite eatery in an effort to cheer her up, but so far it wasn't working. She had been unnaturally quiet during the meal and had turned down an offer to play video games with him in the adjoining arcade.

Something had to be wrong. And Michael had a sinking feeling that he knew what it was.

"Well, are you?" he asked again when she didn't answer.

He reached across the table and tweaked a lock of her hair.

"No," she said, so softly he could hardly hear her.

Her tone was anything but convincing.

"I think you are. It's okay, Katie. We can talk about whatever is bothering you."

She looked up at him with those beautiful blue eyes that constantly broke his heart, and he could see that she was much more than just angry; she was deeply hurt.

"Is it about what happened this afternoon?"

She nodded.

"What did I do wrong?" he asked, dreading the answer. Why were the members of the male gender forever messing up with the females in their lives? If a man wasn't disappointing his mother, it was his girlfriend, sister, wife or daughter. A guy just couldn't win with a woman, no matter what age.

"You were mean to Dr. Rebecca," she said, her lower lip quivering.

He reached out and touched it with his fingertip. For the thousandth time he reflected on the fact that she was so soft, so sweet, and that he was so lucky to have her in his life.

"Do you really think I was mean?" he asked.

Again, she nodded.

"I guess I came down on her pretty hard, but I was worried about you. I was mad that she took you without asking me. I was upset that she let you get hurt."

"But that wasn't her fault. We didn't see the rock through the water. And it wasn't a big deal anyway. It hardly hurt at all. Dr. Rebecca was being nice to me, and we were having a really good time until..."

"Until I messed it up?"

"Yeah," Katie admitted, hanging her head again. "I was looking forward to coming home and telling you how good I did on the swimming stuff. But then..."

"So, tell me now. How did you do?"

Her eyes brightened and she wriggled in her seat with excitement. "I did great! Dr. Rebecca said I was very brave. First I did the mouth part—you know, sticking

my mouth under the water and blowing bubbles. Then I did my nose, then I floated on my back and did my ears. That was really weird and it sorta tickled. And then...and then...! did the eyes! I stuck my whole head under the water! All the way! I did it three times, and the last time I even opened my eyes. Right there, under the water, I opened them and looked around. I could see Dr. Rebecca. She was under the water, too, making a funny face and waving to me!"

Michael's heart warmed to see her so excited. She truly had enjoyed the afternoon, thanks to Rebecca Barclay. And the experience had obviously been worth a little cut on the foot.

He had been a first-rate jerk.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. Really, I am."

"Thanks, Dad. But you shouldn't tell me," she said. "Dr. Rebecca is the one you yelled at."

His stomach tied into a ball at the mere thought of approaching that woman and offering an apology. But what was a guy to do? He was wrong. His daughter knew he was wrong. They both knew he owed the doctor a heartfelt apology. Maybe he should kiss her ring and oil her feet while he was at it.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell her I'm sorry, but—"

"When?"

"When...ah, yes, well..."

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I have a lot of things to do tomorrow, and I don't think I'll have a chance to..."

Thick, dark lashes batted over brilliant blue eyes; the rosebud mouth began to tremble again.

"All right, all right. Tomorrow."

Katie grinned, satisfied, and licked the last bit of sauce from her fingers. "You know," she added slyly, "you could ask her out on a date—a nice romantic dinner, a movie, a little mo-oo-onlight dancing."

He growled and tossed a piece of crust at her. "Watch it, kiddo. You could have to weed that flower bed beside the driveway."

"The one with all the dandelions and crabgrass?"

"That's the one."

She considered for a moment, then said, "Okay, just buy her a double-decker ice cream cone, and we'll call it even."

"I've been instructed to buy you ice cream. A lot of it."

Startled, Rebecca looked up from her examining table where she was clipping the right wing feathers of a parrot named Frederick. Michael Stafford was standing in her doorway. He wore an off-white linen shirt, just-right-tight jeans and a smile on his face that reminded her of the grins worn by a few sheep she had treated in her career.

Fred squawked and flapped, obviously irritated by her hesitation.

"What?" she asked, unable to believe what she had heard.

"I said..." He hesitated. "I'd like to buy you some ice cream, as a way of saying that you were right and I was a jerk. Or so I've been told by my eight-year-old daughter."

"I see." She paused to comfort Frederick, who had decided that the examination and feather clipping had gone on long enough. Fortunately, she was nearly finished, close enough to agree with him.

Stroking the bird's head and tickling the back of his neck, she coaxed him into his portable cage. His owner, Marge, would be by to get him soon.

She walked over to the sink and washed her hands, trying to decide how to react to this less than enthusiastic invitation. Half of her wanted to accept—okay, more than half—but the rest wanted to stomp across the room and slap him silly.

"Katie thinks you were a jerk, huh?" she asked as she turned toward him and stood with arms crossed over her chest and a defiant look on her face. "So do I. But the important thing, Mr. Stafford, is what you think."

He sighed and walked into the room. Looking weary and frustrated, he sat on one of the stools beside the examining table. "First, please stop calling me Mr. Stafford. People only call me that when they're mad at me or trying to sell me something. Just call me Michael."

"I'm not trying to sell you anything, Mr. Stafford," she said.

"Secondly," he continued, ignoring her subtext, "I agree with my daug
hter—and with you—or I wouldn't
be here. I might buy ice cream on command, but I only apologize when it's from the heart."

He took a deep breath and looked her square in the eyes, causing her pulse to pound hard enough to lower her cholesterol level for six months.

"I was unfair to you yesterday," he said. "I was rude, insensitive and stubborn. I don't blame you for being mad at me. I'm mad at me, too, possibly more than you and Katie combined. To be honest, I was feeling guilty that / hadn't taken the time to teach her to swim, that I hadn't shown her the swimming hole, that I hadn't been there when she was hurt. And I took it out on you. I'm truly sorry. Will you forgive me?"

For a moment she saw that same beguiling expression in his eyes that she had seen in Katie's. And, as with the daughter, she couldn't resist it.

"Yes, all forgiven, all forgotten," she said. "You don't even have to buy me ice cream if you don't want to."

"Oh, no, I have to do the ice cream bit or Katie will go on strike and not clean that grungy room of hers for two weeks. How do you feel about banana splits?"

After eating the first third of her ice cream and spending twenty minutes in conversation with Michael Stafford, Rebecca decided that she loved banana splits. Funny, she couldn't recall one tasting this good before.

The ice cream parlor was one of the most charming food establishments in town. Its stained glass lamps gave the dining room a cozy glow. In traditional, turn-

of-the-century style, the tables and chairs were ornate filigree of white wrought iron with marble tops. A miniature train circled the room on a narrow shelf just below the copper tiled ceiling, puffing smoke and whistling when it passed the front door.