New York Doc to Blushing Bride. Janice Lynn

      “I don’t have to have a reason, do I?”

      He studied her so intently she found herself wanting to brush her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair and pinch her cheeks to give her face some color. “Most people have a reason when they dislike someone.”

      “You took advantage of my vulnerability last night.”

      “No, I didn’t, and we both know it. You asked me to stay and I stayed because it seemed like the decent thing to do. You were upset.”

      “Staying makes me a charity case?”

      “You aren’t a charity case. Far, far from it.” His patience seemed to wear momentarily thin. “Why are you trying to fight with me? I don’t want to fight with you.”

      He was right. She was trying to fight with him. Because she didn’t like him. Because she was embarrassed by the weakness she’d shown. Because he was logical and she was totally illogical, which irritated her because really she was a logical person most of the time. Maybe.

      Fighting with him was easier than addressing kissing him.

      “Then leave so you won’t have to fight.”

      He shook his head, raked his fingers through his hair. “I’d like to be beside you today.”

      She rose up and frowned at him. “Can you not take a hint? I don’t want you beside me. Not now. Not ever. Just go.”

      He opened his mouth, no doubt to point out that she’d wanted him beside her the night before. She had. She couldn’t deny it. The house that had been home for so many years had felt empty and creepy in the darkness when she’d known her father wasn’t there.

      This time she interrupted him. “I have to bury my father today. I was emotionally weak last night and asked you to stay. I shouldn’t have. I admit I made a mistake. I have a boyfriend and am ashamed of my mistake, of what happened just a few minutes ago. Now I want you gone and am asking you to leave. Can you not just leave, please?”

      No longer meeting her gaze, he shrugged his broad shoulders and got up from the bed on the opposite side of her. “You’ve made your point. I’m no longer needed or wanted.” He headed for the door, pausing just inside the frame to turn to face her. “Call if you change your mind about needing a ride to the funeral home. For Preston’s sake, I’ll do whatever I can to make this day as easy as possible for you.”

      He left.

      Cara burst into tears and sobbed until there were no more tears left.

      When she finally got herself together enough to think about heading to the funeral home, her neighbor Gladys Jones stopped by with some homemade brownies that Cara had loved as a girl and a sympathy card. Cara requested a ride and Gladys was happy to oblige so she could question Cara on why Dr. Trenton’s car had been parked in her driveway all night.

      “I was too upset to drive myself home from the funeral parlor. Dr. Trenton kindly brought me home” was all she told the woman, and changed the subject time and again when Gladys kept bringing up the subject of Sloan.

      The drive to the funeral home seemed to take hours rather than mere minutes. Giving Gladys a grateful hug, because really, other than the Sloan questions, she truly appreciated the woman coming to her rescue, she made her way into the funeral home, knowing the roughest day of her life awaited.

      Chin high, shoulders straight, she walked into the funeral home. She could do this. She had no choice.

      Everything blurred.

      People greeted her, hugged her, handed her tissues when she cried. She’d not meant to cry, had kept herself together the night before at visitation, but today she cried.

      Brother Elrod from her grandfather’s church presented a moving message, as did the hospital’s current CEO. Several suited men served as pallbearers, Sloan included, lifting the casket and assisting as it was placed inside a hearse. Then Mr. Greenwood escorted Cara to a limousine and helped her inside the impersonal black car.

      The graveside service passed in just as big a blur. The local sheriff’s office honored Preston’s many years of serving as coroner and medical examiner and they presented Cara with a folded flag.

      The late-winter wind whipped at her clothes but she felt nothing, saw nothing. Standing from her seat with legs that threatened to wobble, she dropped a single rose and a handful of dirt onto the lowered casket.