The Doctor's Do-Over. Karen Templeton

gonna need stitches, huh?” Quinn asked, sounding more curious than worried.

      “Oh, I’d say at least a hundred,” Ryder said, deadpan, and Quinn giggled, and Ryder lifted his eyes—all sweetly crinkled at the corners, of course—to the little girl, and Mel saw in those eyes … too much. That while she didn’t doubt that Ryder was every bit as kind and funny with all his younger patients, it was patently obvious Quinn had already grabbed his heart.

      And, judging from the grin on her daughter’s face, the feeling was mutual.

       Ah, doom. You again, is it?

      Then Ryder turned his gaze to Mel, all business, except not, and now that the urge to barf had passed she noticed a dullness in those dark eyes she hadn’t noticed before, and it occurred to her how one-sided their catch-me-up conversation had been. That she had no idea what was, or had been, going on in his life. Was he married? Divorced? No ring, but that didn’t mean anything—

      “Actually,” he said, “if the cut hadn’t been where she’s likely to pull it apart in normal use, I’d say we’d be good with a butterfly bandage. But to be on the safe side I think a couple of stitches are in order. Piece of cake,” he said with a wink for Quinn, and Mel thought, If only, buddy boy.

      If only.

      If only, Ryder thought, removing his gloves a few minutes later after stitching up his niece’s wound, one could stitch back together the ragged edges of one’s life, and heart, so easily. If all it took to repair the damage was training and skill and patience. A strong stomach wouldn’t hurt, either.

      The booster shot administered and the wound dressed, Quinn skipped off to watch the monster, old-school TV in the gathering room—after giving Ryder a hug that scraped his still-tender heart. His eyes fixed on the kitchen doorway, he asked, “Is she always that affectionate?”

      “It depends.” She paused. “On whether she feels she can trust someone or not. Guess you passed.”

      He lowered his gaze to hers, just long enough to make her blush, then walked over to the offending nail. “Then I’m honored. She’s a fun kid.” He opened the door, the chilly damp barely registering in the drafty old house. Now why the heck would somebody hammer through the panel from the outside? “You got something I can pound this sucker out with?”

      “Probably.” Watching Mel as she began yanking open, then ramming shut, assorted swollen drawers, guilt shuddered through Ryder that he was even noticing how the soft jersey of her hoodie, the even softer fabric of her worn jeans, hugged curves that had very nicely matured—

      “Sorry about the house,” she said, still rummaging.

      “Why? Since I assume—” he scanned the mountains of detritus “—you didn’t make the mess.”

      “True. Still. Oh, looky …” Amidst much clattering, she hauled a decrepit-looking hammer from one of the drawers, her brows drawn as she inspected it. “Although Noah probably used this to build the ark.”

      Ryder extended his hand. “If it worked for Noah, I’m good.” Two whacks and the nasty thing was history, safely disposed of in the trash where it no longer posed a danger. “Next question—why isn’t the heat on?”

      “The thermostat’s not working—”

      “Where is it?”

      “In the dining room, but—”

      “Be right back.”

      A few minutes later he returned triumphant, loving Mel’s dumbfounded expression when the radiators started to clank. “How’d you do that?”’

      “Thermostat’s fine,” he said, opening cupboard doors until he found a half dozen flowery, albeit dusty, tin containers which still held an assortment of teas. “Boiler pilot light had gone out. All fixed now.” He hadn’t been in the house much when they were kids, and then only after Amelia had deemed her granddaughters old enough to be left on their own, but he remembered these. And, in the first one he opened, he hit pay dirt—a stash of Earl Grey. He dug out two bags and held them up. “Kettle?”

      Mel frowned. “And I’m guessing those would be Mrs. Noah’s tea bags.”

      “Eh, the boiling water will kill whatever needs killing.” He waggled them, and Mel sighed. But she dragged the kettle off the stove, rinsed it out five times, then filled it and set it on the burner. “You actually went down into the basement?”

      “I did. It’s even scarier than it was when we were kids.”

      Mel sighed, then angled her head at him. “Why are you still here?”

      Because the thought of going back to that empty house makes me crazy. Crazier.

      “Because I’m cold as hell. And you’d hardly begrudge the man who just saved your daughter’s life a cup of tea, would you?”

      “Hey,” April said from the doorway, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “Since the heat’s on—” Mel pointed to Ryder, who waved “—the kid and I are gonna make an ice cream run. Any requests?”

      “Chocolate chip,” Ryder said smoothly, earning him a “Got it,” from April and a glare from Mel.

      “Thought you were freezing?” she said after they heard the front door close.

      “I won’t be by the time they get back. Especially since—” he leaned back in the chair, his arms folded high on his chest “—the heat’s back on. You might want to close off the radiators in the unused rooms, though. To save fuel.”

      “Gah. Were you always this much of a pain in the butt?”

      “No more than you were.”

      “Touché.”

      Okay, so it felt good, sitting here, giving her grief, letting her give him grief right back. Simply enjoying the company, he mused as he surveyed the woebegone—to the point of creepy—room. “Place needs a lot of work, doesn’t it?”

      “That would be our take on it, yep,” Mel muttered, apparently fascinated with the flames licking at the kettle’s bottom.

      “Might be hard to find many buyers interested in it in this condition.”

      “Only need one,” she said. Still watching that kettle. “And what’s it to you?”

      “Nothing. Nothing at all. Just making conversation.”

      Which sputtered and gasped for several seconds until she said, “Thank you.” Her eyes touched his before veering back to the kettle. “For saving Quinn’s life and all.”

      “Oh, that. Anytime. Although I do want to see her in a day or so, make sure everything’s healing up okay.”

      “We can do that.” The kettle whistled; seconds later she handed him a mug of steaming water. “Not sure there’s any sugar—”

      “This is fine,” he said, dunking his tea bag. “For God’s sake, Mel … sit. Talk.”

      She stood, her arms crossed, her mouth set. “About what?”

      “The Orioles’ chances at taking the Series this year, I don’t know. No, wait, I’ve got an idea—how about you tell me all about Quinn?”

      He saw her eyes fill. “Ryder—”

      “Why did you decide to keep her?” he asked as gently as he knew how. “We get our share of teen moms at the clinic, I know how hard it is—”

      “Do you?”

      “Enough,” he said, refusing to cow. “So, why?” He paused. “Especially considering the circumstances.”

      That got a tight little smile. “Hardest decision I ever had to make. Or probably ever will. But in the end I guess I just wanted her to know at least