Heart of Ice. Diana Palmer

the event and pointed out the bunny images on Natalie’s coffee mug.

      “It’s too bad I didn’t pick a rarer animal,” his secretary said, skirting a stroller. “If I collected hedgehogs, I wouldn’t buy so many curios. But rabbits appeal to me.”

      When she stopped at another booth, Patrick volunteered to carry her rapidly filling shopping bag. “I can at least make myself useful.”

      “Thanks.” She handed it over. “You’re not bored, are you?”

      “I enjoy watching you shop,” he said truthfully.

      “Are you sure—Oh, what a cute little coin-box wishing well! I’ll buy it for Amy.”

      She looked far more animated here than at work. Younger and more relaxed, too, the way she had that day on the yacht, Patrick noted as Natalie added yet another item to her purchases.

      He imagined he could still smell the sea breeze in her hair. With her, that afternoon, he’d forgotten everything except the joy in her eyes and the luminous pleasure of their coupling.

      “Natalie!” A woman with a small boy in tow stopped in front of them. “I never got a chance to thank you for last weekend.”

      “It was fun,” Natalie said.

      “Baby-sitting a toddler may be fun, but it’s also hard work.” To Patrick, the woman explained, “My husband was in the hospital. Thanks to Natalie, I was able to stay at his bedside. Are you one of her brothers?”

      “A friend,” he said. “I hope your husband’s better.”

      “He’s fine now.” The woman hung on as her little boy tried to pull free. “Natalie does more for people than anyone else in our church.”

      “I do not!”

      “We all know we can count on you,” she said. “And we appreciate it.”

      Abruptly the little boy broke loose, lost his balance and fell. A wail tore through the air.

      “What’s the matter, Joey?” His mother squatted beside him.

      “Knee hurts!” He pointed to red scrape marks.

      “Let me see.” Patrick knelt, set aside the shopping bag and took out his handkerchief. “Let’s wipe that off until your mom has a chance to wash it.”

      “Please don’t get your handkerchief all—” The woman stopped, because it was too late.

      Carefully Patrick cleared away the clinging bits of grass and pebble. “You’re very brave,” he said.

      “Big owie,” Joey replied earnestly.

      “This is a major owie in anybody’s book,” Patrick agreed. “You know what? You’re going to have a nice scab. Have you ever had a scab before?”

      Joey started to nod, then shook his head. He watched the doctor in fascination.

      “Don’t pick at the scab,” Patrick said. “Even if it itches. Any time you start to scratch it, clap your hands together, instead. Can you do that?”

      “Yes.”

      “Show me.”

      Joey clapped his hands.

      Still in a kneeling position, Patrick took a bow. “Thank you.”

      Joey laughed. His mother scooped him up. “You’re wonderful with him. I figured he’d be screaming his head off for the next hour. Can I wash that handkerchief for you?”

      “No, thanks.” He stuck it in his pocket. “Just make sure you wash and disinfect the scrape.”

      “You bet!”

      After the woman was out of earshot, Natalie said, “You were great with Joey. I’m impressed.”

      “I’d forgotten how good that feels, working with a child,” Patrick said.

      He prided himself on how well he knew his own nature. Yet today both his sister and his secretary had pointed out something that, until this moment, he’d pushed from his mind.

      Pediatrics. Maybe he’d get back to it someday. The medical center came first, though.

      “That wasn’t why I asked…” Natalie hesitated as they sauntered down the last row of booths. “I didn’t mean whether you like kids as a doctor. I meant…”

      Ahead of them, an older woman at a booth waved vigorously toward them. “Look who’s here!” she called.

      Pink hair floated around the woman’s head, and despite the warmth of the day, she wore a paisley shawl over a long, shapeless dress. Her booth was hung with wind chimes, while the counter overflowed with stuffed dolls.

      Behind the booth, in a chaise longue, reclined an equally eccentric-looking man. His salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the cutoff sleeves of his T-shirt revealed an eye-catching series of tattoos.

      Beside him, Patrick felt Natalie grow tense. Who were these people? he wondered.

      The woman gestured them toward her. Natalie released a sigh. “Dr. Barr,” she said as she led him forward, “I’d like you to meet my mother.”

      Chapter Three

      As Natalie made introductions, she hoped her unpredictable mother wouldn’t say anything offensive. Angie sometimes peppered her speech with four-letter words, and her attitudes toward everything from money to the law were anything but conventional.

      Angie seemed too impressed by Patrick to fire off any wild opinions, though, and so did her longtime boyfriend. Although a former biker and drug abuser, Clovis had a good heart.

      Only a surprised blink revealed Patrick’s reaction to her odd-looking mother. Otherwise, he was the soul of courtesy. Not that Natalie expected anything less from her diplomatic boss.

      “Did you make these yourself?” he asked Angie, examining one of the dolls. “They’re delightful.”

      “She makes everything except the wind chimes,” said Clovis. “I make those.”

      “You’re both very talented,” Patrick said. “I especially like the dolls’ expressions.” They were appealing, Natalie reflected. “I’d like to buy one for my sister.”

      “You think it’s her style?” Natalie had seen the ultramodern home Bernie and her ad-exec husband owned. She couldn’t picture the rustic doll fitting in.

      “She collects handmade dolls,” Patrick explained. “She calls it her secret passion. I usually have a hard time picking out gifts, so I’d better buy one now.”

      The sight of the doll in his grip reminded Natalie of the baby inside her, and she felt a rush of longing to see him hold their child with this same tenderness. Maybe it would happen. And maybe cows would fly.

      “I like your boss,” Angie announced. “You should bring him over for dinner sometime.”

      “Sure. He’d be welcome.” Clovis rolled himself a cigarette, using tobacco from a pouch.

      Angie’s makeshift cooking was the subject of good-humored family jokes, especially about the Thanksgiving when she’d served her guests frozen turkey dinners with made-from-a-mix macaroni and cheese on the side. Patrick would be a good sport, Natalie thought, but she wasn’t sure she wanted him to know her relatives quite that intimately.

      “I’ll get back to you on that, Mom,” she said.

      Patrick took a couple of dolls into the direct sunlight to make his choice. Other shoppers drifted past, and then a well-dressed man stopped to eye Clovis disapprovingly.

      From his high forehead to his sour expression, he was almost a dead ringer for Dr. Sorrell. A few more wrinkles and a small scar on