Virgin River by Robyn Carr

after a while, though she loved them, she began to associate them with Mark’s death. Every time she saw them, the pitying looks in their eyes was enough to bring out her pain. It was as if everything had been rolled up into one big miserable ball. She just wanted to start over so badly. Someplace where no one knew how empty her life had become.
    Late in the day, Mel handed off the baby to Doc while she took a badly needed shower, scrubbing from head to toe. After she had bathed and dried her hair and donned her long flannel nightgown and big furry slippers, she went downstairs to Doc’s office to collect the infant and a bottle. He gave her such a look, seeing her like that. It startled his eyes open. “I’ll feed her, rock her, and put her down,” she said. “Unless you have something else in mind for her.”
    “By all means,” he said, handing the baby over.
    Up in her room, Mel rocked and fed the baby. And of course, the tears began to well in her eyes.
    The other thing no one in this town knew was that she couldn’t have children. She and Mark had been seeking help for their infertility. Because she was twenty-eight and he thirty-four when they married, andthey’d already been together for two years, they didn’t want to wait. She had never used birth control and after one year of no results they went to see the specialists.
    Nothing appeared to be wrong with Mark, but she’d had to have her tubes blown out and her endometriosis scraped off the outside of her uterus. But still, nothing. She’d taken hormones and stood on her head after intercourse. She took her temperature every day to see when she was ovulating. She went through so many home pregnancy tests, she should have bought stock in the company. Nothing. They had just completed their first fifteen-thousand-dollar attempt at in vitro fertilization when Mark was killed. Somewhere in a freezer in L.A. were more fertilized ovum—if she ever became desperate enough to try to go it alone.
    Alone. That was the operative word. She had wanted a baby so badly. And now she held in her arms an abandoned little girl. A beautiful baby girl with pink skin and a sheer cap of brown hair. It made her literally weep with longing.
    The baby was healthy and strong, eating with gusto, belching with strength. She slept soundly despite the crying that went on in the bed right beside her.
     
    That night Doc Mullins sat up in bed, book in his lap, listening. So—she was in pain. Desperate pain. And she covered it with that flip wit and sarcasm.
    Nothing is ever what it seems, he thought, flicking off his light.

Three
    M el woke to the ringing of the phone. She checked the baby; she had only awoken twice in the night and still slept soundly. She found her slippers and went downstairs to see if she could rustle up some coffee. Doc Mullins was already in the kitchen, dressed.
    “Going out to the Driscolls’—sounds like Jeananne might be having an asthma attack. There’s the key to the drug box. I wrote down the number for my pager—cell phones aren’t worth a damn out here. If any patients wander in while I’m gone, you can take care of them.”
    “I thought you just wanted me to babysit,” she said.
    “You came here to work, didn’t you?”
    “You said you didn’t want me,” she pointed out to him.
    “You said you didn’t want us, either, but here we are. Let’s see what you got.” He shrugged on his jacket and picked up his bag. Then jutted his chin toward her, lifted his eyebrows as if to say, Well?
    “Do you have appointments today?”
    “I only make appointments on Wednesdays—the rest are walk-ins. Or call-outs, like this one.”
    “I wouldn’t even know what to charge,” she argued.
    “Neither do I,” he said. “Hardly matters—these people aren’t made of money and damn few have insurance. Just make sure you keep good records and I’ll work it out. It’s probably beyond you, anyway. You don’t look all that bright.”
    “You know,”