“Where did you eat, the bathroom?”

“During residency, I seldom had a chance to have an uninterrupted, sit-down meal, and those I had were in the areas reserved for the physicians.”

He wiped his mouth, took a sip of coffee. “Too good to eat with the rest of us poor slobs?” he teased. “You docs always have to insulate yourselves from the rest of the world?”

Jama glanced at the biscuits and gravy he’d left on his plate.

“Go ahead,” he said. “You know you want them.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m just about to fit into my preresidency jeans again, and I’m not about to spoil it now.”

He held his hands out. “All that good food gone to waste. It looks delicious, too.”

“Actually,” she said, her hand edging toward her fork, “speaking of the doctors’ dining room, it goes both ways. Believe me, the general public does not want to be subjected to medical conversation. I could probably write a book entitled ‘Dinner Date With a Doc-A Dieter’s Guide to Success.’ We discuss all kinds of gross subjects, and we aren’t even aware of offending the vulnerable people around us.”

He nodded, nudging his plate of untouched, flaky biscuits topped with fragrant cream gravy in her direction. “I know. I dated a doc, remember?”

“There you have it.”

“Plan to marry her someday.”

“Tyrell.”

“But admit it, you also liked that feeling of exclusivity, dining with the other doctors, enjoying the nicer chairs, better food, soft music.”

She grimaced. “You think I’m a snob?”

“That wasn’t what I-”

“The physicians’ dining room didn’t have better food. We ate the same cafeteria fare as everyone else.”

“But softer chairs?”

She frowned at him, then smiled at his teasing grin. “Amy tried to eat in the public cafeteria when we were first residents.” Jama picked up her fork. “She told me she didn’t expect special privileges.”

“Jama, I wasn’t serious.” But whenever his sister’s name came up, the mood grew somber in a hurry. He figured that was Jama’s intent.

She scooped up a minuscule amount of gravy on the tines of her fork. He knew that wouldn’t be enough for her.

“The second time Amy ate in the cafeteria, she hadn’t had a chance to sit down for eight hours,” Jama continued. “Before she could take a bite, she was approached by a patient’s family, who were offended that she was taking time to eat when they had waited for fifteen minutes in the patient’s room to speak with her.” Jama gave him a wry grimace. “Amy joined the rest of us snobs in the physicians’ dining room after that.”

The first bite of biscuit, soaked with thick gravy, brought an expression of pleasure to Jama’s face. Tyrell enjoyed watching her eat, but after the third mouthful, she put her fork down and sighed. Memories of Amy always did that to her.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to waste your food?” Tyrell gestured to the plate.

“It’s your food, duh.”

“You know I got it for you. I don’t like biscuits and gravy.”

“You’re a strange man, Tyrell Mercer. Everybody likes biscuits and gravy. And since you asked, no, my mother never taught me much of anything that I can remember.”

He winced inwardly, regretting that he’d mentioned her mother. He needed to be more sensitive to his woman.

Oh, brother. His woman. As if he was a caveman with a club.

“Now that I’ve eaten, tell me more about this surgery,” he said. “What’s the success rate?”

“Since Monty didn’t waste any time getting to the clinic, and since we caught his condition so quickly, the prognosis is optimistic, though there are always risks.”

He nodded. “Since you caught it, and since you fought off the nurse who thought he knew better than you did, my father may live.”

“That nurse was only doing his job.”

“No, he wasn’t. Why did he question your judgment?”

She shrugged. “He could have been having a bad day, could be too sure of himself. Some male nurses resent female doctors-it happens.”

“You handled the situation well.”

She gave him a brief, warm smile. “You’re the one who kicked things into high gear.”

“Because I trusted your call, Jama. I can think of no one I’d rather have taking care of my loved ones.”

Something dark entered her expression. She looked down at the barely touched biscuits and gravy, which Tyrell knew had been her favorite breakfast meal since she was seven and spent nights with Amy at the ranch.

“I can’t help wondering what you’re thinking right now,” he said.

She didn’t respond. The darkness spread.

“You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?” he asked. “You know you can trust me?”

She looked up at him, her aquamarine eyes as troubled as a turbulent surf. She didn’t speak, but held his gaze, staring deeply, searchingly.

He knew it was hard for her to trust in love, while he could speak about it so easily. And why not? He’d grown up in a solid, loving family with parents who were stable, hardworking and kind.

Jama’s losses had been devastating, much like the bitter, killing frost that was forecast for tonight, a natural disaster that could decimate crops and vineyards throughout the Missouri River Valley.

Tragedies and grief had created Jama’s killing frosts-being pushed away, then abandoned by her mother. Losing her father, losing Amy.

“Can I?” she asked. There was a vulnerability in her voice that melted him.

“You can, Jama. You know you can.”

For a moment, some of her heaviness lifted. There was hope. He could give her time.

Doriann had wanted camouflage, and she’d gotten it. Her wet purple jacket was camouflaged with mud. She’d found it buried beneath her. As Aunt Renee would say, isn’t it wonderful the way God always works things out?

Doriann thought that maybe it would’ve been a little more comfortable if the dirt had only been ground into the outside of the jacket, but who was she to complain about the way God worked? A little grit rubbing her bare arms raw was punishment for lying to her parents and skipping out of school.

She guessed that being kidnapped and terrified so badly she wet her pants, and being slapped around by sewer-breath and having her leg groped by sewer-brain wasn’t enough. She only hoped God would realize she’d learned her lesson.

She shrugged away the ugly thoughts. She wasn’t usually this grumpy with God, but she’d never been kidnapped before, and she wasn’t sure how to behave.

A small limb snapped loudly beneath her foot, and she froze. The hood of her jacket covered her red hair, but the sun glared down at her through the spring-green treetops. She didn’t know what Clancy or Deb would see if they turned around. She’d stayed well behind them, trying to always keep them in sight. She’d dropped to the ground like a Green Beret three times when she’d noticed Clancy or Deb twisting back. She’d told herself fifty tri-zillion times that this was crazy. An eleven-year-old kid shouldn’t be following drugged killers through the woods.

But she just kept reminding herself of Aunt Renee’s repeated assurance that all things were possible through Christ.

Nearly every step of the way, Doriann had been tempted to run, to turn back, follow the river to the nearest town and get to safety.

But if she took the easy way out, how many other people might die?

Doriann hated to think about what Clancy might do to another kid if he had the chance.

Aunt Renee was always reminding her class that God could use her for something great, and that Doriann and her cousins should take every opportunity to be the best they could be.

This was the best Doriann could be.

Tyrell gathered all the dishes and utensils and carried the tray to the proper receptacles. Jama watched, bemused; he definitely had domestic skills.