Page 22 of Take Me Home

“Let me get Jackson—er, Dr. Miller.” She stands and walks down a hallway behind her desk.

Glancing around the space, I’m guessing this building has been here for a hundred years or more. The wood floors are still in good shape but creak in certain spots. The pale blue walls look freshly painted, and the light fixtures are updated. Doctor Miller’s degrees hang neatly on the wall in a small waiting room. Three framed photos hang beneath them. One looks like a photo of his medical school graduation. The receptionist stands next to him, smiling. She must be his mom.

The other two photos are of a hockey goalie wearing a red jersey, and then a hockey player in a Lions jersey—I recognize the logo, as Raymond is a Lions fan. Both photos have signatures scrawled across the bottom. I have an inkling there’s a story here, a connection between the doctor and these athletes.

The receptionist, Diane, comes back shortly with Dr. Miller, who’s surprisingly young. He looks like he’s barely aged since his graduation. He’s dressed in gray slacks and a white lab coat. He’s handsome, and there’s keen intelligence in the way he moves.

“Hank,” Dr. Miller says with a smile, then turns toward me and holds his hand out for a professional shake. “Harriet Townsend, I presume?”

I nod and he ushers us back to a tidy room with two chairs, a desk, an exam table, and the signature rolling doctor chair. He takes a seat and opens a laptop resting on the table. “So, we’re doing a DNA test, correct?”

Hank squirms in his chair. “Yes, I believe Hattie is my daughter, but we’re confirming for my lawyer.”

Dr. Miller nods and looks at me curiously. “I’ll need some information from you. Hank’s already in the system.”

He asks me basic information and adds me into the system, then opens the test kit and swabs the inside of my cheek, then grabs a clean swab and does the same to Hank. While he’s sealing everything up, he smirks. “So, have you had the pleasure of meeting my surly friend, Lincoln?”

I sniff. “I’ve had the displeasure, yes.”

Dr. Miller chuckles. “He’s not so bad once you get past the scowl.” Finishing his work, he turns to look at Hank, resting his back against the desk. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen Linc. Maybe give him a day off once in a while.” He winks, and Hank laughs.

“I’ll try, but you know him.”

“True.” Dr. Miller agrees. “Well, I’ll get these sent off and we should have the results in twenty-four hours. Two days at most.”

“Thanks, Jackson,” Hank tells him.

“Nice meeting you,” I say, following Hank out of the room.

“You too.” He studies me as I walk past him. It’s not in a flirtatious way, but more like he’s trying to figure me out.

As we’re driving back to the ranch, I try to picture Lincoln at a bar, shooting the breeze with Jackson and catching up on life. It’s difficult to think of the man not working and covered in dirt.

But maybe there’s a softer, more likable side to him.

CHAPTER 9

Hattie

Three days into my stay in Montana, I have sixty-five missed calls from my mother—who’s also left countless voice messages. I haven’t listened to a single one. I read a text from my trainer, Loren, though. He said Oakley misses me and sent a photo of her.

Hank got the results from the DNA test we took for his lawyer and didn’t seem surprised that the result confirmed I was telling the truth—he’d have to be blind to doubt my original test.

Today I’m moseying about the tiny guest cabin, bored out of my mind and antsy for something to do. Hank and Otto are busy today vaccinating the mares, so I won’t see them until dinner time. But I can’t sit in the tiny cabin alone any longer, even if it’s warmer now, since Hank showed me how to keep the wood-burning stove going.

I noticed a cute little café in town when we drove down Main St. a few days ago. The outside had Victorian era accents and a large window painted with autumn leaves for the season. I make the split-second decision to take myself out for lunch. I’ve had dinner every evening with Hank and Otto, but for my other meals I’ve survived on protein bars and yogurt—this must be what camping is like.

Dabbing on some concealer, lip gloss, and mascara, I brush my hair into a ponytail. Then I pull on some jeans, a pink sweater, my heeled boots—since my riding boots are dirty—and my trench coat. I step out into the cold mountain air and stride toward the barn that holds Hank’s mares, hoping he’s inside so I don’t have to go hunting for them. I pull the large door open, and I’m met with a vision of Lincoln’s hefty shoulders, that are barely contained by thick, flannel material. My traitorous stomach does a little dance.

While he’s facing away from me, I allow my eyes to move down his tall form. Lincoln isn’t wearing chaps today, so I can see the full effect of his tight Wranglers and the way they cling to his ass and muscular legs. His flannel shirt is rolled up, revealing tattooed forearms.

The man is an enigma. I wouldn’t have thought him the tattoo type…he seems so serious, not frivolous in the least. He strikes me as someone who would complain that tattoos are a waste of money. Yet here he is with two full sleeves of ink.

Hank and Otto are standing in front of Lincoln, facing me. Hank smiles. “Hey, Hattie.”

Lincoln turns and glances at me over his shoulder. He looks entirely uninterested, like I’m a tree, or a rock.

Does his disinterest annoy me a little? Yes.