Rescue Me: A Bad Boy Military Romance Read Online Free Page B
Author: Vesper Vaughn
fence which is now just low piles of rocks; someone who didn't know what they were would probably think they were some sort of symbolic offering to a pagan god. I scrape my heel on a flat stone to get most of the manure off. It mostly works. The taxi driver is still idling.
"Just want to make sure you get inside without the door falling off in your hands," he quips with a smile.
I wave him away. "I'm fine. I promise. Thank you again for driving me all the way out here."
"You get you a nice little car or something, alright? Something with AC. I think it's hotter here than in the city." He wipes his sweating, wrinkled brow with a handkerchief.
"Welcome to Buxwell," I say.
He laughs. "Good luck here. Don't let the ghosts get to you, you hear me?"
I freeze in my tracks. "Ghosts?" I ask, my heart thudding in my chest. "Why would you say that?"
He laughs. "Darlin', I know you've been here before. Ghosts are more than just spirits in an old house. It's hard comin' home. You take care of yourself." And on that note, he drives away, back down the dirt road.
I get my breathing back in check and turn around to haul my bags up the sagging porch steps. I test the porch itself with a tentative toe. It looks like it's rotting from the inside out, but it's steady enough. I pull my bags up and check the lopsided screen door. Next to it is a rusted letter box and a worn, carved wooden sign. Jackson Smith, M.D., it says.
I know Jackson's been dead and buried for a while now. I push at the door and it flies open at my touch.
"Hello?" I say into the space.
Mosquitoes buzz in my ear and I flap them away. The place has the feeling of a room not occupied by humans in a long time, but at least someone thought to put dust covers over the waiting area furniture, front desk, and office chair. I set my bags down and open the blinds. Spiders scatter and I shriek. I guess I'm going to have to get over that if I'm going to at least pretend to be a brave, city doctor. It’s Texas. There are plenty more crawling insects where those came from.
I unlock the windows and try to open them to get some air in here. It might be nearing ninety-five degrees with eighty percent humidity, but this place needs some fresh country air. I shove my arms up under the windows and heave. I realize peeling paint has sealed the old wooden frames shut. They've swollen from humidity and lack of use. I sigh and go to prop the front door open, walking to the back past a small office kitchen and a single patient room. There's a back door here and I open it. Early summer air comes rushing through the dusty space and I breathe a sigh of relief.
I spend some time inventorying the rooms; I'm going to need to get a shipment of basic supplies quickly. The latex gloves have all melted together, and the swabs and gauze have all yellowed from age and lack of use. I manage to jimmy the screen door back onto the hinges and I close it, exiting through the back door with my bags. I'm grimy and tired and I've only been here half an hour. I walk through nearly waist-high grass and weeds to the little cottage that is going to be my home for the next four years.
There are flagstones hidden in the foliage, and I try to tap my heels as loudly as I can to scare away any rattlesnakes undoubtedly hiding in the grass. The list of things I’m going to have to get done just to make this place workable tallies up in my head. I have a miniscule budget and way too much to do. I hope that the house is in better condition.
As I approach the cottage, I realize that the cedar shutters have been freshly stained; the hunter green front porch painted. The limestone cottage is in much better condition than the clinic. The front door is even a shiny red. I hear the whisper of a conversation from the past in my head.
"And I'll build you a little house."
"With a red front door?"
"Of course, Ella. Whatever you want. I'll build that for you."
My heart pounds. The red door is probably a coincidence. I see
"Just want to make sure you get inside without the door falling off in your hands," he quips with a smile.
I wave him away. "I'm fine. I promise. Thank you again for driving me all the way out here."
"You get you a nice little car or something, alright? Something with AC. I think it's hotter here than in the city." He wipes his sweating, wrinkled brow with a handkerchief.
"Welcome to Buxwell," I say.
He laughs. "Good luck here. Don't let the ghosts get to you, you hear me?"
I freeze in my tracks. "Ghosts?" I ask, my heart thudding in my chest. "Why would you say that?"
He laughs. "Darlin', I know you've been here before. Ghosts are more than just spirits in an old house. It's hard comin' home. You take care of yourself." And on that note, he drives away, back down the dirt road.
I get my breathing back in check and turn around to haul my bags up the sagging porch steps. I test the porch itself with a tentative toe. It looks like it's rotting from the inside out, but it's steady enough. I pull my bags up and check the lopsided screen door. Next to it is a rusted letter box and a worn, carved wooden sign. Jackson Smith, M.D., it says.
I know Jackson's been dead and buried for a while now. I push at the door and it flies open at my touch.
"Hello?" I say into the space.
Mosquitoes buzz in my ear and I flap them away. The place has the feeling of a room not occupied by humans in a long time, but at least someone thought to put dust covers over the waiting area furniture, front desk, and office chair. I set my bags down and open the blinds. Spiders scatter and I shriek. I guess I'm going to have to get over that if I'm going to at least pretend to be a brave, city doctor. It’s Texas. There are plenty more crawling insects where those came from.
I unlock the windows and try to open them to get some air in here. It might be nearing ninety-five degrees with eighty percent humidity, but this place needs some fresh country air. I shove my arms up under the windows and heave. I realize peeling paint has sealed the old wooden frames shut. They've swollen from humidity and lack of use. I sigh and go to prop the front door open, walking to the back past a small office kitchen and a single patient room. There's a back door here and I open it. Early summer air comes rushing through the dusty space and I breathe a sigh of relief.
I spend some time inventorying the rooms; I'm going to need to get a shipment of basic supplies quickly. The latex gloves have all melted together, and the swabs and gauze have all yellowed from age and lack of use. I manage to jimmy the screen door back onto the hinges and I close it, exiting through the back door with my bags. I'm grimy and tired and I've only been here half an hour. I walk through nearly waist-high grass and weeds to the little cottage that is going to be my home for the next four years.
There are flagstones hidden in the foliage, and I try to tap my heels as loudly as I can to scare away any rattlesnakes undoubtedly hiding in the grass. The list of things I’m going to have to get done just to make this place workable tallies up in my head. I have a miniscule budget and way too much to do. I hope that the house is in better condition.
As I approach the cottage, I realize that the cedar shutters have been freshly stained; the hunter green front porch painted. The limestone cottage is in much better condition than the clinic. The front door is even a shiny red. I hear the whisper of a conversation from the past in my head.
"And I'll build you a little house."
"With a red front door?"
"Of course, Ella. Whatever you want. I'll build that for you."
My heart pounds. The red door is probably a coincidence. I see
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