Heat of the Moment by Lori Handeland

sophomore.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œI’m a senior.”
    I lifted my eyebrows and waited.
    â€œIt’s kind of strange for me to do that. Borderline creepy. He’s a kid.”
    â€œYou’re not?”
    â€œNot the same way he is.”
    â€œHe doesn’t have any friends,” I said.
    â€œHe can’t have mine,” my brother muttered, but at my narrowed glare, he continued. “Tell him to join a club, try out for a sport, something. That’s how you meet people and make friends. Not by sitting alone or working for you.”
    â€œPeople might be picking on him.”
    Joe frowned. That he didn’t like. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
    Which meant Jamie would too. I shut the door. Joe did a U-turn and headed back the way we’d come.
    Thank goodness no one stood outside the clinic with a pet in his or her arms. I might not hold office hours today, but that didn’t mean people listened. Emergencies happened. However, a client’s idea of what constituted an emergency—a cough—and mine—copious blood flow—were very different.
    Another thing I’d learned—if I opened the front door in plain view of town, word got around I was open for business, so I snuck around to the rear.
    I smelled like a duchess, and not the Downton Abbey kind, so I scrubbed up in the sink, I was too tired to do more, donned my idea of pajamas—pale green scrubs dotted with dancing dogs—then crawled into my bed, a daybed that served as both couch and sleeping area. The red numbers on the digital alarm atop the end table read 8:14. If I was lucky I’d be able to catch a few hours’ siesta before Jeremy arrived.
    I’d trained myself in college to fall asleep quickly and pretty much anywhere—night or day, dark or light. A talent perfected by med students, mothers, and soldiers everywhere. When the only sleep you got was sleep you took, you adjusted or you lost your marbles.
    My ability to sleep quickly and deeply was augmented by my ability to wake up and function within seconds as well. Lucky for me.
    The long, low wail of a wolf, closer than a wolf should be, woke me, confused me. Wolves didn’t often howl at the sun.
    I opened my eyes an instant before the pillow smashed down on my face.
    *   *   *
    Owen was lucky that a duck hunter from Waunakee had rented one of the cottages at Stone Lake, then slipped on freakishly early ice and broken his wrist. Which equaled no hunting for him and an empty cottage for Owen. He even received a discount since said Waunakee hunter had canceled too late to get his deposit back. Sucked for that guy.
    â€œI’m not sure how long I’ll be staying,” he told the fellow behind the bar, which, from the papers and the laptop spread all over it, doubled as the front desk. Since a sign announcing OFFICE had been hung directly beneath the one that read STONE LAKE TAVERN that made sense.
    â€œThis is the last week of duck hunting,” said the man, whom Owen decided was the owner since the pocket of his bowling shirt read KRAZY KYLE , and the business registration certificate on the wall read KYLE KRASINSKY . “Next week I’m empty.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Except for that guy.”
    Owen followed the wobble of the man’s two chins toward a table in the rear. As it was daytime, none of the lights were on in the tavern except for those above the bar, and the area was wreathed in shadows.
    There was someone there, but Owen couldn’t see whom. Then a door-shaped swath of daylight highlighted a tall, cadaver-thin, impossibly old man wearing a bandolier of bullets and more guns than Owen had ever seen draped over a single person, even in Afghanistan.
    The door closed, eliminating the sunshine and the man. Krazy let out a relieved breath. “I’m glad he left. He makes me nervous.”
    â€œCan’t imagine why. What’s up