attraction to Conahegg was a symptom of my restlessness not the cure. But my body was in full-blown denial about that.
“Ally?” Joyce called my name. “You hear me? You got a new patient.”
“You already gave me two new patients,” I protested, snapping back to the present.
“Yes, but one died and besides, the new patient lives right next door to you.”
“Huh?” I flipped open the file. Reverend Ray Don Swiggly. I groaned.
“Yep. The televangelist. They let him out of the hospital yesterday evening. Straight from the ICU home.” Joyce shook her head and her jowls quivered. “Don’t know what health care is coming to. He had the heart attack on Tuesday night. The guy’s got great insurance and they still toss him out after only three days.”
“It is a shame,” I agreed.
“Go see him first, will you? His wife’s already called twice and it’s only eight-thirty.”
“What’s she calling about?”
Joyce crinkled her nose. “I get the impression the good Reverend is something of a handful.”
I remembered meeting Swiggly at the sheriff’s department, his rantings imprinted on my brain. “Great,” I muttered.
I stepped outside into the sweltering July heat and made a beeline for the Honda. I cranked the AC full blast and turned the radio to an oldies Motown station. “My Girl” wafted from the speakers.
I sang along off-key at the top of my lungs struggling to psych my mood for dealing with Swiggly. Mentally, I reminded myself that I’d become a nurse to help people and that I enjoyed my job.
Most of the time.
Over the course of the last few months my discontent had grown. An “is-this-all-there-is-to-life” sort of sensation gnawed at the back door of my soul.
I wanted adventure. I wanted excitement. I wanted romance.
I wanted Conahegg.
I wanted him the way a child wants a cookie. A child doesn’t care about gaining weight or rotting her teeth or ruining her supper. She sees a cookie and she goes for it.
I wanted to consume him in one greedy bite and lick my fingers afterward. I wanted him without consideration for any consequences. I wanted to smell his scent on my skin, taste his tongue in my mouth, hear his voice as he called out my name in the heat of passion.
To hell with one cookie. I wanted the whole frigging jar.
But the cookies were locked up behind a badge and I was growing weak with hunger. Did I have the strength to battle for what I needed?
“Stop this, Allegheny. You’re only making things worse.” I shook my head and forced my attention on the road.
Cloverleaf is three-fourths surrounded by the Brazos River.It sits like a hub, eight roads fan out into spokes. Seven of the roads lead to the river. The main avenue cuts east toward Interstate 20 and Fort Worth. I took highway 51. If you keep going for seventeen miles, you’ll run into Granbury. If you take a right after the first bridge you’ll run into my house.
By way of the river, Swiggly’s house was right next door to ours, but by road the entrance to his place was a good half mile away since we lived in separate subdivisions.
Instead of taking the turn off into my addition, Brazos River Bend, I traveled south and took the exit into Sun Valley Estates.
Swiggly’s swanky community was a far cry from both my middle-class neighborhood and the low-rent abodes of Andover Bend. These expansive houses sprawled across threeacre lots and boasted perfectly manicured lawns. Doctors and lawyers and pilots had summer homes here. CEOs and computer software consultants and electrical engineers built retirement mansions along the riverbank. Mercedes and sport utility vehicles and Lexus sedans were parked in the yards. Most of the residents owned elaborate boats that cost more than my annual salary.
When I arrived at Reverend Swiggly’s house, I had to be buzzed in via locked gate. I parked behind Miss Gloria’s El Dorado under the shade of a sheltering elm and walked up a newly poured cement walkway to the front
“Ally?” Joyce called my name. “You hear me? You got a new patient.”
“You already gave me two new patients,” I protested, snapping back to the present.
“Yes, but one died and besides, the new patient lives right next door to you.”
“Huh?” I flipped open the file. Reverend Ray Don Swiggly. I groaned.
“Yep. The televangelist. They let him out of the hospital yesterday evening. Straight from the ICU home.” Joyce shook her head and her jowls quivered. “Don’t know what health care is coming to. He had the heart attack on Tuesday night. The guy’s got great insurance and they still toss him out after only three days.”
“It is a shame,” I agreed.
“Go see him first, will you? His wife’s already called twice and it’s only eight-thirty.”
“What’s she calling about?”
Joyce crinkled her nose. “I get the impression the good Reverend is something of a handful.”
I remembered meeting Swiggly at the sheriff’s department, his rantings imprinted on my brain. “Great,” I muttered.
I stepped outside into the sweltering July heat and made a beeline for the Honda. I cranked the AC full blast and turned the radio to an oldies Motown station. “My Girl” wafted from the speakers.
I sang along off-key at the top of my lungs struggling to psych my mood for dealing with Swiggly. Mentally, I reminded myself that I’d become a nurse to help people and that I enjoyed my job.
Most of the time.
Over the course of the last few months my discontent had grown. An “is-this-all-there-is-to-life” sort of sensation gnawed at the back door of my soul.
I wanted adventure. I wanted excitement. I wanted romance.
I wanted Conahegg.
I wanted him the way a child wants a cookie. A child doesn’t care about gaining weight or rotting her teeth or ruining her supper. She sees a cookie and she goes for it.
I wanted to consume him in one greedy bite and lick my fingers afterward. I wanted him without consideration for any consequences. I wanted to smell his scent on my skin, taste his tongue in my mouth, hear his voice as he called out my name in the heat of passion.
To hell with one cookie. I wanted the whole frigging jar.
But the cookies were locked up behind a badge and I was growing weak with hunger. Did I have the strength to battle for what I needed?
“Stop this, Allegheny. You’re only making things worse.” I shook my head and forced my attention on the road.
Cloverleaf is three-fourths surrounded by the Brazos River.It sits like a hub, eight roads fan out into spokes. Seven of the roads lead to the river. The main avenue cuts east toward Interstate 20 and Fort Worth. I took highway 51. If you keep going for seventeen miles, you’ll run into Granbury. If you take a right after the first bridge you’ll run into my house.
By way of the river, Swiggly’s house was right next door to ours, but by road the entrance to his place was a good half mile away since we lived in separate subdivisions.
Instead of taking the turn off into my addition, Brazos River Bend, I traveled south and took the exit into Sun Valley Estates.
Swiggly’s swanky community was a far cry from both my middle-class neighborhood and the low-rent abodes of Andover Bend. These expansive houses sprawled across threeacre lots and boasted perfectly manicured lawns. Doctors and lawyers and pilots had summer homes here. CEOs and computer software consultants and electrical engineers built retirement mansions along the riverbank. Mercedes and sport utility vehicles and Lexus sedans were parked in the yards. Most of the residents owned elaborate boats that cost more than my annual salary.
When I arrived at Reverend Swiggly’s house, I had to be buzzed in via locked gate. I parked behind Miss Gloria’s El Dorado under the shade of a sheltering elm and walked up a newly poured cement walkway to the front
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