Page 4 of Doctor Holliday

Just what he needed.

Keaton dropped his hands from the ladder and wandered back through the stockroom. He needed to straighten it up a bit, but for the most part, the place was clean and uncluttered. It was quiet enough that he almost wondered again if he was hearing things. Sure, there was a back door to his area. But it was closed. No animal in these parts was going to open doors and stumble into the back of Thatcher’s Home Goods looking for homemade furniture or décor.

Still, the air around him was charged with an electric feeling that told him he wasn’t alone. There was someone in the stockroom. Another human being. Aware that he wasn’t armed, he slowed his steps and considered calling 911. Just because someone had slipped into his stockroom didn’t mean he or she meant any harm. But it was possible. It was the holiday season, and times were tough. Harder for some people than others.

Not to mention there were always dumbass teens out causing trouble. It was only a matter of time before some of them showed up at Coastal Plaza with their drugs, spray paint cans, and switchblades.

Switchblades.

Keaton squeezed his hands into fists. He had been in a bar fight once when he was twenty-one. Guy had lashed out with a switchblade and sliced his belly open. His scar—four inches long—burned now at the memory.

Fuck.

Maybe he should just call the police.

The next screech was loud and sharp. The high-pitched sound of pain was that knife burning over his skin again, chasing a shiver up his spine. The cry sounded decidedly female. Keaton shoved his fear down as his nerves ramped up. Something was wrong. Hell, maybe one of those damned thug teens had hurt a girl or something.

Keaton was a girl dad. He couldn’t stand the thought of a young girl injured and alone. Contrary to what his ex-wife would say, Keaton was a good guy, and he hated the thought of any woman being injured—especially if it had been some kind of attack.

He hurried toward the sound of muffled cries and heavy breathing, freezing when he rounded a shelf loaded down with wooden benches he had made at his workshop. A young girl lay curled in the fetal position in the corner of the stockroom. With her back to him, she didn’t know he was there. Hard to tell how old she was, but Keaton wasn’t sure she was that much older than Ruby.

“Hey.” He spoke softly so as not to frighten her. She didn’t react. “My name’s Keaton,” he tried again.

The girl cut loose with a squeal of pain as she flopped over on her back and revealed a very pregnant belly. Scared out of his mind now for different reasons, Keaton swallowed hard and jerked his gaze from her belly to her face.

Jesus. She could almost be Ruby.

Her red hair flopped away from her pale, freckled face in wet ringlets. Tears and sweat, he imagined.

“Sweetheart?” he murmured as he approached her.

“Don’t touch me!” she screeched as she turned wide brown eyes on him. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not gonna touch you,” he promised. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

“No.” She gritted her teeth and shook her head. “Please don’t.”

Keaton sighed as he stepped closer to her.

“Are you in labor?” he asked calmly.

Teeth clenched, she lifted her chin and held her breath for a second.

“Just lemme alone.”

“I can’t leave you alone,” he argued. “You’re having a baby. You need help.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head again. “I don’t want this baby.”

He could understand why. She probably had school tomorrow. Maybe she had gymnastics after school. A sleepover party this weekend. The kid wasn’t much more than a baby herself.

“I understand that.” He squatted beside her. “But the baby’s coming no matter what you want.”

“I wanna die.”

Fuck.

He could be home in his recliner watchingAliensright now.

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