Read Online Wishes and Stitches by Rachael Herron - Free Book Online Page B

up with Pederson. It all seemed legit, the hiring, all of it. Pederson was going to pay the biggest percent of his salary, since he was still drawing equally from the partnership while not working. If Rig Keller worked out, Pederson would officially retire, and the new guy could step up and buy his share of the practice. That was, if Naomi approved of him, he said. Pederson had made it clear that she had the final say. “If Keller doesn’t cut it, then we can talk about you buying me out. You can choose whether you want him as a partner or not in your own time, but I’ll be retiring in the not too distant future, no matter what.”
    You already did, didn’t you? Naomi wanted to ask, but she bit the words back. There was no way she’d be able to afford to buy Pederson out. She made good money, but not that much money. She’d had to finance her almost half of the business as it was. And she knew Pederson wouldn’t be coming back. He’d called her from Puerto Rico, where he’d just bought a time-share.
    The man she’d thought was just a one-night stand had to work out. She didn’t have much choice.
    Her intercom buzzed. “Doctor?” Bruno’s voice sounded strangled. “We have a . . . situation in the front.”
    Naomi spun out of her father’s old chair so fast it fell backward with a thunk. She’d never actually had a walk-in emergency, not yet, so they were overdue for one. Images flew through her mind as she ran through the office hall—burn? MI? Asthma attack, or anaphylactic shock?
    She pushed through the swinging door into the waiting room at full speed. Bruno knelt on the carpet next to an older woman who was swaying, the curlers in her violet hair bobbing as she put her hands to her lined face. Naomi strained to look over their shoulders to see what they were leaning over.
    â€œMy baby, my baby, my baby ! Oh, save her, please!”
    An infant? Shit, they’d need an ambulance for transport . . . Naomi deliberately pushed down the frisson of fear that had always risen when she’d worked the ER—when the doors there had banged open, she’d gotten used to taking a deep breath and then working.
    â€œMove aside, please, let me in.” Her voice was regulated, even. Professional. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
    Bruno said, “This is Mrs. Archer, and she—”
    â€œOh,” wailed Mrs. Archer. “I knew better than to give her that pork rib, but she was just starving, and her little eyes begged and begged. Do something, save her!”
    The patient was a tiny brown dog.
    A dog .
    A Pomeranian, Naomi assessed, or maybe a long-haired Chihuahua, with a ridiculous-looking lion cut—fringe at the face and the tip of its tail—and one that wasn’t breathing very well. The dog coughed and retched, its glassy eyes bulging. “She’s choking?”
    â€œYes!” screeched Mrs. Archer. “Help her!”
    As Naomi knelt and reached for the dog, she said, “You know I’m not a vet, right?”
    Mrs. Archer clutched the neck of her purple sweatshirt. “You’re a doctor, right? You took that oath! Now do something. She’s my baby.”
    Bruno made a choking sound that echoed the dog’s, and Naomi knew the only thing stuck in his throat was a laugh.
    But the poor dog looked miserable. It was obviously able to breathe around the obstruction, and while Naomi saw the humor in the situation, she felt for the animal. “Let me see her. What’s her name?”
    â€œMiss Idaho.”
    Naomi bit back the smile. “A beauty queen.”
    â€œCareful, if you pick her up, just be—”
    â€œI’ve got her. Bruno, come with me and lay a cover over that low filing cabinet.” Naomi carried the hacking dog through the doors and into Bruno’s space. No way in hell was she risking getting caught putting the dog on an examining table, but a