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this mean, cantankerous, old snake?
    “Just friends.”
    An even greater shock. Familial duty she could understand, but voluntary friendship? The nurse gathered the sterile wrappers and discarded the needle. “That should calm you down, Mr. Beaker.”
    “Sergeant,” he growled. “It’s Sergeant Beaker.” But whatever she’d laced his IV with had softened his fangs.
    “It will also help with the spasms.” She cast Jonah a smile, the sway of her slim hips in pastel scrubs just enough to show she wasn’t all work. “Stay as long as you like, but he’ll get dozy.”
    Jonah nodded and took the seat beside Sarge.
    He snarled. “What are you gawping at?”
    “One stubborn old goat.”
    Sarge raised his hands. “I’d like to get these around her little neck.”
    “The nurse?”
    “Not the nurse. That one who tricked me into hiring her.”
    Jonah crossed his arms. “Why would you want to strangle Piper?”
    “For sending me here when it was nothing more than—”
    “Sarge, let them decide.”
    “And just what do you think they can do for me?”
    Good point. The way Sarge was twisted up, all sorts of things could be pinched and impinged. He didn’t suppose they could put a knee to his back and pull him up straight. “If it’s bad enough to lay you out, it’s time to have it checked.”
    “I’m seventy-four years old. I’ll decide when I need it checked.”
    “This spasm had you speechless. We thought you’d had a stroke. Probably scared Piper to death, not hearing you shout.”
    Sarge tried not to smile, which didn’t improve the shape of his mouth. “Who’s going to manage the store while I’m lying here?”
    “Piper handled things today.”
    “Hah.” Sarge glowered.
    “Not as efficiently as two of you together, but people will understand.”
    “They’ll understand me right out of business.”
    “Now Sarge.”
    The old man jammed a finger at him. “She serve anything new?”
    “What?”
    “Try to push her creations on my customers?”
    Jonah shrugged. “I think she just tried to keep up. You’re lucky to have her.”
    “Lucky!” Sarge honked through his nose, but his eyes were drooping. “Say that again, and I’ll … buzz my pretty nurse to … throw you out.”
    Jonah laughed. “I can think of worse things.”
    “I’ll bet you can.”
    “You should take advantage of a little downtime. When’s the last time you took leave?”
    Sergeant Beaker didn’t answer. By the snore that resonated through his commodious nose, the Sarge was at ease. Jonah watched him. He didn’t know what could be done for the man. Maybe nothing. But peaceful sleep and relief from pain were sometimes as good as it got.
    He flipped through a magazine for the better part of an hour to see if Sarge came to, then went out. Sarge’s nurse—Lauren on the name tag—was leaning against a wall, talking with another whose thin, pale ponytail accentuated a broad, pinkish face. The first turned smoky gray eyes on him, her light brown hair clipped back haphazardly.
    He paused in passing. “Sarge is … used to being in charge.”
    She gave her long lashes a slow blink. “It’s the pain. He let it go too long.”
    “He won’t admit that.”
    “He’s not the first. Men that age are so reluctant to admit they need help. It’s like a badge of honor or something.” A hint of dimples indented her cheeks. “Did you come far to see him?”
    “Down from Redford.”
    “You must know him well.”
    “I do.” Sarge had slipped him rolls and raisin buns when it was obvious he’d gone hungry. Not because his family had no means, but as another form of discipline—the sober form that masqueraded as character development but was just as mean as beating.
    She slid her hands into her pockets. “I’m taking my break. Want to fill me in over coffee?”
    He hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure.”
    As they moved down the hall to the break room, he described Sarge’s military service, then his opening the bakery and the