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“Probably wondering what I did with her mama. Isn’t that right, precious?” She swaddled the baby up in a receiving blanket, scooped her up onto her shoulder. “Bet she’s gonna be a sleeper. Her Apgar was fine, by the way,” she added, then scowled at Ryan. “Probablybetter than yours would be right now. That your third cup of coffee?”
    â€œSecond.” He frowned. “You keeping track?”
    â€œWell, shoot, boy, somebody’s got to. You’ve got some nerve, you know that, lecturing people about their diets when you still eat like a college kid yourself. And a dumb college kid, at that.”
    He shrugged. Took another swallow. “A doctor’s prerogative.”
    â€œFoolishness, more like.” She nodded toward the stove, ancient when Ryan had first seen it as a kid, more than twenty-five years ago. But it still worked. Apparently. Since he’d broken down and gotten a microwave last year, he avoided the thing almost as much as he did paperwork. “Go on,” Ivy urged. “There’s some sausage and scrambled eggs left. I’d make you pancakes, but I’ve got my hands full right now.”
    No point in arguing. Not that he wasn’t hungry. It just seemed cruel to give his stomach something it wasn’t going to get on a regular basis. But he grabbed a stoneware plate from the drainer, his heavy socks snagging on the wooden floor as he lumbered over to the stove, where he piled on a half dozen links, God knows how many eggs. A lot.
    â€œAnd get yourself some juice, too,” Ivy commanded. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you about antioxidants.”
    Ryan got the juice, sloshing it over onto the eroded Formica counter when he tipped the pitcher a half inch too far. Ivy clucked—Ivy clucked a lot—then wiped up the spill one-handed.
    â€œWhen you gonna get yourself a housekeeper, is what I want to know.”
    With a groan, Ryan sank down onto a kitchen chair, some fancy Victorian press-back number Suzanne had picked out when they were still engaged. He shoveled in a bite of egg before replying. “For one thing, I don’t need to be tripping over some stranger in my own kitchen every morning.” Noah’s dark, frightened eyes flashed through his memory,making him frown. Harder. “And for another, what am I supposed to pay her with? My charm?”
    â€œOh, Lord. Then you would be in trouble.”
    Ryan shrugged, took a swig of coffee, downed another forkful of egg.
    â€œOf course, you could get yourself a wife instead, you know.”
    Yeah, well, he’d figured that was coming. “You applyin’ for the job?”
    â€œDon’t be fresh.”
    He almost grinned. The caffeine must be kicking in. Not to mention the food. After a gulp of the juice, he said, “Anyway, if I don’t have the money or the charm for a housekeeper, how in tarnation am I supposed to take care of a wife?”
    Of course, both of them knew the problem went much deeper than that, although Ivy had flat-out told Ryan his objections were nothing but bunk more times than he’d care to remember. For some reason, though, judging from her squinty eyes—which meant she was more carefully considering her response than she was normally prone to do—this was apparently not going to be one of those times. He’d no sooner breathed an inward sigh of relief, however, when she slammed into him from another angle.
    â€œWell, I don’t suppose I can do much to shake the stranger-in-your-kitchen business,” she said. “But there’s no earthly reason you should be having money problems, and you know it. You got enough patients to keep three doctors busy, and most of those who don’t pay private have insurance or Medicare or something. The house is free and clear, you don’t have any dependents and you went to school on scholarship, so there’s no school loans to pay back. So what