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just might haul off and punch you in the knee!”
    He laughed openly, throwing his head back and thinking how much he would miss her lively banter when he left. “And begging your pardon beforehand, what do you weigh?”
    “A hundred and plenty.” Her hourglass body tended to be a touch hippy; she wouldn’t have divulged that information under penalty of death!
    “Five foot none and a hundred and plenty, huh?” A sly smile limned his lips. “Sounds like a bite-sized snack for a stressed-out hog.”
    And then they were both laughing, when it wasn’t really
that
funny, and she took her turn thinking she sure would miss this man’s wonderful sense of the ridiculous when he went home.
    She sobered at the reminder and reached for a pan to poach their eggs in. No sense brooding about something she couldn’t change. “Breakfast is almost ready, so you can set the table now. Salt and pepper are on the stove; butter’s in the icebox.”
    Like most doctors, Nick was better at giving orders than he was at taking them. But without aword of argument he set their two places cozily at right angles on her dining-room table, arranging the napkins and silverware and condiments so he wouldn’t have to grope for them.
    While she waited for the water to boil, Dovie watched the smooth play of his shoulder muscles beneath his thermal shirt. Finally realizing what she was doing, she spun away and plopped two pieces of rye bread in the toaster. They popped up just as she’d finished filling their plates, and she joined him at the table.
    For all their talking and teasing beforehand, they ate in silence, their appetities duly reflecting the fact that their metabolisms had been running full tilt all morning.
    “That was good!” Nick exclaimed. He sat back and let out a repleted sigh. “If you fed your brothers and sisters that well, I’m surprised they ever left home.”
    Dovie started to pick up their empty plates, thought better of it, and sat back too. The dishes could wait. It wasn’t as though she had anything else to do later on. “I’m afraid home cooking runs a poor second to matters of health.”
    He arched a thick black eyebrow quizzically. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means if we had decent medical facilities here on the hill, more of our young people—my brothers and sisters, for example—might stay and raise their families.”
    “That’s right; you said something about plansfor a clinic falling through, when you were talking to Curtis.”
    “He’ll leave next,” she said mournfully. “I just know it.”
    “Maybe not.” But something told Nick that was small comfort.
    “He’s already talking about it.” Dovie reached for her coffee cup, saw it was empty, and dropped her hand. “Linda’s had a difficult pregnancy, and they’ve about worn themselves sick running to and from Richmond to see the doctor. Then, to top it all off, the brakes on their ten-year-old Chevy went bad and the auto-parts store is closed through Christmas, so they have to borrow my car when there’s an emergency.”
    Nick shook his head in sympathy. “It sounds like Curtis can’t win for losing.”
    “That’s not the half of it!” Too agitated to sit still any longer, Dovie stood and began clearing the table. “If Curtis and Linda leave, can my other brothers—Jack and Ray and Lon—and their familes be far behind?”
    He rose to help her. Their hands collided in midair when they both reached for the butter dish. She drew her breath in sharply, and his actions stilled for a heartbeat. Then she pulled her hand away as though she’d just been burned, and he picked up the cut-glass dish. Perversely, he was glad he wasn’t the only one who felt such a soul-jolting thrill whenever they touched.
    She stood stock-still, captivated by the sight ofhis hand, with its long fingers curled around the fragile dish, the dark hairs swooping down from his forearm and wrist as he set it on the counter. At the thought of that hand