Heart of Texas Volume 2: Caroline's Child. Debbie Macomber

       4

      SUNDAY MORNING WAS THE ONE DAY OF THE week Jane Dickinson—Dr. Jane Dickinson, she reminded herself—could sleep in. Yet it was barely six and she was wide awake. Tossing aside the sheet, she threw on her robe and wandered barefoot into the kitchen.

       “Texas,” she muttered. Who would’ve believed when she signed up for this that she’d end up in the great state of Texas? The hill country was about as far as anyone could get from the bustling activity of Los Angeles.

       Jane had tried to make a go of life in small-town America, but she was completely and utterly miserable. In three months she hadn’t managed to make a single friend. Sure, there were lots of acquaintances, but no real friends. Never in her life had she missed her friends and family more, and all because of money. She’d entered into this agreement with the federal government in order to reduce her debts—three years in Promise, Texas, and her medical-school loans would be paid off.

       Maybe she should just admit she’d made a mistake, pack her bags and hightail it out of this godforsaken town. But even as the thought entered her mind, Jane realized that wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted was to find some way to connect with these people, to become part of this tight-knit community.

       The residents of Promise seemed willing enough to acknowledge that she was a competent physician specializing in family practice. But they came to see her only when they absolutely had to—for prescription renewals, a bad cough or sprain that couldn’t be treated at home. Jane’s one major fault was that she wasn’t Dr. Cummings. The man had retired in his seventies after serving the community for nearly fifty years. The people of Promise knew and trusted him. She, on the other hand, was considered an outsider and, worse, some kind of Valley Girl or frivolous surfer type.

       Despite her up-to-the-moment expertise, she had yet to gain the community’s confidence. Everything she’d done to prove herself to the people of Promise had been a miserable failure.

       Rejection wasn’t something Jane was accustomed to dealing with. It left her feeling frustrated and helpless. In medical school, whenever she felt overwhelmed and emotionally confused, she’d gone jogging. It had always helped clear her thoughts, helped her gain perspective. But she hadn’t hit the streets even once since she’d come here. With a new sense of resolve, she began to search for her running shoes, reminding herself that she was the one who’d agreed to work in a small community. She was determined to stick it out, even if it killed her.

       Dressed in bright yellow nylon running shorts and a matching tank top, she started out at an easy nine-minute-mile pace. She jogged from her living quarters next to the health clinic down the tree-lined streets of Promise. The community itself wasn’t so bad. Actually it was a pretty little town with traditional values and interesting people. Ranchers mostly. Down-to-earth folk, hardworking, family-oriented. That was what made her situation so difficult to understand. The people were friendly and welcoming, it seemed, to everyone but her.

       Jane turned the corner onto Maple Street. At the post office she took another turn and headed up Main. A couple of cars were parked in front of the bowling alley, which kept the longest hours in town; it was open twenty-four hours on Saturdays and Sundays. It wasn’t the bowling that lured folks at all hours, but the café, which served good solid meals and great coffee at 1970s prices.

       Jane’s feet pounded the pavement and sweat rolled down the sides of her face. She’d barely gone a mile and already her body was suggesting that she hadn’t been exercising enough. She knew she’d ache later but didn’t care; she was already feeling more optimistic.

       She rounded the corner off Main and onto Baxter, running past the antique store owned and operated by Dovie Boyd. Dovie lived in a brick home just around the corner. Despite the early hour, she was standing in the middle of her huge vegetable garden with her watering can in hand.

       Jane had often admired the older woman’s lush garden. The pole beans were six feet high, the tomatoes bursting with ripeness and the zucchini abundant. Jane marveled at how one woman could possibly coax this much produce from a few plants.

       “Morning,” Jane called.

       Dovie smiled and raised her hand in response.

       Jane continued down the street, full steam ahead. She’d gone perhaps twenty yards when she realized it’d happened to her again. She’d never been a quitter in her life and she wasn’t going to start now. She did an abrupt about-face and headed back.

       Dovie looked surprised to see her.

       Jane stopped and, breathing heavily, leaned forward and braced her hands on her knees. “Hello again,” she said when she’d caught her breath.

       Without a pause Dovie continued watering. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

       “Beautiful,” Jane agreed. Slowly she straightened and watched Dovie expertly weave her way through the garden, pausing now and again to finger a plant or pull a weed.

       “Do you have a minute, Mrs. Boyd?” she asked, gathering her nerve. She rested her hands against the white picket fence.

       Widening her eyes, Dovie turned. “What can I do for you, Dr. Dickinson?”

       “First, I’d like it if you called me Jane.”

       “Then Jane it is.”

       The older woman’s tone was friendly, but Jane sensed the same reserve in her she’d felt in others.

       “What am I doing wrong?” She hadn’t intended to blurt out the question like that, but couldn’t help herself.

       “Wrong?” Dovie set the watering can aside.

       “What’s wrong with me?” she amended.

       “I don’t think anything’s wrong with you.” The other woman was clearly puzzled by the question. “What makes you assume such a thing?”

       Attitudes were so difficult to describe. How could she explain how she felt without sounding snobbish or self-pitying? But she had to try.

       “Why am I standing on this side of the fence while you’re on that side?” Jane asked as she paced the cement walkway. “Why do I have to be the one to greet others first? People don’t like me, and I want to know why.”

       Dovie lifted one finger to her lips and frowned, apparently deep in thought. “You did greet me first, didn’t you?”

       “Yes, but it isn’t only you. It’s everyone.” Jane paused, struggling with her composure. “I want to know why.”

       “My goodness, I’m not sure. I never realized.” Dovie walked toward the short white gate and unlatched it, swinging it open. “Come inside, dear, and we’ll sit down and reason this out.”

       Now that Jane had made her point, it would have been rude and unfair to refuse, but to her embarrassment she discovered she was close to tears.

       “Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” Dovie said and gestured toward the white wrought-iron patio set. “I’ll get a pot of tea brewing. I don’t know about you, but I tend to think more clearly if I have something hot to drink.”