Page 3 of Nica (Texas Boudreau Brotherhood #17)

T he Boudreau backyard hummed with the familiar sounds of Sunday dinner—laughter floating over the clinking of ice in glasses, the sizzle of meat on the grill, and the comforting rhythm of family conversation.

Nica stood by the old oak tree, nursing a lemonade and half-listening to Harper’s story about her newly commissioned mural in Austin.

Her eyes kept drifting to Gabe across the lawn, who stood at the grill talking to her father, fielding questions about his recent medical research.

When he finally broke away and headed toward the cooler, Nica seized her chance. “Need help with that?” she asked, falling into step beside him as he walked toward the house.

“I’ve got it,” he said, then lowered his voice. “But I wouldn’t mind some company.”

They made their way around to the front porch of the sprawling ranch house, away from the festivity of the backyard.

Gabe set the cooler down with a sigh on the worn wooden boards that had supported generations of Boudreaus.

“Your brother can talk for hours about fishing lures, which is a bit surprising, considering there’s not much fishing done around these parts. ”

“Try growing up with him,” Nica said, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken words. Past the porch railings, they could see the tall lone oaks, hear the rest of the family and neighbors gathered in cheerful clusters on the back deck, out of view and oblivious to the tension just around the corner.

“So,” Gabe finally broke the silence, “you’re still mad.”

Nica crossed her arms. “I’m not mad. I’m…disappointed. When we got married, I thought we were on the same page about staying in Shiloh Springs for a while. I just finished my master’s, Gabe. I need some time to breathe, to figure things out.”

“The WHO position is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “You know how long I’ve dreamed of doing international work.”

“I know,” she sighed, leaning against one of the porch columns.

“It’s one of the things we talked about when you visited me at College Station.

But does it have to be right now? Right after we…

” She glanced toward the yard, lowering her voice even though no one was nearby.

“Right after we eloped? Were you planning this all along?”

Gabe ran a hand through his dark hair, the temples showing a bit of salt-and-pepper, and the gesture emphasized the age difference that weighed on him but had never once bothered her.

“Of course not. The timing is terrible, I know. But we can make it work, Nica. You could come with me. Your degree would—”

“I don’t want to make plans based on your career,” she interrupted.

“I just spent six years working on achieving my bachelor’s and master’s degrees.

I always planned on getting a job close to home, maybe Austin, where I could still live in or close to Shiloh Springs.

I want to use my degree here, where my family is, at least for now. ”

“And I respect that,” Gabe said, reaching for her hand and squeezing it gently. She didn’t pull away but didn’t squeeze back either. “But we need to tell them soon. About us. This secret marriage is making everything harder.”

Nica winced at his words. She, more than anybody, knew her mother had been planning her wedding since Nica was in pigtails.

“Momma’s already got three wedding venues on hold, did you know that?

Since I graduated, she’s been leaving bridal magazines around the house.

How do I tell her I robbed her of the big white wedding she’s always wanted for me? ”

Gabe’s expression softened with understanding and a flicker of guilt. “Your mother loves you. She’ll understand eventually. And we will still have the big white wedding she’s always dreamed of, just not right away.”

“And what about you?” Nica asked, meeting his eyes directly. “Are you having second thoughts? About us, I mean. About marrying someone so much younger?”

“No,” he said firmly, though she caught the moment of hesitation. “But sometimes I wonder if you should have waited, found someone your own age who’s not already set in his ways, someone who could give you more time to—”

“Stop it,” she said, stepping closer. “I chose you. Not some hypothetical guy my age. I repeat…I chose you. Yes, we’re having a bit of a rough patch.

Yes, we’re fighting, and the other night I really wanted to stomp over to that table at Juanita’s and punch you in the throat, because I was jealous thinking you were with somebody else.

But I’m not some kid who doesn’t know her own mind, Gabe. ”

“I know,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

“It’s just…I’m thirty-eight. Being that much closer to forty feels a lot older than somebody who’s twenty-six sometimes.

Especially when I’m thinking about uprooting and moving halfway around the world.

I haven’t accepted the position yet,” Gabe paused, and she felt his eyes studying her intently.

“I wouldn’t, not without talking it through with you properly.

You’re my wife, Nica. I want you with me, wherever they might send me. ”

The word still gave her a little thrill, despite her anger.

Wife. They’d said those vows in a small, weathered Justice of the Peace’s office with only a bored clerk as witness, caught up in the certainty they belonged together.

Now, just weeks later, everything felt complicated, and she hoped not irrevocably broken.

“We should get back before they send a search party,” she said, straightening from the column.

Gabe caught her wrist gently. “Nica. I love you. Whatever we decide, we decide together. That’s what we promised.”

She met his eyes, seeing the sincerity there, one of the things that made her fall for him in the first place. “I love you too. But right now, that doesn’t feel like enough.”

The Monday morning rush at Shiloh Springs County Clinic had finally ebbed.

Gabe leaned back in his chair, taking in a deep breath.

So far this morning, he’d treated three cases of strep throat, one broken wrist, and done Mrs. Gilroy’s weekly blood pressure check—a typical Monday morning in small-town medicine.

And for the most part, he loved every minute of it.

It was just that today, he had so much on his mind; he and Nica as a couple, the offer from WHO.

Working in the clinic had become almost second nature, where he hadn’t had to do a lot of thinking about what he was doing.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar tightness. A few years shy of forty, he wasn’t old, but the years of surgeries and night shifts had left their mark. Still, this work—this simpler life—held its own satisfaction, even if it wasn’t the prestigious career he’d once had.

The phone on his desk rang, and he picked it up absently, expecting to hear Lisa, the clinic’s receptionist, at the other end. Guess his break was over, and it was time for the next patient.

“Dr. Summers,” he answered.

There was a pause, then a flat, computerized voice spoke: “I know where you are, and I know what you did.”

Gabe’s blood turned to ice. It was him, the person who’d taken to calling him almost incessantly for the past several weeks. Sitting up straighter, his free hand gripped the edge of the desk. “Who is this?”

A short pause and then, “Remember Stanford. Operating Room Three. April 17, 2020.” The mechanical voice droned out the words, devoid of emotion but precise in its accusations.

Memories crashed over him. The bright lights of the OR, the beeping monitors, the moment everything went wrong.

The reason he fled California and ended up in this small Texas town where no one knew his past. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the harsh reality playing out in living color in his memories.

Though he’d told her some, even Nica didn’t know the full story of why he’d moved to Shiloh Springs.

“Listen,” Gabe said, his voice low and urgent. “I don’t know who you are, but that case is over and done. In the past, where it belongs. Everything was reviewed. The board cleared me—”

“The board was wrong,” the voice interrupted. “And now I’ve found you again, Dr. Summers.”

The line went dead.

Gabe stared at the phone for a long moment, his heartbeat racing in his chest. He quickly dialed *69 to trace the call. Nothing. The number was blocked. He tried the clinic’s caller ID system, but it showed only “Unknown Caller.”

Leaning back in his chair, he ran both hands through his hair.

Who had found him? A relative of the patient?

Someone from the hospital? The case had been all over the news in the Bay Area.

He remembered the headlines splashed across all the papers.

Prominent Surgeon Loses Patient, Accusations of Negligence and Drug Abuse, Career in Jeopardy.

He’d been cleared of malpractice, but the whispers still followed him.

Colleagues suddenly wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Nurses who had once loved working with him requested transfers from his OR.

So, he left. Resigned his position, sold his condo in San Francisco, and drifted around for months.

Money wasn’t an issue; he had enough to live comfortably the rest of his life without ever working again.

Portland, Seattle, Vegas, he moved from town to town trying to stay ahead of his nightmares.

When he heard about an opening in a small Texas town, he’d impulsively applied for the position, and been hired to replace the town’s aging physician, Doc Jenkins.

Now he was simply Dr. Summers, the capable physician who could handle everything from infected splinters to migraines.

Not the fallen star of Stanford Medical Center’s cardiovascular and thoracic surgery department.

And now, just when he had found some peace—with the clinic, with Nica, despite their current tension, someone seemed intent on ruining his new life.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Lisa poked her head in, her cheery smile a bright light in his lousy musings.

“Dr. Summers? You alright? You’ve been off calls for nearly fifteen minutes.”

Gabe forced a smile. “Fine, Lisa. Just…catching up on some paperwork.” He glanced at his schedule. “Who’s next?”

“Timmy Wilson. Poison ivy, looks like.”

“Send him in.” Gabe straightened his white coat, pushing the phone call to the back of his mind. He couldn’t deal with this now, not with a waiting room full of patients. But as he prepared to examine Timmy’s rash, his thoughts kept circling back to that mechanical voice and what it meant.

Someone knew. Someone had found him. And worst of all, this threat wasn’t just about him anymore, it was about Nica too, and the fragile new life they’d begun together.

The gold band in his pocket felt suddenly heavy.

He carried it everywhere he went. It was important to him, a tangible link to Nica, even though at the moment they were having difficulties—again, mostly his fault.

He shouldn’t have sprung the whole WHO thing on her without warning.

That gold band was his tangible hope. When Nica had slid it on his finger, he’d felt like he’d finally found the peace he’d been searching for.

Now it felt like a target, a bull’s eye marking him for whoever had discovered his location.

The voice had been right about one thing: Gabe knew exactly what he’d done. Even though what happened in California hadn’t been his fault, the memories and guilt lingered, never forgotten, never fading.

Now somebody threatened to upend and destroy everything he’d struggled so hard to rebuild. They knew all the ugliness of the past. The question was, what would this mysterious caller do with that knowledge?