Читать книгу The Surgeon - Kate Bridges, Kate Bridges - Страница 9

“How on earth did you get a bullet lodged in your thigh?” In a sour mood and troubled by the man’s injury, John asked the question later that afternoon at the hospital.

Sprawled on the examination table with his trouser leg torn apart, Corporal Travis Reid groaned in pain. John had given him an opiate, but hadn’t wanted to sedate the man too heavily until after his anesthesia and bullet extraction.

“We were hunting. O’Malley thought he saw a doe scrambling through the woods. His shot ricocheted off a maple and hit me in the thigh.”

Irritation nipped at John. The hospital needed more medical officers. Standing beside him on the surgical ward, Logan, the veterinarian, was ready with his doused rag of chloroform. An animal doctor.

“And now you’re out of commission due to an irresponsible hunting accident.”

Travis grimaced, trying to make light of the situation. “No venison for supper tonight, either.”

John was beyond amusement. He was tired and hungry and mad at their carelessness. “Never mind the venison,” he snapped. “Out of eighty-eight men, we’ve got eleven out due to injuries. The others got hurt in the line of duty, but this injury was totally unnecessary. Couldn’t you be more careful?”

“Sure, Doc,” Travis snarled. “But not everything’s always right or wrong. A man’s gotta have distractions, not work all the time. But I reckon you don’t know much about that.”

John balked. No one had ever talked back to him. And then his temper dissipated as he realized he was berating an injured man. “Dammit, Travis, sorry.”

With a softer nod, Travis succumbed to the chloroform. John removed the slug then sutured the wound.

What was wrong with him lately? Why did he bark at everyone? When Travis was settled, John sought the privacy of his quarters. He tried to convince himself that he wasn’t the lone man Travis made him out to be.

But since Christmas there’d been no time to spend with women, no time to take a leave, no time to go hunting or fishing, no riding to the foothills. The police were busy.

Just last week the Grayveson gang had stolen forty-eight mustangs a hundred and fifty miles to the south. By the time the Mounties had given chase, the outlaws had faded across the American border. Cross-border gangs had been one of the main reasons the Mounties had been formed by the federal government sixteen years ago. That and the illegal whiskey trade with the Indians. But the Grayveson gang would probably be back, selling the Montana horses and cattle they would probably steal next to the folks in Alberta where the brands weren’t recognized.

Maybe Wesley had had the right idea. If it’d been John who’d died instead, would he have been satisfied with what he’d accomplished in his life so far? Poor Wesley had been robbed of his life; the loss had triggered John to think more about his own direction. Was work all that fulfilled him?

When he was a younger man, he’d envisioned himself in the future with a wife and children, maybe grandchildren in his retirement years. But he hadn’t had the time or the inclination to look for a wife. There wasn’t much choice, unless he went for a fifteen-or sixteen-year-old daughter of one of the ranchers, or the occasional European immigrant, or a daughter of one of the Metis Indians. And the years kept passing by.

John was forty years old today. Like most of his private affairs, he kept his birthdate to himself. But what had happened to his vision of family?

He sifted through the medical journals that he’d picked up from the train depot. He leafed through them with disappointment. It looked like this month’s British medical journals wouldn’t supply any answers to his other problem, either. During the twelve months he’d been treating the blacksmith on Angus McIver’s ranch, John hadn’t been able to pinpoint the man’s illness. The blacksmith was only thirty years old yet sometimes he walked with a shaking palsy, like an old man.

Rubbing the back of his neck, John looked up at the wall clock. Six-fifteen. Sarah would be having dinner soon.

She could be a major distraction. Hell, she was already.

If marriage was what she wanted and why she was here, he was certain she’d soon find a husband. With her pretty smile and ready attitude for hard work, she’d have suitors begging for her company. Some men might consider her to be a handful, but her amusing tongue lashings reminded John of his younger sister. He and Beth had been closest in age and they’d argued night and day. After she’d passed away so suddenly, he’d felt guilty for years about their constant bickering, but as he’d matured, he’d realized they had only been children and the arguments hadn’t meant he’d loved his sister less.

He missed Beth. And his younger twin brothers, Hank and James…Much to his mother’s annoyance, John had been the only child who hadn’t eaten any of the food at the fairgrounds that Sunday. He’d had an upset stomach and couldn’t eat, but wouldn’t admit to the nausea or his ma wouldn’t have allowed him to ride the carousel. The rest had stuffed themselves with sausage and bread and vegetable soup and corn on the cob, then licorice and walnuts and mints. And lots and lots of water. Contaminated water. That’s how they’d contracted the typhoid that had killed them. He and his ma and pa had been the only ones left standing. Ten other children had died that week, as well.

The wall clock chimed six-thirty. Why hadn’t Sarah married before this? Why had she been so desperate to answer a newspaper advertisement and why so far away from home? Or was she simply as alone in the world as he was?

His stomach growled with hunger. Rising out of his chair, he strode to his closet. Donning a newly ironed dress shirt and his Sunday pair of pants, he headed out the door. It was his fortieth birthday, and what did he have to lose?

“Mrs. Lott, here I am!” Sarah rushed down the carpeted stairs, hoping to catch Mrs. Lott and her sister before they escaped into the milling crowd. The boardinghouse owner had established a reputation as an excellent cook and there was often a lineup for her dining room.

Lifting the fabric of her finest blue twill skirt so she wouldn’t trip down the stairs, Sarah waved again but the two women ignored her as they headed to the front door. They were going in the wrong direction.

Sara shouted louder. “Mrs. Lott! Mrs. Thomas!”

Weaving past a gentleman in a bowler hat, Sarah squeezed along the stair wall. When her sleeve brushed an oil painting, it jarred and she lunged to straighten it.

A hallway full of people stared. Some women averted their eyes and whispered to their friends. Sarah was struck by self-consciousness. She’d created a stir because she’d been too zestful in her shouting and clumsy with the painting.

However, the elderly sisters turned and waited for her. Like Sarah in her white mutton-sleeve blouse and cameo brooch clipped to her throat, the ladies were dressed in their finest.

Sarah squeezed past a man with a walking stick. Puffing to catch her breath, she felt herself flush with enthusiasm as she peered into the wrinkled green eyes of dear Mrs. Lott. “I’ve come to join you for dinner.”

Ten feet past their shoulders, the stained-glass door opened. Dr. John Calloway strode through it.

With a quickening of her pulse, Sarah slunk into the corner, hoping he wouldn’t catch sight of her. What brought him here? He’d said he was on duty this evening, so he must be on a doctor’s call. In a glance, she didn’t see a medicine bag, only an annoyingly handsome man with slicked-back hair and a white silk shirt. He loomed a good ten inches above the crowd.

Mrs. Lott had her back turned, so didn’t see him. She wasn’t smiling at Sarah as she had been that morning. “But we’ve already eaten.”

“Oh—” Had Sarah made an error? She pivoted on her high-heeled black boot to glance at Mrs. Thomas. “But…”

Mrs. Thomas brought her leather gloves to her nose and sniffled. Her shock of white hair, pinned in billowing curls atop her head, shook with disapproval.

“But I thought you said seven o’clock. I’m five minutes early.”

“Dr. Calloway declined, remember?”

“Yes, but I thought I’d mentioned I would join you alone.”

“Sorry, there must have been a miscommunication.”

A burning heat slapped Sarah in the face. Polly Fitzgibbon had obviously done her work. She likely spread the gossip of Sarah’s nakedness in John’s arms and God knew what else.

John spoke beside her, causing her pulse to leap again. “Good evening, ladies. I see I’ve arrived in time. I’d like to join you for dinner if I’m still invited.”

Trying to hide her disgrace, Sarah spun around to weave back up the stairs to the solace of her room. “It seems we’re both late, Dr. Calloway.”

He grabbed her wrist firmly and held it to his side, but smiled at the other women. “Late? It’s not seven yet.”

Sarah tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held her strong. A silent turbulence roared between them. Had he overheard that the sisters had declined Sarah? What was he doing? People were staring, and he was making the situation worse. It didn’t help that his touch flustered her thoughts.

The two women puckered their lips. “We’ve already eaten, Doctor. Good evening.” They strolled away.

Another couple brushed by John and Sarah. They mumbled, inaudible to most, but not to Sarah, which was the effect she knew they were seeking. “…caught red-handed with her clothes off. Phony mail-order bride. Wonder how much she charges…”

“Now just a minute,” said John, red beneath his collar.

The sisters hesitated near the door, glanced back and fanned their faces with their gloves. Dead silence filled the hallway. Not a person in the crowd moved.

“John, don’t—” whispered Sarah.

“Come back here, ladies,” John commanded. “I’d like to explain something to you.”

The women clicked their tongues. Someone held the door open and they slinked into the blue evening sky.

With a heated look of fury, John glared at the staring faces. He must have realized they were gauging his possessive hand on Sarah’s wrist, because he dropped it quickly.

His absence left a cold spot on her wrist. She hadn’t been touched like that for a very long time. It’d been a raw act of control, of possession. She fought the unwanted feeling of satisfaction it brought her.

“Good night,” she said softly, rubbing her wrist, turning up the stairs, afraid to draw more attention to herself.

“Wait.” John pressed his warm hand into her sleeve and held her back by the arm. Heat arced between them.

Judging by the murmuring and shuffling of feet, the crowd had lost their interest in John and Sarah. She stiffened her posture with pride.

When she turned around, a step higher and almost eye level to his handsome dark face and searching gaze, he added, “You still have to eat. There’s a great steakhouse around the block.”

The corner of his mouth twisted with a little smile. What would it be like to kiss that generous mouth?

“I don’t think I’d be good company.” She raced up one step and he followed by one.

“Better company than those two women.”

His gentle attempt to make her smile worked. Why should she run for cover? Who were they to treat her like that?

A teasing gleam twinkled in his brown eyes. Maybe she should keep her distance from John. He’d already rejected her once.

“Steak sounds good.”

“If I can calm down long enough,” John said an hour later over dinner, “I’ll go to Mrs. Lott and Mrs. Thomas, and explain what happened. That you were caught in the middle of an idiotic game between my men, and brought here under false pretenses.”

Sarah watched the golden candlelight flicker over the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, over the short wave of brown hair. The shadow of a beard and mustache added to his brawny appearance. Yet a white silk shirt draped from his wide shoulders, in soft contrast to his rough masculinity.

“I think that they think that once I met you…I no longer wanted—” he swallowed “—to marry you.”

Sarah cut into her rib eye steak. “I’d prefer to explain it to them myself, thank you, when the time is right.” She arched her shoulders against her high-backed chair, loosening the tension in her muscles. “But I’m no longer sure it’s worth it.”

John glanced over her ruffled blouse all the way down to her cinched waistline. She was covered from wrist to throat by fabric, but somehow John’s heated glance made her feel as though her clothing was totally improper. How did he have that ability to make her so aware of her own sensuality?

“The rumors are spreading. Unfortunately, it’s worth your reputation.”

Her heart pounded in an offbeat rhythm. She knew he was right, but she wouldn’t allow panic to set in.

He slid his empty plate away. “And as far as being caught this morning—together like we were—let me try to explain that to them, at least.”

“Could you try to explain it to me first?”

She captured his attention with the remark. He laughed softly. “I see your point. Maybe it’s best if we don’t try to explain it at all.”

He swirled his glass of white wine with one large hand, gazing into its depth. His fingers, long and lean, were tinted from the sun and exceptionally clean and trim. His hands were beautiful; a captivating paradox to the rest of his rough-and-rugged presence.

Then he sipped his wine, calling her attention to his well-defined lips. She wished she would stop noticing everything about him.

“What brought you here, Sarah? I mean, besides my so-called letters. Why did you come?”

Her body felt heavy and warm. This was her opening to speak of Keenan, but how could she reveal her brother? She didn’t know who to trust in this town, and the more she kept her mouth closed, the better off she’d be.

“I think I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for years, but wasn’t aware of it.”

John gave her a quizzical look. She noticed a few other women in the room dining with their spouses, glancing in his direction. John seemed unaware of the envious gazes afforded to Sarah.

She finished with her plate and gently sipped her wine, welcoming the fruity taste on her tongue. “My mother passed away after a long bout with tuberculosis.”

“Mmm,” he said sympathetically, nodding his head. “That can be an awful decline. Did you have help?”

“There was no else at home—my father had passed away several years ago himself and…”

…and Keenan no longer lived with us.

John asked more questions about her life in Halifax, and the more answers she gave, the more he wanted to know.

She felt awkward at exposing herself, but flattered by his interest.

While they ate sweet plum dumplings, she asked, “Why did you become a doctor?”

A melancholy flitted across his brow. “Because of my family.”

“They urged you?”

“No.” His voice quaked. “Because of what happened to my family. My two younger brothers and one sister were very young…. They contracted typhoid and unfortunately didn’t pull through.”

Sarah winced, letting him go on, lulled by the serenity of his voice and this quiet, shared moment.

“There was nothing any of us could do to help. A few years later, I enrolled in medical school…”

“…because you never wanted to feel that helpless again.”

He nodded in surprise that she’d finished his sentence. The candlelight flickered, her throat ached with sympathy, and he quickly went on to another topic.

Later, after they finished eating and were strolling back to the boardinghouse, she still felt a connection, as if he’d opened up and told her things perhaps he’d never said before. What an awful thing to lose his sister and brothers the way he had. Sarah couldn’t help but admire the man John had become because of it. A doctor. Who else did she know who could reach beyond their own grief to see so clearly to the other side?

A purple half moon followed them, casting misty shadows on the uneven road. The scent of prairie flowers mingled with the scent of falling dew, and the lowing of cattle miles away nestled them in an intimate hush.

They were content to walk speechless in the tranquility. When they passed a streetlamp beside a deserted alley, Sarah stopped beneath it to say good-night.

She tilted her face upward and shivered in surprise when John cupped his fingers beneath her chin.

Riveted by the feel of his skin on hers, she parted her lips.

He fingered the cameo brooch at her collar. “This is pretty,” he whispered, then bent his head and kissed her.

It was an arousal, like a floating cloud of wispy lips brushing hers. She closed her eyes and let him draw her close against his muscled chest. Inhaling the scent of his clean skin and faint cologne, not able to breathe enough of him, she responded with an awakening.

The kiss was extraordinary. Supple and rich. She felt him growing urgent as he wrapped his heavy arms around her waist and shoulder. She responded with a torturous, teasing pleasure. Their tongues met timidly, like an exploration, then grew heated in desire…in the certainty of what could happen between them.

If they let it.

Awed by the feeling of being in his arms, of knowing who he was and where he came from and how he’d rescued her this evening, she lost herself in the universe of his body.

Why had it all been a hoax?

Why had she been denied the good fortune of becoming John’s wife?

It seemed like they had only started when John ripped away from her aching body. Although his gaze was hungry and his lips swollen from their kiss, he drew away farther. His mouth quivered with unreleased passion.

His words were a murmured plea. “Good night, mail-order Sarah.”