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TEXAS HOMECOMING
"Leigh Greenwood raises the heat and tension with Texas Homecoming. Few authors provide a vivid descriptive Americana romance filled with realistic angst-laden protagonists as this author can."
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TEXAS BRIDE
"Exciting characters fill this continuing story of the Night Riders. I can't wait for the next installment from this wonderful author."
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HIGH PRAISE FOR THE COWBOYS SERIES!
JAKE
"Only a master craftsman can create so many strong characters and keep them completely individualized."
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WARD
"Few authors write with the fervor of Leigh Greenwood. Once again [Greenwood] has created a tale well worth opening again and again!"
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BUCK
"Buck is a wonderful Americana Romance!"
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CHET
"Chet has it all! Romance and rustlers, gunfighters and greed ... romance doesn't get any better than this!"
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SEAN
"This book rivals the best this author has written so far, and readers will want to make space on their keeper shelves for Sean. Western romance at its finest!"
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PETE
"Pete is another stroke on Leigh Greenwood's colorful canvas of the Old West. The plotting is brilliant and the conflict strong."
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DREW
"Sexual tension and endless conflict make for a fast-paced adventure readers will long remember."
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LUKE
"Another winner by Leigh Greenwood!"
--Romantic Times
MATT
"The Cowboys are keepers, from the first book to the last!"
--The Literary Times
LONGING FOR LOVE
Holt didn't know what impulse caused him to spring out of his chair and around the table before either of them knew what was happening. He grasped both her hands. When she tried to pull away, he encircled her waist with his arms.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her eyes wide with surprise ... and fear.
"I'm trying to show you that you're a living, vital creature. You need love. You need a family. Your own life. Your soul will wither up if you stay here."
"That's preposterous." She struggled, but he refused to let her go.
"You long for love. You ache for it."
"I do hope to fall in love, but this is not the right time."
"Then why are you trembling like a leaf?"
"I'm not used to being manhandled."
"I'm barely touching you. It's your soul crying out through your body."
"My soul is perfectly content."
"Liar. You don't even like me, yet you're about to jump out of your skin from my touch."
Other books by Leigh Greenwood:
WICKED WYOMING NIGHTS
WYOMING WILDFIRE
The Night Riders series:
TEXAS HOMECOMING
TEXAS BRIDE
The Cowboys series:
JAKE
WARD
BUCK
CHET
SEAN
PETE
DREW
LUKE
MATT
The Seven Brides series:
ROSE
FERN
IRIS
LAUREL
DAISY
VIOLET
LILY
Born To Love
Leigh Greenwood
Copyright (c) 2003, 2012 Leigh Greenwood
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
About the Author
Chapter One
Galveston, Texas, 1867
Holt Price didn't like the look of the crowd gathered down the street. It had the distinct appearance of passersby gathered to gawk at some tragedy. He brought his horse to a standstill while he considered finding another way through town. Despite the medical bag he carried with him, he didn't think of himself as a doctor anymore.
But he couldn't turn away. It could be a serious accident with no doctor to help the victims. He'd always wanted to help people in trouble. That was why he'd wanted to be a doctor in the first place. He approached the crowd slowly. From astride his horse, he could see there had been a carriage accident. He took his medicine kit out of his saddlebag and dismounted. He rarely used it anymore, but he couldn't make himself leave it behind.
"Is anyone hurt?" he called out.
The gawkers, none of whom turned around to see who was speaking, were slow to move aside, so Holt pushed his way in. The sight that met his eyes reminded him forcefully of scenes he'd witnessed during the war. Two people, one a man, the other a boy, apparently more battered than broken, were covered with blood, their clothes badly torn. The third man had the shattered spoke of a carriage wheel sticking out of his upper left thigh. He lay in a large pool of blood, his skin a nickel gray. Three men leaned over him, all talking, none doing anything.
"I'm a doctor," Holt said as he approached the group. "Can I help?"
"He's a doctor, too," one of the three said as he pointed to a middle-aged man with untidy clothes and a balding head.
Holt nearly sagged with relief. He wouldn't be needed.
But his first look at the doctor's upturned face shocked him. It didn't take a physician to know the man had been drinking. What was worse, from the look in his eyes, he didn't know what to do. Holt was dragged back into it. It was his duty to help.
"What have you done for this man?" Holt asked.
"Nothing yet," the doctor replied, his words slow and slightly slurred. "I'm Paul Moore. I wasn't in my office. I don't have my bag."
There was no law that said a doctor couldn't have a drink, especially when he wasn't seeing patients, but Holt felt a doctor was honor-bound to keep himself in such a condition that he could function in an emergency any hour of the day or night. Holt would wait and see if Dr. Moore was more capable than he appeared. If not, he'd take charge.
"He has a wheel spoke sticking out of his leg," the doctor said.
"We can all see that," Holt said. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Pull it out, I guess," Dr. Moore said, sounding uncertain.
"You
can't just pull it out," Holt said. "It's probably hit the femoral vessels, by the look of all the bleeding. He may have injured a vital internal organ. He could bleed to death before we get him to a hospital."
"We don't have a hospital," one of the onlookers said. "It got blown up during the war."
"Then we have to get him to the nearest doctor's office. If he doesn't receive attention immediately, he'll die."
"He looks dead already," someone said.
"How's his pulse?" Holt asked Dr. Moore.
"I don't know. I haven't checked it yet."
"See how badly the others are hurt," Holt said as he knelt down beside the motionless man. He picked up the man's arm--it was broken--and managed to find a weak, thready pulse. The chances were very good the man would die, but if he was to have any chance, they had to remove the spoke and stop the bleeding.
"Where is the nearest surgery?" Holt asked.
"Doc Moore's the nearest," somebody said.
"You two get me a wagon or a cart, something flat we can carry this man on," Holt commanded as he pointed to two onlooking men. Holt then pulled out a rubber strap from his bag and slipped it under and around the bleeding man's upper thigh. He looped it twice and with a firm pull cinched on a tourniquet.
"How about the buggy seat?" an onlooker said. "It ain't no use in that buggy now."
"Fine. Help me get this man on it. Move him as gently as you can."
"We moved enough men during the war to know how," said a young man who'd stepped forward. "Don't look like Durwin's gonna make it. You ever taken a spoke out of a man's leg?" he asked Holt.
"No, but I've taken just about everything else out. I was a surgeon during the war. I've treated bayonet stabs that looked like this."
"You mean you butchered men," someone heckled. "It was doctors like you who cost me my leg."
Holt had always done his best, but during a battle so many horribly wounded men came so fast, there was seldom time for much more than desperate measures.
"Doctors did not fire the bullets that killed and wounded so many," Holt shot back. "That was nice young men like you. It was doctors who kept you from bleeding to death or rotting with gangrene. Now, are you going to help me move this man or are you going to just stand there feeling sorry for yourself and let him die?"
The ex-soldier moved aside, and several of the onlookers helped move Durwin to the buggy seat.
"Make sure the other two come to the office," Holt said. "They'll need attention."
"I can take care of them," Dr. Moore said.
"Right now you can serve us best by leading us to your office as quickly as possible."
Holt guessed the doctor didn't like having Holt take over, but as far as he could tell, the doctor had been unable to make up his mind about anything. Holt didn't know whether he'd been incapacitated by alcohol, shock, or something else, but they had to act quickly.
"Doc lives real close," one of the men carrying the buggy seat said. "We all know how to get there."
"Then let's go. I need to operate."
"That's Doc's job," one of the men said. "He's the doctor around here."
"I'm a doctor, too," Holt said.
"That still don't mean you can come in here and take over."
Holt thought loyalty to friends was a fine trait, but not when it put a man's life in jeopardy. "With three men hurt, two doctors are better than one," he said.
"Maybe we ought to let the new doc see to Durwin," one man said, lowering his voice. "Doc Moore's been drinking again."
"Ain't nothing wrong with him," another said. "A little bit of whiskey never hurt nobody."
"I'd appreciate your help," Dr. Moore said to Holt. "That spoke worries me. I've never done that kind of surgery."
"I did it for four years," Holt said. "I'll be glad to do it for you."
"You can help if you want, but you let Doc take care of Durwin," a man said. "He knows what to do."
"Don't you listen to him," the cautious man said to Holt. "Everybody knows Doc ain't as good as he used to be."
It was clear that Dr. Moore didn't know what to do and couldn't have done it if he had. But it was also clear that these men weren't going to accept Holt's taking over. Deciding it was better to leave things alone until they reached the doctor's office, he dropped back to the wounded man and his son. "How are you two doing?" he asked.
"I sure am bloodied all over, but I'm doing better than Durwin," the man replied. "I think my boy here broke something."
"It's his collarbone," Holt told the father after a brief examination.
The small procession traversed the sandy streets of a town grown up on what had once been a windswept barrier island covered with sea grass and gnarled sea oaks. Fueled by a busy port, Galveston had expanded rapidly in the postwar years, transforming the island into the largest and most important city in Texas.
It didn't take them long to reach the doctor's house. The procession entered a yard surrounded by a low picket fence that needed paint and slats replaced. The yard showed signs of neglect.
As the men carrying Durwin on the buggy seat climbed the steps to the porch, the door to the house swung open and a young woman came to hold the door. She was of average height, had a nice figure--what Holt could see of it--and was very pretty, but she wore a dress that could never have been more than plain and now showed wear.
Yet there was something about her that immediately caught his attention. Maybe it was her intensity. She seemed keyed up--worried, frightened, defensive, he couldn't tell--but there was a nervous energy about her that was unmistakable.
"What happened to Durwin?" she asked.
"He was racing down the middle of the street like the damned fool he is," the wounded father said. "He tried to run over me and Evan. Nearly killed himself instead."
"Bring him in. I'll show you where to put him so Papa can get that spoke out of him. Henry, I'll get to you and Evan in a minute. Who are you?" she demanded of Holt.
"My name is Holt Price, ma'am. And you?"
"Felicity Moore. The doctor is my father."
"You'd better call your mother. Your father is going to need help."
"My mother is dead. I can provide all the help my father needs."
Holt didn't know her age, but he was certain she didn't have the knowledge and experience needed to help her father. Not many women would.
"Then I guess I'd better wash up. He needs trained help."
"What makes you think you can do a better job than I can?"
"I'm a surgeon. I spent four years trying to patch together boys that other boys had tried to kill. There's little that's stupid, senseless, and a criminal waste of bright, young lives, I haven't tried to fix." He hadn't meant to spout off at her. It had been two years since the war ended, but he hadn't recovered from the shock of the senseless slaughter or his own helplessness.
His answer appeared to upset Felicity, but he got the feeling her reaction had nothing to do with the horrors he'd witnessed. It was almost as if she wanted to get rid of him.
"I told your father I could take the spoke out of Durwin's leg. If he doesn't need me to do that, I can take care of these others. The boy has a broken collarbone. His father doesn't appear to have any broken bones, but both could have serious internal injuries. It was a very bad accident."
"Do you think you can get that spoke out of Durwin without killing him?"
"I don't know, but if somebody doesn't try soon, there won't be any need."
"Maybe you could take care of Durwin. Papa hasn't been feeling well lately."
Holt couldn't imagine she was naive enough to believe her father's condition was due simply to feeling unwell. She had placed herself between Holt and her father as though trying to protect the older man.
"Papa doesn't do much surgery. When he does, it's mostly simple stuff. He can take care of Henry and his son."
"I can't do this by myself," Holt said. "Your father will have to help me."
"I'll help you."
Felicity's chin jutted out and she got that unmistakable look of a woman who'd just been insulted. "If you know enough to get that spoke out of Durwin's leg without killing him, I know enough to help you. Who do you think helps Papa when he's working, or does the ether when he's got to put somebody out?"
"How would I know?" Holt asked as he opened his medical bag and began to lay out his instruments.
"You don't, any more than I know you can take that spoke out without killing Durwin. Do you think you can save him?" Felicity queried after a short pause.
"I don't know. I hope his internal injuries aren't too severe."
While they talked, she'd been moving about the room, taking out bandages, bottles with labels he couldn't read, washing her hands thoroughly. That impressed Holt. He'd been introduced to the germ theory in medical school. Though he'd explained it at length during the war, he hadn't been able to convince more than a few surgeons to wash their hands and their instruments between operations. Most thought he was a young fool with a newfangled theory. The notion that invisible germs were to blame for infections was too far-fetched for most to accept.
"What are you doing?" Holt asked. He wanted to know whether she was washing on purpose or out of habit.
"Washing my hands," she said. "There's a theory that germs cause infection. If you wash before every--"
"I know about the theory," Holt said. "I'm surprised you do."
"My father studied medicine in Edinburgh. They believe--"
"I know what they believe. What do you wash with?"
"Carbolic."
"Wash my instruments while I prepare the patient."
Holt knew he sounded abrupt and unfriendly, but he was appalled that a man who'd had the advantage of a superior education should render it virtually useless because he preferred to pickle his liver in alcohol. He wondered if Dr. Moore remembered enough to set Evan's broken collarbone.
Holt wrenched his thoughts from the doctor and his daughter and directed them to the man lying on the buggy seat. He dreaded removing the spoke. Once it came out, Holt's speed in repairing the damage would be critical. He tried to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. He'd have to use ether, but he still had his doubts about Felicity. Ether could kill if not used properly.
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