by Janet Dean
“Hope you’re staying for the picnic,” the minister said.
Luke smiled. “I can’t pass up home cooking.”
“You don’t want to miss my daughter’s chocolate sheet cake,” her father said, coming up behind Luke and thumping him on the back. “She’s one of the best cooks in these parts.”
Heat climbed Mary’s neck and flooded into her cheeks. Mercy, she felt like she and her basket were up for auction and her father wheedled to raise the bid.
Taking Ben and the boys along, her father headed toward the men setting up tables on the lawn. Mary strode to the wagon, eager to put distance between her and Luke. But even without looking back, she sensed he followed her.
“Here, let me get that.” He reached around her and lifted the heavy basket with ease.
For a moment his thoughtful gesture softened the wall around her heart, and she smiled but then steeled herself. Luke Jacobs might behave like a gentleman, but he was nothing of the sort. He was overbearing, brash and secretive. A gentleman didn’t hide his profession. What else did he hide?
“First Christian makes an outsider feel right at home,” Luke said.
“Especially the young ladies.” Why had she said that? As if she cared what the man did.
A smile spread across his face. “Jealous?”
“Hardly. This church is made up of decent people, too gullible if you ask me,” she rushed on, determined to cover her mistake.
Luke raised a brow. “Are you saying I’m not to be trusted?”
Trust him? A man with rugged features, a wide stance, power exuding from every pore, the kind that sent her pulse skittering. Why, he was the image of a man her better sense told her to shun. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
He stepped closer until she could see the length of his dark lashes, catch the scent of him, watch his chest rise and fall with each breath. Everything within her reacted, going from flustered to something more.
Her breath caught. What would it be like to be courted by Luke Jacobs? Would he cherish a woman? Make her feel special? Share his thoughts with her?
“Is it this congregation who shouldn’t trust me, or is it you?” he asked, his gaze locking with hers.
Refusing to get lost in the man’s mesmerizing eyes, Mary stepped back. “Well, I…I don’t trust you, either,” she stammered, her heart racing at his audacity and her own unwelcome feelings.
A shadow passed over his features and he turned away. Thinking about Luke Jacobs in the same breath as courting made about as much sense as dumping a cup of salt into a batch of sugar cookies. Both were recipes for disaster.
Luke set Mary’s basket on the long table where she’d be sure to find it, then ambled across the lawn, trying to look composed but fighting an urge to run. What just happened between him and Mary? Whatever had changed, Luke wanted no part of it. He had no intention of caring for that spitfire no matter how much she drew him.
Across the way, Charles Graves headed toward Luke, wearing the tranquil smile of a happy family man. After meeting his wife and children this morning, Luke understood the man’s contentment.
Hadn’t Luke gotten lost in Mary’s green eyes and basked in her dazzling smile? For a moment, he hungered for what Charles had. But a woman like Mary expected a man to stay, to put down roots. He wanted that for his son, but he had other plans.
The editor shook Luke’s hand. “I’d like you to meet some of the men.”
Evidently, Charles trusted Luke more than his sister-in-law did. Or had the editor decided to keep an eye on what he saw as an adversary?
They strolled toward a group lounging in the shade of an enormous elm. Within minutes, more names floated in Luke’s head than autumn leaves on the local river.
The talk turned from him to the harvest, then to the local news. One fellow with sandy hair and clear blue eyes discussed the upcoming election with the fervor and earnestness of the young. As he reached a fevered pitch on the race for Congress, a redheaded, gangly, yet attractive gal plucked him away, bringing a chuckle from the group and a flush to the lad’s cheeks.
Luke felt sorry for him yet oddly envious too. Someone cared about this youth enough to brave a wall of men to steal him away.
Charles’s gaze followed the couple. “James is a photographer and budding reporter at The Ledger. Fannie can’t tolerate James being out of her sight.” He gave Luke a wry grin. “Not sure he thanks her for it.”
Experience taught Luke to avoid smothering women who’d steal a man’s energy faster than a hard day’s work. His gaze sought Mary, picking her out easily among the line of women standing guard at the tables, chatting while they swatted at flies. This independent woman didn’t know the meaning of the word smother. She appeared delicate, even dainty. But her fragile appearance disguised a strong will and take-charge nature, in sharp contrast to her easygoing father.
True, she might hover over her sons more than she ought, but she stood on her own two feet. Even if upon occasion, those feet appeared set in concrete…and stomping on his toes.
Luke’s breath caught. He suspected Mary Graves could love a man and love him well.
A call went up. Pastor Foley waved his hands, motioning for people to gather in. Except for the chirping of birds in the trees, quiet settled over the gathering.
“Father God, we thank You for this beautiful Lord’s day, for the food we’re about to partake, for the hands that raised it and the hands that prepared it. Bless our fellowship and each person here. Amen.”
A chorus of amens followed, including Luke’s. He soaked up the love and harmony he felt now and during worship. The parishioners treated him like one of them. He couldn’t explain the feeling, but it warmed him like the sun overhead.
Yet he didn’t belong. Not here. Not in New York. Not anywhere.
Off to the side, Luke watched families loading up their plates, filing together like ducks in a row, sitting on folding chairs and gathering on blankets to eat.
Later, he stood, a drumstick in his hand, the spring breeze lifting at his hair, watching Mary do the same with her father and the boys. One of whom was his son.
Luke’s stomach clenched, the fried chicken suddenly lost its flavor. All he craved sat on the patchwork quilt across the way. The joy in Mary’s eyes, the smiles on Doc, Philip and Michael’s faces, the giggles pouring from Ben in a steady stream—they were a family.
Ben might be his child, but he had no right to him. No sense of what it meant to be part of a loving family.
Sure, he had a family of sorts, but he and his parents lived separate lives. Even when he and Joseph were children, they hadn’t spent time on a blanket with their parents eating plates of fried chicken, sharing a laugh, a story. Like strangers on a ship, the Jacobses shared nothing of consequence. Well, except secrets. Secrets they dared not discuss.
Swallowing, he turned away. He didn’t need any of that. Soon he’d leave, return to New York. He’d get his medicine into production and then return to his lab and salt away money for the hospital he wanted to build, a place where caretakers loved and tended children like Joseph. He’d keep busy and forget this town and these people. But the thought of his old life latched onto his shoulder muscles and tightened.
He felt a tug on his sleeve. “You wanna sit with us?” Ben’s big brown eyes looked up at him, wide and happy. “We got cookies.”
Luke raised his gaze to meet Mary’s across the way. He had no doubt she’d rather see him in another state than on the same blanket, but he found he had a sudden appetite for sweets. “Sure, Ben, cookies sound good.”
When Luke approached, Mary drew in a breath. “Dr. Jacobs,” she said, then avoided looking at him, acting like a high-strung filly about to be broke.
The image brought a smile to his lips. Breaking Mary Graves appeared unlikely, even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. Much. Though the attempt could be mighty interesting.
“Luke wants a cookie,” Ben announced, then plopped down, dragging Luke along. He hand
ed him a cookie the size of a saucer, sprinkled with sugar.
Luke gave Mary a what-can-I-do grin. “Ben thought I looked in need of dessert.”
“He does like to share,” Mary said, plucking at her skirt, ignoring him—or trying to.
“I’m supposed to,” Ben said. “The Bible says so.”
Doc ruffled his hair. “That’s right, son.”
Son. This sweet child was Luke’s son, yet he couldn’t admit the relationship and ruin this boy’s life as that admission surely would.
Mary introduced Michael and Philip. While Luke munched on the treat, they watched his every move. Michael’s green eyes exuded suspicion, looking at him much like his mother often did. Had some kind of sixth sense warned her that Ben was his?
Philip’s gaze lit with curiosity. “Did you help Grandpa fix Homer’s head?”
“Yes. How’s he doing?”
Philip pointed toward the elm. “See him? His head itches, but he’s okay.”
“Glad to hear it.” Strange to be tucked into this circle of family. Yet, nice.
Using the tree trunk to hoist himself up, Doc stood. “Mary, you’re too good a cook.” He patted his stomach. “I ate too much and need a walk. Boys, you want to go along? See if we can catch some frogs down by the river?”
Mary opened her mouth, but the youngsters scrambled to their feet before she had time to formulate an objection. Doc shot them a grin and then headed off, three energetic pairs of legs scampering ahead of him.
Leaving Luke and Mary alone. Doc’s obvious attempt at matchmaking wasn’t lost on Luke. And from the rosy hue now staining Mary’s cheeks, she’d noticed and didn’t approve. They both held people at arm’s length. The insight drew him to her more.
The lonely set of her shoulders got him thinking. “Church gatherings like this must be difficult without your husband.”
A shuttered look passed over her face. “Sam didn’t socialize much,” she said, appearing to pick her words with care.
A deep certainty lodged in Luke’s mind. He wasn’t the only one hiding something. Had Mary carried the weight of her family long before her husband’s untimely death?
Under her wide-brimmed hat, Mary cupped a hand over her eyes to shield them from the bright sun and scanned the lawn. “The boys left without the second cookie I promised them.”
“Your father appeared to be in a hurry for that walk. I suspect he wanted to give us some time alone.”
“I have no idea why.” Mary cleaned the plates, stuffed the last utensil in the basket. “We’ve said all we need to say to each other,” she whispered so softly he strained to hear.
He caught her hand, and his heart went still. Her gaze lifted to his, and he lost himself in the emerald depths. “Did we?” he murmured. “Say it all?” He leaned closer, and she tried to hold back her reaction, to limit it to a flare in her nostrils, a hitch in her breath. Oh, he got to Mary Graves. His pulse quickened. But she also got to him.
“What difference does it make? You say you’re leaving.” Her eyes issued a challenge. “What I don’t understand is why you stay. What’s holding you here?”
Luke leaned back, the words striking him hard in the chest. Why did he stay? He rested his arms on his bent knee, thinking. Ben was a precious child, always smiling and brown as a biscuit from hours playing with Philip and Michael in their big fenced yard. He showed no sign of epilepsy. His asthma appeared under control now. Luke could leave with a clear conscience.
He’d told himself he stayed for Doc, to help him in the practice. What he wouldn’t say to Mary, what he could barely admit to himself, held him in its claws and squeezed. He wasn’t ready to leave his son. But if he stayed, if he cared about Ben…or Mary and her boys, if he got close, he’d regret it. Better to focus on his life’s work, his lab. That’s all he needed. Ben would be all right. And so would he.
“Nothing,” he said, “Nothing more than helping your father until he can get another doctor in the practice.”
But as the words left his mouth, Luke had a strong feeling he’d uttered a lie.
Chapter Eight
That evening, Mary put her hand on Philip’s forehead. Not hot. Her son complained of stomachaches with some regularity. Usually a day at home with toast and tea set him right. But this time, he curled into a tight ball, whimpering with pain. Could it be something serious, maybe his appendix?
Another groan.
A wave of apprehension crashed through Mary. She put it aside and struggled for the tone she used to calm anxious patients. “Grandpa will be here soon,” she said, then kissed her son’s cheek.
She’d sent Michael to fetch her father a half hour ago, close to nine-thirty. Where were they?
The front door slammed. Her breathing slowed. Michael had returned with her father. He’d know what to do to ease her son’s pain.
But instead of Henry, Luke Jacobs stood in the doorway of the boys’ room, carrying his black bag, the dark shadow of a day’s growth of beard contouring the planes of his face. A face Mary admired too much. A man she thought of often, too often. Under the scrutiny of those perceptive eyes, Mary’s heart thudded in her chest.
Luke’s gaze darted to Philip lying on the bed, then returned to her. She leapt to her feet, acutely aware that except for the children, the two of them were alone in the house. Other than the male members of her family, no man had stepped foot in this house since Sam’s wake, exactly as Mary wanted it. She swallowed, trying not to show how much his presence overwhelmed her, even as her concern for Philip grew stronger. “Where’s my father?”
The sharpness of her tone, laden with suspicion, didn’t appear to faze Luke. “Doc must be out on a call. When Michael couldn’t find him, he came to the carriage house looking for me,” he said, his voice neutral, calm, almost soothing.
With desperation bordering on panic, Mary wanted her father, not Luke Jacobs. But she laid a palm on her older son’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you, sweetheart, for thinking of Dr. Jacobs.” Even if he’s the last man on earth I trust with your brother. She nudged Michael toward the door. “You need your sleep. I’ve made a bed for you on the floor in Ben’s room.”
Michael’s expression turned stony, obviously unhappy with her dismissal, but one glance from Luke and her son obeyed.
Luke set his medical bag on a nearby chair, then peeled off his coat and tossed it on the back. “What are his symptoms?”
She fully intended to ask him to leave, but then Philip moaned again. If the possibility existed that Luke could help, she couldn’t allow her son to suffer. “His stomach hurts. He doesn’t have a fever and hasn’t vomited,” Mary said, struggling to keep her voice steady, like she would in the office. But this time the patient was her son.
Luke sat on the edge of the bed and rolled Philip to his back. Mary turned up the lamp and then took the position on the opposite side of her son’s bed where she could scrutinize Luke’s every move.
Leaning closer to Philip, Luke ran a hand over her son’s abdomen. “Show me where it hurts.”
Philip grimaced. “In there,” he said in a barely audible voice.
Mary laid a calming hand on her son’s narrow shoulder.
With gentle fingers, Luke pressed on the right side of his stomach, released, then pressed again. “Here?”
Philip shook his head. Mary exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The pain must not be his appendix. Thank You, God. And thank You for Luke’s tenderness with my son.
Luke moved his hand lower and to the middle. “Here?”
“A little.”
“Here?”
Philip frowned, his eyes filling with tears. “It hurts all over.”
A lump formed in Mary’s throat. Even with Luke Jacobs’s gentle examination, her poor boy must feel like a pincushion. She came around the bed, scooting past Luke, who took up every inch of space in the small room. She retrieved a cloth from the basin on the nightstand, returned to her side of the bed and draped the
cool, damp rag on her son’s forehead.
“Has he eaten anything tonight?”
“He ate a good supper.”
“Did you all eat the same food today? Or could Philip have eaten something at the church social that made him sick?”
“The boys ate the same thing I did, and I’m fine.”
Luke nodded. “So, Philip, do you feel well enough to go to school tomorrow?”
“I feel bad. I want to stay home.”
Mary started to assure him he could, when Ben wandered into the room, tears glistening on his cheeks. “I hadda bad dream.”
Eyes filled with compassion, Luke rose, almost as if he planned to comfort Ben. Mary hustled around the bed and knelt on the floor, tugging her son close. “I’m sorry.”
“I was lost and couldn’t find you.”
“It was just a dream. I’m right here.” She massaged his back, waiting for him to quiet and looked up at Luke. His eyes held a kind, even sorrowful, expression. Why did he seem to connect with Ben more than any of their young patients, more than her other boys?
Sniffling, Ben pulled away, rubbing his eyes with fisted hands. Then he spotted Luke. “Did you come to play ball with me?”
Luke chuckled. “Not at this late hour.”
“Dr. Jacobs is here to help Philip.” Mary kissed Ben’s cheek. “It’s almost ten o’clock. You should be asleep.”
“Why is Michael in my room?”
“Philip isn’t feeling well so I asked him to sleep in your room.”
Ben scampered onto the bed before Mary could stop him. He patted Philip’s cheek. “Do you have an ouchy?”
Philip nodded.
“Show it to me.”
Over the boys’ heads, Mary and Luke’s gazes met. Luke grinned, obviously taken with Ben’s innocence.
Mary reached for Ben. “Philip’s stomach hurts, Ben. Inside. He can’t show you. Now let’s get out of Dr. Jacobs’s way.”
Luke ran a palm over Philip’s forehead, then opened his bag and removed his stethoscope. Ben slid away from Mary and dashed to the open bag, peering inside. She caught him and sat at the foot of the bed, holding her squirming son firmly in her lap.
