by Janet Dean
Luke listened to Philip’s chest and then checked his eyes, nose, ears and throat. Did he see or hear anything to explain Philip’s pain?
“I wanna hear.” Ben strained against Mary’s hands, reaching for the stethoscope around Luke’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I’ll take him back to bed.”
“It’s okay.” Luke motioned Ben over and placed the ear-pieces of the instrument in Ben’s ears, then positioned the bell-shaped chest piece over the young boy’s heart. Ben’s eyes grew wide, his gaze filling with awe.
“That’s the sound of your heart beating. It’s pumping blood all through your body.”
“I hear it!” Ben leaned against Luke’s knee, his face aglow with admiration. “Boom, boom! Boom, boom!” Again, his gaze dropped to the medical bag. He reached inside. Mary snatched back his hand. Ben might get hurt investigating the contents of that little black bag filled with pills, potions and syringes, all sorts of dangerous things for children.
“I wanna see what’s inside.”
“Another time, Ben. Dr. Jacobs can’t take time to answer your questions while he’s examining Philip. Now off to bed.”
Ben’s lips formed a stubborn line. He didn’t budge. Mary stood with her hands on her hips, ready to haul him out if necessary.
Luke rubbed a hand over Ben’s head. “I’ll show you my bag the next time you’re in the office.”
Ben threw his arms around Luke’s waist and gazed up at him adoringly. “I like you.”
A flash of wonder traveled across his Luke’s face. “I like you too, Ben.”
Mary wrapped gentle hands around Ben’s shoulders and pulled him off Luke.
“Will ya come back in the morning?”
Hopefully, by then Philip wouldn’t require a doctor.
“If I’m needed, I will. But right now, you should mind Mary, and go to bed.”
“Okay.” Ben reached for her hand, and she led him to his room.
When she’d told him to go to bed, Ben ignored her, but he had immediately obeyed Luke. She’d noticed the patient yet firm way Luke handled the boys. No longer ill at ease with children, he’d be a better doctor.
Mary tucked Ben into bed and rubbed his back between the shoulder blades. He yawned. The even breathing coming from the pallet on the floor indicated Michael slept. She hustled back to Philip and Luke, who still hadn’t given any hint of his diagnosis.
Luke sat at her son’s bedside, his profile stark in the light from the lamp. Hearing her footsteps on the floorboards, he swung his head toward her and smiled, raising goose bumps on her arms. His gaze locked with hers, and everything fell away, leaving just the two of them. Alone, yet linked in some unexplainable way. Luke’s pupils dilated, his eyes became black pools. A surge of connection shot through Mary, lodging in her heart.
For a moment, time stood still.
But then with a twinge of guilt she remembered her suffering son. Her gaze flew to Philip. His eyelids drooped with sleepiness. A heavy weight fell away. “He looks better,” she said in an unsteady voice.
“He is.” Luke gave her son’s shoulder a pat. “Get some sleep.”
Philip turned on his side. But this time, he didn’t curl into a ball. His limbs looked relaxed. The pain had ebbed. A rush of gratitude to God, who’d answered her prayers, flooded Mary.
She kissed Philip’s forehead, then lowered the lamp, throwing the room in shadow. And wrapping her and Luke in an intimacy that set Mary’s feet hurrying out of the room.
Taking one last look at Philip, Luke retrieved his bag and coat, wishing he’d known how to comfort Ben. Instead he’d stood by helplessly and watched Mary tug Ben onto her lap, holding him close until he forgot the nightmare. Naturally his son had turned to the woman who met his needs every day. She’d earned the right to carry the name mother. Father or not, he didn’t deserve the title.
By staying out of his life, he’d do right by Ben.
Following Mary out of the room, Luke caught the faint scent of honeysuckle. Tendrils of her chestnut hair had pulled loose from their moorings and curled around her neck. Even with the no-nonsense set of her shoulders, the hollow at her nape gave her a vulnerable air. Tonight he’d discovered Mary Graves wasn’t as tough as she wanted him to believe.
He followed her down the narrow hall to the kitchen. She glanced back at him, appearing startled by his nearness. What happened to the plain-speaking woman who confronted him at every turn?
She paused near the back door, obviously intending to see him out. “It’s late. If it’s all right, I’ll pay you tomorrow.”
“No payment necessary,” he said.
No “thank-you” for helping her son. No “I’m sorry” for her cold reception earlier. No “where do we go from here?” No answers to the dozens of questions running through Luke’s mind whenever she was near.
“You look tired.” He pulled out a chair from the four around the table and held it for her. “Have a seat.”
A look of annoyance traveled across her face, and she propped a hand on her hip, once again all sass and vinegar. “I hardly need an invitation to sit in my own house.”
Couldn’t he be a gentleman without irritating her?
A sudden, unexplainable urge to kiss her rose inside of him. But kissing her now would be as risky as kissing a peeved porcupine.
She plopped down across from him, almost as if her legs had made the decision and collapsed beneath her. Luke did the wise thing and pulled out a second chair, placing his medical bag on the floor. Sit. Deal with safe subjects like medicine, ignore that looking at Mary Graves softened his stone heart.
“I can’t believe Philip dropped off to sleep. You must have a special touch.”
Bracing himself for her reaction to his next words, he cleared his throat. “While you put Ben to bed, I gave Philip a dose of my medicine.”
Mary’s mouth gaped open, and she leapt to her feet. “Without my permission? Knowing how I feel about that remedy?”
“Would you have granted your consent?” When she didn’t answer, he gave a wry smile. “Ah, Mary, what’ll it take to get you to trust me as a doctor?”
She looked away. “I don’t trust easily. Especially not…” Her gaze swiveled back to his. “What does it matter? You don’t have anything in that little black bag to cure a lack of trust, do you?”
No, he didn’t. If he did, he’d have taken it himself. Maybe then he’d have stayed in one place long enough to grow some moss beneath his feet.
To have a life.
To love a woman like Mary Graves.
Luke shook off the thought. He wasn’t that kind of man and had no intention of staying. He dug inside his bag, took out the remedy and nudged the bottle to Mary. “Give him one half-teaspoon at the first sign of discomfort.”
A desire to refuse paraded across Mary’s face, but then the mother in her relented. She reached for what he offered and sagged back into the chair. “Thank you.”
Two simple words, and yet, knowing the truth he kept from her, they hit Luke with a tidal wave of guilt. He nodded and then looked away, letting his gaze travel the kitchen’s pale apple-green walls and white starched curtains, moving on to a stack of dinner dishes, to the pile of silverware, to a pan soaking on the stove.
Glad this unexpected disarray in tidy Mary’s life served as a distraction from her sweet lips and the endless, empty evening ahead of him, Luke stood, rolling up his sleeves. “Looks like you could use some help.”
Mary stiffened, obviously misconstruing his comment as a criticism of her housekeeping. “I didn’t want to leave Philip’s side long enough to clean up after supper.”
“You’re a good mother. Your children come first, as they should.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Still she smiled, and the beauty of it zinged through him.
“Hmm, too bad,” he said, enjoying her snit. “But maybe lending a hand will. I’m not the helpless bachelor you probably expect. I’ve learned a few things travel
ing around this great country alone. One of them is to wash my own dishes, and in far less convenient places than this cozy kitchen.”
She arched a brow. “You want to wash dishes?”
“Yes.” Actually, he wanted to kiss her badly right now, but that wasn’t a good idea. Luke crossed to the stove. He picked up the teakettle of hot water, partially filled the first blue washbasin and then filled the rinse basin. “You act surprised. Didn’t your husband—”
“I couldn’t rely on Sam…to help.” She laughed, the sound forced, without a trace of humor. “Most men avoid household chores,” she said, then got busy finding an apron.
True enough, but something about the hard set of Mary’s jaw told him there was more to it than that. Hadn’t her husband valued the treasure of the wife and family under his roof?
Mary took a dipper of cool water and added enough to the dishpan to keep him from burning his hands, then pulled out a cake of soap, swishing it around until suds formed. Retrieving a washcloth from the drawer, she handed it to him, then found a towel for herself. “Well, if you’re determined to help, you can wash. I’ll dry.”
Taking his place at the sink, his long legs brushed against her skirt, the soft rustling the only sound except for the ticking of the clock in the quiet kitchen.
“Excuse me.” Mary took a quick step back, then gathered glasses and silverware, giving him wide berth as she brought them to the sink.
“Thanks,” he said, dipping his hands into the water, swiping at a plate.
She glanced at him. “This is a side of you I never expected to see.”
“And this is a different side of you.” An amiable side, but he kept that to himself. “I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on you. The day you tried to run me out of town.” He grinned. “You were hopping mad.”
She laughed. “You reminded me of a gypsy.”
Surprised by her mirth and loving the sound, he chuckled. “Dark and dangerous. I like that image.”
“A dark and dangerous doctor—are you sure that’s good for your reputation?”
“No, but it sounds…” His eyes wandered her face, settling on her mouth. “…kind of…exciting.”
Those rosy lips parted. “Yes, it does.”
Their eyes met, her smile slipped away and in its place, he saw a lonely woman, a human being as lonely as he. He drank her in with his eyes, forgetting the task at hand. Heart pounding in his chest, he remained at the sink, dishes slipping into the depths of the soapy water.
Turning away, she scraped bits of food off the plates, and then stacked them within his reach, alongside the sink. “Seems like I recall someone promising to do my dishes,” she said, her tone a tease.
Smiling, he gave a jaunty salute. “Yes, ma’am.” He washed a dish, scrambling for a topic that would return them to safe ground. Something to stop him from contemplating things he couldn’t have—with a woman who deserved more than he could give. “It’s getting dark earlier,” he said. Fascinating tidbit, Jacobs.
“Winter will be here before I’m ready.”
A picture popped into his mind—he and Mary cuddled in front of a cozy fire, watching the flames. He tamped down the image. With his desire to get his medicine into production, he’d be gone before the first log crackled to life.
“You don’t like the cold?” he said, forcing his thoughts away from such sentimental drivel.
“It’s not the cold as much as the overcast skies, the gloom.” She smiled. “But the boys love snow. They celebrate the first flakes, while I long for spring, for the warmth and the flowers and the sunshine.”
He chuckled. “I love snow too. When I can, I go upstate and ski.”
“I’ve heard of skiing. I can’t imagine speeding downhill on thin strips of wood.” Her hand stilled from drying a dish. “Is it scary?”
“No, it’s exhilarating, especially with a warm fire to come back to.”
“Where do you stay? Are there hotels in the mountains?”
He hesitated. “My family owns a lodge.”
“Imagine,” she said, shaking her head, “two houses.”
Luke’s breath caught. He came from wealth, while this woman and her children lived with far less. Yet he suspected of the two of them that he was the disadvantaged one.
Mary sighed. “Ohio is the farthest from home I’ve ever been. When I was twelve, my parents took me to Cincinnati for a family reunion. I wish we could have traveled more, but my father never felt he could leave the practice. Where else have you been?”
“We spent our winters in St. Augustine, Florida.”
“A warm, sunny spot sounds lovely.” She cocked her head. “Does your family own a house there too?”
Luke scrubbed at food on the plate he held. “Ah, yes.”
She gasped. “Three? I can barely manage one.”
“The staff does all the work.”
“Still, owning three houses amazes me. Your family must be…rich.”
His jaw clenched. “Houses don’t make a home, and money doesn’t buy happiness.”
“With all that wealth, why do you live so…frugally?”
Luke set a glass to drain. “I don’t want my family’s money.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather not go into that.” He rinsed another glass, and she took it from his hand.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually so nosy.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s only natural to wonder about my life. I know so much more about yours.”
“So tell me more.” She grinned. “But only if you want to, of course.”
“I’m not close to my parents like you are with Doc. Once I was old enough, my parents sent me to boarding school so I missed most winters in St. Augustine. But even when we resided in the same house, my parents didn’t spend time with me or my brother.” Luke forced a chuckle, an obvious lack of humor in his effort. “They found ways to ensure their children didn’t interfere with their lives.”
“But surely your parents loved you.”
“I rarely see my parents. Maybe they did—do—in their own way, love me. But not the total, unreserved love you have for your boys. To my parents, my brother and I were…” He paused, searching for the right words. “…like ornamental roses—great for showing off to their friends, but they left our tending to others.” Once Joseph’s imperfection surfaced, they preferred hiding them away.
“I’m sorry,” she said, laying a hand on his arm, her touch delicate, warm and healing. “How sad your parents didn’t realize children are a gift from God.”
In her eyes, he found acceptance, a woman he’d known for mere weeks, yet a woman like none other. “You were a gift to your father and mother. I’ve seen the love on Doc’s face when he looks at you. I’ve seen that same love in your eyes for your boys.”
Sighing, Mary picked up a plate. “Which explains why it’s been hard to watch Philip suffer.”
He turned to her, looked into her troubled eyes. “How frequent are his stomachaches?”
Wiping the dish, Mary’s hand stilled. “Umm, he complains once or twice a month. Lately, more often.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “As often as once or twice a week.”
At the admission, her brow furrowed. Luke had a crazy urge to kiss away the lines of worry. Instead, he scooped a plate through the rinse water, then put it on the towel to drain. “Any particular days?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
A good doctor asked questions and listened until he got his answers. Luke washed the glasses, waiting.
She grabbed a tumbler, drying the glass until it squeaked. “I hadn’t thought about it before, but I can see a pattern, of sorts.” From her expression, the admission pained her. “His stomachaches occur most often on Sunday…and Thursday nights.”
“And the next day you let him stay home from school?”
Wiping a glass with infinite care, she nodded.
“And you stay home with him?”
Mary shifted on her fee
t. “Well, yes. He’s only eight. I can’t very well leave him alone.”
Turning from the sink, he studied her profile, choosing his words with care. “Anything different about Mondays or Fridays?”
She tossed the towel on the counter and whipped toward him, hands on hips. “What are you suggesting? That my son is making up his stomachaches?”
“I couldn’t find anything wrong with Philip. He has no exact spot that’s tender. Neither is he vomiting, having diarrhea, nor running a fever. You’ve indicated his appetite is good. He looks like a healthy boy.”
“Philip isn’t a liar.” Her expression dared him to disagree.
Dipping the roasting pan, the last of the dishes, into the rinse water, he set it to drain. “So there’s nothing special about Mondays and Fridays?”
Mary’s shoulders drooped, and she turned away.
“It’s a nice night,” he said. “Want to finish our talk outside?”
She nodded, and then removed a sweater from the hook. In case Ben would awaken and find it, Luke grabbed his medical bag, then shrugged into his jacket and opened the door for Mary. High above them, a myriad of stars twinkled in the crisp night sky.
She tilted her head to study the heavens. “God’s diamonds,” she said, her tone awed.
The beauty of the evening and sharing it with Mary sent a thrill through Luke. “God created all this beauty, such a complex, fascinating, beautiful universe. Makes you wonder what Heaven will be like.”
“I like to think God is up there talking with my loved ones.”
His brother. Mary’s mother and husband. All had passed on to greater things.
Tugging the sweater about her shoulders, Mary kept her gaze riveted on the stars and away from him. “Judge and Viola Willowby are grandparents to Ben. He visits them on Monday and Friday mornings.”
Her statement brought him back to the issue, Philip’s stomachaches. “So, if Philip stayed home from school, he’d have his mother to himself.”
She nodded.
“When did the stomachaches start?”
“Not long after…”
He turned her toward him, bent near, pinning her with his gaze. “After what?”
