Her body tensed and she nearly stumbled over her own feet as she re-entered the room. She spotted him immediately; he was standing beside the bed, his hand on his side, his expression pained, but his eyes turned from anguished to relieved the moment they landed on her.
Again, heat enveloped her insides, rushing up into her face. It took biting her lip to keep from gasping at the sensation, for it was a heady sensation, one that she could too easily enjoy.
Taking a breath, she barked, “Get back in that bed. The last thing I need is for you to make a bloody mess all over the floor.” It was her mother’s voice, the voice of unquestioned command. And it seemed to do the trick, because the giant canted his head and levered himself down to the bed, lying back on the pillows and throwing his long—and muscular—legs over the foot. His large and dirty boots hung at least a foot and a half off the edge.
Large, muscular, unsettling man.
“Mr. Ducharme,” she began, turning away from the scene to pour the water into a clean basin on the table beside the cabinet. “Please remove his boots.”
“Seamus.” That deep, rumbling, soul firing voice spoke and she tensed.
Slowly turning, she asked, “What?”
The wounded man’s gaze scoured her face, taking in everything, trying to see through her expression into her mind. Like there wasn’t a thing in the world that would stop him from knowing her every thought.
That thought is ridiculous.
“My name,” he continued. “My name is Seamus MacAdams.”
Oh. Seamus. It wasn’t a name she’d heard before, but his accent…that was very familiar.
“Scottish?” she asked, wiping her suddenly damp hands on her apron.
A curl of his lips formed a slight smile. “Aye, lass.”
Why did her skin prickle when he talked?
“How did ye know?”
Joy swallowed and forced a simple smile. “My grandfather was Scottish. I used to love sitting at his feet and listening to him talk. He’d puff on his pipe and rock back on his heels…” She caught herself before she said anything more personal than that. He didn’t need to know how much she missed her grandfather.
And what about his desire to see you married one day? What about that? There was that dratted voice again. To silence it, she blurted, “And the socks. No need to get the bed messy, and I assume the doctor will want to remove his pants to rid him of anything that may interfere with the examination.” She fought and barely won the fight against the blush that threatened at the mention of removing Seamus’s pants. Certainly, she should have removed his socks, but the idea of touching Seamus…feeling the warmth of his skin under her fingers… It seemed intimate—which was utter foolishness. She was a professional, for heaven’s sakes. She’d touched plenty of wounded men during her rotations at St. Albans. This one man shouldn’t make her any less of a skilled nurse.
Tell that to your pounding heart. And, again, try to ignore the fact that Seamus will need to remove his bloody pants…
As if sensing her turmoil, Seamus’s eyes began to twinkle, changing his eyes from a weary hazel to a dazzling evening fire. “And what did yer grandda talk about?” He seemed more at ease now, letting his head fall back and bracing his hands over his chest. A chest she refused to admire, even though it was broad and was covered in a smattering of dark brown hair.
“I’ll hear it all, lass,” he prodded, his voice delving deep into her chest.
She knew he was only being polite, and more than likely trying to give himself something to do other than worry about his wound, but she couldn’t help the surge of delight she felt at his question.
A laugh escaped as the memories of her grandfather glimmered through her mind.
“He had the best stories,” she effused, ignoring the sense of sadness that stole in to dim the glimmer. “Grandfather was from Lorne, so he often spoke of the highlands and going to market in Aberdeen. And he always ended his tales with: ‘And that, lass, is just a small part o’ the bigger tale.’”
“And what was yer favorite story?” Seamus asked as she stood there, like a log by a dried-up stream bed, waiting for the doctor to come and rescue her from her own inept feelings. “Come on, lass, I need tae hear ye speak…it helps with the pain.” Her breath caught at his admission, and she glanced up at his face. His intensity was back, and this time, her own gaze met his full on. Unwavering.
What are you doing?
“Don’t mind him, Nurse Joy,” Mr. Ducharme said, slapping Seamus on the leg and snapping Joy from her stupor. “He’s a big baby when it comes to pain.”
Seamus snorted. “Och, ye try tae ride in a wagon with a hole in yer side, then ye can tell me how tae feel.”
The sound of the clinic door slamming open made them all turn toward the door, where Dr. Bartlett came charging through, a look of focus on his face. At least he was able to focus on the task.
“Looks like Nurse Mollie was right, you’ve got quite the gash in your side, Seamus.” Dr. Bartlett turned to Joy just as Mollie came into the room. “Nurse Mollie, you will assist—thank you, Nurse Joy, for preparing the room and keeping Seamus company.” Joy could only nod. “Nurse Joy, if you please, keep my wife company in the waiting room. She wouldn’t let me come unless she came too—none of them would.”
None of them? Curious about what he could mean, she cast one last look at the man in the bed and, ignoring the piercing and earnest depths of his eyes, she spun on her heel and left.
Walking the distance from the exam room to the waiting room was like treading a tight rope, suspended over a gorge, with rushing water beneath it.
What happened in there? What were those unrelenting sensations and how had Seamus awakened them in her? It was ridiculous, really, the way her body responded to his voice, the sight of his muscles, the way he looked at her with such…awe. Like he’d never seen anything like her before, and he was bowled over by it. Experiencing Seamus MacAdams had robbed her of coherent thought and filled her with something she couldn’t name. Didn’t dare name. She pressed a clammy hand against her forehead and closed her eyes, exiting the hallway.
“Joy?” She immediately recognized Tilly’s voice. Joy opened her eyes to see a room full of well-dressed women, all with anxious looks on their lovely faces. “How is Seamus?”
Sensing the apprehension in the room, Joy offered the ladies a soft, reassuring smile.
“He has a nasty gash in his side, but it’s nothing that’ll keep him down for long. And I know Dr. Bartlett has everything in hand.”
Tilly nodded, reaching out to a beautiful red-headed woman who came to stand beside her.
“Joy, this is Ray, Seamus’s cousin, and Billy’s wife,” Tilly informed her, and Joy reached out to shake the other woman’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you, though, I wish it were under better circumstances,” Joy said, surprised at Ray’s strong handshake.
Ray snorted, rolling her eyes heavenward. “I knew that man would get himself in trouble with that ram. It just about killed the man who brought it here, but Seamus was determined to rehabilitate the brute.”
Surprised by Ray’s blunt remark, Joy asked, “But why would he bother with something that could kill a man?”
Ray shrugged. “It’s a MacAdam’s trait; when we get somethin’ in our heads we do just about anythin’ to make sure it’s done.” The other women in the room—three more beautiful ladies—all chuckled. Ray grinned, puffing out her chest. “It’s how I got my husband—ain’t it, Tilly?”
Now curious, Joy opened her mouth to ask what Ray meant by that, but then she remembered that it was none of her business. She was the nurse. That was it. These people weren’t there to entertain her, she was there—by order of the doctor—to keep them company. Perhaps offer some comfort regarding their friend.
Seamus. Even his name seemed…large, as though any man named Seamus would be a gargantuan male. What a silly thought.
One of the other women, finely dressed in a deep purple go
wn with black lace, cleared her throat. “As much as I would love to hear that story—again—mon amie, we still have to discuss the Cotillion. The location of our meeting changed, but the necessity has not.” Joy noted that this woman had an accent similar to that of Becky, the boarding house proprietress. French—that was it.
Ray sucked in a breath and let it out loudly. “You’re right, Isabeau. And since you’re the only La Fontaine here, I suppose you get to start the meetin’.”
So, this woman—Isabeau—was a La Fontaine, just like Becky.
“Just because the Cotillion is funded by the family, doesn’t mean you don’t have to do your part, Ray,” Isabeau remarked, her eyebrows arching.
Ray’s eyebrows followed suit. “Why, Isabeau La Fontaine, I’d never not do my part. You know there’s nothin’ I love more than sittin’ around blabberin’ about parties,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest dramatically.
The room erupted into giggles, and Joy found herself relaxing around them.
“La Fontaine? Are you related to Becky?” Joy just couldn’t help but ask.
Isabeau’s lovely face lit up, her sapphire eyes sparkling. “Qui. We are both married to La Fontaine men. Brothers, actually. They are the nephews of Leslie and Cressida—who you will, no doubt, meet at the Cotillion.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be going,” she interjected.
“Why ever not? The whole town is invited—which is one of the reasons we’re so desperate to get this thing planned.” Isabeau nudged her with her shoulder.
“Well, if you hadn’t thought it up last minute, we wouldn’t be in such a rush in the first place,” Ray grumbled, crossing her arms. Heaven’s but she was a fiery one. And Joy found that she liked the brassy woman.
“It is a good idea, one that will benefit the church with the money we’ll collect in donations—and we all get to have a party. We win on two fronts,” Isabeau said, opening the large handbag beside her and removing a sheaf of papers.
“Come on over, sit down,” the other woman, with brown eyes, said, waving Joy over and patting the chair beside her. Not one to ignore such a surprising yet warm invitation, Joy walked over and sat. “My name is Aimee.” She turned toward Joy and flashed a brilliant smile. “I’m married to Tilly’s brother, Gaston.”
“Goodness! Is everyone here related by marriage?” Joy burst out, immediately covering her mouth to stop anything else from flying out.
Again, giggles erupted.
Tilly, grinning, replied, “Most of us, yes, but it wasn’t like we planned it that way. Aimee and Isabeau were actually mail-order brides. I married my childhood nemesis, and Ray married her childhood friend.”
Joy marveled at that; these women had such amazing stories to tell, and though the practical nurse in her told her she should be working, her legs wouldn’t move, and her mouth opened with another question. “What about Seamus?” Oh, Lord. Where had that come from?
Ray’s eyes immediately landed on Joy, something glimmering in her eyes. “What about Seamus?”
She swallowed, annoyed at her own lack of thought. “Oh, well, nothing—tell me more about this Cotillion.” Yes. She was a coward for changing the subject, and so obviously at that, but she couldn’t trust her mouth to not say something ridiculous. It was bad enough her brain was about as useful as a broken stick.
Seemingly happy to get back to the matter of their meeting, Isabeau shuffled the papers in her hands until she came to the one she wanted. “First order of business,” she began, “food…”
Joy’s first day at her new job ended with a discussion on whether they should have punch or wine at the party. And she refused to think about the fact that she spent the whole discussion wondering about the large, handsome man in the exam room.
Chapter Four
Seamus leaned against the railing and stared out over the darkened land, the outlines of buildings hugged by a backdrop of a million glittering stars. He let out a breath and watched as it turned to mist, the chilly night doing nothing to cool his agitation. Just below the horizon, dotting the dark space, were white puffs milling about as they began settling in for the night. But it wasn’t the sheep that had him unsettled. It was the fact that it had been a week since he’d seen Joy.
Joy Song. He sighed.
Even her name was beautiful.
“Joy Song,” he whispered her name like a prayer, the very sound of the words on his tongue held magic. Magic that so easily conjured an image of her in his mind.
He closed his eyes, welcoming the chill as the crispness of the night air kissed his cheeks.
He sighed as his memories of Joy caressed his thoughts. Long hair that was as black as the midnight sky and looked as soft as satin. Eyes—kind, intelligent eyes—that were as deep and sweetly alluring as scotch whiskey. Her lips…lips he longed to feel pressed against his own, were a perfect bow that wrapped up the perfect gift.
She was a gift. For him. He knew it. She had to be. He’d never felt that way about any woman, ever. And he’d been so dumbfounded by the sight of her that he’d acted an utter nutter; begging her to stay when she needed to work, attempting to follow her from the room when he was a bleeding mess, and staring at her like a man starved, gazing at the one thing that would save his life.
A growl vibrated his chest and he let out the breath he’d been holding. A full week had passed since that day in the clinic. Not that he didn’t want to see her, to set eyes on her and assure his heart that she was real, that she wasn’t a figment created by his aching loneliness. But he didn’t have a choice but to remain in the “care” of his aunt, who was stronger and more forceful than he ever thought someone her size could be. She’d have tied him to the bed if she had to.
The sound of the front door scraping along the floorboards told him that his aunt had probably heard his thoughts. He pushed away from the railing and turned to look at her, ignoring the twinge in his side from the healing wound.
“I see that ye have finished mutterin’ around the house like a discontented bull and have decided tae mutter around the porch instead,” his aunt said, coming to stand beside him, her gaze not missing a thing. “I ken ye dunna enjoy bein’ trapped inside, in yer bed, like an invalid, but yer nay good tae me if ye canna lift yer arm over yer head without wincin’. But…that isna why yer upset.”
Perceptive woman.
“What’s botherin’ ye, lad?” She placed a worn, gentle hand on his forearm, and he felt some of the tension leave his body.
His aunt had acted as his mother ever since his mother died more than twenty years ago. Even when she lived in Texas and he was settled in Baltimore after his journey to America, she’d write, asking after him, sending him homemade butter cookies and knitted scarves for the winters. He’d known her love and support for longer than he could remember. But…would she understand what happened to him? He didn’t even understand what happened to him—like lightning had struck his head, his heart, and his soul at the same time.
Sucking in a breath, he turned to face the view off the porch once again, taking in the sky holding the earth close, like a lover would.
“I’ve found her, Aunt Moira,” he blurted, tensing, waiting for the inevitable question.
“I’d hoped that’s what was goin’ on,” she replied, shocking him.
He looked down at the wee woman beside him and gawped.
“Close yer mouth, lad.”
Finding his thoughts, he asked, “Ye know what I’m talkin’ about?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief from this voice.
She chuckled. “Seamus MacAdams, sometimes I wonder if ye were born the wrong side up—o’ course I know what yer talkin’ about. I could tell by the awe with which ye spoke.”
Ah.
“Who is she, lad?”
Everything. “She’s a nurse at the clinic.”
His aunt nodded. “The one Ray has been natterin’ on about for the last week.”
Surprise made him pause for a moment, before he could speak again. �
��Ray has been talkin’ about Joy? Why?”
She shrugged. “Ray is annoyed at all the plannin’ over that fancy Christmas party, but she did talk about how glad she was that Joy had agreed tae help.”
That made him turn to face his aunt completely. “Help how?”
“Apparently, Joy is from a fancy family in San Francisco, so she knows more than anyone in the group about fancy American Christmas parties. She agreed tae help make the town party as elegant as the ones she grew up with.”
“But Isabeau is a baron’s daughter, surely she knows about elegant parties.”
“American parties, lad. Maybe the French have traditions and customs that wouldna fash with the likes o’ Dry Bayou folk—but enough about that, Seamus, tell me why ye think Joy is tae be Mrs. Seamus MacAdams.
At the sound of that name, a thrill slammed through him.
Joy MacAdams.
Even more beautiful.
His aunt sat on the porch swing and patted the seat beside her. With his size, he’d break the thing—if he hadn’t been the one to build it, that is. He’d made the chains especially sturdy. The swing could hold him and one other person. A person Joy’s size.
Holding his side, he slowly settled down into the swing and kicked off, allowing the swing to move leisurely.
“Out with it, lad,” his aunt prodded.
He chuckled. “I dunna know how tae explain it. I heard her voice, first. Then, when I opened my eyes tae see who that lovely voice belonged tae, I was thrown from this world and intae the next by the woman who stood before me.” He sighed, again picturing Joy as she’d been the first day he’d seen her. “She is pure beauty, Auntie. There is kindness in her eyes, a sweetness in her smile, and…well, I canna even begin tae explain how just thinkin’ o’ her makes me feel.”
It was his aunt’s turn to sigh. “Ye’ve got it bad, ma boy.”
“Aye.” He couldn’t deny it. He’d been immediately captured by Joy the moment their eyes met. So…what to do about it? He’d be a fool to think she’d experienced the same earth-shattering realization, but there had to be potential there. Seamus refused to believe that God would give him these feelings for Joy if she wasn’t the one his heart had been pining for years. Decades. He’d been waiting decades for her.
A Joyful Song: A Dry Bayou Brides Christmas Novella Page 3
