The Surgeon

“Hold on,” he demanded. “Before you go, which one of you was the letter writer?”

“Wesley wrote them, but all of us—except Logan—dictated.”

John groaned. “I want those letters returned to Miss O’Neill and I swear you all to secrecy. If one word gets out about their content, and you know what I’m referring to, I’ll come looking for you.”

The men exchanged meaningful glances, nodding yes to John with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm. A sinking feeling wove through the pit of John’s stomach.

Had they already started spreading the news about her chastity?

Half asleep beneath the comfortable down tick, Sarah stirred. The sun’s morning rays slanted beneath the drawn shade, warming her face. She turned away from the sun’s heat and buried her face in the unusual scent of the feather pillow. Whose scent was that? A hint of shaving cream mingled with a laundry soap she didn’t recognize, mingled with the scent of a very faint male cologne…

Her eyes opened in wide alarm. This wasn’t her bed!

She sprang off the pillow, causing the cover to dip around her shoulders. Her jumbled mass of red hair cascaded down her back. A cool breeze wafted beneath the nest of warm covers, stirring the hairs on her bare flesh, causing her smooth, flat nipples to tighten. She was naked!

John Calloway!

Her lacy white corset was lying on the dresser beside her, propped beside the candlestick. She’d bought it specially for him, but under far different circumstances. Not these!

When she picked it up, one side of the stiff whale-boned fabric fell open, revealing frayed ends. Her mouth dropped open in disbelief. He’d cut it off her! It was torn to shreds!

She shifted at the faint slam of a door in another part of the house. It echoed beneath the oak strip flooring of her bedroom. Struggling out of bed, armed with the shredded corset, she knew this room was his. They were his boots by the door, his denim pants over the upholstered wing-backed chair, and his checkered shirts folded on the dresser. This bedroom was totally different than his barracks. This one was warm and casual and reeking of masculinity.

The memory of yesterday’s events came hammering down on her. It hadn’t been a dream. It had truly happened.

How could he have stripped her of all her clothing?

Clutching the slippery cover around her, she raced down the stairs, her bare feet padding the floor.

Where was he?

She caught him in the hallway. He was bending to toss a duffle sack into the corner, dressed in off-duty clothes. Form-fitting denim pants hugged his long legs, tanned cowboy boots encased his feet and another one of those billowing white shirts he liked so much spanned the breadth of his shoulders.

She stopped at the first landing and hollered down the stairs as if she were calling in a barnyard. “Why did you strip me naked?!”

He jumped at the sound of her voice. For a police officer, the man sure had skittish nerves. The sunlight caught his face and the twinkle in his eye.

He grinned up at her. God help him, he grinned. “Good morning to you, too.”

The cover slid down her shoulders. She was too angry to care. She yanked it up, none too gracefully. The cloth was silky and she couldn’t get a good grip. What did it matter? He’d already seen everything she had!…Or had he?

“Who took off my clothes?”

His grin got wider. “You’re looking at him.”

“Ah-hh!” She threw the corset at him and it snapped him in the shoulder.

He dove and caught it. “Are you always this angry? Or is it just me you respond to?”

“How could you!”

He toyed with her corset in a manner that made her blush. “Is this mine to keep?”

“You owe me three dollars and ninety-two cents!”

“It’s new then?” He snapped the lace and a mischievous look came over him. “That means you bought it for me?”

Her mouth opened in pure shock. “I bought it for my husband!”

“That would have been me, wouldn’t it?”

“Give that back!”

“No…I think it’s mine. You just gave it to me.” He took the stairs one by one, appraising her up and down, from her squirming toes to her ruffled head.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

Her heart raced. She tightened her grip on the down tick and backed away. “You didn’t answer my first question. Why did you take off my clothes?”

He held up the lace fabric as he moved closer. “Because you couldn’t breathe in this thing.”

“What? That’s ridiculous.”

His eyes roved her body. Good Lord, what was she doing standing in front of a man, in front of him, naked beneath this cover?

“Is it so ridiculous?” he asked. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I removed your corset, your waist grew by a full three inches.”

She gaped at him. Her face burned with heat. Why did she constantly feel like an idiot around this man?

“You know, most men would agree with me. These contraptions you women get into are highly unnecessary. Personally, I’d much rather see natural skin bouncing beneath a woman’s clothing than this piece of armor.”

He’d finally reached her and held up the corset, a foot away from her.

Gulping, she decided she’d better simmer her temper. He was getting far too close for comfort. “You tore my clothes to shreds. Why?”

“I didn’t shred them all.”

“Where are the rest?”

“Your satchel’s in your room, on the right side of the bed. Didn’t you see it?”

She shook her head a little too vigorously.

He nodded toward the front hall. “I had Polly wash and press your red suit. It’s hanging in the front armoire in case you’d like to check. After an eight-day journey, I figured you’d appreciate laundered clothes.”

“For heaven’s sake, I didn’t wear the suit for the whole eight days. I changed into it two hours before we pulled into the station. I’d prefer if you didn’t touch my things, thank you very much!”

“I guess that explains why Polly said they weren’t soiled.” He grew bolder and stepped closer. Much too close for her comfort. “You changed into your lovely suit before the train rolled into the Calgary station? For me again?”

“No! For the man I thought I’d be marrying.”

“You’re a very accommodating woman.”

It sounded like a compliment, but she caught the sarcasm.

The black flecks in his brown eyes sparkled. “How did you sleep last night?”

“Very well,” she squeaked. She pulled in a nervous breath at the steamy way he was studying her, at the thought that she’d spent the entire night in this surgeon’s bed. She cleared her throat. He must have gotten some rest, too. Even though there were a few sleepy wrinkles around his eyes, he looked fresher. “How did you sleep?”

“I got about two hours. It wasn’t much, but I’ve got the next few to myself. I arranged for someone to take over at the fort so I could come to check up on you.”

“There’s no need to check up on me.” Another question gnawed at her. She had to ask. She needed to know for her own peace of mind. “How exactly…did you remove my clothing?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Swallowing she tried to say yes, but the word was inaudible. “Yes,” she repeated, much too loudly.

“I removed them one by one.” Leaning in, two inches from her face, he laid one palm flat against the wall behind her, grazing her hair.

A wave of heat shimmered through her. In a self-conscious gesture, she tried to smooth her tangle of hair, but it was no use trying. It was no use ever trying to smooth her hair.

“Your jacket slid off first. Quite easily, I might add.”

“Humph.”

“Then your skirt.”

“Humph.”

“Your petticoat was easy, too, because of the secret drawstring.”

She heard a moan and realized it was coming from her throat. Heaven help her!

“Then the bloomers. They looked new, too. Did you buy them for me, as well?”

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He raised his other palm and placed it firmly on the wall by the other side of her head. She was trapped between his arms. His body was splayed before her. She recognized the faint scent of laundry soap that’d been on his pillow.

Her voice was a frazzled whisper. “Why…did you ruin my corset?”

“Because if I’d taken the time to unlace all those little zigzagging straps at the front, gently and carefully, and took the time to slip them up over your arms, I would have seen it all.”

She gasped.

When his gaze dropped to the bare expanse of her throat, a suggestive smile curved his well-defined lips. He ran a long, tanned finger along the base of her jawline and her muscles quivered beneath his touch. She should drop dead here and now.

“Sarah?” he murmured.

“Yes?” she whispered.

“I’m going out that door, to the bakery. When I come back, I want you fully dressed.”

A loud clang startled them. In the hallway below, a mop and bucket hit the hardwood floor.

To Sarah’s mortification, staring up at them was a skinny, youthful man she didn’t know. In front of him, Polly Fitzgibbon who’d just dropped her bucket, dressed in her washing clothes and kerchief, stood aghast. “Well, I do declare!”

The man turned his portable camera up the stairs. Sarah was blinded by the magnesium flashlamp as it went off in a cloud of smoke and ash. “Look straight at the birdie!”

Chapter Four

“Are they gone yet?” Sarah shrieked the question from behind John’s bedroom door.

John hollered back from the hallway, still agitated himself but wondering when she was going to come out of hiding. “The house is empty. It’s safe. They’re both gone.”

In the commotion ten minutes earlier, Sarah had dashed up the stairs and locked herself in his bedroom and Mrs. Fitzgibbon had huffed her way out the front door with her bucket, which had left her obnoxious nephew David alone with John to do the fancy footwork of explaining.

John heard a scraping on the floor, then Sarah asked another question. “Did you smash the camera?”

“I didn’t need to smash it. Besides, it’s private property and I can’t do that. But I confiscated the photographic material.”

“Did you smash that?”

“Yes.” In his mind, the embarrassing photograph was John’s property, no matter what David’s flimsy excuses were for taking it—journalistic instinct for a great shot, his aunt Polly’s request…. John rapped on the hard door. His knuckles stung. “Come out and let’s discuss this like two rational people.”

“There’s nothing rational about what Polly Fitzgibbon and her nephew witnessed.”

“I’ll admit they caught me off guard, too. But I’ll go to Polly and explain.”

“What will you say?”

He talked into the painted white wood. “That…that you were waking up and I was coming home from duty.”

“And what? You were helping me to get dressed?”

Leaning back, he pressed his shoulders into the cool plaster wall. “I could tell them the truth. That we were arguing—”

“Because you slashed off my corset?”

He combed his fingers through his hair in frustration. Sarah was right. The truth would sound worse.

Sarah’s voice got louder. “Polly’s probably telling the neighbors right now what she saw—or what she thinks she saw—and David is probably writing home to New York City about the great Canadian wild.”

“Polly won’t spread gossip,” John said weakly. God, he wished he believed it himself. “I asked her to keep it quiet.”

“Polly Fitzgibbon is not one of your men. She won’t be tried for treason or court-martialed if she tells people what she saw. And believe me, she won’t be able to keep this quiet.”

Sarah was right again. He knew that Polly Fitzgibbon had the biggest mouth in town; how he’d been so lucky to have her as a neighbor, he’d never fathom. “The police don’t court-martial each other.”

“Whatever.”

John heard more thudding and furniture moving beyond the door. “What are you doing in there?”

She ignored his question. “What’s your comeback about David?”

“I told him I’d have him arrested if he tried anything underhanded.” But what John didn’t tell her was that David took photographs for postcards and novelty buttons for distribution not only in New York City but across the country. A snapshot of John and a half-naked Sarah might have been amusing to any other person, but fortunately for him and Sarah, the picture had been destroyed.

The door opened suddenly, making him jump.

“You threatened David with arrest?” Smiling in deep approval, Sarah stepped into the hallway, fully clothed in a worn-out gingham dress. The collar couldn’t be higher, going right up her throat, finished with a floppy lace flounce and a dozen tiny buttons, and the skirt couldn’t be longer, sweeping her scuffed boots.

“Do you teach Sunday school in that thing?”

She patted the bun at the back of her head. How had she managed to capture all that beautiful curly hair into one tight bun? “It was given to me by my mother. As a matter of fact, it was my mother’s.”

He looked beyond her dress to the suitcases in her hands. Relief to see her finally packed and ready to leave settled on him. “There, you see. You’ll be on the train in no time, David’s photograph will be a bad memory and no one will even remember you were here.”

His comment made her turn her head abruptly toward him. Her mouth twisted open in a stab of disappointment. The shoulders beneath the dress fell with his insult.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that no one will remember you. That was a rude thing to say. I meant that no one will remember this incident.”

Well, that wasn’t entirely true, either. He’d remember. He’d remember coming home to a beautiful temptress, his down cover spilling about her naked shoulders, the light of battle in her heated gray eyes. He’d never had a better welcoming. An unexpected smile caught his lips, but he thought better of telling her about the image he was savoring.

She stalked down the stairs. The bags, which he’d retrieved for her last night dragged behind her, thudding along each tread.

He followed, with a queasy feeling. “You are heading to the train station, right?”

“I’m going to where I should have gone in the first place. To the boardinghouse.”

“Shouldn’t we be going to the train station? I stopped by and got a schedule on my way here this morning. There’s a train leaving this afternoon for Halifax, so there’s no sense paying for a room at the boardinghouse.”

She threw her bags onto the Windsor chair by the door, then shoved past him to look into his armoire. To him, her nose seemed to get straighter the higher up in the air she held it. “You came home this morning fully intending to get rid of me as quickly as possible.”

“That’s not true,” he said, stammering for an explanation, getting lost in the creamy skin of her cheeks and the finely arched brows. “I was…I was going to the bakery to get us cinnamon buns.”

“And then after you fed me your hot-cross buns, you were going to get rid of me.” She rummaged through his coats, his duster, one gentleman’s overcoat and an oilskin slicker.

He reached past her to show her that none of her clothes were left inside the armoire. As his tight shoulder brushed against her soft one, she reeled back as if he’d bitten her.

Hmm…He watched the tide of crimson flood her cheeks. There could be worse things than biting Sarah O’Neill.

“It’s not like I’m conspiring against you,” he continued. “I had nothing to do with your arrival, remember? I’m doing everything I can to get you back home and to fully rectify the situation.”

“Is that what I am now? ‘A situation’?”

He moaned. “You’re exhausting.” He’d never met a more argumentative woman. And he’d never been at more of a loss about how to remedy a difficult situation. Black-’n-White they called him? Well, things couldn’t be grayer to him when it came to dealing with Sarah O’Neill.

“I’m staying here,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m staying put. This is my home now.”

“Sarah, maybe you’re still not feeling well from yesterday.” His hands waved the air. “There’s no reason…there’s no person…this wasn’t my idea…you can’t stay here.”

She jammed her wide bonnet onto her head, then picked up her bags. As she stormed out the front door, she blasted him. “Don’t worry. I mean, Calgary is my home now, not your house!”

Grabbing his Stetson, he dashed behind her as she strode down the sunlit front porch. “Let’s both calm down. We’re adult enough to speak frankly about this.”

“Stop treating me like the doctor knows best.”

Hell. John’s temper rose another three notches. It’d been a long time since someone had argued with him like this, not since he’d been with his brothers and sisters back home, and they’d been gone for close to thirty years. John stumbled for a moment, hit by a pang of sorrow. He hadn’t thought about them in that light for a long while, but the memories were nice. The last time they were together at the Toronto fairgrounds, the four of them had argued about whose turn it was on the carousel and whose turn to sit out. That was the last day he’d seen them conscious.

He heard Sarah huffing beneath the weight of her luggage as she reached the bottom step.

Racing to catch up, he tore the bags out of her hands. “Let me help you with those.”

She yanked them back, nearly toppling over. “I’m afraid to let you help me. Every time you do, things get worse.”

“Why do your words always manage to knock the stuffing out of me?”

A dog barked in the Fitzgibbon yard. Sarah and John turned to look and saw Polly drawing the shades.

John shrank in his boots. He felt awful about what Polly had witnessed on the stair landing. As a single woman alone in Calgary, Sarah’s reputation was nothing to laugh about.

When he looked up the path two of his men, dressed in civilian clothes, were walking toward them. A wagonload of hay, pulled by oxen, creaked down the rutted street behind them. The cattle calls of the stockyards ten miles away echoed in the early morning mist.

Corporal Reid removed his broad brown felt hat and shifted his weight from one dirty black boot to the other. “Nice to see you again, ma’am.”

Sergeant O’Malley dipped his hand into the inside breast pocket of his wool jacket. When he removed a thick envelope, he passed it to Sarah.

“What’s this?” She squeezed the envelope between her fingers. The lace trim at her wrist bounced.

“We were comin’ to see the doc here, to have him pass this on to you. We had no idea that in our good fortune, we’d catch you here ourselves.”

“Yes, it is a very fortunate morning, isn’t it?” Her voice lacked the humor of her words. “It appears to be an envelope of money.” She frowned.

Mrs. Fitzgibbon, who’d managed to sneak outside without being heard, peered cautiously over the fence. John refused to be intimidated by her scowls.

“It’s the least we can do for you,” said the corporal. “It was Dr. Calloway’s idea. He thought the men should take up a collection, considering what we did to you.”

Mrs. Fitzgibbon sniffed, then went back into her house.

What must the old lady think now? Sarah clicked her tongue at Mrs. Fitzgibbon, then at him. “I don’t want your money.”

“Please take it, ma’am. And our apologies for treatin’ you…like you were a heifer for sale.”

Sarah shook her head. “I wish I could say thank-you for the apology and all’s well that ends well, but it isn’t, is it?”

The two men lowered their heads. “No, ma’am.”

Sarah colored beneath her bonnet. “I’d be most obliged if you’d return the letters I wrote.”

“Oh!” The sergeant dug into his pocket again and handed her several envelopes.

She counted them. “One, two, three, four.” She glanced at the sergeant.

He dug in and handed her one more.

“Five. Thank you.”

“Please take the money, ma’am. It’ll help you buy your return ticket, maybe a night or two in a fancy hotel, and it would sure make us feel better.”

“Well, if it’s to make you feel better—” She glared at the men with disapproval and it was the first time John had seen either of them blush with shame.

She tossed the envelopes into her satchel. “Thank you all for the most enjoyable eight days of nauseating travel. Good day.”

While she stalked away, deserting them in the street, the three men gaped after her. Recovering quickly, John shooed away the other two while he ran to catch up. How on earth could she manage alone in town, knowing no one?

“Sarah, will you please allow me to help you?”

She fumbled with her bags, half dragging one of them on the back of her leg, balancing her satchel beneath her elbow and yanking on her bonnet to keep it straight in the gentle blowing wind. Silently they marched down the block to Macleod Trail and its wide boardwalk. Passersby nodded hello to him, gazing quizzically at the odd combination of the woman carrying everything while the man accompanying her strode empty-handed.

“Sarah.”

“Ah, here’s one.”

She glanced up at the wood-burnished sign. Alice’s Boardinghouse. John knew the woman inside to be older than the hills, but there was no telling what the two of them together might accomplish.

Much to Sarah’s annoyance, he insisted on staying at the front desk while she registered for a room. The room wouldn’t be available for two hours, though, so Sarah agreed to leave her baggage while she went outdoors again to run an errand.

Until Sarah was settled and he knew she’d calmed down enough so that she wouldn’t do anything drastic, he couldn’t leave her. It was getting awfully close to his two hours being up. He figured he had another half hour before returning to the hospital ward.

“You know, David told me he’s a novelty writer.” John tried to break through the danged wall of silence she’d erected.

“What’s that?”

“He takes photos for postcards and novelty buttons, then writes captions beneath the photo, for amusement. That’s how he earns his living.”

“You mean, at this morning’s photo, he might have written something like, ‘Sarah gets her mounted man’?”

John laughed at her unexpected sense of humor. “How about, ‘Another Eastern tourist arrives on the plains’?”

“‘Another Mountie is brought to his knees.”’

“‘A mail-order bride responds to an ad.”’

She laughed at that one. You never knew what would strike the woman funny, and what wouldn’t. When she laughed, her entire face sparkled with warm spontaneity, her gray eyes glistened with flecks of blue and there wasn’t an inch of skin that didn’t glow with pleasure. The sound of her good humor rippled through him, gently arousing his senses.

They stopped at the corner to let a horse and rider pass. She followed the laughter of a group of children as they chased a mangy mutt around the water troughs.

Looking up at the buildings, they stood between Melodie’s Bath and Barber House and Rossman’s Mercantile.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Work.” She lifted her long skirts to descend the boardwalk and cross the road. “We passed a jeweler’s on our way to the boardinghouse. Didn’t you notice?”

“What do you call this one?” Standing inside the jewelry store, John leaned his bulky arms against the glass case.

Sarah laid her bonnet on the counter. “It’s a singing bird box. You wind it up and a toy bird sings to you.” She carefully lifted the gilded oval cover. A small bird with iridescent hummingbird feathers popped up, making her and John smile. “It’s Swiss, I believe.”

“That’s correct, madam,” said a female clerk, sidling up to the two of them. “It’s vintage, and over sixty years old.”

Sarah gently removed her hand from the box. “It’s beautiful.” She thought it strange that the clerk, who was about the same age, had called her madam and not miss.

“Good morning, John,” said the clerk then, in a much more casual tone, causing Sarah’s lashes to rise with suspicion. Not many people called him by his first name, Sarah had noticed. She had that privilege, but she’d almost married him.