A Family Practice

“Look, you’re not exactly the weighty help I need to load this baby into the back end,” he said, running a critical eye over her smallish shape.

Mariah drew herself up taller. “That may be, but I don’t see anyone else lining up to offer his services, do you?”

Luke cursed inventively and ran a hand through his hair. He hated being at anyone’s mercy—especially a woman who heated his blood the way Mariah did.

He caught her soft scent, sweet and sun-drenched—like the flowers she collected in her basket. Her red blouse dipped just low enough at the neck to reveal the slightest hint of her delectable breasts beneath.

Her arms were bronzed by the sun, slender, capable; just not capable of raising his bike to the bed of her truck, though he had no doubt that she would try.

He had the feeling that she was accomplished at many things, that she had to be. Perhaps she was alone in the world, with no one to share the emotional and physical load she carried—or did she prefer to carry it all herself?

She made him curious, though he had no right to be anything of the sort. This was only a chance meeting of two people in time, one moment of accident that had brought them together.

He longed to feed his soul with her warmth, something he denied himself because of his failure that night in the trauma unit.

The night he couldn’t work his medical magic.

The night he failed to save his son.

Chapter Two

“This is Sunrise,” Mariah said as they passed through the tiny town of only a few businesses.

A small grocery store, an old tavern, a pizza place and a post office surrounded the small center plaza. Several square-shaped houses were scattered around the town’s outskirts. And up on the hill beyond sat the church with its old bell tower, the bell long-since missing.

“You live in town?” he asked.

She glanced over at him, his injured leg stretched out in front of him as best he could in the cramped cab of her truck. She needed to take care of that leg wound. It had to be painful—despite his insistence to the contrary.

The man pretended toughness—and Mariah suspected he wasn’t about to admit to simple weaknesses like cuts and scrapes and bruises.

“I live a short distance beyond. It’s not far,” she said as the truck rumbled past the town’s environs.

Callie would be waiting for her at home. And Una would have supper started. She always did when Mariah was away gathering her herbs and roots.

Both would be surprised she was bringing home a guest of sorts.

A few miles ahead she made a turn, the truck creaking and groaning as if it were an old woman getting out of a rocker after a long afternoon nap.

She passed Una’s small frame-and-stucco house. Her own was just past it, not much larger size-wise, but with a wide porch that Mariah loved. She often sat out there at the end of her day, listening to the night sounds, enjoying the solitude—and thinking of the day to come.

“Here we are,” she said, as she pulled into the long driveway and parked a short distance from the house.

Luke surveyed his surroundings. The house was small, but it exuded a warmth that was very much Mariah. Maybe it was the big front porch, or perhaps the soft, fluttery white curtains at the windows or the well-tended garden at the side, but he liked it. Liked its soft cream color, its peace and simplicity.

He opened the truck door and swung his injured leg out. If it hadn’t been for his little mishap back on the road, he’d have been halfway to Phoenix by now. Not that he was on any schedule.

Not since he’d left his life fifteen-hundred miles behind.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Luke glanced up to see a little girl of about six, maybe seven, tripping toward them. The first thing he noticed was her beauty—dark silken hair, like her mother’s, and the same vibrant green eyes.

The brightness in her face, her smile, eclipsed the other thing he noticed—sturdy braces on her thin, coltish legs, braces that at the moment weren’t impeding her progress much.

Mariah came around the side of the truck and swept the child up in her arms. “Callie, this is Luke Phillips,” she said.

“Hi, Luke Phillips,” she answered, using his whole name, much the same way her mother had earlier.

Luke liked the sound of it. He also liked the smile on Mariah’s face, the one that matched her daughter’s.

Friendliness was a way of life out here, it seemed, and it was Luke’s good fortune that it was. Otherwise he’d be sitting back there along the road with nothing but cactus for company.

The little girl was like a bright ray of sunshine after a long, dark day, he thought, and stuck out his hand. She accepted it shyly, her grasp light, innocent, her hand tiny in his.

Luke recognized instantly that this was a child who’d experienced pain, but there was no sign of it in her sweet smile, or the confident raise of her chin—as if she, like her mother, wasn’t afraid to take on the world at large.

“Hi, Callie,” he returned.

She glanced down at the shirt tied around his thigh, then at the scrapes and bruises on his shoulder and jaw. “You got hurt,” she said. “Is my mommy gonna fix you up?”

He swept his gaze from Callie to Mariah. Luke wasn’t exactly used to being on the receiving end of medicine, but he suspected Mariah knew how to dispense treatment, along with a little peace, a peace a man could get used to—if he allowed it.

“I am,” Mariah answered her daughter. “Luke had a little…accident. He had to swerve to miss an armadillo with his motorcycle.”

That made the little girl giggle. At the moment Luke didn’t see much humor in the incident—but he allowed a hint of a smile to break through anyway.

“Come on inside and meet Una,” Mariah urged as she set her daughter down, cautious until Callie was steady on her braces.

“Who is Una?” he asked.

“My neighbor. And friend. She watches Callie for me when I need her. And if I know Una, she has a pot of her Southwest stew simmering on the stove.”

“No, Mommy—she made chili,” Callie told her. “Do you like chili?” she asked Luke.

“It so happens I love chili,” he answered the little girl.

She smiled.

“First we clean your war wounds,” Mariah announced.

Luke’s leg was beginning to stiffen up on him. And it hurt like the devil. But he didn’t intend to admit that to Mariah. “I’m okay,” he said.

She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe that for a moment, then started toward the house. Callie bounded ahead of them, somehow managing gracefully on her braces.

“She’s a beautiful child,” Luke said.

Mariah smiled. Mother-pride shone in her eyes—but it didn’t quite hide that small shadow of sadness Luke caught in their sea-green depths.

“Callie’s a delight,” she said. “My bright joy. I—I just wish things could be…different for her,” she said softly.

Luke knew she meant the stiff braces Callie wore. His professional guess would be that the child had a form of juvenile rheumatoid arthritis.

He’d seen the disease in its cruel form during his pediatric work in med school. He knew its effects. But he didn’t know how to offer comfort any more than he knew how to find it for himself.

They found Una in the kitchen. Callie had already informed her they were having a guest for supper tonight.

“Help me set another place at the table,” Una told the child, then she turned and gave Luke a once-over. “Father Sky above! You look like you got skinned by a bear.”

Luke grimaced. “I’m afraid it wasn’t anything quite that fierce, ma’am.”

Mariah hid a grin, but she didn’t elaborate on his scrapes and bruises—or how he’d come by them.

“A little sunflower and a sprinkle of ground willow bark—that ought to fix him up.” Una gave her prescriptive advice with a brisk nod to Mariah.

It was exactly what Mariah had in mind for her patient—providing the man would sit still for it.

She wasn’t sure he would.

“Why don’t you boil some water,” she told Una, “while I get this man stripped.”

Luke’s eyes widened in surprise for a quick moment, then a very male frown took its place on his face. “It’s only a few scratches. I can look after them myself.”

“The injury to your thigh needs treatment—and so does your shoulder. If you have a problem with that, you can complain about it later.” She motioned him toward a small room off the kitchen. Finding a large blue towel in the cabinet, she pulled it down and handed it to him. “I’ll go help Una with that hot water. You get out of those jeans,” she told him.

Luke grumbled under his breath as she left the room, but he undid the shirt he’d tied around his leg as a makeshift compress. Beneath it the gash didn’t look too bad, he decided. It wasn’t deep enough to need suturing. Just bothersome enough to make riding out of here uncomfortable. That was, if he could even find someplace to repair his cycle.

Luke knew one armadillo with a price on its head.

He’d just finished sliding off his jeans when he heard Mariah return.

“Are you decent?” she called through the closed door.

Luke frowned. “As decent as I can get wearing damned little,” he answered, dragging the towel around him, and wishing it had a little extra yardage.

Mariah kept her eyes averted as she entered the room, wishing there was some other way to do this. And that her patient wasn’t so overwhelming. Both dressed or in the altogether.

Luke Phillips had more male appeal than the laws of nature should allow, an innate masculinity she was having a difficult time dealing with at the moment.

Her hormones bucked, but she tamped down her reaction to the man and set the bowl of steaming water on the small worktable in front of her, then motioned Luke to a chair.

She would get through this somehow, hopefully with her wanton hormones intact.

“Una sent you a little firewater, in lieu of a bullet to bite on,” she said, drawing a pint-size bottle of whiskey from the back pocket of her jeans.

That produced a wide-eyed glance from Luke, followed by a slow smile—a smile that was as potent as the rest of him beneath that blue towel.

“You expect the surgery to be that bad, Doc?”

He was teasing her. Mariah swallowed hard and tried to remain calm, focusing her gaze on his wounds instead of his broad chest and equally broad shoulders, every muscle firm and sleek and tanned. The man was too good-looking for comfort.

Her comfort.

Awareness clawed at her nerves here in the close confines of the room. She tried to picture him fully clothed instead of in that precarious blue towel.

But it did little for her senses.

His broad shoulders would fill out a shirt to perfection—or a suit. Did he wear a tux back where he came from—perhaps for a special event?

Or a date?

That thought flashed into her mind and she tamped down her reaction, trying to focus on the task at hand.

“I’ll try to be gentle,” she said.

His body heat radiated to her in the small room. He smelled of fresh air and sunshine and forbidden stranger. And it was having a decided effect on her.

Luke watched Mariah work, sprinkling something into the water he supposed was that ground willow bark Una had talked about, then dipped a soft, white washcloth into the mixture. But he hadn’t been ready for her touch as she cleansed the gash on his thigh.

Her hands were gentle, yet sure—and damningly sensual. He struggled with the effect they had on his body, and decided a little of Una’s firewater might be in order after all.

Not to dull the pain in his leg—but to numb his suddenly threatening testosterone.

“Damn,” he cursed, then sucked in a breath and reached for the bottle of whiskey.

“Sorry, does this hurt?”

He was in a world of hurt—and not sure he’d survive. Her touch was driving him wild. “I think that’s good enough,” he ground out. “Why don’t you work on my shoulder for a while?”

“Your shoul—oh!”

The light dawned in her pretty green eyes and a heated blush climbed her neck and spread across her cheeks before she glanced away, unable to meet his gaze.

“I’ll just rinse the cloth and…and…”

He put a hand on her arm, then thought better of it and drew it away. “It’s okay, Mariah. I’m, uh, just on a rather short fuse right now.”

Her reply was a deeper blush, and Luke took a long swallow of whiskey.

“Tell me about Callie,” he said as she immersed her cloth in the hot mixture again. He needed to get his mind off the tempting woman beside him, and conversation was the best way he knew to deal with the situation. Besides, he wanted to know more about her, about Callie, about their life out here in the middle of nowhere. “The plants you gathered…they’re for your daughter, aren’t they?”

Mariah dabbed the herbal solution onto Luke’s shoulder wound. She’d been so engrossed in her work, cleansing the injury on his thigh, that she hadn’t realized she’d been…affecting him. It seemed that this awareness was a problem on both their parts.

Her hands shook at the merest brush of his skin and her heart beat heavily. How long had it been since she’d been this close to a gorgeous male? Never, she admitted. At least not one as gorgeous as Luke.

Will had been good-looking, she supposed. At least she’d once thought so—then she’d seen the ugliness beneath the surface.

There’d been no man in her life since Will had left, which suited Mariah just fine. She’d been sorely hurt by his defection, hurt that he could care so little about his daughter.

Callie was what was important to her now.

She always would be.

“Yes,” she said. “The herbs are for Callie—for her arthritis, at least most of them are. Una taught me their uses, when the doctor’s medicine failed to help.”

Luke seemed to understand about Callie. He hadn’t shown the slightest surprise when she’d come bounding toward them on her cumbersome braces. Instead he’d seen her beauty and the sun in her smile.

“Callie’s had conventional treatment, then?”

She nodded at his question. Mariah had had her daughter to the best doctors in Phoenix, spending the last pittance of money she had on their treatments, the newest medicines.

“Nothing seemed to work for her,” she said. “At least, not to any degree. It was a long trip to Phoenix for care, and the ride often left Callie worse because of it. Then Una told me of the healing power in the plants and herbs that grow around here. Callie seems to thrive on them.”

“And perhaps a little on her mother’s love?”

Mariah gave him a quick glance and saw a pensive look on his face, the shadow of something in his eyes. Luke was a man who was hurting—and not from the wounds she could see, the wounds he’d received in that tumble from his bike, the wounds she hoped her herbs would heal.

It was the other wound, the one she could only sense, the one that claimed his soul, his spirit, that she wasn’t sure she could do anything about. She suspected that wound ran deep. But whatever his torment was, it was none of her business.

At least none that he would share with her.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Callie’s very special to me.”

Luke wondered what it would be like to be someone special in Mariah’s life. He suspected she loved with a fervor, an honesty, a completeness. And when she gave herself to that love, she’d never take it back.

Mariah was a nurturer. She found comfort in the very world around her. She took it from the earth and gave it to others. To her daughter. And even to Luke.

A total stranger.

He hoped this medicine of hers worked damned fast—because Mariah could make a man want to stick around, seek a little of that comfort she dispensed.

Finally finishing with his shoulder, she reached to cleanse the scrape along his jawline. Her touch was feather-soft, soothing.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to feel like shaving anytime soon,” she said, cleansing his jaw and applying some cool ointment to it, something that smelled faintly of lavender.

He knew she was right about the shaving. Maybe he’d grow a serious beard—and he wondered if Mariah would like the rasp of it when he kissed her.

Before Luke let that thought play itself out further in his mind he reached up and grasped her hand. Her touch was driving him wild, her closeness a temptation he wasn’t sure he could resist, at least not for long.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt—”

“You didn’t hurt me,” he said. But neither could he let her touch him. The feel of her hands, no matter how purposeful, how innocent, was impossible for him to ignore. “I’m fine, Mariah. You’ve done enough.”

She fixed him with a determined gaze and a stern lift of her chin. “That leg wound needs a dressing.”

He groaned low in his throat, and was certain his soul was damned—damned by this bewitching female who was intent on helping him.

It was just his rotten luck to find a perfectionist for a healer.

“This will only take a minute,” she insisted. “It won’t hurt a bit. You’ll see.”

Easy for her to say, Luke thought, as he steeled himself against her touch.

Her hands were brisk, her movements sure and smooth. The woman was grace and loveliness, all rolled into an all-too-tempting package.

He gritted his teeth as her fingers applied the gauze, pressing it against the raw gash. Every nerve ending jumped to attention at the lightest touch of her silky fingers.

His wayward hormones must be there, too, he decided, because they sang with raw need at her closeness, her flowery scent, her soft, feminine heat.

“There—that should do it,” she said, applying the last strip of tape and standing back to admire her handiwork.

Her cheeks glowed, her eyes big and green in the play of light in the room. A smile brushed her sweet lips—and Luke knew he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.

“Thank you,” he told her, though he suspected she didn’t need to hear it.

It was simply her nature to help—whether it be man, woman or child. Mariah was a healer—as much as any doctor he knew. It flowed from her like a life force, a gift Luke had to envy.

And admire.

“I think Una probably has that chili ready—if you’re hungry,” she said, then began gathering up her medical supplies with skillful efficiency.

“I’m starved,” he admitted. “Then I need to find someplace to stay for the night. Is there a motel in Sunrise?”

“Sorry, no, there isn’t. There’s no place close. It’s not much, but there’s a small cabin out back. Callie likes to use it as her playhouse, but you’re welcome to it, if you like. It’s clean, and I can bring you some fresh linens. You’d be comfortable.”

Luke didn’t doubt that. But how much more of her hospitality could he let himself accept?

He started to refuse and then remembered he had no transportation. And he couldn’t ask her to drive him miles to the nearest hotel.

She had Callie to consider.

He’d have to take her up on her offer, then find a way to repay her for her kindness. As soon as his cycle was operational again, he’d be on his way.

It was all he could do under the circumstances.

“I accept,” he said. “At least for tonight.”

Tomorrow he’d assess his circumstances and come up with an alternative plan, providing an alternative existed out here—miles from anywhere.

A short time later they were gathered around the kitchen table, enjoying Una’s chili and warm corn bread. Mariah noticed that the beleaguered place mats were gone, replaced by her one good linen tablecloth. Una had obviously deemed this man deserving of special status.

Callie had chosen to sit next to Luke, and she chattered away to him like a magpie. Her daughter was more exuberant than usual tonight.

And Mariah had no doubt it was prompted by their guest.

If Sunrise had a disadvantage it was in its sameness. Very little new or different made its way here. So Luke Phillips at tonight’s dinner table was an event on par with Christmas.

Mariah stole a quick glance at him. He’d donned a fresh shirt pulled from one of his saddlebags, a white knit polo that hugged his muscled chest and showed off his tan to perfection.

He’d borrowed her kitchen shears and fashioned his torn jeans into a pair of cutoffs. They, too, hugged him in dangerous places.

He turned to glance at her, and she hoped he hadn’t caught her ogling. His face bore an uncertain expression, and she wondered what he was thinking.

She sensed he was a man who concealed his emotions, not sharing them easily with others. It was something Mariah could understand. She shared herself only with a few people she knew and trusted.

She glanced at Luke’s empty bowl. “Would you care for more chili?” she asked.

He smiled and patted his flat stomach. “Thanks, but no. I’m definitely full.” He turned to Una seated at the other end of the table. “That was delicious, ma’am. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted any better.”

Una let a rare smile slip, obviously pleased with the compliment.

Was she, too, caught up in Luke’s charm?

There were probably few females who could resist a man as compelling as Luke Phillips, she decided.

Mariah didn’t know where he’d been headed on that big Harley of his, but he’d no doubt leave a trail of broken hearts along the way. And perhaps where he’d come from, as well.

Was he married? There was no ring on his left hand, no lighter mark where one had been on his tanned skin.

Did he have children?

He seemed so capable, so at ease around Callie.

What was his life? she wondered. And what was the cause of the pain she saw in his storm-blue eyes? She admitted she was curious, though she had no right to be.

All she’d done was rescue him in the desert and treat his wounds.

As soon as he had transportation again, he’d be leaving.

She stood and began to gather up the supper dishes.

“You’ve done enough for one day, Una. I’ll clean up in here.”

“I’ll help,” Luke offered.

“Good,” Una said. “I promised Callie a story before I go home.”

The pair retreated to the front porch swing, Callie’s favorite spot for hearing Una’s Hopi tales, leaving Mariah alone with Luke in the big kitchen that suddenly seemed a whole lot smaller.

Chapter Three

With both of them working together it didn’t take long to finish the dishes. Luke enjoyed the task—or maybe it was just being alone with Mariah.

He couldn’t remember having been stuck with KP duty growing up. Nor could he remember having helped his wife, Sylvie, during their ill-fated marriage. He’d been the golden doctor then—slated to take his place in the hierarchy of the hospital where his father and grandfather had practiced before him.

Luke had never considered himself special—he’d just been treated like he was. It had been a given that he would do great things.

He hadn’t helped Sylvie raise their son, Dane, either. At least not as much as he should have. He’d been at the hospital night and day, doing what he loved. Doing what was important. All other work he’d relegated to Sylvie.

No doubt the reason she’d left him for someone else.

He wished he could go back, do things differently, be a real father to his son. But life didn’t work that way. Life wouldn’t let a man turn back the clock.

Life took—and didn’t give back.

One failed marriage, his failure as a father—and as a doctor who couldn’t save his son—had taken its toll on Luke’s ability to believe the world could be a happy place.

Yet tonight he’d glimpsed something akin to that in this small family that had included him in their life however briefly. Tonight he’d been able to forget, just a little.

Tossing the dish towel onto the countertop, he turned to Mariah. “Consider that payment for tonight’s dinner. Now, about your medical fee…”