THE SURGEON
KATE BRIDGES

Dedicated with affection and many thanks

to my editors—Ann Leslie Tuttle, who has

an uncanny skill with words and plot details and always

manages to pull out my best, and Tracy Farrell,

who gave me my first big break.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Chapter One

Calgary, early August 1889

It was a hell of a way to meet a woman.

Dr. John Calloway, a commissioned police officer and Chief Surgeon of the North-West Mounted Police, had just finished in the operating room and was striding down the hall of the officers’ quarters toward his bedroom, fighting exhaustion. Drenched in perspiration, John struggled with his white shirt collar, undoing another button. Damn, it was hot inside the fort. Even the air smelled hot. Dry pine planks and leather.

“Evenin’, Sir,” said two passing officers.

“Evening.” Was it John’s imagination or did they elbow each other and grin as he passed? John glared at them. “Something on your mind?”

“No, Sir.” The sergeant glanced down at the papers spilling from his youthful hands.

“Then I suggest you hightail it to the paymaster’s. He’s looking for the schedules you’re holding. As for you, Corporal Reid, we could use your help dousing those vacated beds.”

“Yes, Sir,” came the response.

John shoved a hand through the thick brown hair at his temple, swallowed the dryness in his throat and continued walking. His own fatigue never usually hit him until the worst was over. Under normal circumstances he’d be heading to his private house in town for dinner, then to sleep for the night. But in the past week he’d had six men in surgery at Fort Calgary and he’d been too busy for sleep.

It was still undecided whether the constable John had just operated on would lose his leg. There had also been the constable who’d lost his eye on a runaway bronco; two others with second-degree burns from fighting forest fires to the west; and finally the two discharged this morning with bullet grazes from an ambush ten days ago by that damn cattle-rustling gang. For John, their discharge brought back a wave of remorse and grief for Wesley Quinn.

John’s assistant surgeon, his friend, who was only doing his duty by racing to the ranch to help the injured, had been ambushed and murdered by the Grayveson gang. Blast them all to hell. Wesley Quinn had been a good man.

John rubbed his bristly jaw. He was starting to feel his age. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the stiff muscles.

Turning forty was a landmark, but why the hell did he feel so…unsettled?

The restlessness had started eight months ago, around Christmastime when Wesley had decided to get himself a mail-order bride.

No respectable man orders a woman from the newspaper, John had argued. What kind of woman would answer your ad? A desperate one, with little backbone and no self-confidence.

But Wes had just laughed and placed the ad anyway, claiming it was hard to meet a woman—an English one—with so few in the West.

And then he’d gone and got himself killed.

With a sigh, John neared his bedroom door. He stopped at the linen laundry basket. Although he’d worn a surgical gown, a few blood drops had still soaked through to his shirt. He peeled it off and tossed it in, knowing the clerk would need to boil it, too. Down to his sleeveless undershirt, he burst into his private room, glancing to his desk for drinking water.

He was shocked to discover a strange woman inside, who’d reeled toward him at the sharp sound of the door.

“Ah!” he yelped. She let out a choked laugh.

Standing at his open closet, she’d been rummaging through his uniforms. She dropped his scarlet tunic from her fingers like a child caught with something forbidden. A pink stain infused her cheeks.

A wall of curly reddish-blond hair, braided at the sides and clasped at the back, spilled down her shoulders. Finely arched brown eyebrows framed her clear gray eyes. Her lips parted in a pretty smile, revealing a front tooth that slightly overlapped its partner.

Her clothes were fancy for the West. Her heavily boned and corseted red jacket clung to her waist; a long red skirt with protruding bustle accentuated full hips. When one polished black leather boot peeked out beneath her hemline, he noticed a ridiculously spiked high heel. Why was she so dolled up?

He lurched back. His dangling suspenders slapped against the thighs of his tight black breeches. “How’d you get in here?”

She smiled but he didn’t smile back. “Corporal Reid let me in. I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just…I was so nervous to meet you…and here I’ve made you jump.”

If Travis Reid had let her in, she must be here for a good reason. Was that why Reid had been chuckling in the hallway?

She took a step forward, holding out her hand. Happiness shone in her eyes. “I know this is a bit of a surprise, but I managed to pack up sooner than I’d thought. I’m Sarah.”

Was he supposed to know her? He racked his brain, but no recognition came. “John Calloway.”

Her grip was warm and soft and slippery, very different from the bulky, callused hands he was used to shaking. With the contact, his pulse took a leap. As their fingers parted, she glanced heatedly at his chest and he realized he was still in his undershirt. Good grief. What an indecent way to introduce himself to a woman.

She smiled timidly. “Sarah O’Neill,” she prompted louder, a deeper crimson flowing through her face. “I know I didn’t send a photograph, but I didn’t have one.”

What was she talking about? If he’d ever met her, he was damn sure he’d never forget.

“Hey, Doc?” Corporal Reid’s dark head appeared around the door. “Constable Pawson’s wakin’ up in a lot of pain.”

John addressed the corporal, but his gaze still held the pretty woman’s. “Give Pawson another drink of the laudanum by his bedside. I’ll be right there.”

The corporal glanced into the room at the woman, then cleared his throat. “I see you’ve met Miss O’Neill.”

John’s gaze pivoted to the corporal. Judging by the broad smirk on the tanned face, Reid knew something more.

“Can I speak with you outside, Corporal?” John nodded to the woman. “Excuse me, Miss O’Neill, you’ve caught me at a bad time. I’ve been in surgery around the clock.”

There was laughter in her voice. “John, you can call me Sarah.” Why was she smiling so much at him? Not that he minded, in fact, he was enjoying it…but who was she?

The minute they were out the door, John growled at Reid. “What do you know about her?”

Reid squirmed. “I have to get the laudanum.”

John cursed. “You better tell me right now. Who is she?”

Reid’s face paled. He lurched and hurried down the aisle.

“Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea,” he called over his shoulder. “Come to think of it…” Reid gulped and John felt a shiver of dread race through him. “Maybe it got out of hand…. We all chipped in for the newspaper advertisement and her train ticket…and ordered her for you.”

John stalked after Reid. “Ordered her?” Was she a painted lady?

Reid began to run toward the doors of the hospital ward.

John said after him. “What the hell does that mean? You ordered her?”

Reid dove through the doors, escaping John’s fury, shouting the explanation just before the thick door slammed in John’s face. “She’s…your mail-order bride!”

What? Stumbling back, John slumped against the hard wall.

What…in hell…had his men done?

They’d sent for a mail-order bride? For him?

After his criticisms to Wesley, was this some kind of joke? John had thought he’d seen it all in the fifteen years he’d been here. The pranks, the initiations, the tricks on the new recruits…

So help him God, he’d string them up one by one!

What decent man could do this? This was someone’s life they were playing with! Maybe they thought it’d be a funny prank to play on him, but what about the poor woman in his bedroom?

He groaned. She was too innocent-looking to be a painted lady, to be part of a hoax. And Reid had been too scared to be lying.

Where had she come from? What was he supposed to tell her? How could a simple apology be anywhere near enough?

And why should he have to do it? The men responsible should. But…they were busy, and she was waiting.

She deserved an explanation—right bloody now.

Bracing himself, John walked back down the hall, rapped on his bedroom door, then entered.

She was standing at the window, letting the breeze roll over her face. Turning around, she met his awkward gaze with an awkward one of her own.

That’s why she was so dressed up, he realized, glancing at her cinched waist. She thought she was coming to meet her groom. Just watching her, he felt his muscles tighten.

The air grew still between them. When her gaze hesitated over his bare shoulders, he wondered what she was thinking. That they would soon be married? That the two of them would soon be very intimate?

The thought brought a surge of heat to his own flesh. Then shame found him again, for how his men had tricked her. Looking down into her expectant eyes, he felt the hairs at the back of his neck bristle.

He tried to ease the news. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“You’re not?” Her generous mouth opened and she colored fiercely. “But you’re John Calloway.”

“Yes, but—”

They were interrupted again, this time by a sergeant running through the open door. “Dr. Calloway! You better come quickly! Pawson’s tryin’ to get up! The stitches in his legs are comin’ apart!”

John leaped into action. “Get two more men to help us. We’ll need to hold him down.”

He grabbed a clean shirt from his closet and tugged it up his arms. “I’ve got to go,” he yelled to Miss O’Neill, leaving her standing in his turbulence. “Wait right here till I get back! Don’t go anywhere!”

What did he mean, I’m not who you think I am?

He was John Calloway. He’d sent for her! She had his four letters in her satchel to prove it. But an hour had passed and Sarah was getting the eerie impression something wasn’t right.

Feeling ill again, she pressed a hand to her corseted stomach and tried to ease her nervousness. It was the same way she’d felt the whole eight days on the train. Motion sickness, the conductor had told her. There hadn’t been much she could do except lay her head between her knees whenever she’d felt the urge to vomit. She did so now until the feeling passed. If she were already married, she might have confused her symptoms for those of childbearing, but she knew that was impossible.

Hopefully it would happen soon. A husband and children, a family of her own.

Maybe John was trying to tell her something minor. Maybe he wanted to clarify something he’d written in one of his letters. Looking at him in his undershirt had had her imagining what it’d be like to be his wife in the ultimate sense of the word. Oh, my. Sarah fanned her hot face. Rising from the chair, she walked to the window. As she leaned forward, it blessed her with a cool gust of air.

Why would a man like that need to find a woman by mail? She’d asked the troublesome question in one of her letters. He’d responded that he was looking for someone Irish, like himself, and there were no suitable choices in Calgary. When she’d read that, she’d felt as if her dearly departed father himself was guiding her.

The fact that John lived in Calgary was why she was initially attracted to his advertisement. It was rumored that her brother Keenan had moved West. Calgary, one of his friends had finally admitted to her. If she couldn’t locate Keenan here, then she’d find a way to search other prairie towns.

The ache to find her missing brother wove around her heart. At first she’d search discreetly because she wasn’t sure if Keenan was still in trouble with the law. She knew marrying a Mountie might help her search, since they kept records of settlers in the area, but she wasn’t using John Calloway to find her brother. She wanted this marriage. John seemed like a kind man, writing about the busy frontier town and how much he appreciated finding a woman like her. After dealing with her father’s sudden passing, then her mother’s brutal decline, Sarah was ready for a new start. She ached to see the wide-open prairies for herself, to smell the flowers of the Rocky Mountains, to see an eagle or a wolf, to live in a place she’d only daydreamed of, in a house that didn’t smell of sickness.

She had value and emotions and skills to offer the world.

Please let there be more to my life than what’s been already.

In the West, she’d heard women had more freedom. When John had written that many women couldn’t handle the danger and isolation of being a policeman’s wife, she’d written back that she’d marry him on the condition he’d let her work. It would keep her busy when he traveled, and more independent.

She’d do everything in her power to be a good partner to John. She envisioned the intimacy of a lasting, bonding friendship that might someday grow into love. A love that had sadly escaped her parents.

Glancing around the room, she tried not to be intimidated. From her training, she always noticed two things when she entered a room, besides the people in it.

The guns and the clocks.

John had a pretty good gun. A great gun. The Enfield six-shot revolver sat in full view, slung in its holster over the dresser mirror. The beautiful contour of the mahogany stock glistened like new, but the tiny medallion screw needed tightening, and the holster hadn’t been oiled in weeks.

Didn’t they have a gunsmith who made regular checks?

Then again, what doctor would make his guns a priority?

Compared to his gun, his wall clock was in precise order. It was Austrian with a gold-leaf frame, likely thread suspension with four quarter striking on coiled gongs.

Glancing at the time made her nervous again.

She’d been caught going through his closet, but only because she’d wanted to touch something personal. The most intimate thing she could find had been his clothing; not the botany textbooks lining his desk, not the private medical journal she dared not open, not the wall clock, nor the desk lamp. Even his bed with its plain brown blanket and squared corners looked bleak and detached.

Well, no more. They couldn’t live here in the barracks, but she was definitely here to mess up his bed.

A shiver of anticipation coursed through her.

When the door flew open, she bolted straighter.

John strode through it. Again he wore only an undershirt. She gulped and glanced away. Blazes, maybe she wasn’t as ready for this as she’d thought. Lord, the man liked to undress.

He left the door open. “Sorry it took me so long.” He grabbed another white shirt from his closet, weaving his muscled arms through it. His skin was golden, his chest lightly matted.

His thighs flexed beneath his breeches and she abandoned herself to the dreamy thought of seduction. “You’re busy. I understand.”

“I’ve got two hours to myself. Let’s go for a walk.” He nodded toward the hallway. “Away from this ruckus.”

Half a dozen men walked by, talking in crude language she didn’t often hear—only sometimes when her father or brother or cousins had been too preoccupied in the shop to bother with politeness. When the policemen caught sight of her, one elbowed another and they grinned in her direction.

John stepped into their line of vision and, although she couldn’t see his expression, it stopped the men cold.

“We apologize, ma’am,” said one as they passed. Another man called out to John by some sort of nickname. “Sorry, Black-’n-White.”

Black-’n-White?

John turned back to her. For an instant his face looked racked with fury. Was he that angry about the coarse language? My, he was exceptionally decent.

The sun’s waning rays caught the side of his short chestnut-colored hair and one plane of his handsome face, accentuating his black brows and brown eyes.

He smiled. Just a hint of a smile from one corner of his mouth, nothing overwhelming, but her body responded with a sensual tug.

She was a bit disappointed that he wasn’t going to introduce her to his friends, but then…it was nice of him to want to spend time alone with her first. “All right then, John, you lead the way.”

“Where are the rest of your bags?”

“I left them with the porter at the train depot. They were too heavy to drag along.”

“You walked?”

“It’s not far. Besides, I needed to stretch my legs from the train ride.” And wanted time to take it all in.

“Then would you like to walk back again?”

“Sure,” she said, hoping her voice sounded more credible than she felt. Her new heels were killing her feet, but she felt idiotic voicing a complaint. And they had to get back into town, as she imagined he’d be setting her up in a nice hotel room this evening. After they decided on a wedding date. As soon as possible, he’d said in his letters.

Grabbing the satchel’s handle from her grasp, John’s knuckles grazed hers. His touch made her instantly blush. He responded with an equally embarrassed look.

They had to get to know each other, that’s all.

Her skirt and petticoat rustled as she walked. Her stomach growled from hunger and her tight corset didn’t help. She’d changed into the clothes at the last station before they’d pulled into Calgary. She’d saved her best suit and brand-new shoes to meet her husband. Although joy bubbled through her, she prayed the nausea would fade.

The sun was setting on the prairies. Dusk surrounded them. Stepping out of the newly built barracks, they walked shoulder-to-shoulder, weaving through the dusty log buildings. They passed the blacksmith’s forge, the canteen, the chapel and, finally, the stables. When John stole a glance in her direction, a warm glow tingled through her. Her senses became saturated with the night scents of prairie wheat, rich loam and the hiss of insects. She felt fully alive for the first time in a long while.

The sound of clomping hooves on trampled earth filled the air. Men on horseback galloped past them. The animals were sleek and beautiful, fifteen hands high; the men, excellent riders. Judging from their uniforms of red wool jackets and dark breeches, they were training for an official event. Winchester rifles dangled in slings attached to the pommels of their compact saddles. Repeating rifles, eight rounds.

John’s hand brushed the small of her back as he led her out the gate through a small crowd of men and women. He took charge with quiet confidence, and she liked that. Her pulse fluttered as she dipped beyond his grasp, her long hair swaying around her. It felt good to finally meet him after four months. She wished he’d be more daring and wrap his arm around her shoulders.

“It must have been a hard journey. How long did it take you?” he asked.

“Eight days.”

He exhaled. “Eight…” His brown eyes sparkled. “Straight from…the east coast…?”

“Well, of course. Direct from Halifax.”

“No one to talk to for eight days?”

“I met a few nice folks.” Two very kind elderly women in particular, Sarah thought, who were staying at one of the local boardinghouses. Sarah usually kept her private matters to herself, but over the course of several days, the two women had pried it out of her—that she was a mail-order bride coming to meet her husband. Once discovered, she’d been eager to share her news, and they eager to listen. Although surprised when she’d told them it was John Calloway who’d sent for her, they congratulated her with the warmest wishes.

Walking in anxious silence beside her tall surgeon, Sarah followed him onto the grassy path. It wound along the gently flowing Elbow River, leading to the steel bridge. The moving water whispered by. Blackbirds sang in the aspens. The fragrance of old summer leaves drifted between them.

John dropped her satchel beneath an overgrown willow tree. He moved with a restless energy and she was struck by a strange discomfort.

“Sarah, I don’t know how to tell you this, other than to just say it.”

Her smile faded. “What is it?”

“It’s not good news.”

She peered at his face, at the firm strength she saw in his eyes. There was a deeper significance to what he said. Her hands began to tremble. “You’re not well?”

“No, no…it’s not about my health.”

“Then what? I surprised you. I came at a bad time.”

“That’s not it exactly, either.”

She tried to force her confusion into order. Her pulse hammered at her throat. Something was terribly wrong. “We’re soon to be married. Soon to be husband and wife. Please tell me what’s troubling you.”

Her words cut deep into his composure. His expression faltered and he looked suddenly off balance. Pulling in a deep breath, he struggled with the emotion in his husky voice. “It wasn’t me who wrote to you.”

Chapter Two

“Then who was it?” Nausea welled up the back of her throat. Sarah gulped to stay the taste of bile. Her fingers raced nervously over the pleats of her red jacket. She yanked back her shoulders and stepped away from John Calloway.

Struggling for words, he tilted his rough beardless face toward her.

She stared back, desperate for a plausible explanation.

“I’m not sure who wrote to you.”

She staggered back in disgrace. “Are you trying to get out of the marriage?”

He shook his head in dismay, then nodded, then shook it again.

“Yes or no?”

Shrugging his wide shoulders, he lifted his hands high in the air. “I didn’t propose to you.”

Now that he’d met her, he no longer wanted her. Deep humiliation stung her cheeks. With a sharp click of her tongue, she hoisted her satchel to her hip and marched toward the steel-and-iron bridge, heading for the center of town. Lights twinkled in that town’s direction. He didn’t want her. Her eyesight blurred with the sting of tears. What would be so terribly wrong to have her as a wife?

Even with his long stride, John had a hard time keeping up to her. “Sarah, it wasn’t my doing. I only found out about you the instant you arrived. It seems my men…the officers…got together. As a prank, they wrote to you—”

“A prank?” She took a moment to digest it. “A prank?”

He looked at her with such pity in his eyes that before she realized what she was doing, her hand came up to slap him. He ducked and she cuffed his nose with a loud thwump.

“Ow-ww…” He cupped his nose. “What’d you do that for? I didn’t orchestrate this, my men did.”

“Well, pass it along!”

Spinning back to the path, she cursed under her breath in the same coarse language his men had used earlier. As her father would say, she felt like a whistlin’ jackass. Not a penny to her whistlin’ name.

Where to now?

Through watery eyes, she looked up past the bridge toward the plank buildings. Lamplights lined the dirt street, illuminating the crowd and the horses and buggies. The clatter of hooves and saloon music competed with the thudding of her heart. Her stomach fluttered with turmoil. Where to?

“Sarah, please, can we talk about this?” John dabbed at his nose. He swore when he saw blood. Served him right. Fixing a bloody nose was easy. Traveling eight days across the country for nothing wasn’t!

Well…She’d return to the railway station to collect her luggage and make plans. That’s what she’d do. Maybe at the boardinghouse, she’d locate the two women she’d met on the train. They might help her. Through a haze of distress, she realized she’d then have to explain that her marriage to the dashing John Calloway was a joke. Oh, and could they please pass the marmalade?

And how long could she get by, with only five dollars in her pocket? She’d done everything she could to speed her journey here, to pay the back rent she owed, to pay the creditors for her mother’s funeral.

Much to her irate displeasure, John Calloway wouldn’t let her escape. His long, limber body swung into step with hers. Blocking her path, he propped his hands on his lean hips. “Are you planning to ignore me?”

“Darn right! Maybe you’re not used to being ignored at the fort, but I’m not one of your subordinates!”

She clamped her lips and stalked by him. In the adjacent pasture, plump brown-and-white cows peered at them over a dilapidated cedar fence, munching loudly, gazing as if they could understand the argument.

John raced along, stepping into her blasted path again. His massive shoulders blocked out the sun’s dying rays, so she couldn’t see his face. It was an etched block of darkness. “Let’s talk about this, about what you’re going to do.”

She shifted her heavy bag from hand to hand and hip to hip. The future tumbled around her. Nowhere to go. Her dreams dashed. The utter shame of being fool enough to fall for this prank. Thank God her folks weren’t alive to witness this. “Leave me alone.”

She kept walking, her high-heeled boots echoing off the creosote railway ties of the bridge, but he shouted after her.

“I can’t!”

She pivoted around to glare at the stubborn man at the other end of the bridge. “Why not?”

“Because…goddammit! I feel responsible!”

Her nausea took over. If she didn’t get something into her stomach soon, she’d collapse. Slumping to the cement wall of the bridge to steady herself, she lost the satchel. It slipped out of her grasp, thudding onto the boards. She cradled her temples in the palms of her hands. When she opened her eyes again, John’s boots were standing on the ground before her.

“Go away,” she commanded the boots.

“I’m sorry. It’s awful what the men did. There’ll be hell to pay when I get my hands on them.”

“It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“But I’m still sorry.”

She didn’t move. Two strangers walked by, an older man and woman headed toward the fort. John nodded hello, squeezing his bloody nose. He had no handkerchief so the blood dripped on his boot. Sinking down beside her, he stretched his legs out in front of him. His white sleeve brushed hers.

Since it seemed she couldn’t escape him, she opened her satchel, removed her lace handkerchief, then threw it at him. “Here!”

“Thanks.”

She squinted up at him to assess the damage she’d done. There was no swelling, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop.

“Don’t worry,” he said, with those glistening brown eyes that had almost been hers. “Luckily, I know what to do.” He leaned forward, pinching his nostrils with her hanky, resting his elbows on his thighs.

“You’re not supposed to lean forward and pinch your nose, you’re supposed to lean back.”

“I think I know what I’m doing.”

She snorted in anger.

They sat like that for minutes, absorbing the awful reality of her situation.

“You honestly didn’t write the letters?”

He shook his head. “Honestly.”

She sagged back. In her gut she knew he was telling the truth. He’d been tricked, too, and his indignation was palpable. But his stakes were nowhere near hers.

“How many did I write?” he asked.

“Four. Oh, my God,” she said, thinking of her letters.

“What is it?”

“Oh, my God.” She clamped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment.

“What?” John’s broad shoulders twisted to her direction.

A long groan escaped her. “When I wrote to you in my last letter, I disclosed something quite private.”

“What?”

“Something I wrote in a hasty moment of honesty. I thought…you’d discover it on your own soon enough and thought I might as well confess.” In truth, she’d thought if he discovered it on his own when she arrived, he might send her packing. There was no way she’d be able to hide it on her wedding night. It had been much easier to disclose at a distance, when she had so little to lose. What a practical woman, she chastised herself. “You’ll no doubt hear it from your men….” She lowered her head and toyed with her hands. “I told you that I wasn’t—” she lowered her voice to a whisper, reminding herself that he was a surgeon comfortable dealing with all sorts of subjects “—a virgin.”

“You aren’t?”

“You wrote back that you didn’t mind.”

“I didn’t?” He paused with sudden comprehension. “Oh, my God.”

She shook her head weakly. Thank God, she hadn’t gone the full distance to disclose the how and why, or she wouldn’t be able to look at him.

“Maybe it won’t get out,” he said. “Maybe you can trust them—”

“Who? Your band of merry men?”

When John rose slowly, he rubbed the growth of dark stubble along his firm jaw, and she knew he was affected. This was more devastating than any prank the Mounties could have imagined. This was her reputation.

Darkness surrounded them. When had it crept in?

Although she couldn’t see his eyes, she felt John’s heated stare as she rose and began walking. Shivering, she looked to the lights and sounds of the approaching buildings. There was a huge brewery to their left, a saloon across the road and stores lined up to their right. They passed a large sandstone building.

“How old are you, Sarah?”

She was twenty-eight but it was none of his business. “What difference does that make?”

“You’re a little…different than I expected.”

“How?”

“You remind me of a lot of friends I left back home in Toronto.” He studied her intently. “And you’re a bit older. Is that why you answered the advertisement? Because you weren’t having any luck on your own?”

“For heaven’s sake! I can’t believe you’re a doctor! You’re not helping matters by saying aggravating things like that!”

A streetlamp flickered above John’s dark head, weaving warm shadows around the two of them. When she started off down the boardwalk, John grabbed her gently by the arm. “Maybe not. Have there been any previous marriages?”

She tugged free, surprised at the impact of his grip, and his question. “No.”

“Any children?”

She gasped. “How can you ask that?”

“Well, it happens.”

“No!” She took a step toward him and turned the questioning around. “Have you had any previous marriages?”

He swallowed. “No.”

“Any children?”

“For God’s sake. No.”

“Well, it happens.” Ignoring the curious looks of passersby, Sarah scanned the signs above the buildings, looking for a boardinghouse. “Your questions come too late.”

“Do you have a place to stay? Where will you stay tonight?”

“I haven’t really had a chance to make any plans,” she said with cold humor. “Seeing that it’s only been ten minutes.”

“Right. Of course.”

She put down her bag. “Do you know…I mean, of course you’d know…Is there a pawn shop around here? A jeweler’s?”

“What for?”

“I’ve got two fine watches…I might sell.” The ones passed down from her grandfather in Ireland, the ones she’d vowed she’d never sell. Her stomach knotted as he appraised her.

After a moment of silent deliberation, he seemed to come to some sort of decision. “I’ve got a place you can stay.”

“Where?”

“In my town house until we figure this out. I’ll pay for your return ticket and anything else you need till you get home.”

Home? Where was home?

“I’ll see that the men responsible reimburse you extra for your troubles.”

She scoffed. How much extra should she charge for a life turned upside down? She didn’t recognize anyone or anything in this town. The noises were strange—tinny saloon music, eerie howls coming from the prairie grasses, the tap-tap-tap of cowboy spurs behind her. Glancing at the cold faces of strangers milling by on the boardwalk, Calgary suddenly seemed like a very lonely place.

John was the only person she sort of knew, and he was a doctor. Could she trust him to stay in his home? What choice did she have? Insecurity trembled down her spine.

As John picked up her bag, amusement lit his brown eyes. Was a smile hovering on his lips? “Did you tell me how you lost it?”

“Lost what?”

He leaned in next to ear and whispered. “Your virginity.”

He didn’t seem bothered by the news as many men would be, but then she no longer meant anything to him. She never had.

She wasn’t ready to forgive him for the situation, and gave him a cutting glare. “No, but I felt sure you’d understand.”

“Too bad you missed the party, John,” his neighbor called over the fence from the wooden swing on her porch, greeting him and Sarah as they strode up his stairs to his weather-beaten door.

Heavy-set and in her early fifties, Mrs. Polly Fitzgibbon sat among a menagerie of pets. Her beautiful Irish setter panted at her wide-boned feet, the Siamese cat slinked behind her and her knotted black bun, the two newest kittens sitting on her lap pounced at her stubby fingers, and that irritating nuisance of a monkey was hopping along the handrail, eating an onion.

John groaned, wishing Polly would be inside her door for a change when he walked through his.

“Good evening, Polly,” he hollered in the warm evening air. “What party are you talking about?”

“You remember, I told you two weeks ago my young nephew David was arriving from New York City. I know you’ve been awfully busy, but we had a birthday party for him last night. I baked an apple pie and George found streamers at the general store. We hung them all over. David’s a nice kid, you’ll like him.”

“How old is the boy?”

“Just turned thirty-six.”

“Oh.”

“Who’s your friend?”

John slid Sarah’s satchel to the ground and, with his hand tucked around Sarah’s slim waist, led her forward. She jolted at his touch and lurched away. It irked him. He was only being hospitable.

“Mrs. Polly Fitzgibbon, meet Miss Sarah O’Neill.”

He watched Sarah nod slowly. A smile finally lit her face as she followed the movements of the scheming monkey over the fence, up one wall of John’s house to peel off a piece of cedar roofing, then back to the ground. If the monkey kept this up, he’d soon have enough stripped pieces of the house to build one of his own.

“Now cut that out,” John said, hiding his temper for Sarah’s sake, diving for the shingle and grabbing it out of the pesky, hairy paws.

“Is that a monkey?” Sarah called over the fence.

“A chimpanzee, actually. There’s a difference, you know.”

He was still a scheming monkey in John’s mind.

“I’ve never seen one before,” said Sarah. “Where did you get him?”

“He followed us home from the carnival. ’Course, he hid in the trees for a couple of days, so by the time we noticed he’d flown the coop, it was too late to return him. His people were halfway to Minnesota.”

“What’s his name?” Sarah asked.

“Willie,” said Polly. “He’s our wee little Willie.”

Sarah laughed softly but John rolled his eyes.

“Polly is my housekeeper,” John explained to Sarah. “I’m glad I caught you, Polly. Looks like I’ll be needed at the barracks for a bit longer still. Sarah’ll be staying here for a day, maybe two. I’d appreciate if you kept your eye on her.” And be the proper chaperone, he added silently.

“Be mighty glad to. Maybe I’ll send David over to say hello. He’s an accomplished photographer, you know. I’ll ask him to bring one of his cameras and take your picture.”

Polly’s tendency for matchmaking never stopped. “Sarah prefers to rest.”

Sarah shot John a quizzical look.

Now why had he said that?

“Well, I didn’t mean tonight,” said Polly. “Maybe me and George and David will all come callin’ tomorrow, after I wash your floors. I’ll make them nice and shiny for company—for us,” she added with a laugh.

Sarah called, “That would be lovely.”

John shook his head in exasperation. Why should Sarah bother to get to know the neighbors when she was leaving on the next train?

Polly stared at John. “What happened to your nose?”

John pushed the hanky into the pocket of his breeches. Looked like it’d stopped bleeding. “Someone punched me.”

Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her boots—guilty—while he shot her a smile of satisfaction.

Polly clicked her tongue with a noisy clatter. “What you men go through in your line of duty.” She focused on Sarah. “You feelin’ all right, miss?”

Sarah pressed her hand against her stomach. “A bit of motion sickness is all. I spent eight days on the train.”

John noticed the pallor beneath her eyes. Why hadn’t she told him she wasn’t feeling well?

Why hadn’t he noticed?

“Where are you from?” asked Polly.

“Halifax.”

“Land sake’s, I had the same thing happen on that steamer we took from Nova Scotia to New York two summers before last. You’ll never get me to sea again. I was heavin’ so much, by the end of it I was beggin’ them to tie the bucket permanently around my neck.”

Sarah nodded then stumbled. John quickly unlocked the front door and led her into the front foyer.

“If I’d known you weren’t feeling well, I would’ve…”

“Would’ve what?”

“…been a bit easier on you.”

She looked at him through cool gray eyes.

He lit the kerosene wall lamp. The glow spread. He watched Sarah glance up the curved staircase, then through the doors into the parlor. Wide oak planks shimmered beneath Turkish carpets, linen curtains adorned the sidelights of the door, and several fine pieces of Victorian furniture that John had ordered from a catalog salesman adorned the hallway, parlor, and upstairs landing.

He felt fortunate that his, and the other officers’, high pay scale allowed them to transport a great deal of personal goods and luxuries not only to their private homes, for those who had them, but to their quarters at the fort. Unlike himself, most commissioned officers were descended from wealthy Eastern families, and had obtained their positions through influential connections. Many were second sons of wealthy Europeans who, having no rights of inheritance, had come to North America to seek their fortune.

Even Charles Dickens’s third son, Francis, up until recently, had been a Mountie; John had worked with him once in passing. John, however, being from a modest family with no connections, had earned his position through hard work and a university education.

His home wasn’t completely furnished yet, but it was comfortable, clean and spacious.

Looking at her ashen face, he realized she must be exhausted. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“On the train sometime around noon.”

John muttered under his breath. “Would you like a bite to eat now?”

“I’m not very hungry, but I should eat something, I suppose. Thank you.”

She wavered on her feet. He lunged forward to catch her, but he’d overreacted. Her brows shot up and a flash of humor lit her face as she steadied herself.

Why did women wear those damn things, anyway? Corsets. As soon as they started breathing hard, the straps tightened around their ribs until they couldn’t catch a breath. No wonder so many of them fainted. It was obviously part of her problem. He had a mind to tell her so, but didn’t feel like getting punched again.

She followed him into the kitchen and sat at the table while he prepared the food. Ham from the icebox, two plums, a loaf of heavy rye from the bread bin and all the butter and preserves she could want.

He got so caught up in the meal preparation that ten minutes later, when he turned proudly to the table to lavish the food on her, she was in a deep sleep. She’d placed her head on the table and was out cold.

He watched her for a moment. Was she unconscious?

Setting down the plates of food, he checked her breathing and her radial pulse. Only sleeping, thank goodness.

What was he supposed to do? Leave her here? Wake her up to eat? Carry her to bed? He pulled out a chair and sat down, staring at her. The hair at her temples gently framed her fringed lashes and the rosy curve of her cheek. The neckline of her red suit dipped low to her curves, and her long red skirt swirled about her heels. She was far from being a spineless mail-order bride that he’d once described to Wesley.

When John had first signed with the force fifteen years ago, he was sent to the forts in Alberta before any settlers had arrived. He’d counted thirty-seven-and-a-half months before he’d set eyes on a woman. Then another eighteen months after that one. Even now, with Calgary’s population hovering around four thousand, women were scarce and mail-order brides were not uncommon. Over the past ten years John reckoned about six or eight had arrived and passed through the area.

What were Sarah’s reasons for responding to the ad? What dreams had she had in meeting him today?

God, the truth must have hurt.

She’d had a very difficult day and his men were to blame. As soon as she was settled, he’d return to the fort and speak to the guilty parties.

With the sting of exhaustion behind his eyes, he knew it’d be another long night. When would John’s pleas for additional medical personnel be answered? Dr. Waters, the town doctor, was useless; his whiskey had gotten in the way of his profession. The man was a hindrance because he couldn’t even help the townsfolk—they were bypassing him and seeking John directly. In the past six months John had been caring for civilians as well as wounded police in the only hospital for hundreds of miles—the fort’s.

But before John went anywhere tonight, he had to take care of Sarah. Slipping one arm beneath her soft thighs and the other beneath her shoulder blades, he lifted her yielding body and carried her up the stairs. When she moaned and settled against his chest, he sighed. Although he’d had his share of women, it’d been a long time since he’d held one in his arms.

When they reached his wide bed, he lowered her down.

The corset wouldn’t do her any good. It impeded her respiration and surely hadn’t helped her motion sickness on the train. How could she feel better if she couldn’t breathe well?

And so, tugging in a breath of air to give himself confidence, wondering if he’d pay for it tomorrow, he did what any good doctor would.

He lowered his hands beneath the covers and, his fingertips brushing against her warm skin, he used his pocket knife to remove her corset.

Chapter Three

“How the hell could you do that to her?” Standing in the stables—the most private place to talk—while his good friend the veterinary surgeon, Logan Sutcliffe, groomed his stallion, John blasted the group of five men. He outranked them all.

The six o’clock sunrise peeked over their shoulders, flooding in from the open doors. They were dressed in their everyday working uniforms—white shirts, suspenders and dark breeches.

“We thought she might go over well, that you wouldn’t mind,” said one of the men.

“You heard my objections to Wesley when he placed his ad. What on earth would make you think I’d feel different now?”

The group was silent. Some kicked at the straw, some fidgeted with the sleek California saddle and the wool blanket slung over the stall.

“Well?” John bellowed. “I want an answer from each of you!”

They glanced uncomfortably at each other. Corporal Reid spoke first, playing with the brim of his wide brown hat. “We thought you’d see the humor.”

“You thought I’d be amused?”

The veterinarian shrugged as he brushed the stallion’s mane. In his mid-twenties, the youngest man here, Logan was being trained by John to help in surgery because John was so short staffed. Logan had been shot in the face by the Grayveson gang more than two-and-a-half years ago and left for dead. His cheek was bandaged from his own recent surgery to fix his droopy eyelid and to minimize the scarring left behind by the bullet wound.

Sid Grayveson, the man who’d shot Logan, was serving twenty-five years for attempted murder of an officer, but two of his vicious brothers were still at large.

Logan’s young wife, Melodie, was carrying their first child. John liked them both. But it didn’t change the fact that Logan was a goddamn horse doctor. John’s wounded men deserved better. They deserved to be cared for by a trained surgeon.

“I tried to stop the prank but I should have said something more…the prank got out of hand,” said Logan. “Wesley was so happy with the thought of his mail-order bride.”

John scowled. “Don’t keep using Wesley as an excuse. I know all about Wesley and his bride. I was the one who sent his fiancée the telegram telling her the news that she no longer needed to come.” He turned to the two other men, the sergeant and corporal. “What are your excuses?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir,” said Sergeant O’Malley, nervously patting his dark mustache, “but we can’t forget about Wesley because the whole thing was Wesley’s idea.”

“What?”

“Wes said you always see things in such black-and-white terms, Sir. That maybe if you’d just meet a woman we picked out for you, you might…see things from another angle.”

John leaned against the boards. The bulge of his shoulder flattened against wood. Wesley’s doing?

How many hours had they spent working side by side in surgery, on the fields and in the hospital? Wesley, with the white-blond hair and friendly blue eyes, who was always ready for a good laugh. Such a damn good sport about everything. Even when he’d lose in cards, or when the men had secretly oiled his saddle with molasses that had later stained his breeches beyond repair, or when he’d gotten his paycheck and spent half of it on rounds of Scotch for the men.

They’d been so close that Wesley had given him the friendly nickname of Black-’n-White.

Because you never tear your hair out makin’ a decision, Wesley had said. When the cook was caught stealin’ money, you said get rid of him. When the rest of us were only suspecting old man Dubrowski was beatin’ up on his wife, you had him thrown in jail for seven days. When I crushed my baby finger last year, you said cut it off right away, but I said no, and with the infection wound up losin’ two instead.

John didn’t mind the name. Being able to see things clearly had gotten him far in the police force. But with women…cripes…with women….

Wesley had been behind it. What was John supposed to make of that?

“What’s she gonna do, Doc?”

John rubbed the kink at the back of his neck. Two hours’ sleep hadn’t been enough. “She’s going home. But before she does, I want each of you to make restitution.”

“How?”

“An apology for starters. And then you’ll take up a collection, so she won’t go home empty-handed. I don’t know what her circumstances are, but it’s the least you can do.”

“Where is she stayin’, Sir?”

John was about to tell them, then decided against it. “I’ll let you know later today. I’m headed there now.”

He’d see her as soon as he’d shaved and bathed. He should warn her to expect the men, to ask if she wanted to see them. He’d also stop by the train depot to ask for the schedule. There were two daily trains headed East, but he wasn’t sure if both of them went all the way to Halifax.

The men edged toward the door, eager to escape his glare.

“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.

“Mornin’, Clarissa.” John straightened, tall and lean, removing his Stetson but looking ill at ease.

“What brings you here?” Clarissa rubbed the waistline of her satin dress, fumbling with the pleats. She was pretty, with long brunette hair that she’d clasped at her temples with butterfly clips, and skin so white and smooth it looked like ice cream. When she swept her disapproving gaze over Sarah’s best housedress, Sarah felt dowdy in comparison.

He introduced the women. They nodded politely, but as he and Clarissa caught up with small talk, Sarah took her bonnet and stepped away to continue studying the merchandise. He’d already told her that Clarissa was the owner’s daughter and didn’t do the hiring. Sarah was waiting for Mr. or Mrs. Ashford to step out from behind the velvet drapes of the back room.

“It’s a pounding right above my heart,” Sarah heard Clarissa say. “Above my breastbone. Sometimes it’s uncontrollable. What do you think it is? Heart palpitations?”

“Perhaps you need an examination,” John replied, his dark features glued to the annoying woman.

Clarissa lowered her eyes coyly. “It would be in my best interest, I can’t deny it.”

“I’ll set up the appointment this morning. I’ll drop by Doc Waters’s office and tell him to expect you.”

Clarissa’s look of surprise was equaled by Sarah’s. “Old Dr. Waters?”

Trying to hide her amusement at Clarissa’s disappointment, Sarah ran her hand along a carriage clock. Fancy pillars showcased an exquisitely painted porcelain dial and side panels. She turned to see John and an embarrassed Clarissa standing two feet away.

“I like the shape of that clock,” said John. “It’s massive.”

“And see—” said Sarah, getting caught up with enthusiasm for the lovely items. “A lever in the base allows you to select silence, half strike and full strike.”

“Yes,” said Clarissa, rushing to take over the conversation. Was there some sort of bidding competition between the two women of which Sarah wasn’t aware? The woman needn’t feel threatened by Sarah, she had no hold over Dr. John Calloway. “The clock face has the name of the retailer,” Clarissa added. “Tiffany & Co., from New York. They’re very prestigious.”

“Never heard of them,” said John.

Clarissa smiled at him—a touch too readily, in Sarah’s opinion.

Sarah raised her eyebrows as she occupied herself with something else. John and his taste for women were none of her concern.

But how could her life turn so drastically from one day to the next? Yesterday at this time she was on a train headed to Calgary, imagining her life with a tender doctor on the prairies, imagining the possibly of bearing their children…She glanced away in humiliation.

She still had Keenan to hope for, the only person left of her family. Did he even go by the same name, or had he changed it to protect himself?

One thing at a time, she told herself. If she took one step at a time, it wouldn’t seem so overwhelming.

Staring into the glass counter, Sarah gasped. “What an unusual watch.”

“Which one?” asked John.

“The slender gold one. The ladies’ pendant watch.”

Clarissa squeezed behind the counter, brushing against John in the process. “Ah, yes. This came in this morning. I appraised and bought it myself, from a man I’m afraid wasn’t fully aware of its value. It’s truly a classic. Eighteen karat gold, from Geneva.”

Sarah frowned. “What a shame about the crown.”

“What?” said Clarissa, peering closer.

“What’s a crown?” asked John.

“The winder knob. It’s off-kilter. Let’s hope the movement inside isn’t beyond repair.”

Clarissa colored and scooped the watch from the case. “It wasn’t like this when I appraised it.”

“Hmm,” Sarah said softly. “Perhaps a switch was made when the seller got his money. It’s a common scam.”

“How do you know all this?” John whispered.

“My father was a clockmaker and owned a store for years in Halifax. He taught me.”

He’d also taught Keenan. Not only had their father taught them clockwork, but gunsmithing. Most folks couldn’t afford to own a Colt or a Smith and Wesson; town clockmakers often doubled as gunsmiths to make everyday guns for local folks. But gunsmithing was something Sarah had buried in her past, and fervently wished Keenan had, as well.

“That’s very impressive,” said a baritone voice behind them.

A friendly and handsome balding man smiled at them as they turned around. John introduced the dashing man as Mr. Ashford. Twenty minutes later, Sarah happily left the store as their newly hired clerk. Working here, she’d have to contend with Clarissa, but seeing that she had no romantic interest in the surgeon, Sarah didn’t foresee a problem.

She tucked the escaping strands of her hair beneath her bonnet. “Are you finished drooling over Clarissa?”

“I was not drooling.”

“Yes, you were. You were drooling all over each other. And I, for one, think you’d make a lovely couple.”

It was a strange sensation, watching him flirt with another woman when only yesterday he was her intended. Try as she might, the prickly feeling wouldn’t leave.

He shook his head. The sunlight caught his firm, black temples. “I’d never go within ten feet of Clarissa Ashford. Her former lover is doing serious jail time for larceny and theft. He used to own a sawmill in the Rockies, and she ran off with him when she couldn’t squeeze enough money out of his younger partner.”

“Oh my goodness.” Were these the kinds of people she had to contend with in Calgary? “What are her folks like?”

“They’re honest and hardworking, near as we can tell. You shouldn’t have trouble working there. There is one other jewelry shop you could try, but he just hired a new man.”

“This one’s fine. They told me I can start tomorrow.”

John came to a stop on the sunny boardwalk. The mist had lifted, leaving behind a blazing blue sky.

For the first time in twenty-four hours, her future didn’t look so bleak. Maybe she’d do well in this town. She’d found work and a place to stay, and she’d find her brother, too.

“You haven’t stopped for one minute since your arrival. Look how much you’ve accomplished today.” His smile was warm and true, and had a dazzling effect on her.

Her guard went up. She stepped away from him as shoppers squeezed by on the boardwalk. Sarah could still see through him. She’d found a place to live and a place of employment, so he was free of her. He was off the coals.

“Thanks for accompanying me. I’m sure your presence had something to do with Mr. Ashford hiring me. And now, I suppose you can rest your conscience.”

Now that she was here, she was going to make the best of her situation. Maybe she’d give herself a time limit to find Keenan. The money the Mounties had collected would go a little way toward paying her boardinghouse, but if she couldn’t make ends meet with her new job, she’d have to pack up and go somewhere cheaper.

She hadn’t worked at her father’s store for five years since she and her mother had sold it, and she wasn’t quite comfortable with everything at Ashford’s, but a little time and experience would polish her skills.

John insisted on following her right to the front desk.

“I can handle being on my own.”

“But I’d like to see you to safety.”

“Well, who do you think is going to walk me everyday to and from work? You won’t be around and it’ll be up to me anyway.”

“Stop arguing with everything I say.”

She groaned and kept walking. And groaned again as they entered the small doorway and encountered the two elderly women Sarah had met on the train. While Sarah had kept her personal business to herself for a thousand miles, she’d opened up to them halfway here, around Saskatoon. Sadly, it had been enough time to blab everything.

“Hello, Mrs. Lott, Mrs. Thomas,” said Sarah.

“Why, hello young lady,” said the thinner one, Mrs. Lott, with the kind wrinkled green eyes. “I see you’re here with your new groom-to-be.”

Sarah introduced them to John, who’d never met them. The sisters had obviously heard of him, though. Being the town’s only surgeon, it was understandable.

Sarah squirmed under the sisters’s scrutiny and John cleared his throat.

Mrs. Thomas, the one with the head of completely white hair, turned to John. The older women both looked tiny and frail standing next to his bronzed body. “Sarah told us on the train that she’d been corresponding with a lovely young man. Imagine our surprise when she told us it was you, Dr. Calloway. Have you set the date?”

Sarah swallowed hard and avoided looking at John. “There’s not going to be a wedding.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Lott, clutching at her throat. “Why?”

“There was a mix-up, it seems. Dr. Calloway wasn’t the…It wasn’t the doctor who…”

John stepped in, removing his hat. “It was a miscommunication is what it was. I’m helping Sarah to settle in. She just found employment at Ashford Jewelers. Won’t you congratulate her?”

The women gaily offered their best wishes, but Sarah knew she couldn’t avoid the questions forever.

“Perhaps you ladies might keep her in mind if you’re in the market for a lovely strand of pearls or a ring to adorn those pretty fingers.”

The older women giggled. They did look rather wealthy, judging by their fine clothes and necklaces. “Why, Dr. Calloway, we didn’t think you noticed such things.”

As the conversation mellowed, Mrs. Lott turned to Sarah. “Would you and the doctor care to join us for dinner? We could meet here, later, say around seven?”

Sarah craned her neck awkwardly up at John, wondering what he thought.

His response seemed smooth and well rehearsed. “I’m afraid I must decline.”

“But we insist,” said Mrs. Lott.

“Unfortunately, I’m needed in surgery.”

Mrs. Lott put her warm hands on top of Sarah’s. “But you’ll join us, won’t you, dear?”

“Certainly.” Sarah’s tension eased. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad living here. John’s standing beside her indicated his support and respect in this town, and unless the Mounties leaked the truth, no one needed to know that her arrival had been a hoax. Perhaps she could hold her head high. Perhaps the town would welcome her.

“And where might you ladies be off to, this fine morning?” John inquired as they passed in a cloud of perfume.

“Why, you might call it a family reunion. Our young nephew is here from New York City, and we’re off to visit our cousin, Mrs. Polly Fitzgibbon.”

Chapter Five

“How on earth did you get a bullet lodged in your thigh?” In a sour mood and troubled by the man’s injury, John asked the question later that afternoon at the hospital.

Sprawled on the examination table with his trouser leg torn apart, Corporal Travis Reid groaned in pain. John had given him an opiate, but hadn’t wanted to sedate the man too heavily until after his anesthesia and bullet extraction.

“We were hunting. O’Malley thought he saw a doe scrambling through the woods. His shot ricocheted off a maple and hit me in the thigh.”

Irritation nipped at John. The hospital needed more medical officers. Standing beside him on the surgical ward, Logan, the veterinarian, was ready with his doused rag of chloroform. An animal doctor.

“And now you’re out of commission due to an irresponsible hunting accident.”

Travis grimaced, trying to make light of the situation. “No venison for supper tonight, either.”

John was beyond amusement. He was tired and hungry and mad at their carelessness. “Never mind the venison,” he snapped. “Out of eighty-eight men, we’ve got eleven out due to injuries. The others got hurt in the line of duty, but this injury was totally unnecessary. Couldn’t you be more careful?”

“Sure, Doc,” Travis snarled. “But not everything’s always right or wrong. A man’s gotta have distractions, not work all the time. But I reckon you don’t know much about that.”

John balked. No one had ever talked back to him. And then his temper dissipated as he realized he was berating an injured man. “Dammit, Travis, sorry.”

With a softer nod, Travis succumbed to the chloroform. John removed the slug then sutured the wound.

What was wrong with him lately? Why did he bark at everyone? When Travis was settled, John sought the privacy of his quarters. He tried to convince himself that he wasn’t the lone man Travis made him out to be.

But since Christmas there’d been no time to spend with women, no time to take a leave, no time to go hunting or fishing, no riding to the foothills. The police were busy.

Just last week the Grayveson gang had stolen forty-eight mustangs a hundred and fifty miles to the south. By the time the Mounties had given chase, the outlaws had faded across the American border. Cross-border gangs had been one of the main reasons the Mounties had been formed by the federal government sixteen years ago. That and the illegal whiskey trade with the Indians. But the Grayveson gang would probably be back, selling the Montana horses and cattle they would probably steal next to the folks in Alberta where the brands weren’t recognized.

Maybe Wesley had had the right idea. If it’d been John who’d died instead, would he have been satisfied with what he’d accomplished in his life so far? Poor Wesley had been robbed of his life; the loss had triggered John to think more about his own direction. Was work all that fulfilled him?

When he was a younger man, he’d envisioned himself in the future with a wife and children, maybe grandchildren in his retirement years. But he hadn’t had the time or the inclination to look for a wife. There wasn’t much choice, unless he went for a fifteen-or sixteen-year-old daughter of one of the ranchers, or the occasional European immigrant, or a daughter of one of the Metis Indians. And the years kept passing by.

John was forty years old today. Like most of his private affairs, he kept his birthdate to himself. But what had happened to his vision of family?

He sifted through the medical journals that he’d picked up from the train depot. He leafed through them with disappointment. It looked like this month’s British medical journals wouldn’t supply any answers to his other problem, either. During the twelve months he’d been treating the blacksmith on Angus McIver’s ranch, John hadn’t been able to pinpoint the man’s illness. The blacksmith was only thirty years old yet sometimes he walked with a shaking palsy, like an old man.

Rubbing the back of his neck, John looked up at the wall clock. Six-fifteen. Sarah would be having dinner soon.

She could be a major distraction. Hell, she was already.

If marriage was what she wanted and why she was here, he was certain she’d soon find a husband. With her pretty smile and ready attitude for hard work, she’d have suitors begging for her company. Some men might consider her to be a handful, but her amusing tongue lashings reminded John of his younger sister. He and Beth had been closest in age and they’d argued night and day. After she’d passed away so suddenly, he’d felt guilty for years about their constant bickering, but as he’d matured, he’d realized they had only been children and the arguments hadn’t meant he’d loved his sister less.

He missed Beth. And his younger twin brothers, Hank and James…Much to his mother’s annoyance, John had been the only child who hadn’t eaten any of the food at the fairgrounds that Sunday. He’d had an upset stomach and couldn’t eat, but wouldn’t admit to the nausea or his ma wouldn’t have allowed him to ride the carousel. The rest had stuffed themselves with sausage and bread and vegetable soup and corn on the cob, then licorice and walnuts and mints. And lots and lots of water. Contaminated water. That’s how they’d contracted the typhoid that had killed them. He and his ma and pa had been the only ones left standing. Ten other children had died that week, as well.

The wall clock chimed six-thirty. Why hadn’t Sarah married before this? Why had she been so desperate to answer a newspaper advertisement and why so far away from home? Or was she simply as alone in the world as he was?

His stomach growled with hunger. Rising out of his chair, he strode to his closet. Donning a newly ironed dress shirt and his Sunday pair of pants, he headed out the door. It was his fortieth birthday, and what did he have to lose?

“Mrs. Lott, here I am!” Sarah rushed down the carpeted stairs, hoping to catch Mrs. Lott and her sister before they escaped into the milling crowd. The boardinghouse owner had established a reputation as an excellent cook and there was often a lineup for her dining room.

Lifting the fabric of her finest blue twill skirt so she wouldn’t trip down the stairs, Sarah waved again but the two women ignored her as they headed to the front door. They were going in the wrong direction.

Sara shouted louder. “Mrs. Lott! Mrs. Thomas!”

Weaving past a gentleman in a bowler hat, Sarah squeezed along the stair wall. When her sleeve brushed an oil painting, it jarred and she lunged to straighten it.

A hallway full of people stared. Some women averted their eyes and whispered to their friends. Sarah was struck by self-consciousness. She’d created a stir because she’d been too zestful in her shouting and clumsy with the painting.

However, the elderly sisters turned and waited for her. Like Sarah in her white mutton-sleeve blouse and cameo brooch clipped to her throat, the ladies were dressed in their finest.

Sarah squeezed past a man with a walking stick. Puffing to catch her breath, she felt herself flush with enthusiasm as she peered into the wrinkled green eyes of dear Mrs. Lott. “I’ve come to join you for dinner.”

Ten feet past their shoulders, the stained-glass door opened. Dr. John Calloway strode through it.

With a quickening of her pulse, Sarah slunk into the corner, hoping he wouldn’t catch sight of her. What brought him here? He’d said he was on duty this evening, so he must be on a doctor’s call. In a glance, she didn’t see a medicine bag, only an annoyingly handsome man with slicked-back hair and a white silk shirt. He loomed a good ten inches above the crowd.

Mrs. Lott had her back turned, so didn’t see him. She wasn’t smiling at Sarah as she had been that morning. “But we’ve already eaten.”

“Oh—” Had Sarah made an error? She pivoted on her high-heeled black boot to glance at Mrs. Thomas. “But…”

Mrs. Thomas brought her leather gloves to her nose and sniffled. Her shock of white hair, pinned in billowing curls atop her head, shook with disapproval.

“But I thought you said seven o’clock. I’m five minutes early.”

“Dr. Calloway declined, remember?”

“Yes, but I thought I’d mentioned I would join you alone.”

“Sorry, there must have been a miscommunication.”

A burning heat slapped Sarah in the face. Polly Fitzgibbon had obviously done her work. She likely spread the gossip of Sarah’s nakedness in John’s arms and God knew what else.

John spoke beside her, causing her pulse to leap again. “Good evening, ladies. I see I’ve arrived in time. I’d like to join you for dinner if I’m still invited.”

Trying to hide her disgrace, Sarah spun around to weave back up the stairs to the solace of her room. “It seems we’re both late, Dr. Calloway.”

He grabbed her wrist firmly and held it to his side, but smiled at the other women. “Late? It’s not seven yet.”

Sarah tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held her strong. A silent turbulence roared between them. Had he overheard that the sisters had declined Sarah? What was he doing? People were staring, and he was making the situation worse. It didn’t help that his touch flustered her thoughts.

The two women puckered their lips. “We’ve already eaten, Doctor. Good evening.” They strolled away.

Another couple brushed by John and Sarah. They mumbled, inaudible to most, but not to Sarah, which was the effect she knew they were seeking. “…caught red-handed with her clothes off. Phony mail-order bride. Wonder how much she charges…”

“Now just a minute,” said John, red beneath his collar.

The sisters hesitated near the door, glanced back and fanned their faces with their gloves. Dead silence filled the hallway. Not a person in the crowd moved.

“John, don’t—” whispered Sarah.

“Come back here, ladies,” John commanded. “I’d like to explain something to you.”

The women clicked their tongues. Someone held the door open and they slinked into the blue evening sky.

With a heated look of fury, John glared at the staring faces. He must have realized they were gauging his possessive hand on Sarah’s wrist, because he dropped it quickly.

His absence left a cold spot on her wrist. She hadn’t been touched like that for a very long time. It’d been a raw act of control, of possession. She fought the unwanted feeling of satisfaction it brought her.

“Good night,” she said softly, rubbing her wrist, turning up the stairs, afraid to draw more attention to herself.

“Wait.” John pressed his warm hand into her sleeve and held her back by the arm. Heat arced between them.

Judging by the murmuring and shuffling of feet, the crowd had lost their interest in John and Sarah. She stiffened her posture with pride.

When she turned around, a step higher and almost eye level to his handsome dark face and searching gaze, he added, “You still have to eat. There’s a great steakhouse around the block.”

The corner of his mouth twisted with a little smile. What would it be like to kiss that generous mouth?

“I don’t think I’d be good company.” She raced up one step and he followed by one.

“Better company than those two women.”

His gentle attempt to make her smile worked. Why should she run for cover? Who were they to treat her like that?

A teasing gleam twinkled in his brown eyes. Maybe she should keep her distance from John. He’d already rejected her once.

“Steak sounds good.”

“If I can calm down long enough,” John said an hour later over dinner, “I’ll go to Mrs. Lott and Mrs. Thomas, and explain what happened. That you were caught in the middle of an idiotic game between my men, and brought here under false pretenses.”

Sarah watched the golden candlelight flicker over the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, over the short wave of brown hair. The shadow of a beard and mustache added to his brawny appearance. Yet a white silk shirt draped from his wide shoulders, in soft contrast to his rough masculinity.

“I think that they think that once I met you…I no longer wanted—” he swallowed “—to marry you.”

Sarah cut into her rib eye steak. “I’d prefer to explain it to them myself, thank you, when the time is right.” She arched her shoulders against her high-backed chair, loosening the tension in her muscles. “But I’m no longer sure it’s worth it.”

John glanced over her ruffled blouse all the way down to her cinched waistline. She was covered from wrist to throat by fabric, but somehow John’s heated glance made her feel as though her clothing was totally improper. How did he have that ability to make her so aware of her own sensuality?

“The rumors are spreading. Unfortunately, it’s worth your reputation.”

Her heart pounded in an offbeat rhythm. She knew he was right, but she wouldn’t allow panic to set in.

He slid his empty plate away. “And as far as being caught this morning—together like we were—let me try to explain that to them, at least.”

“Could you try to explain it to me first?”

She captured his attention with the remark. He laughed softly. “I see your point. Maybe it’s best if we don’t try to explain it at all.”

He swirled his glass of white wine with one large hand, gazing into its depth. His fingers, long and lean, were tinted from the sun and exceptionally clean and trim. His hands were beautiful; a captivating paradox to the rest of his rough-and-rugged presence.

Then he sipped his wine, calling her attention to his well-defined lips. She wished she would stop noticing everything about him.

“What brought you here, Sarah? I mean, besides my so-called letters. Why did you come?”

Her body felt heavy and warm. This was her opening to speak of Keenan, but how could she reveal her brother? She didn’t know who to trust in this town, and the more she kept her mouth closed, the better off she’d be.

“I think I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for years, but wasn’t aware of it.”

John gave her a quizzical look. She noticed a few other women in the room dining with their spouses, glancing in his direction. John seemed unaware of the envious gazes afforded to Sarah.

She finished with her plate and gently sipped her wine, welcoming the fruity taste on her tongue. “My mother passed away after a long bout with tuberculosis.”

“Mmm,” he said sympathetically, nodding his head. “That can be an awful decline. Did you have help?”

“There was no else at home—my father had passed away several years ago himself and…”

…and Keenan no longer lived with us.

John asked more questions about her life in Halifax, and the more answers she gave, the more he wanted to know.

She felt awkward at exposing herself, but flattered by his interest.

While they ate sweet plum dumplings, she asked, “Why did you become a doctor?”

A melancholy flitted across his brow. “Because of my family.”

“They urged you?”

“No.” His voice quaked. “Because of what happened to my family. My two younger brothers and one sister were very young…. They contracted typhoid and unfortunately didn’t pull through.”

Sarah winced, letting him go on, lulled by the serenity of his voice and this quiet, shared moment.

“There was nothing any of us could do to help. A few years later, I enrolled in medical school…”

“…because you never wanted to feel that helpless again.”

He nodded in surprise that she’d finished his sentence. The candlelight flickered, her throat ached with sympathy, and he quickly went on to another topic.

Later, after they finished eating and were strolling back to the boardinghouse, she still felt a connection, as if he’d opened up and told her things perhaps he’d never said before. What an awful thing to lose his sister and brothers the way he had. Sarah couldn’t help but admire the man John had become because of it. A doctor. Who else did she know who could reach beyond their own grief to see so clearly to the other side?

A purple half moon followed them, casting misty shadows on the uneven road. The scent of prairie flowers mingled with the scent of falling dew, and the lowing of cattle miles away nestled them in an intimate hush.

They were content to walk speechless in the tranquility. When they passed a streetlamp beside a deserted alley, Sarah stopped beneath it to say good-night.

She tilted her face upward and shivered in surprise when John cupped his fingers beneath her chin.

Riveted by the feel of his skin on hers, she parted her lips.

He fingered the cameo brooch at her collar. “This is pretty,” he whispered, then bent his head and kissed her.

It was an arousal, like a floating cloud of wispy lips brushing hers. She closed her eyes and let him draw her close against his muscled chest. Inhaling the scent of his clean skin and faint cologne, not able to breathe enough of him, she responded with an awakening.

The kiss was extraordinary. Supple and rich. She felt him growing urgent as he wrapped his heavy arms around her waist and shoulder. She responded with a torturous, teasing pleasure. Their tongues met timidly, like an exploration, then grew heated in desire…in the certainty of what could happen between them.

If they let it.

Awed by the feeling of being in his arms, of knowing who he was and where he came from and how he’d rescued her this evening, she lost herself in the universe of his body.

Why had it all been a hoax?

Why had she been denied the good fortune of becoming John’s wife?

It seemed like they had only started when John ripped away from her aching body. Although his gaze was hungry and his lips swollen from their kiss, he drew away farther. His mouth quivered with unreleased passion.

His words were a murmured plea. “Good night, mail-order Sarah.”

Chapter Six

For three days, sandwiched between his busy calls, John tried not to think of Sarah, the intimate evening they’d shared, or the tempting kiss. Why was it when it came to his work, he could make a judgment call in seconds, but when it came to Sarah, he wasn’t sure where he stood or what he wanted?

He was much safer dealing with his men.

On Monday he was busy changing burn dressings on the two constables who’d suffered in the forest fires. Fortunately the fire was under control and their burns healing.

On Tuesday and Wednesday John was critically busy with Constable Pawson, the man who’d sliced his thigh clear down to the bone in a train door while foiling a robbery attempt. The inflammation might have turned into gangrene if John hadn’t applied the poultices frequently and stayed up all night tending to the fever.

Finally, Thursday morning after a good night’s sleep, he was paying his routine weekly call to Angus McIver’s ranch. John was walking beneath the clump of pines with Angus as he headed to the buggy. He’d tended to Angus’s flaring gallbladder, treated the ranch cook for severe sunburn to the back of his neck, checked up on the blacksmith’s trembling hand—still puzzled over the symptoms—then treated the foreman’s youngest daughter for a patch of poison ivy.

“Anyway,” said Angus, pressing closer to John as he helped him to the buggy, “next time you come, maybe you could convince Sheila to let you examine her again.”

John tried to saying the words kindly, knowing how much it affected Angus. “We’ve been through this before. It’s not easy for you to hear, but you’re the one who’s likely sterile.”

Angus clenched his jaw. In his fifties, he was tall and brawny and as heavy as an ox. Widowed early from his first wife, he’d married Sheila in her twenties, but in their ten-year marriage, they hadn’t produced any children.

It was sad to see how desperately Angus wanted them. Sheila had resigned herself, content to mother her dozen nieces and nephews who lived down the road, but Angus owned one of the busiest cattle ranches in southern Alberta and had often told John he only wanted to pass it down to a son—or a daughter.

Someone tugged John’s knee. One of the blacksmith’s children peered out from John’s pant leg. “Are you gonna help my pa get better?”

John smiled at the slender eight-year-old boy. His name was Russell but most called him Rusty because of his orange hair. “I’m trying.”

“Why was his hand shakin’ so much this mornin’? It hasn’t done that for a long time.”

“I’m looking for the reason, son.”

“When are you gonna find it? What kind of doctor are ya?”

“Shoo,” said Angus with a laugh. “Us adults are talkin’.”

Angus tried to make light of what the boy had just said, but John sobered and watched Rusty run back to the stables in his dirty overalls and blackened bare feet. What was John missing in his readings? What couldn’t he see?

Sergeant O’Malley strode through the pine trees, ready to hop into the buggy beside John and return to town together, as they’d come.

“Any new information?” John asked him.

O’Malley shook his head and peered at Angus. “They got away with only one steer this time, but they attempted the entire herd.”

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