and he found himself absently counting the light freckles scattered over her sun-kissed cheeks and trailing across her small upturned nose.
Minutes later she pulled off her latex gloves, and their gazes met. Sara paused, her bright eyes startled.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Sixteen freckles.”
“Please. Don’t remind me.” Annoyance laced her voice. “Those have been generously passed down from my mother’s side of the family.”
Ben’s mind began to backtrack to Henry Rhoades’s office as the light bulb slowly illuminated his thoughts. “The picture on your uncle’s desk. It’s you.”
“Yes.” The word was a soft murmur before she averted her gaze to efficiently wrap sterile gauze around his arm, trim the excess and tape the edges.
“And the woman in the picture?”
“That would be my mother, the other Dr. Elliott.”
Ben swallowed, the epiphany becoming even clearer. “Your mother is Dr. Rhoades’s sister.”
“Correct.”
All the bits of information began to fit together. “Amanda Rhoades.”
“Yes. Amanda Rhoades-Elliott. You know who my mother is?”
“My parents spoke of her often. She was quite well known for her work in rural medicine.”
“My mother was an incredible woman. Period.”
“And the accident?”
“She died, and my uncle was paralyzed.”
Ben stood still.
Eyes hooded, Sara began to clean up the area, carefully folding the edges of the sterile field inward until she had a neat package.
Only then did she raise her head, allowing Ben a view of the faint silvery line running close to her hairline and nearly hidden by her long hair.
“How did you get that scar?” he asked.
When she sucked in a breath and turned away, Ben’s gut clenched. Why hadn’t he realized it sooner?
“You were in that accident.”
Sara nodded.
Suddenly things became all too clear. Her mother died, her uncle was paralyzed and she was left with a scar to remind her of the accident for the rest of her life. Air whooshed from his lungs.
“The clinic means more than just a lot to you, Sara.”
“Don’t go all sentimental on me, Doc. I like you better when you’re prickly.” She shoved the refuse into a biohazard bag as efficiently as she had changed the subject.
Ben straightened. “I’m not prickly.”
“Oh, please. I may have my issues, but so do you. You’re more defensive than a momma cow.” Clearing her throat, Sara glanced at his arm. “The laceration should heal nicely. Edges are well approximated. And you know the drill. Keep it clean and dry for the next forty-eight hours.”
Ben nodded.
“Do you have any antibiotic ointment on hand?”
“I do.”
“Great. Then you’re all set.” She looked around the dingy little kitchen. “Mind if I wash my hands?”
“Please.” He gestured toward the old-fashioned porcelain single-basin sink.
“Tell me you called your landlord about those broken porch planks.”
“Not yet. I figure we can do a little trade of services.”
Sara raised her brows, blatant skepticism on her face.
“Hey, I’m handy enough around power tools. Built plenty of churches and clinics in my time. I told you my parents were medical missionaries.”
Eyes narrowed, she gave him a slow assessment. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly look like a power tool kind of guy.”
Ben paused, more curious than insulted. “I don’t? What kind of guy do I look like?”
“Let’s just say a little more Brooks Brothers than Home Depot.”
He shook his head at her assumption. “You’re way off target.”
Turning on the faucet, Sara’s glance moved to inspect the rest of the small log cabin. “Am I? Well, by the looks of this place, that can only be a good thing.”
“The Realtor called it rustic.”
“Rustic?” Sara released a short laugh as she scrubbed her hands. “I’d say she saw you coming a mile away.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t mind. It just needs a little work.”
“Good to be optimistic.” She dried her hands on a paper towel.
Ben worked hard to hold back a grin as Sara continued her feisty tirade.
“I have to tell you, your three-hundred-dollar coffee machine looks a little nervous on the counter next to that kerosene lamp.” She looked around again. “So what’s the real reason you’re out here in the middle of nowhere?”
When her probing gaze met his, he said nothing.
“Well, I suppose working with your hands is good therapy,” she mused.
“You’re implying I need therapy?”
“I was raised on a ranch.” She shrugged. “I’ve been around wounded animals enough to recognize one.”
“Now who’s doing analysis?” he muttered.
“As you said, any first-year med student could figure it out.”
“Good to know you can give as well as you get, since we’ll be working together.”
She snapped shut the brass latch on her leather medical bag and grabbed the handles. “And on that note, I’ll be going.”
“Sorry to take you away from your date.”
A bright grin lit up her face. “Rocky? He’s the faithful type. Always there waiting when I get home.”
Ben frowned, surprised that he found himself envious. “So this is a serious relationship.”
Sara laughed. “You could say that. Rocky is my horse.”
“Your horse.”
She only smiled.
His
