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A Family Practice
Gayle Kasper
MILLS & BOON
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In memory of the real-life Una
and all you taught me
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
Dr. Luke Phillips leaned his big silver Harley into the curve, racing the wind, and sometimes winning. It was the only pleasure he allowed himself.
He’d left the interstate behind somewhere south of Flagstaff, Arizona, preferring the solitude of this two-lane road to nowhere. Flowering cacti, the brutal sun and red rock kept him company. Dry red dust peppered his face and arms. He tasted its grit.
At the moment he’d sell his soul for the sight of a shade tree—or what passed for shade in this part of the country. Not that his soul was worth a whole hell of a lot these days.
He’d left who and what he was behind in Chicago forever.
Then a short distance ahead he spotted a small sliver of shade produced by one scrawny pine tree. He coasted the bike to a stop at the side of the road and dismounted.
Soon he’d have to consider traveling at night and sleeping by day. The afternoon sun could be relentless, even dangerous to the uninitiated. And he supposed he was that, despite the deep tan the last thousand miles or so had given him.
He sprinted across the dry bed of an arroyo and scaled the rocky mesa, intent on reaching that shade tree. A twenty-minute power nap and he’d be as good as new.
But a short distance from the tree he paused, finding the scenery had just improved—in the form of one very feminine, denim-clad fanny raised to the sky. The woman was leaning out over the edge of the rocky ledge, reaching for something a distant grasp away, oblivious to his approach behind her.
He wondered if the view from the front was half as intriguing. His gaze remained riveted on her, his breath caught halfway to his lungs as she leaned out farther over the lip of the rock.
Damn!
One stiff breeze could send her over the side.
He stood stock-still, not wanting to startle her into taking a misguided plunge. He didn’t mean to gape, but since any sudden movement could bring on disaster, what else did he have to do with his time?
Time—he had plenty of that.
The entire remainder of his life, in fact.
He wasn’t going back to Chicago. There was nothing there for him anymore. The medical center and trauma unit would do well without him. They had good doctors, the best.
Luke should know.
He’d been one of them himself—until two months ago.
A knot formed in his throat, but he fought it down, fought down the damning memories, as well. Life went on. It just went on without him now.
But that was the way Luke wanted it.
He didn’t know how many miles he’d ridden, how many highways he’d taken. All he knew was that not one of them had brought him the solace he desired, the amnesia for his soul.
The unrelenting sun beat down, making him eager for that quick siesta in the shade, but he didn’t dare move until the woman with the provocative fanny quit her trapeze act and righted herself. Besides, did he want to miss that first glimpse of her when she got up from her knees and turned around?
He wondered if her eyes were brown and earthy. Or maybe the azure-blue of the Arizona sky overhead. He imagined high cheekbones caressed by the sun, lips that curved gracefully into a smile, or maybe a feminine pout.
Just then she inched back from the mesa’s precarious edge and stood up. Her hair was dark and silken and tumbled over one shoulder in a long, loose braid. In her right hand she held a plant, its roots dangling with red soil and rock, small reddish blossoms sprouting in profusion, protected by pale, spiny leaves.
“You risked your life for a damned flower?”
She spun around to face him.
He’d been wrong. Her eyes were green—and at the moment, wide with surprise at the sight of a stranger in front of her.
She obviously hadn’t expected to find company out here in the middle of solitude. She drew the flower closer to her body, clutching it as if she expected he might snatch it from her.
Her frame was slight, her legs long and straight, the kind of legs that could make any red-blooded male dream of them wrapped around him during a night of hot passion.
His hands could span her tiny waist and cup the modest fullness of her high, firm breasts. The sun had given color to the tip of her nose, and a smudge of red dirt decorated the tip of her fighting chin. She nervously moistened her full, lower lip and eyed him warily.
“I
