large blue towel in the cabinet, she pulled it down and handed it to him. “I’ll go help Una with that hot water. You get out of those jeans,” she told him.
Luke grumbled under his breath as she left the room, but he undid the shirt he’d tied around his leg as a makeshift compress. Beneath it the gash didn’t look too bad, he decided. It wasn’t deep enough to need suturing. Just bothersome enough to make riding out of here uncomfortable. That was, if he could even find someplace to repair his cycle.
Luke knew one armadillo with a price on its head.
He’d just finished sliding off his jeans when he heard Mariah return.
“Are you decent?” she called through the closed door.
Luke frowned. “As decent as I can get wearing damned little,” he answered, dragging the towel around him, and wishing it had a little extra yardage.
Mariah kept her eyes averted as she entered the room, wishing there was some other way to do this. And that her patient wasn’t so overwhelming. Both dressed or in the altogether.
Luke Phillips had more male appeal than the laws of nature should allow, an innate masculinity she was having a difficult time dealing with at the moment.
Her hormones bucked, but she tamped down her reaction to the man and set the bowl of steaming water on the small worktable in front of her, then motioned Luke to a chair.
She would get through this somehow, hopefully with her wanton hormones intact.
“Una sent you a little firewater, in lieu of a bullet to bite on,” she said, drawing a pint-size bottle of whiskey from the back pocket of her jeans.
That produced a wide-eyed glance from Luke, followed by a slow smile—a smile that was as potent as the rest of him beneath that blue towel.
“You expect the surgery to be that bad, Doc?”
He was teasing her. Mariah swallowed hard and tried to remain calm, focusing her gaze on his wounds instead of his broad chest and equally broad shoulders, every muscle firm and sleek and tanned. The man was too good-looking for comfort.
Her comfort.
Awareness clawed at her nerves here in the close confines of the room. She tried to picture him fully clothed instead of in that precarious blue towel.
But it did little for her senses.
His broad shoulders would fill out a shirt to perfection—or a suit. Did he wear a tux back where he came from—perhaps for a special event?
Or a date?
That thought flashed into her mind and she tamped down her reaction, trying to focus on the task at hand.
“I’ll try to be gentle,” she said.
His body heat radiated to her in the small room. He smelled of fresh air and sunshine and forbidden stranger. And it was having a decided effect on her.
Luke watched Mariah work, sprinkling something into the water he supposed was that ground willow bark Una had talked about, then dipped a soft, white washcloth into the mixture. But he hadn’t been ready for her touch as she cleansed the gash on his thigh.
Her hands were gentle, yet sure—and damningly sensual. He struggled with the effect they had on his body, and decided a little of Una’s firewater might be in order after all.
Not to dull the pain in his leg—but to numb his suddenly threatening testosterone.
“Damn,” he cursed, then sucked in a breath and reached for the bottle of whiskey.
“Sorry, does this hurt?”
He was in a world of hurt—and not sure he’d survive. Her touch was driving him wild. “I think that’s good enough,” he ground out. “Why don’t you work on my shoulder for a while?”
“Your shoul—oh!”
The light dawned in her pretty green eyes and a heated blush climbed her neck and spread across her cheeks before she glanced away, unable to meet his gaze.
“I’ll just rinse the cloth and…and…”
He put a hand on her arm, then thought better of it and drew it away. “It’s okay, Mariah. I’m, uh, just on a rather short fuse right now.”
Her reply was a deeper blush, and Luke took a long swallow of whiskey.
“Tell me about Callie,” he said as she immersed her cloth in the hot mixture again. He needed to get his mind off the tempting woman beside him, and conversation was the best way he knew to deal with the situation. Besides, he wanted to know more about her, about Callie, about their life out here in the middle of nowhere. “The plants you gathered…they’re for your daughter, aren’t they?”
Mariah dabbed the herbal solution onto Luke’s shoulder wound. She’d been so engrossed in her work, cleansing the injury on his thigh, that she hadn’t realized she’d been…affecting him. It seemed that this awareness was a problem on both their parts.
Her hands shook at the merest brush of his skin and her heart beat heavily. How long had it been since she’d been this close to a gorgeous male? Never, she admitted. At least not one as gorgeous as Luke.
Will had been good-looking, she supposed. At least she’d once thought so—then she’d seen the ugliness beneath the surface.
There’d been no man in her life since Will had left, which suited Mariah just fine. She’d been sorely hurt by his defection, hurt that he could care so little about his daughter.
Callie was what was important to her now.
She always would be.
“Yes,” she said. “The herbs are for Callie—for her arthritis, at least most of them are. Una taught me their uses, when the doctor’s medicine failed to help.”
Luke seemed to understand about Callie. He hadn’t shown the slightest surprise when she’d come bounding toward them on her cumbersome braces. Instead he’d seen her beauty and the sun in her smile.
“Callie’s had conventional treatment, then?”
She nodded at his question. Mariah had had her daughter to the best doctors in Phoenix, spending the last pittance of money she had on their treatments, the newest medicines.
“Nothing seemed to work for her,” she said. “At least, not to any degree. It was a long trip to Phoenix for care, and the ride often left Callie worse because of it. Then Una told me of the healing power in the plants and herbs that grow around here. Callie seems to thrive on them.”
“And perhaps a little on her mother’s love?”
Mariah gave him a quick glance and saw a pensive look on his face, the shadow of something in his eyes. Luke was a man who was hurting—and not from the wounds she could see, the wounds he’d received in that tumble from his bike, the wounds she hoped her herbs would heal.
It was the other wound, the one she could only sense, the one that
