was clear he was beyond help. On a ragged whisper and dying breath, he’d said, “Find my brothers. Find Ben. He’ll see to you.”
Even then, in the midst of Callie’s frantic fight to keep Max alive, those words had stunned her as much as they did now. He’d wanted nothing to do with his brothers, so why would he drive her to their doorstep with his last breath?
Battling back the haunting memories, she peered inside the office again. No oil lamp flickered to life. Not even the weighted sound of hurried footsteps advanced this way.
Shaking and frustrated, she drew her lightweight wool cloak snug around her shoulders in a vain attempt to shield herself from the storm that barreled through the quaint mountain valley. The small, covered porch gave no protection from the sting of icy snow. The cast-off satin dress she wore from the brothel did precious little to insulate her from even the whisper of a breeze.
Even so, this didn’t seem half as bad as the uncontrollable hardships of the last seven years. At least now she had some control over her future, and if she froze to death, it would be because she decided to do so.
When a harsh cough tore through her lungs, she braced her pounding head against the siding. Irritation mounted with each frosty breath in winter’s threat.
“Where are you, Ben Drake?” Her words sputtered between chattering teeth.
Maybe he’d landed in some saloon, drinking and gambling away the night, just like his brother, Max.
Shivering, weak and exhausted, Callie slid down the thick clapboard. She tugged her cloak tighter and pulled in a deep, steadying breath to calm her irritation. When the bitter air hit her lungs, a spasm of wrenching coughs doubled her over, threatening to cave in her resolve.
Still, she closed her eyes and pictured herself snuggled before a warm, crackling fire. A soft groan escaped her lips as she imagined her hands cradling a steaming mug of cider—or cocoa, maybe. Nestling deeper beneath the thick luxury of a cozy quilt and sleeping till she could sleep no more.
A mean gust of wind whipped across the porch, slapping reality in her face once again. She didn’t have the job yet, and until she rectified the situation that loomed like some noose before her, she was a prisoner to her past, a slave to her present and a hostage to her future.
With a stuttering sigh, she closed her eyes. She should probably be angry that Max had left her standing alone down one of life’s dark dead ends, but really, she just felt numb. The irony of that sunk deep as she shivered, slipping slowly into sleep. Yes, she was definitely numb—she could barely feel her arms, her legs, or her heart.
“Ma’am?” A deep, mellow voice stirred her senses. “Are you all right?”
“Ma’am?” Ben Drake tried again, keeping his voice low.
The woman raised her head, sending a wave of relief washing over him as a stark curtain of snow lashed across the porch.
She was alive—that much was good.
When he’d arrived home just moments ago and had spotted a dark form huddled here on his office porch next door, a sick sense of dread had roiled in the pit of his stomach. The thought of someone seeking him out for help, only to die waiting for his return, would likely haunt him for the rest of his days.
“Come on…let’s get you out of the cold.” He scooped up her rail-thin frame.
With a grunt, she stiffened arrow straight, squirming out of his arms. When her feet met the floor with a dull thud, she sliced a sharp breath through her teeth. “Oww…”
“What’s the matter?” He hunkered over to get a look at her as she sagged against the building. “Are you hurt?”
From beneath a tattered hood, the young woman peeked up at him. “My feet. They’re cold as ice.” The woman’s unfamiliar, raspy voice hit him square in the heart.
“Well, then, let’s get you inside.” He made quick work of unlocking the door. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”
“Are you Doc—Doctor Drake?” Her teeth chattered.
“Yes, I’m Ben Drake.” When he braced an arm at her back, she dodged it as though he meant to hog-tie her. “Have you been waiting long for me?”
“Long enough,” she muttered, shuffling inside, each shivering, wobbly step piercing his heart more than the last.
She pulled her cloak tighter, but the way it puddled on the floor, hanging like a big, old drape, he wasn’t quite sure how she’d managed to maneuver ten feet in such a garment.
The lingering feel of her thin, quivering frame and her wariness to his touch sent compassion thrumming through his veins, especially when she produced a harsh cough.
“That cough of yours sure doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s nothing,” she answered, her teeth chattering. “Just an everyday kind of cough, that’s all.”
“Well, it sounds like more than that to me. Good thing you came when you did. Follow me,” he said, leading the way through the dark waiting area into the exam room where he lit a lamp. “I’ll get a fire going so we can get you warmed up.”
When he wrapped two warm quilts around her quivering frame, he had to hold his confusion in check when she shrugged them off as though they were some disease-ridden rags. She possessively clutched her arms around something as though he might snatch it away, and he tried not to react. This woman was mistrustful and guarded and set against a little help. She eyed him as though she’d seen his face plastered on some Wanted poster.
“Why don’t you sit down here by the woodstove so you’ll be close to the heat?” Gesturing to a chair, he barely contained a wince when she avoided his outstretched hand as though he meant her harm. “It shouldn’t take long for the place to warm up.”
She sat on the edge of the chair. Bunching her shoulders up tight, she made a valiant effort to stop shivering, but as long as she kept that thin and wet cloak on, she’d likely never warm up.
While he banked the coals and loaded fresh kindling in the stove, he stole furtive glances at her shadowed, pale face, looking for signs of bleeding. Or broken bones.
She coughed then grabbed her side, and Ben’s blood ran cold through his veins. His hair prickled at the back of his neck. That she might be another unfortunate bride of some no-good excuse for a husband, who treated his wife worse than his livestock, made him push back a ready curse.
When her whole body heaved with a sudden cough, he hunkered down next to her. “Easy, now. That sure doesn’t sound like an everyday kind of cough. How long have you had it?”
At her dismissive shrug, he gently laid the back of his hand against her forehead, concern mounting at the heat that met his touch. “You’re fevered, too. That’s not good. I hope you’ll forgive me for not coming sooner.”
She flicked her gaze to him, cagey as a mouse in a barren field. Edging away, she angled her focus downward, intent on unknotting tattered ties that held her cloak together by mere threads.
His heart squeezed. He had to bite back a groan of sympathy at the sight of her shabby, wet shoes that poked out from her
