up at him with the most beautiful almond-shaped blue eyes he’d ever seen, he struggled to gather his wits. She looked like an ethereal waif who’d been to the depths of darkness and back.
The glassy-eyed look veiling her gaze quickly snuffed out his fascination.
He struggled to find his voice. “I think you could use some hot tea about now.”
Her focus skidded to a halt at him, her lips lifting at one corner with the faintest look of pleasure.
Ben swallowed hard, then set to work measuring out a dose of sassafras tea he kept with his medical supplies. When he set the kettle on to boil he was thankful to find heat already radiating from the woodstove.
“So, what’s your name, ma’am?” Straddling a chair directly across from her, he silently tallied her respirations, unable to miss the way she breathed in shallow, raspy rhythms.
“Callie.”
“Callie…” he prompted.
“Just Callie.”
“I’m Ben Drake. I’m the doctor here, but then I think we already covered that.” He offered her a reassuring look. It was nearly killing him to take up precious time with niceties, but as skittish as she was, he didn’t want to risk having her walk out the door. “Are you from around here, just Callie?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, how can I be of help to you? You must’ve come about that cough, am I right?” He dipped his head in an unsuccessful attempt to catch her attention. “How long have you had it?”
“Not long.” Callie slowly rose from the chair, the dingy flour sack grasped firmly in her hand. A wince, so slight he almost missed it, crossed her face as she stood ramrod straight, her chin held high, a heartrending contrast in vulnerable fatigue and determined strength.
“So, you must be in need of a doctor?” he attempted again, inward alarm mounting at the unhealthy flush of her sunken cheeks. “You came to the right place. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
Her perfectly shaped brows creased in a stern look over red-rimmed eyes. “I’m not here for medical attention. I—I want to speak with you about something of pressing importance.”
Smoothing a hand over the day’s growth of stubble on his chin, Ben bit back the sympathetic look that was close to surfacing. There was just something about her show of strength, about the way she wore bravery like a suit of armor five sizes too big that tugged at his heart.
“Well, whatever it is must be important for you to seek me out in a snowstorm like this.” He resisted the urge to stand when she stared at him as though he was some wily predator. “So tell me, how can I help you?”
She coughed, and a definite wheeze threaded through the harsh sound. Turning, she shrugged her cloak off and laid it on the chair along with her sack, then faced him once again. “I’m here to offer my services to you.”
Ben slammed his gaze down to the floor. Fumbled to cover his shock, but the sight of her standing before him…it was nothing short of shocking.
He braved a glance up again to see a ruby-red satin dress hanging on her thin frame, the gaudy ruffles and lace worn almost beyond repair in places. And the scoop neckline—he swallowed hard—plunged way too far down to be considered appropriate.
Ben averted his attention to the floor again. Frowned in confusion. What could this woman possibly offer him?
When he sneaked another glimpse and took in her tattered but risqué appearance, he had to steady himself as a ghastly glimmer of understanding enlightened him.
Did she mean to sell herself?
Gritting his teeth, he prepared to set her straight right here and right now. He may be a twenty-nine-year-old bachelor, but he hadn’t ever, nor would he ever, resort to using a woman like that.
“I’m sorry. But I’m not interested in that kind of thing, Miss…Miss Callie.” He forced himself to meet her cautious gaze as she clutched something at her neck. “If it’s money you need, I’m glad to give you some. But I would never think of paying for female companionship.”
Her red-rimmed eyes widened as though she’d been scandalized. “Doctor Drake, you misunderstand me.” She squared her shoulders. Grasped the front of her dress, yanking it up in an awkward, unnatural angle for such a garment. “I’m here to inquire about the job. You do have a sign at your window advertising for such, am I right?”
Her bravado ended on a fit of coughing that sent him bolting to her side.
“I do.” He forced his hands to remain at his sides when she instantly sidestepped. “But for the life of me, I’m trying to figure out why you’d inquire about the job this late at night. In a blizzard. And in such poor health. I am looking for help, but I think that before we discuss anything like that, we should first get you well.”
On a wheezing breath, she slapped him with a reproving glower.
She was proud—that was for sure.
He inwardly kicked himself for saying what he had. But she’d dressed the part—though now that he thought about it, her skittish behavior and repulsion to his touch didn’t correspond with a woman of that line of work.
But her dress…
“I’m here about the sign you have in your window, Doctor Drake.” She nervously toyed with some trinket at her neck. “I can start working immediately, if that suits you.”
“First of all,” Ben began, glancing at her neck. He expected to see some worthless bit of whatnot hanging there, but when his tired gaze settled on a small silver locket, an icy chill doused his weariness. His heart ground to a stuttering stop. His breath caught.
He’d recognize that locket anywhere.
It was one of a kind. Handmade for his mother by his father who’d dabbled in jeweling throughout the years. The locket had been a priceless treasure. A gift deeded to Ben by his mother shortly before she’d passed twelve years ago.
Memories surfaced with breakneck speed, shooting up from a miry depth he’d tried to ignore all these years.
The constant run-ins he’d had with his brother, Max. The way Max would milk Ben’s compassion for his own ill-reputed gain. The way Max would venture off for weeks at a time, returning with tales of some young harlot. And then that night seven years ago, when Max had come home thoroughly drunk. It had been a final, awful conflict. Max had destroyed anything he could get his hands on, furniture, dishes, relationships…
After Max had forced a lewd, unwanted kiss on Aaron’s sweetheart, Max and Aaron, the fourth in a line of five Drake brothers, had gotten into a terrible fight. By morning, some of the money Ben had set aside for medical school had come up missing. Along with the heirloom locket. And Max.
A sharp stab of betrayal cut deep as he stared in disbelief. Max had stolen the locket and now here it was, hanging on the neck of some woman who was dressed for more than just baking bread.
Was this the young harlot Max had told them about? The one who’d likely lured him away for
