Love Inspired Historical December 2013 Bundle: Mail-Order Mistletoe Brides\The Wife Campaign\A Hero for Christmas\Return of the Cowboy Doctor (80 page)

Again, he shook his head, this time with eyes slightly widened in panic. He tucked the book beneath his thigh as if he thought she would rush over and pluck it from his hands. His pencil clattered to the floor, startling the dog from its sleep; it raised its head. Were his quick actions a result of growing up with so many brothers?

“It's not a sketchbook.”

“Then why are you turning red?”

Her words seemed to make the color in his face darker.

“It's just some writings...a journal.”

“Then why don't you want to show it to me?”

A burst of air flew from his lips. “It's poetry, all right?” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, an endearing gesture she was coming to recognize.

“Your poetry?”

He hesitated, as if he didn't want to confirm what she already suspected. “Yes...my poetry. It's sorta...private.”

She couldn't resist teasing him a bit more. “And are you writing about me?”

“I write about a lot of things....” he hedged. How interesting. It hadn't been an outright no.

“Are you any good?”

“No.” Now he tucked the book into the breast pocket of his shirt. Hiding it, as if she would jump out of the cot and grab it from his hands. Somewhat in the way he held his emotions close...

She arranged the covers around her legs. Beneath, she was still fully dressed, although she'd gone home briefly to wash up earlier. If one of the patients needed something in the middle of the night, not having to struggle with dressing would expedite being able to help.

“How do you know?”

“I've read enough poetry to know.”

“Ah. From your college courses.”

He nodded. “And on my own. College introduced me to the subject, but I...found I liked it more than I expected.”

“Hmm.”

He darted a glance at her. “What does that mean?”

“It's just that I've never met a man who liked poetry. It makes you a bit of an enigma. You're a cowboy, a medical student on his way to becoming a doctor. And a poet.” And she liked him more than she probably should.

He adjusted one of the water pitchers on the table, straightening it unnecessarily.

“We'd better keep this information hidden from the young ladies of town, or they'll be flocking even more to you.”

He glared at her this time, and she laughed softly. It was true, though; this would be another thing for the young women to admire about him.

“No one else knows, except maybe my ma. And I'd like to keep it that way,” he said.

“Hmm. I suppose your brothers might give you a hard time if they found out you were secretly a poet.”

He shook his head. “To say the very least. I can just imagine them composing jesting verses to poke fun at me.”

He shared a speaking glance with her, this time a small smile curling his lips.

One of the patients moaned and stirred, and Maxwell stood to go check on him. Hattie watched, relieved that the distance she'd felt this afternoon seemed to have disappeared with nightfall. Perhaps he'd just been tired earlier.

How intriguing that he liked poetry, wrote poetry. She was finding more and more to admire about the handsome cowboy.

She was curious. What had he written about her? Would they ever be close enough for him to share it with her? After the wavering emotions of the past day, she didn't know.

* * *

Hattie had lain down again when Maxwell made his way back to his chair in the corner, but her bright eyes met his gaze. She was still awake. His heart bucked in his chest.

He should probably feel anxious that she knew his secret, but somehow he didn't. He kind of liked that she knew something private about him.

All afternoon he'd thought about what Penny had told him. He didn't know if he could fully open his heart again, but remaining aloof with Hattie was too difficult. He would continue the friendship and try to keep his heart uninvolved.

He sat back down, aware she was watching him. Before she could ask something else to disconcert him, he spoke.

“You never did answer my question the other day, before we got interrupted.”

“What?” she asked, propping her cheek on her bent elbow. He did his best to ignore the tousled hair falling around her ears and the pretty picture she made. Tried. Failed.

“Why aren't you on your way to becoming a doctor yourself?”

Her eyes darted to one side, and she shrugged. Would she refuse to answer?

“Your ma?” he prompted.

“She doesn't want me to work in the clinic in any capacity—helper, nurse, doctor. It's all the same to her.”

“But she allows it. Surely she wants you to be happy.”

She picked at the blanket before her. “She wants me to be happy in her way—finding a husband and settling into a household and having babies.”

“And you don't want that,” he stated, so he could be sure he understood. He couldn't imagine not wanting to have a family. Although he wasn't sure it would ever happen for him, he desperately wanted a wife and family of his own. As much as he wanted to be a doctor.

“It's not that. I would like to have a family, eventually. If I could find a husband who supported me...”

“Supported you how...?” he asked when her voice trailed off, letting the question hang.

She hesitated for too long, and he again thought she wouldn't answer. Was her reticence because of the subject matter or because she was discussing it with
him?

“In my desire to be a doctor,” she whispered.

Ah. He'd guessed as much from her passion, her work at the clinic, even before her father had had to leave town. She was more than just a nurse or her father's helper.

“So, why aren't you in medical school? Surely your father has some connections. Is it the money?”

She shook her head slightly. “Papa has promised to consider letting me attend. But Mama...she worries because of my condition. And so far, he has been unwilling to overrule her wishes.”

He examined her face for a long moment. “I wouldn't think you'd let that stop you.”

Her chin came up, eyes flaming at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He held up his hands at the heat in her words. “Just that you've managed to work with your father for all these years. Your ma hasn't kept you from it, not really. Maybe she knows how important it is to you and she'd be more open to it now.”

She considered his words with a tilt of her head and a far-off look in her eyes. “I was hoping if I could prove myself to Papa while he was gone, I might bring him around to seeing things my way. Then he might be more inclined to press my case to Mama.”

“Have you already chosen a school, then, or are your plans more tentative than that?” he asked, because somehow he knew she had a plan.

Again, she picked at some small spot on the blanket. “I've been offered a tuition scholarship, contingent on passing an oral review with a committee. Later this month. Papa and Mama don't know—yet,” she said. “I've been waiting for the right moment to bring it up—and I know I'm running out of time.”

He could hear her frustration and tension in her voice, see the stiffness of her shoulders.

“I'm sorry. It must be hard to have to go against your parents' wishes,” he said softly.

“Your parents have always supported you?” she asked.

“More like pushed me. Especially my ma—Penny, that is, not my birth ma. My birth ma wasn't real encouraging about...much of anything. She told me I wouldn't amount to much. But once Penny married Jonas and found out about me wanting to be a doctor, she did everything she could to make it happen for me.”

He clamped his mouth shut against more words that were ready to follow. How was it that he found it so easy to speak to Hattie about a difficult subject, one he barely broached with his family and had hardly even spoken of with Sam, his best friend?

Hattie still played with the fold of the blanket. “You haven't asked me the one question I thought for certain you would.”

He raised his brows at her, beckoning her to go on.

“I'm surprised you haven't mentioned my nervous condition as a hindrance to a career in medicine.”

He raised his brows. “I don't see it like that,” he admitted honestly. “It doesn't seem to be a limitation for you.”

“But...the other night—”

He shrugged. “It isn't as if your father never gets sick or needs a day off, is it? I've seen my classmates nearly keel over from exhaustion during exams week. You seem to manage it fairly well.”

Her eyes finally rose to meet his, and the gratefulness shining in their depths prompted him to look down and continue.

“And if you set up a practice with a partner, you would have someone to support you, in case you needed it.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when he saw himself as Hattie's partner in his mind's eye. He swallowed and looked down, rubbed the edge of the table, hard, beneath his thumb. If they were married...if they worked together, day in and day out...

He blinked away the image, quickly. It was a dream, to be sure, a spur-of-the-moment thought and nothing more.

But he was shaking as he pushed up from the table and turned his face away, in case the emotion bursting through him showed on his face. “I should turn down the lamps—do one last check of the patients.”

He found he loved talking to Hattie. But an intimate, late-night conversation wasn't exactly helping his plan to keep his distance from her.

* * *

Hattie watched Maxwell's abrupt departure, wondering momentarily if she'd said something wrong. He moved among the patients, tucking in a blanket here, touching someone's forehead there. Calm and confident as ever.

Had she imagined the pained look on his face just before he'd turned away?

She was still amazed at his sensitive soul. He wrote poetry. Who would've guessed behind his quiet cowboy demeanor that he hid the soul of a poet?

And he hadn't disparaged her dream of becoming a doctor—he'd actually sounded supportive in the things he'd said.

There were still some hidden depths to the cowboy. She found she wanted to know him—ease what hurt him.

She couldn't think of one other man of her acquaintance who would've encouraged her in her pursuit. Not even her father really understood her desire—and he was passionate about medicine and his patients.

Was it because they shared the same dream that Maxwell understood? Or was there something else between them that made him seem to know her better than anyone else?

She didn't know...but she
did
know she could trust Maxwell with her dreams.

It was that confidence that finally allowed her to ease off into sleep.

Chapter Ten

“W
here—where am I?”

Hattie watched Maxwell lean over Annabelle Perkins where the young woman stirred on the cot.

“Easy, now.” He supported the girl's shoulder and helped her sit up. “You're in the church, where we've been keeping an eye on everyone who came down with cholera. You're probably feeling pretty weak.”

Hattie moved forward and passed Maxwell a mug of purified water. He shot her a grateful look over his shoulder before turning back to Annabelle.

The man one row over stirred and Hattie moved to check on him. After another day and a half of demanding patient care, several had woken. It was a good sign. And Hattie had had news that her father was expected back any day, which was further good news.

Hattie was close enough to notice when Annabelle raised a shaking hand to brush her hair out of her eyes after Maxwell had helped her take several sips of water. The other girl had a slight flush across her cheeks, one that Hattie suspected came from being in close proximity to the man, not from any remaining fever.

“Easy,” Maxwell said again as he eased the girl back onto the pillow. “It'll take a while to get back your strength after fighting off a sickness like this.”

“...wanted to go to the next poetry reading,” Hattie heard the other girl say.

“The town council canceled all gatherings until after most folks have gotten past the cholera.” Maxwell put Annabelle's glass of water on a small table nearby and straightened the blankets at the foot of her cot.

“Th-thank you for taking care of me all this time.” Annabelle settled back onto the pillow weakly.

Hattie's head came up and she saw the girl give a trembling smile—still trying to impress Maxwell even while she was sick?

She couldn't see Maxwell's face from her vantage point, but the sides of his neck had turned pink. He must've recognized Annabelle's attempt at seeking attention.

“Hattie and I—” he motioned in Hattie's direction “—have certainly been busy with
all
the patients.” He emphasized the words quietly, not in a hurtful way.

Annabelle's head swiveled and her eyes widened at the sight of all the cots and pallets. She'd been one of the first to arrive in the clutches of the sickness, Hattie remembered.

“You two have nursed all of us by yourselves?” the girl asked.

“We've had some other family members come in to help us,” Maxwell told her.

The mention of family seemed to upset the other girl. “What about—my family?”

Maxwell patted her hand gently, something Hattie's papa might've done. It seemed to comfort the other girl, but Hattie was abruptly reminded of the other night, when Maxwell's large hands had enfolded hers, warming her and eradicating the sting of nerves flaring up. She cast her eyes down, willing herself to focus on the patient before her, but the man had slipped off into sleep again.

Another patient stirred, farther across the room, and Hattie moved to attend him, leaving Maxwell and Annabelle to their soft-spoken conversation, though her attention stayed on the couple.

Maxwell remained at the other girl's side, surprising Hattie. She cared for her patient, but when she was finished, she looked up to find Maxwell's dark head still bent over the spread of Annabelle's golden-blond hair on the pillow.

Hattie went hot and cold, and her stomach cramped. Pressing a hand against her midsection, she moved to a chair nearby and sank onto it, her knees going suddenly weak. Not in a nervous way, not with the way her heart was fluttering wildly.

Everyone they'd admitted as a cholera patient had claimed an onset of sudden stomach cramps before the more debilitating symptoms of the sickness had struck. Hattie had been so careful to sterilize her hands and everything she touched. Had she somehow contracted the disease regardless?

But just as soon as Maxwell stood up from Annabelle's bedside, the awful pain in her stomach subsided. She waved off his concerned glance and turned her face to the side.

Surely it wasn't... It couldn't be... Was she jealous of Annabelle? After nearly three years of avoiding her mama's attempts to push her to court with someone—anyone—eligible, Hattie couldn't have developed softer feelings for the man she worked with...could she?

But the closeness they'd developed—she'd told him her dreams when she hadn't yet told anyone else—couldn't be denied. Likewise, he was one of the few people in town who knew about her medical condition.

Her mind quickly flew over his finer qualities. His kindness, his honor, his quiet confidence...

Certainly, he was someone she would be proud to consider a friend, but to be falling for him? Surely she wasn't.

Surely, surely not.

* * *

The doctor arrived later that evening, pushing into the church with a curious look around. Maxwell watched his gaze settle on Hattie and relax, watched her rush across the room and into her pa's arms. The two embraced tightly. Doc Powell's eyes rested on Maxwell, as if even from across the room he was taking the younger man's measure.

Maxwell nodded his hello and kept on spooning warm broth into little Bobby. Although the boy was far from the animated tyke he'd been at the church picnic, he had more color in his cheeks and the fever had subsided.

Maxwell was more aware of Hattie than anything else—as usual—as she took her father on a short tour of the converted church sanctuary. Doc expressed his approval of their methods of keeping everything sanitary and finally ended up in Maxwell's vicinity.

“Maxwell. You look about as done in as I feel. How are you holding up?”

A glance at the heavy lines on the doctor's face showed the other man's exhaustion. Even his silver mustache seemed to droop.

“About the same as I usually do at the end of spring calving season,” Maxwell said.

“Do you think you can oversee things here while I escort Hattie home for some rest? I see you two have done a fine job here, but I'd like her to lie down for a bit—and you can take the day off tomorrow. I'm sure you both have earned more of a break, but we'll look at things later, see how the patients are faring.”

Maxwell raised his eyes to Hattie's face. A small frown line marred her forehead, and her mouth was set, but those were the only signs she wasn't happy with her father's directive. Maxwell schooled his face so the smile he felt forming wouldn't break through. Hattie wanted to stay. He knew it, and she seemed to see the knowledge in his face because she
did
smile at him, though she shook her head slightly. He guessed she would go along with what her father wanted for now, hoping to ease him into a conversation later about her medical-school plans.

“I'll be fine for a bit. Mrs. Potter is coming back soon with some more broth for the patients who can take it, anyway.”

“Ah, good, good.”

“You sure you don't need to rest a bit this evening, too?” Maxwell asked. “You can spell me at midnight if you want to.”

The doctor shook his head. “I'll return shortly.”

Maxwell shrugged his acceptance.

Doc was only gone long enough to walk Hattie home and come back. When he stepped into the church, Maxwell thought he looked even more exhausted than before. Had he pretended to be less tired for Hattie's sake? Did the man really not understand how strong his daughter was?

With most of the patients settling for the night, the church was quiet. Maxwell knew these folks would have a road ahead of them to get back to normal—cholera was terribly hard on the human body. More sleep would help their bodies heal quicker.

“Hattie and I were planning on sending most of these folks home in the morning,” Maxwell said as he joined the doctor at the back of the room.

“Good,” the old man said absently as he looked over the room from where he stood.

“How did things go up in Pear Grove?” Maxwell asked, keeping his voice low so he wouldn't wake any of the patients.

The doc shook his head. “Not good. We lost too many.” His voice told of the depth of his sorrow, though he continued to stare out over the quiet church.

Suddenly, Doc turned on Maxwell. “Hattie mentioned that John Spencer had internal bleeding. I suppose she brought it up before I found out from another source. I'd like to hear your opinion on what happened.”

Maxwell met the older man's eyes steadily. “He came into the office complaining of soreness—actually, his wife pushed him to come. Hattie and I examined him. Hattie felt...” He shook his head, trying to think how best to phrase what he wanted to convey to the doctor. “Hattie advised him to seek attention from the nearest doctor, but I wasn't sure. I questioned myself—questioned the symptoms. If the both of us had listened to Hattie, she wouldn't have had to perform the surgery, but she saved his life later that night.”

Maxwell knew his enthusiasm must be seeping into his voice, but he well remembered standing next to a calm and collected Hattie as she had worked on the patient that night. “She was amazing. She didn't hesitate to do what needed to be done. The man would've died without her intervention—and first thing he said when he came to was how he should've listened to her in the first place.”

Words bubbled just beneath Maxwell's throat, the desire to urge the doctor to let her go to medical school, but he didn't want to overstep his bounds, especially since he doubted Hattie had had time to broach the subject with her father.

The doc was watching Maxwell's face almost uncomfortably closely, and Maxwell had a moment of fear that the other man would see his feelings for Hattie written plainly there, just as he'd written them in his poetry journal.

“And was there anything else that happened with Hattie while I was gone that I should know about?”

Feverish heat scorched Maxwell's neck, but he strove to ignore it. Although he and Hattie had spent time together, gotten to know each other in the quiet night hours, they'd done nothing wrong.

“If you're asking about Hattie's nervous condition, you should probably talk to her.” He swallowed. “If you're asking about my...my intentions toward your daughter—” Maxwell had to stop to take a deep breath, clear his throat “—I've grown to admire Hattie. She's a fine woman. I'm a little afraid she's too good for me—I'm just a cowhand trying to make something of myself.”

The doc's eyes didn't leave Maxwell. His continued scrutiny had Maxwell shifting his feet uncomfortably. “So, are you interested in my daughter or not?”

Maxwell's flush and silence must've said enough for the doctor to come to his own conclusion. He nodded to himself.

“And I'll also assume you haven't mentioned anything to Hattie?”

“No. We've had some conversations, but—no.” He'd taken his ma's advice and tried not to distance himself from the lovely doctor's daughter, but he wouldn't dare admit that he actually admired her. Not without knowing if she could return his feelings. He wasn't that courageous.

“I will tell you that Hattie's got notions.”

Maxwell assumed the doctor meant her desire to further her education, become a doctor. Doc couldn't know she'd already told him.

“But maybe if you expressed yourself—got her interested, you see—maybe she would...maybe she would change her mind. Think more about settling down.”

It didn't take much for Maxwell to follow the doctor's train of thought. It sounded as if he was trying to find a way to keep his daughter in Bear Creek without having to outright forbid her to attend medical school. By keeping her interested in Maxwell.

The manipulation made Maxwell's mouth go dry as sand. He would never—
could
never do something like that to Hattie.

“I don't—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Hattie's friendship means a lot to me and I wouldn't stand in the way of what she really wants to achieve.” Didn't Doc Powell understand how much it meant to his daughter to be a doctor herself?

The doctor's narrowed gaze rested on him again. The moment was taut, rife with tension. Then finally something eased in the older man's posture. He turned and observed the room again.

“Well, in any case, I'm impressed at what the two of you managed to do while I was away. If you hadn't worked quickly and got the town involved, I know the casualties would've been much higher.”

The man's praise was a contrast to his previous criticism of Maxwell with regard to working with women, but now Maxwell was unsure of the other man's motives. What if he was only encouraging Maxwell now to get him on his side?

Maxwell shrugged. “I followed Hattie's lead. She's got more practical experience than I do—and she's not afraid to speak her mind.”

The older man sighed. “No, she's usually not.”

The doctor sounded resigned, but Maxwell couldn't help liking that particular trait in Hattie. He didn't know enough about women to understand their hints or unspoken messages. Hattie's plainspoken manner was much easier for a rough cowboy like him.

What he'd really like right now was to talk with his ma. Maybe Penny could shed some light on Maxwell's muddled feelings and general confusion. He was looking forward to heading home tomorrow, sleeping in his familiar bunk, spending time with the people who knew him best.

Hopefully, then he'd find a way to keep his heart from getting too involved with Hattie.

* * *

Several days later, Hattie peeked out of the curtains in the clinic's waiting room. Everything was quiet, empty for the moment. Maxwell was due in soon to work some afternoon hours, and her father had stepped out to grab a bite of lunch, leaving her to watch over the clinic until his return.

After all the chaos and work of the past weeks, the silence seemed out of place. Even the town itself seemed to hold its breath, not quite yet returned to the pace of usual business. All of the cholera patients had gone home, with her papa making frequent visits to ensure their continued improvement. But the clinic's usual steady stream of patients hadn't picked up yet.