Jodi Thomas: Texan's Touch

Adam slipped the derringer from his coat and did the same.

Wolf glanced at the doctor as though he’d just proved himself a fool to face Nichole unarmed.

Wes broke the standoff by opening the door. “I passed a crop of pies in the kitchen. I bet we can talk the cook out of one. I’ll split it with you, Captain Hayward.” Wes glanced into the hallway. “And if we run into that bandy rooster of a butler, we can use him for target practice.” Wes winked. “I’ve always wanted to test my skill against a Shadow.”

“You wouldn’t have a chance, Yank.” Wolf’s laughter rattled the crystal once more. “Plus, he’d be a waste of bullets. How about we just gut him and fry him up for breakfast?”

Wolf moved through the door. He glanced back at Adam, issuing a silent warning to be careful.

“No,” Wes said, pulling the reb back to the jest. “He wouldn’t make a meal. Probably spoiled meat to the bone. I bet he was bottle fed on vinegar.”

The door closed, suddenly making the little room stone silent. The area, lined with shelves, seemed even smaller than it had when Wolf paced around. Nichole had a sudden urge to call her brother back, but the man she’d traveled days to see stood before her. Now might be the only chance she’d ever have to see him again. The one kind man she’d known was so close she could reach out and touch him and she could think of nothing to say.

Finally, Adam cleared his throat and straightened slightly. “If you’ll jump up on the counter, I’ll take a look at the wound.”

Nichole didn’t move.

He took a step forward and lifted the medical saddlebag from her shoulder. “Thanks for bringing this back, but I won’t be needing it soon. A town doc carries a different kind of bag.”

She fought the urge to reach for the pearl-handled knife stuffed inside her left boot. She’d never hurt him, but a weapon in her hand might make conversation easier, for her at least.

“Would you be more comfortable in another room?” Concern filled his eyes. “I haven’t had time to set up an office yet, but I’m sure in this size house there’s probably a more appropriate place to conduct an exam.”

Nichole looked around. “This isn’t your house?”

“No,” he answered. “I only made it back this morning. I rode with the wounded from the Fourteenth Indiana Regiment as far as Louisville and stayed until they settled in at a hospital. We lost enough men to the war. Even the badly wounded wanted to come home to recover.”

“I guess that would be hard-knowing it was over and not being able to get home. They were probably glad you were with them.”

Adam stood directly in front of her. He pulled off his coat and turned up his sleeves, more from habit than any need to do so. “How about you? Have you and Wolf been home?”

“We had a place along the Cumberland River right about where Kentucky and Tennessee collide. When your troops, under Bragg, came dancing through in ’62 there wasn’t much left of our place. I guess all the locals thought us dead because our land was taken over. So we came home to a mess of worry.”

Nichole watched him closely. The starched shirt made his waist slim and his shoulders wider.

“I know.” His brown eyes were full of understanding. His voice low. “Corydon was hit in a Southern campaign. When you’re away, you think about home being the same when you come back.”

“But it isn’t,” she whispered, not wanting to say more. “Here’s fine,” she added, forcing herself to look around, “much better than where you had to operate.”

Adam agreed as his hands touched her waist and lifted her atop the counter. Standing, she’d been shorter than him by a few inches, now she sat slightly above him.

“Would you unbutton your blouse?” he asked in what he hoped was a professional tone. “I’ll take a look at the wound.”

Nichole smiled. He’d called her shirt a blouse, no one had used that word around her in years. “Sure,” she mumbled as she began fumbling with the buttons.

“Have you had any pain? Fever? Infection?” His voice was so professional, but not cold, never cold.

Swallowing, Nichole fought the urge to tell him that she felt like she had a fever right now. He was looking in his bag, touching all the bottles and instruments she’d examined dozens of times.

She pulled her shirttail out of her pants and shook her head in answer to his question about fever. Gripping the counter on either side of her legs, she waited.

He slowly slid the left side of her shirt open, letting it fall off her shoulder.

Nichole drew in a sharp breath as his hands moved to her waist and lifted her cotton undershirt. She could feel his breath only inches from her throat.

“Are you all right?” he asked as he paused. “Comfortable?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m fine.” The lie almost blocked her throat to the point of cutting off her air. She wasn’t fine. He was touching her again with that gentle touch she remembered. Her face felt afire. She had to turn her knuckles white to keep her hands from shaking, and he asked again if she were all right.

He leaned slightly toward her as his fingers moved the cotton a few inches more to reveal the scar. The clean smell of him filled her senses as she fought to remain still. His abdomen brushed her knee and she moved her legs out of the way.

“It’s healed nicely.” He touched the thin scar. “Who took the stitches out?”

“I did,” she answered.

His hand slid over the wound. His palm warmed her flesh. “I wish I’d been there. I could have made it less painful.” His other hand moved to her right side and pulled her an inch toward him. As his body leaned against the counter space between her legs, his voice lowered. “I thought about you in those days after the war. Wondered if you were safe. If you were in pain.”

“I was fine,” she whispered, completely aware of his nearness and unwilling to lean away. “We headed home almost at once. But folks at home didn’t want the war to end. We thought the fighting was over, but we ran into trouble several times. Some thought the Shadows should be tried as spies against the Union.”

His hands gently moved along her rib cage. “The war is over, Nichole. It will take a while, but it will come to an end. Eventually, all the hatred and anger will die.”

Suddenly, her grip broke from the counter and her arms moved around his neck. She pulled him close. She’d never cried, not even when her mother died. Everyone in her family saw it as a weakness. But now tears rolled down her cheeks, and she felt his hands spread across her back in comfort. She didn’t have to tell him she hadn’t believed the fighting would ever end, he seemed to know.

“It’s over,” he whispered against her hair as he pulled her closer. “The hell we’ve both lived has finally ended. All that’s left is the scar.”

Nichole moved her damp cheek against his jaw. She lifted her hands and let her fingers glide into the thick warmth of his hair. There had been so few hugs in her life, so little caring. Her movements were jerky with need and fear that he might turn away.

Adam was lost with her wrapped around him. Her arms held him tightly, her cheek against his, her legs on either side of his hips. It didn’t matter that he was a doctor and she was his patient, nor that he was in his fiancée’s house, or that he knew nothing about Nichole. All that mattered was that she held him the way he wanted and needed to be held.

He pulled her closer, feeling her breasts press against his chest, feeling her breath on his neck, feeling her heart pounding next to his. He was alive for the first time in years. This was the homecoming he’d longed for, and it hadn’t come from Bergette but from a stranger he barely knew but hadn’t been able to forget.