Gayle Kasper - A Family Practice

Luke had never considered himself special—he’d just been treated like he was. It had been a given that he would do great things.

He hadn’t helped Sylvie raise their son, Dane, either. At least not as much as he should have. He’d been at the hospital night and day, doing what he loved. Doing what was important. All other work he’d relegated to Sylvie.

No doubt the reason she’d left him for someone else.

He wished he could go back, do things differently, be a real father to his son. But life didn’t work that way. Life wouldn’t let a man turn back the clock.

Life took—and didn’t give back.

One failed marriage, his failure as a father—and as a doctor who couldn’t save his son—had taken its toll on Luke’s ability to believe the world could be a happy place.

Yet tonight he’d glimpsed something akin to that in this small family that had included him in their life however briefly. Tonight he’d been able to forget, just a little.

Tossing the dish towel onto the countertop, he turned to Mariah. “Consider that payment for tonight’s dinner. Now, about your medical fee…”

Mariah gave a soft laugh, a sensual sound that could curl a man’s toes. “You don’t owe me anything,” she said. “But I do think you need to get off that leg for a while.”

“I was thinking more like a short walk to loosen it up.”

“Elevating your leg is sound medical advice,” she said, arms folded resolutely over her chest.

“I’d rather take that walk. Join me?” he asked.

He hoped she would say yes. He wanted to be with her. He liked her, liked this little family—and he felt like walking, absorbing the night and its dark peace.

She seemed to hesitate. “I—I need to get Callie tucked into bed.”

Of course, he thought. Callie would require an early bedtime. Proper rest would be an important part of treatment for a child with this disease, Luke knew. And Mariah would be a stickler for what was best for her daughter.

“I understand,” he said.

“If you want to wait, I could go in a little while,” she added, and Luke’s head came up.

He read something indefinable in her eyes, and suspected she didn’t often take time for herself. Time away from Callie. She had her priorities and they were in the right place.

Her daughter came first.

He wished now that he’d put Dane ahead of other things in his life. Why had his medical career, the hospital, seemed so damned important, anyway? He’d have made it to the top—it just would have taken him a little longer.

And in the end, none of it had mattered.

“I can wait,” he answered. “I’ll even prop up my leg.”

She smiled at that, then turned to leave. “I won’t be long.”

Luke nodded. “Take your time.”

Mariah’s living room was warm and inviting. The walls were a soft cream, uncluttered by pictures or other bric-a-brac. There was an old stone fireplace at one end for cool evenings, with two blue overstuffed chairs flanking it, a red-plaid sofa facing it.

Luke decided on one of the chairs and pulled up a small footstool to prop his leg on. The damned thing had begun to throb again. So had his shoulder.

Not that he intended to let Mariah know that.

On the table beside him was a picture of her with Callie, a soft mother-daughter pose that stirred him. Mariah’s dark hair was worn loose, cascading over her shoulder, as she gazed down at a laughing Callie.

Visions of the woman treating his wounds, the memory of her sensual touch, would torment him half the night, he was certain. He was equally certain he needed to keep a tight rein on his emotions. Mariah was tempting, a beautiful woman, one who’d be hard to resist for long.

He’d better just hope he could put his Harley in working order again—and fast. He was in no position to involve himself with this small family, with Mariah. He had nothing to offer her.

He had nothing to offer anyone.

His life was in sorry shape and going nowhere. He no longer knew up from down, right from left. He’d spun out of control after Dane’s death, hating himself, hating medicine, hating life itself.

From the other room he could hear Mariah’s lilting voice, sometimes Callie’s sweet laugh. The sound of his son’s laughter echoed through his memory—laughter Luke would never hear again.

The accident had happened on his son’s eighth birthday. The car had come racing around the corner and struck him, leaving his small battered body for Luke to salvage. He closed his eyes against the damning memories.

Don’t think about it, he cautioned himself.

Don’t think about anything.

It seemed a long while later when Mariah returned to the living room, but he knew it hadn’t been. She glanced at his leg, propped on the footstool, and offered that soft smile of hers.

“Are you sure you want that walk? You look like you’re right where you should be—resting that leg.”

Luke didn’t need rest. He needed to be moving. If he couldn’t roar off down the highway on his Harley, he’d pace the yard, the road, walk for miles, and then some. He wanted—needed—to escape his pain, the memories. How far would he need to ride to put his life behind him?

“Yeah, I want that walk,” he said.

He pushed to his feet, then saw the small frown of worry that had edged itself between her brows. Mariah was concerned about him, concerned about his injuries—but she needn’t be. He was fine. He’d be fine. Luke was tough—just not tough enough to deal with one little boy’s death.

He strode toward the front door, careful not to show signs of pain, careful not to limp on his leg that had stiffened up on him.

Outside, the night was cool. A breeze tugged at his senses. A perfect counterpoint to the hot, dusty day. For a moment he found himself relaxing, letting go.

Mariah fell into step beside him. Her soft scent wafted over him, and the night tortured him with the temptation to reach for her, to tuck her hand in his, to press her to him and taste her lips that glistened so softly in the moonlight. Jamming his hands into the pockets of his cutoffs, he drew in a deep breath of air.

Dangerous thoughts, he knew.

But he didn’t know how to rid himself of them.

They reached the small copse of trees at the back of Mariah’s property. A stream ran through here, with cool, clear water burbling and purling over the flat stones on its way to lower ground.

“This is my favorite place. I like to come here,” she said. “It’s always refreshing on a hot afternoon.”

And tempting at night with the moonlight slanting through the trees, Luke thought. Mariah’s eyes were luminescent, her lips soft and smooth, and he fought back the urge to taste them.

Just once.

He reached down and plucked a small stone from the streambed, turning it over and over in his hand. “I can see why it’s your favorite spot,” he said. “It’s beautiful here.”

She smiled, apparently pleased he liked it, too.

“Tell me about yourself, Mariah.”

She took a step or two away, then sat down on the grassy bank. Her hair gleamed dark in the moonlight; her skin shimmered like warm bronze.

And her mouth…

Her mouth was made for kissing.

He tore his gaze away and tossed the stone back into the stream, counting the ripples that ebbed away.

“What do you want to know?”

Luke heard her small voice as if it were coming from a distance. “Have you always lived here?”

She plucked a blade of grass and ran it through her fingers, absorbing its damp coolness. “I grew up nearby,” she answered. “On the Reservation. The Rez, as it’s affectionately called. Then two years ago Callie and I moved here.”

When Will had left them. She’d had very little money and a lot of doctor bills. The house had sat empty for years. Ever since her grandfather’s death.