Under Montana Skies. Darlene Graham

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      He clumped into the room, frowning and carrying a chair with his good arm. He banged it down opposite the one at the table. “Have a seat.”

      Laura crossed the bare floor and after she adjusted the chair—the wooden legs made a terrible scraping noise—she sat, none too comfortably.

      He lowered himself into the chair opposite and pushed the sandwich aside.

      “Did I interrupt your lunch?” she asked. Her own had been a quick carton of yogurt and some crackers and fruit from the basket of goodies she’d packed.

      “Let’s see the contract.”

      Laura’s cheeks grew hotter. Okay. So he was going to be consistently rude. She supposed she could deal with that.

      “Can we have some light?” she asked pleasantly.

      Without a word he got up—the chair legs made that terrible scraping noise again—and rounded the table to the nearest window. He slammed the heavy wooden shutters aside. Light poured through wavy-paned glass onto the table-top, making the white paper plate glow.

      While he returned to his seat, Laura dug the contract out of her bag. When she held it out, he snatched the pages from her hand. He reached across and rubbed his right shoulder, frowning as he read the document.

      Finally he tossed the papers onto the table. “I asked for a male therapist you know,” he said flatly, and crossed his well-muscled arms over his chest.

      “I know,” Laura answered quietly, “but as I told you, I’m the only one who would come. Didn’t Mrs. Summers explain that to you?”

      Adam Scott scowled. “You are absolutely not what I had in mind.”

      “I’m sorry about that, but let me assure you I am very good at what I do.” She smiled. “And you did ask me to stay. Tell you what, I’ll give you a complimentary treatment—” she picked up the contract, “—and if you don’t like it, I’ll leave.”

      He glared at her and snatched the papers from her hand again, then slapped them on the table in front of him and held out his hand for a pen. “Where do I sign?”

      She pointed out the three places where he would consent to her treatment plan, assure her of full payment and allow her to release his medical records to any insurance carrier. “Sign here, here and here.”

      As the pen scratched across the paper while he signed his name, Laura noticed he still wore his wedding band.

      He stopped after signing only two of the lines. “I don’t use insurance,” he stated in a tone that invited no discussion. Laura pointed at the fee figures. “Fine. Initial these, please.”

      He gave her a grudging nod and did so.

      One more piece of business. “Where will I be staying?” she asked as she handed him the carbon copy and put the signed original back in her satchel. She could always go back into the tiny town of Libby and stay at the modest motel there, but that would mean arduous daily trips up that Sixteen Mile Creek Road, and it would cost them valuable therapy time.

      She’d noticed a smaller stone house a little farther up the mountain. It actually looked pleasant, inviting. Maybe she could stay there. One thing was certain: he was just about the most attractive man she’d ever seen, and she wasn’t about to stay under the same roof with him.

      At last he smiled. A relaxed slightly crooked smile that bared strong white teeth.

      “I was planning to put an extra bed up here.” He didn’t wait for her response to that. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and said, “Now you can see why I asked for a male therapist.”

      “What about that small house farther up on the mountain? Could I possibly stay there?”

      His face darkened.

      Instead of answering her, he stood and crossed the room to the door. He braced his good arm on the frame and stared out at the lovely garden.

      After what seemed an eternity, he said, “No. The stone house is closed.” He hung his head as if thinking, then spoke quietly. “I guess you could take the bedroom upstairs and I could…I could open up the stone house.”

      “I’m sorry Mr. Scott, but my staying upstairs doesn’t address the problem. I’m not comfortable staying alone on this mountain with you in this isolated cabin—”

      His long weary sigh interrupted her. For another moment he kept his head lowered. Then Laura saw his shoulders move, thought she actually heard a chuckle.

      “Ms. Duncan, you certainly drive a hard bargain. All right. I know a reliable older couple down the creek. They’re—” his voice became gentle, “—they’re very nice people, very stable. If I ask them, they’ll come and stay in the house with you—they can sleep downstairs.” He said all this with his back toward her. “Over there.” He gestured at an empty alcove at the other side of the room. “The old guy has bad knees, so the stairs would be too much for him.”

      When Laura remained patiently silent, he turned and looked at her. His dark eyes had a thoughtful squint, as if he was making a difficult decision. He swallowed. “And I’ll sleep in the stone house. Would that be satisfactory?”

      “I suppose,” Laura said quietly.

      He nodded and regarded her with cool detachment. “Good. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like my first treatment right away. My shoulder is killing me.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      WHILE LAURA DUNCAN was applying her strong skilled hands to his bare back, Adam had to make an effort not to feel what he was feeling, not to think what he was thinking.

      It scared him, the effect this woman had had on him when he’d first seen her. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it hadn’t just been that she was attractive. She’d looked…special.

      No woman had looked that way to him since Elizabeth.

      Of course, the few women he’d seen since he’d decided to go into hiding up on Sixteen Mile Creek couldn’t be considered much of a sampling. The husky postwoman delivering a package, those matronly Mountain Home nurses, the elderly Katherine. Nice ladies. None of them a threat to his precious memories.

      Laura’s hands kept bringing his attention back to her. He could hear her gentle breathing becoming more labored as she worked diligently. She’d made him sit in one of the straight-backed chairs, facing backward, and was rhythmically digging her thumb into a muscle that had felt like a burning knot only seconds ago.

      “You have a trigger point here, where a tight muscle is crossing a nerve and compressing it. I’ll be sure to use moist heat packs on it before the next treatment.”

      Yes, even from a distance this woman had looked singular, unique. Despite her faded jeans and that neon-orange sweatshirt with that dumb slogan—PHYSICAL THERAPISTS HAVE PATIENTS—she exuded a kind of elegance.

      He had watched her unload her belongings from the hatchback of that faded red Toyota like a СКАЧАТЬ