A Family Practice. Gayle Kasper

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СКАЧАТЬ made her way to the kitchen and stepped into the moccasins she’d abandoned there the night before, then pushed open the back door. Mariah wished it didn’t creak so loudly. She’d have to give it another lubrication.

      It was an oft-repeated repair, made necessary by the blowing desert grit and red dust that made its way into every crack and crevice around here. But Mariah didn’t mind. She loved the old place.

      She started toward the driveway where Luke had unloaded the cycle from the bed of her truck, and had a half dozen parts spread over the sparse grass.

      He didn’t hear her approach, and for a moment she let her gaze linger on his tall, muscled frame. He worked in his newly fashioned cutoffs of last night, a denim shirt and well-broken-in sneakers, the white of the shoes and the laces already coated with the perennial, high-desert red dust.

      For a brief moment she could see him belonging here in this untamed country—with the rugged red rocks, its scruffy trees and the surrounding mountains. She could see him belonging here—with Callie and her.

      But she quickly eradicated that thought from her mind.

      Luke didn’t belong here; he was only passing through.

      Maybe it was the way he looked in his denim shirt, his deep tan and windblown hair that had fooled her senses. She ordered herself to think rationally.

      “Hi,” she called out as she neared. “What has you up so early? Didn’t you sleep well?”

      He turned to face her, looking a little surprised to see her, then his gaze trailed over her slowly, lazily, and his mouth crooked into a pleased half smile.

      Mariah felt every inch of his smile.

      And his gaze.

      “I slept all right, until one insufferable raven decided to become my personal alarm clock.”

      Mariah felt a laugh bubble up. The bird was a nuisance, but he seemed to have found a home here. Probably because Callie fed him—which destroyed any chance of him flying off to torment some other family, Mariah was sure.

      “You mean Bandit? I should have warned you about him.”

      “Bandit?”

      She smiled. “Callie named him that. Making noise isn’t his only bad habit. If you leave one of those tiny silver parts lying about, it’ll soon be missing.”

      “The bird is a thief?”

      “With no conscience, I’m afraid.” She glanced down at the metal part in his hand. “What are you doing? Assessing the damage from yesterday?”

      She wasn’t sure how he’d unloaded the cycle from the back of her truck without help, but Luke was strong and muscular. Still, he shouldn’t have risked tearing open the laceration on his leg or putting strain on his shoulder.

      “I’m trying to fix it. I need to leave, Mariah.”

      His tone carried such resolve that it jolted her senses. She knew he’d be leaving, but still his words struck her with the force of a truck slamming into a mountain.

      If she hadn’t allowed that kiss last night, hadn’t responded to him the way she had, maybe she wouldn’t be so thrown off balance now. “How soon?” she asked.

      His gaze slid over her, and she read something indefinable in his eyes.

      Was he, too, regretting their kiss?

      Was there something—or someone—drawing him to the road?

      “Tonight,” he answered. “If I can figure out how to get the bike in running order by then.”

      “Tonight?” Mariah’s voice sounded like Bandit’s, at the bird’s most annoying, she was sure. But she couldn’t believe he’d even think of getting back on his bike before he’d had a chance to recover. “You’re not in any shape to ride again that soon. Your leg, your shoulder—you need time to heal.”

      He turned back to his bike, seemingly ignoring her concern. “So I’ll be a little uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”

      Mariah wanted to spin him around to face her, make him listen to reason, but he was absorbed in fitting some part to the silver machine. “Luke Phillips, I am not in the habit of patching up people only to have my handiwork undone. The least you can do is give your cuts and bruises another day or two.”

      The woman looked like a small firecracker exploding with fury. She was concerned about him. She cared. And that hit him where he lived. It had been a long time since anyone had cared what happened to him.

      But Mariah did.

      He knew she was right about his injuries. His thigh still hurt like the very devil, and his shoulder had stiffened up on him. Still, he couldn’t stick around. He had to keep moving—always hoping relief, peace, was just over the next rise.

      Mariah had treated his wounds with her herbs and salves, but Luke had battle scars worse than those, scars none of her medicines could heal.

      “I’ve infringed on your hospitality enough. I need to move on,” he said.

      He couldn’t explain anything beyond that. He couldn’t even explain it to himself. His heart ached from his son’s death, an anguish so deep he didn’t think he’d ever get over the pain. Mariah was a healer with her special medicines, but she couldn’t heal his deeper pain, couldn’t exorcise his guilt.

      He turned back to the cycle—and the part he wasn’t at all sure he could render usable again. He didn’t know much about mechanics; he only knew bodies—or at least he once had.

      The little bit he knew about motorcycles he’d picked up from repair manuals, like the one he’d packed up and put in storage, along with everything else he owned.

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