As the screen door slammed behind Aunt Delilah, Becca sank onto the bench. If she’d made the right choice, why did it feel so wrong?
* * *
MATT SUFFERED A PANG of disappointment when the women in the kitchen moved farther from the door and cut off his access to their conversation. Their discussion had just been getting interesting.
With a scowl, he recalled the nickname “Doctor Wonderful,” the invention of the feature writer who’d interviewed him for a recent magazine article. The name lacked dignity and made him feel like some kind of comic-book character, but once the publication had hit the stands, the distasteful moniker had stuck. Maybe its unwanted notoriety was part of the dissatisfaction he’d felt so keenly recently.
“Are you Dr. Wonderful?” Emily asked.
Matt shook his head. “I’m Dr. Tyler.”
“Did Aunt Delilah tell a lie?” A sharp discernment shone in the tiny girl’s big green eyes.
“No. Dr. Wonderful is a nickname someone gave me, but I don’t like it, so I don’t use it. Do you have a nickname?”
Emily nodded. “Granny used to call me Sweet Pea. I like Emily better.”
Sweet Pea suited her. The child was a sweetheart. He’d never paid much attention to children before. Never saw them in his practice, because Dwight treated the youngsters. But this little girl touched his emotions in a way that surprised him.
“So,” Matt said with a smile, “you understand what I mean about nicknames.”
“I guess.” She wrinkled her nose as if deep in thought. “If Dr. Dwight isn’t coming, are you going to stay with us?”
Matt cocked his head but couldn’t distinguish anything more from the murmur of voices behind the kitchen door. “I guess that’s up to your mother and Aunt Delilah.”
“I hope you stay,” she said with earnestness. “You’ll like it. It’s nice here.”
Matt glanced around the room, its low ceiling supported by hand-hewn beams. It seemed ancient and small, lacking the style of his Malibu home with its fourteen-foot ceilings, expansive glass walls overlooking the Pacific and the sparse elegance of chrome and glass his interior designer had insisted on. Matt’s house was the perfect place for a party, but he’d need a crowbar and a shoehorn to fit even a dozen people into this room.
Still, the mountain house had a certain charm. Earthernware jugs held casual bouquets of wild flowers, roses and a fragrant blooming vine that were a drastic counterpoint to the stark ikebana twig and orchid arrangements in his own home.
The rug on the highly polished floor of wide oak planks was hand braided, its colors muted by time and wear. Schoolteachers were underpaid, but made enough to afford more than Rebecca Warwick apparently had. What made her stay in this poverty-stricken pocket of the mountains?
The thought of poverty triggered memories of his boyhood. He’d never known his father, who’d died when Matt was two. The home his mother had kept had been old and well lived in, like this room. Money had been tight then. Tight? It hadn’t existed, and Matt had sworn once he grew up, he’d see that his and his mother’s lives would be better. His mother hadn’t lived long enough for him to make good his promise to her, but he’d worked hard for his success and the expensive trappings that accompanied it.
He leaned back in the worn, overstuffed chair that in spite of, or because of, its age seemed to embrace him, and an unusual sensation hit him, one he couldn’t remember experiencing for a long time.
Relaxation.
Something in the atmosphere of the mountain house, maybe a combination of the cheerful crackle of the fire and the soft patter of rain against the windows, had bled the tension from his muscles and the worries from his mind. Almost as effectively as a South Pacific cruise.
Almost, but not quite. He really needed that vacation.
“Yes,” he assured Emily, who was staring at him as if waiting for a response, “your house is very nice.”
Thinking of his canceled cruise and the South Pacific sun he was missing, he itched again to finish Dwight’s work in a hurry so he could squeeze in that much-needed R and R.
The sound of a screen door slamming somewhere in the house reverberated into the living room. A moment later, Rebecca opened the kitchen door and came into the room. Twin blotches of color stained her cheeks, and her eyes held a distracted look.
She approached Emily and placed her hand on her daughter’s flyaway curls. “The rain’s stopped, sweetheart. Why don’t you run over to the McClains and see if Lizzie wants to play.”
With mischief gleaming in her eyes, Emily glanced down at her sock-clad feet. “Can I go barefoot?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I’ll get your sneakers and help you put them on.”
“What about Matt?”
“He’s Dr. Tyler to you, young lady.”
“Is he going to stay with us?”
“Dr. Tyler and I have to discuss that.” Avoiding Matt’s gaze, Rebecca disappeared into the hallway.
Emily cut her eyes toward Matt and rolled them with a sophistication far beyond her years. “That’s why I have to play with Lizzie. So you and Mommy can talk.”
Matt suppressed the urge to chuckle.
“I heard that,” Rebecca’s voice called from deeper in the house.
She returned seconds later with a pair of tiny sneakers, placed them on Emily’s feet and tied them snugly.
Emily hopped from the rocker. “See you later, Matt.”
“Emily—” her mother warned.
Emily’s gamine face crinkled in a grin. “I mean, Dr. Tyler.”
“See you later, kid.” The girl was a charmer, and he wondered if her mother would kick him out before the child returned.
After the front door closed behind Emily, Rebecca settled in the rocker her daughter had vacated, straightened her spine and looked him straight in the eye. “There’s no easy way to put this, Dr. Tyler, so I’ll just come right out with it. You can’t stay here. I’m sorry.”
He raised his hands, palms outward in apology. “I’m sorry if I’ve placed you in an awkward position.”
“Dr. Peyseur placed you in one. I guess he didn’t consider the consequences of a young single man as my houseguest.”
Matt raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “That’s the problem? We’re in the twenty-first century, not the Dark Ages.”
She shook her head, stirring the tumbled mass of curls until he felt an irresistible urge to run his fingers through them. “Not in Warwick Mountain. We just left the eighteenth century during World War II, according to my grandmother.”
He hadn’t known a society filled with such restrictions existed in the United States. The standards Rebecca referred to were definitely foreign to the laid-back, anything-goes, weird-is-wonderful, always fluid culture of southern California that Matt had grown up in. “So my being ‘Dr. Wonderful’ isn’t the problem?”
“It doesn’t help,” she admitted bluntly. “Every woman in the community read that magazine article about you at the beauty shop. And drew their own conclusions, whether the article was accurate or not.”
Her voice ended on an upward note, like a question. The publicity piece had painted him as a superstud, or, as his mother might have said, a womanizer. Matt found Rebecca’s interest in his social life flattering, until her next statement burst his bubble.
“I can’t afford any question of my own reputation. As the local schoolteacher—”
“Caesar’s wife?”
“Exactly. My own life must be above reproach or the people here won’t want me teaching their children. There’s a clause in my contract. Moral turpitude, I believe it’s called.”
He felt torn. On the one hand, he’d made his promise to Dwight and had also begun to look forward to knowing this forthright, unpretentious woman better. But on the other, if she kic
ked him out, he’d have the perfect excuse to take that cruise he needed so badly.
The choice should have been simple, but his conscience wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. He thought of all the families who needed his help, medical attention Dwight had been prepared to give until he’d broken his wrist. Matt had to make a stab at carrying out his friend’s commitments.
“Isn’t there somewhere else I can stay? Another family who might take me in?”
“Aunt Delilah and I went through the list of possibilities.” She frowned with genuine disappointment. “None of them would work out. I’m sorry. Looks like you made this trip for nothing.”
His conscience prodded him like a sharp stick. “What if I rented a motor home?”
Her face brightened an instant, then fell again. “There’s still the question of where you’d park it. Keeping it here would raise the same red flags as your being a houseguest.”
“There has to be someone—”
“The people of Warwick Mountain are poor but proud, with a long heritage of hospitality. No matter whose home you parked at, you’d put a strain on the people who live there.”
“But I wouldn’t need anything from them—”
“That’s not the point. They would consider you their guest, and they would tax their own resources to provide you with electricity, water, meals—”
“I’d insist on paying.”
She cocked her head and stared at him with that bright, open look he found so enticing. “You have a lot to learn about mountain folk. If you refuse their hospitality, you’ll offend their pride. Offend one member of this community, and you’ll offend them all, and the next thing you know, they’ll refuse to accept treatment from you. They’re touchy enough about accepting charity as it is. I’m sorry. I just don’t see any way to make this work.”
“We could get married,” he said jokingly. “Then I could stay here without damaging your reputation.”
At the mention of marriage, her expression closed, her entire demeanor stiffened, and he realized he’d hit a sore spot.
“Sorry,” he said. “Guess that wasn’t funny.”
“Or helpful,” she admitted, but added a hint of a smile as if to suggest he was forgiven.
“You really care about these people, don’t you?”
She leaned toward him, her eyes sparking like green fire. “I grew up here. My parents died in a car accident when I was a baby, and Granny Warwick raised me. My neighbors are good people, salt of the earth. They’d share their last morsel of food and drop of water with you. If you need help with your chores, they’ll pitch in to assist you before they do their own. This community is deeply rooted in two things—their traditional values and their love of the land. What they lack in money and worldly goods, they make up for in generosity and a zest for living.”
He wanted her to keep talking, to watch the light flash in her eyes, the expressions scud across her face like clouds caught in the jet stream. “Tell me about the people Dwight planned to treat. I have his records in my briefcase, but I haven’t had a chance to study them yet.”
She relaxed against the back of the rocker and crossed her trim ankles. “Several of the farmers and their wives need skin cancers removed. They’ve worked all their lives in the outdoors. That exposure’s taken its toll.”
“Basal cell carcinoma or melanoma?” The first was bad enough, but the second could be fatal.
“We don’t know. Dr. Peyseur intended to screen everyone.”
“Anyone have a life-threatening illness?”
“Not that I’m aware of, although many of the men have been heavy smokers all their lives and probably should have their lungs checked. The most serious cases Dr. Peyseur planned to concentrate on are cosmetic.”
Matt frowned. “From the way you’ve described your neighbors, I don’t see them approving of cosmetic surgery.”
Her laughter tumbled through the room like a mountain stream over rocks. “You mean like a face-lift? Not very likely.” Her voice and expression sobered. “The worst case is Lizzie McClain.”
“Where Emily went to play?”
Rebecca nodded. “Lizzie has a cleft lip and cleft palate.”
“How old is she?”
“Almost ten.”
Matt couldn’t hide his shock. “Those defects are usually corrected before age one.”
“Lizzie was born at home. I doubt she’s seen a doctor a half dozen times in her life.”
“You said she’s the worst case. There’re others?”
“Little Jimmy Dickens. He’s eight and terribly scarred from burns when his mother accidentally scalded him with hot grease.”
Matt winced. “Facial scars?”
“Face, neck, arms and hands. All highly visible. Jimmy’s very self-conscious about them.”
Memories of the society matrons and Hollywood celebrities who frequented his clinic complaining of encroaching wrinkles or bags beneath their eyes reproached him. Dwight, who’d been born in these hills, had felt drawn back to them later in life. No wonder he looked forward to this time in the mountains. His partner practiced medicine here that actually changed people’s lives. Not that Matt would have that chance now. Rebecca Warwick had already made it perfectly clear that he couldn’t stay.
The screen door at the front of the house slammed, and Matt heard giggles in the entryway.
“Emily,” Rebecca called. “Is that you?”
Rebecca’s back was to the hallway, but Matt could see the top half of a little girl’s face as she peeked around the door frame. Coal-black hair framed an arresting pair of periwinkle-blue eyes dancing with curiosity. Emily stepped into the room and tugged the other child, an older girl, in with her. The newcomer kept her hand over her mouth and continued to stare at Matt with interest.
“That’s Dr. Tyler,” Emily said to the girl. “He’s come to make you better.” Rebecca’s daughter turned to Matt. “Lizzie doesn’t talk.”
Can’t talk, Matt reminded himself, at least not well without the roof of her mouth to help form the proper sounds. He gave the girl his warmest smile. “Then maybe she can just wave hello.”
As he hoped, Lizzie took her right hand from her mouth and wiggled her fingers at Matt. Keeping his face from showing his distress at the severity of her disfigurement, the split in her upper lip that extended all the way to her nose, he waved back at her. “Hi, Lizzie. I’m glad to meet you. You’re a very pretty girl.”
He spoke the truth. Lizzie was a stunningly beautiful child, except for the cleft lip and palate, defects that his special skills could mend.
“Can we have some cookies, Mommy?” Emily asked.
Rebecca shook her head. “But there’re fresh peaches in a bowl in the fridge.”
“Can I show Lizzie the baby chicks?”
“Just be sure to keep the gate to the henhouse closed.”
“See you later, Dr. Tyler,” Emily said with a giggle and a friendly grin, and Lizzie waved again before following Emily into the kitchen.
Matt watched them go and temporarily thrust visions of a South Pacific paradise aside. If he went to work immediately and coordinated with the nearest surgery facility, two weeks were all he’d need to correct Lizzie’s problem. He could leave the follow-up visits to a local doctor—removing the sutures, guarding against infection and scheduling speech therapy were tasks that almost any doctor could handle—and Matt would still have time for his Fiji cruise.
He turned to Rebecca. “I know you can’t have me here, but I intend to stay and do Dwight’s work, even if I have to sleep in my car in a field somewhere.”
CHAPTER THREE
NO WONDER MATT TYLER had such a reputation with women. Becca failed to completely repress a wry grimace. Her own four-year-old daughter and ten-year-old Lizzie had gone gaga over
the man, blushing and giggling when he turned on his charm. Was Becca the only woman in the house who hadn’t fallen for him like a dead tree in a high wind?
She studied him closely, but couldn’t tell whether Matt had been as touched by Lizzie’s disfigurement as he appeared, or if he was merely a powerful, wealthy man used to having his own way. His motivations, however, changed nothing about the predicament she was in.
“Even if you slept in your car,” she told him, “you’d still be considered the guest of the field’s owner, so we’re back to our original quandary.”
He pushed to his feet and paced the hearth in front of the fire. “Now that I’ve seen Lizzie, I can’t just walk away without helping her. Isn’t there an empty house or building I could rent for a few weeks?”
Becca felt the stirrings of admiration at his determination, but she squelched them quickly. Matt’s concern with Lizzie didn’t necessarily indicate compassion. For all Becca knew, the child merely posed a professional challenge.
“Every house in the area is occupied. Even some that are barely habitable,” she said.
With a sigh of frustration, he rammed his hands into his pockets. “Surely there’s somewhere I could stay and commute?”
“Not within forty mountain miles. We’re one of the most isolated communities in western North Carolina.”
“And nobody has an empty barn or shed where I could camp out?”
The solution to the problem popped into her head, and Becca wondered if her resistance to the doctor’s charms had prevented her from thinking of it before. “The old feed store on Main Street is empty.”
Matt’s expression brightened. He jerked his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together. “That might work. Who owns it?”
“I do.”
His surprise was evident. She didn’t wonder. Sometimes the fact that she owned the property surprised even her. Especially when the mortgage payments came due. She and Emily had gone without to buy the old structure. Her car, actually Granny’s car, was ten years old. They had no television satellite dish, no computer, and they’d had to postpone indefinitely Emily’s dreams of a Disney World vacation to buy the old store. If Becca’s plans for it materialized, though, every sacrifice would have been worth it.
For the Sake of Warwick Mountain (Harlequin Heartwarming) Page 3