A Cowboy's Temptation

by Barbara Dunlop

  “We’ve been told one of the doctors on the ship cared for my uncle through his illness. A woman.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

  “Was it you?”

  A ball of emotion lodged in her throat, so she gave a nod for her reply. Part of her still couldn’t believe Patrick was gone. He’d been such a vibrant man, full of personality, and suddenly he wasn’t here to chat and joke with. And Patrick’s death had brought her grief over losing her husband two years ago back to the surface.

  Luke’s gaze was steady and solemn. “Thank you for doing that for him.”

  She swallowed and found her voice. “You’re welcome. But there’s no need to thank me—I considered Patrick a friend. He deserved the chance to live out his days on the ship instead of ashore in a hospice.”

  “One thing confuses me. None of his family knew he was dying. He and I spoke several times on the phone over the past few months and he didn’t mention it. He used to stay with my mother every three months for a couple of days, and we knew he was too unwell to come recently but no one suspected things were that bad.” Elbows resting on the chair’s armrests, he steepled his fingers under his chin. “Why didn’t we know?”

  She thought back to several conversations she’d had with Patrick where she’d suggested he tell his family how serious his cancer was—or closer to the end, that he let her call them. But he’d been adamant. He didn’t want them to see him frail and wasted, and he didn’t want to endure their reactions to seeing him in that state. He said he wanted them to remember him as he’d been, but she’d wondered if it was denial—if a distraught family had arrived, he would have had to face his own mortality head-on.

  She tightened her crossed arms a little. “Patrick was a proud man and he thought it would be for the best this way.”

  “How long was he unwell?” Luke asked quietly.

  “He’d had cancer for almost a year, and he’d been ashore for two rounds of chemotherapy, but it became more serious about four months ago. Even then, he was still mobile and involved with the running of the ship until about three weeks before he died.”

  “Was he in any—” he frowned and seemed to think better of the word “—much pain?”

  “I administered morphine and other medications as required, so his discomfort was minimal.” On occasions she’d even had to convince him to take the pain relief. Patrick had been of the soldier-on mold.

  “Was there…” Luke hesitated and ran his good hand through his hair. “I honestly mean no disrespect, but was he seeing any other doctors, as well?”

  He needn’t have worried; she understood. If their situations had been reversed, she’d ask the same question, want to know that her uncle had been given the best possible treatment.

  “He was under the care of a specialist at the Royal Sydney Hospital, and I had regular contact with her. I can give you her details if you’d like to talk to her yourself.” Luke gave a single shake of his head so she continued. “For the last two months of his life, Patrick personally paid for an extra doctor to take over my regular duties so I could focus solely on him. We also brought a specialist nurse on board so there was someone with him twenty-four hours a day.”

  Though, even when the nurse had been on duty, Della had found it difficult to leave him, and had checked in often.

  Luke nodded his acceptance of the information as he let out a long breath. “Will you be at the will reading?”

  “Yes.” Patrick had made her promise to attend, saying he’d left her a little something. Telling him he didn’t need to had made no difference. “Quite a few of the crew have been invited.”

  “I hope Patrick left you something for what you did for him, but if he didn’t have time to change his will, I’ll make sure you receive something of meaning.”

  With a twinge of grief in her chest, she realized that the generosity in his expression reminded her of Patrick, and of the stories he’d told about the man before her. She’d often wondered if Patrick had exaggerated his stories about his nephew or if Luke really was a prince among men.

  “That’s sweet of you,” she said. “But there’s no need. I was doing my job and as I said, I had a lot of respect for Patrick. I counted him as a friend. I wouldn’t have had things any other way.”

  “Either way, I’m grateful you were able to be there for him.”

  “I appreciate you saying that,” she said and meant it. She’d often wondered if Patrick’s family would blame her for their not knowing about his illness. “And if you’re going to make that will reading, we need to take a look at your cut now.”

  He glanced down at his watch. “You’re right.”

  She washed her hands, sat down across a table from him and set out the sterile cloth. “Lay your hand over here,” she said as she slipped on a pair of gloves.

  * * *

  Luke looked into Dr. Della Walsh’s eyes and laid his hand, palm up, on the table. She was an intriguing woman. It couldn’t have been easy caring for his stubborn uncle out at sea, yet the information from the ship’s captain when he’d rung the family twelve days ago was that Patrick’s care had been second to none. But it was something else that had compelled him to insist she handle his stitches—something that radiated from within her. She wore no makeup yet her toffee-brown gaze captivated him more than any preening society woman. Her eyes held depth, intelligence and the promise of something more.

  Breaking the eye contact, he frowned. It didn’t seem right to think this way about the doctor who’d cared for Patrick until his death, especially when that had been so recent that he could still feel the permanent punch to the gut the loss had created.

  Della looked down and gently unwrapped the blue handkerchief he’d tied around his hand. It wasn’t much of a cut, more a good-size nick at the base of his thumb, but she was treating it seriously. That made him feel even better about Patrick’s care in the past few months.

  “I’ll just give you some local anesthetic,” she said as she drew up a needle. The two jabs into the fleshy part of his palm stung, but Della’s hand, soft and warm through the gloves, stabilized his as she administered the drug. Then she swiped the area with an antiseptic and gave it a quick wash with clear fluid from a bottle marked sterile saline.

  She bent her head and scanned his palm closely. “How did you do it?”

  “Car accident.”

  Her eyes flew to his, then roved down his neck, across his shoulders, assessing everywhere she could see. “Are you hurt anywhere else? And the others in the car with you?”

  “We’re all fine,” he said with a casual shrug. “To be fair, you could hardly class it as an accident. I was pouring some sparkling water from the minibar into a glass—”

  She blinked. “I thought this was in a car?”

  “Stretch limo.” He’d needed to meet with several of his staff, and hated wasting time traveling, so the price of a larger vehicle to accommodate the meeting was easily worth it. “The driver had to swerve hard in traffic, just hitting the bumper of another car. The glass in my hand caught the corner of the fridge as I swung forward, and it shattered.”

  “You were lucky,” she said, returning her attention to his palm.

  The cut was minor, but it had led him here, so perhaps he had been lucky. His gaze was drawn back to the doctor’s silky brown hair as she bent her head forward.

  “Can you move your thumb for me? And the index finger?”

  Obediently, he bent his thumb and finger in turn.

  “Okay, good. Tell me if you can feel this.”

  The featherlight touch of her gloved fingertip ran across the planes of his fingers and thumb. “Yes.”

  She nodded, satisfied, and picked up a pair of tweezers. “I’m just checking for glass fragments while the anesthetic takes effect. This shouldn’t hurt,” she m
urmured.

  Her dark lashes swept down over creamy pale cheeks as she worked. Under normal circumstances, he’d have asked her out for a drink, maybe dinner, but that would cross a line now that she would soon be an employee.

  Besides, he doubted Della would take him up on the offer. The signals she’d been sending had been limited to professional concern, both for his hand and because he was Patrick’s nephew.

  She skimmed a finger over a long, straight scar along the length of his thumb pad. “This looks like it would have been a nasty cut.”

  A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Childhood accident.” Though, it had been far from an accident—it had been with conscious, purposeful intent that, at thirteen, he’d sliced his thumb with a pocketknife and pressed the injury against similar ones on three friends’ thumbs. They’d become blood brothers that night in a darkened boarding school dorm room. He looked at the scar, remembering how his youthful enthusiasm had made him slash long and deep—as though more blood would deepen the bond. Maybe it had, because he was still closer to those guys than any other person on the planet.

  Della put the tweezers down, then picked up the needle.

  “How does it look?” he asked.

  “It’s only minor,” she said, all polite reassurance. The needle pierced his skin and he felt a slight tugging as she sewed the stitch. Della worked quickly and efficiently after the first one was in place, knotting and cutting. Her hands as they worked were graceful and capable, like Della herself.

  After she tied off the third one, she rose and removed her gloves, saying over her shoulder, “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”

  “About a year ago.”

  “That will be fine. You shouldn’t need antibiotics—the cut was clean, and there was no foreign material.” She washed her hands then turned back to him. “You’ll need the stitches out in about seven days. If you’re still here, come to the clinic and either Cal or I will do it. If you’ve left by then, see your local doctor.”

  A twinge of regret surprised him. “I’m only here for a couple of nights.” He’d come for the reading of Patrick’s will and to spend a few days assessing the ship’s operations. He’d disembark when they reached Sydney.

  “You’re not staying for a full run?” A fine line appeared between her eyebrows. “To experience the Cora Mae out in the Pacific?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” His plans for the ship didn’t include her cruising the Pacific or anywhere.

  “Then you’ll need to see your own doctor in a week, Mr. Marlow,” she said with her courteous, professional smile. “Ring him earlier if you have any concerns or your hand shows signs of unusual pain, redness or swelling.”

  With a start, he realized the appointment was over. He was seconds away from walking out the door and in all probability wouldn’t see her one-on-one again. Which was probably for the best—that impulse he’d had to invite her for a drink might reemerge, and he wouldn’t start anything with a future employee who never spent more than one night in any given city.

  He nodded, and rested a hand on the doorknob. “Thank you for the medical care, Dr. Walsh. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Marlow,” she said, her voice even, unaffected.

  Something about this woman intrigued him, and that was rare. What if, despite the obstacles—

  Walk away now, the sane part of his brain said. This is not a woman for you. Which was true. He shook his head ruefully and stepped through the door, only just reining in the impulse to turn back for one final look over his shoulder at Dr. Della Walsh.

  ISBN: 9781460319918

  A COWBOY’S TEMPTATION

  Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Dunlop

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