A Touch of Flame

by Jo Goodman

  “What? As a pet? As something you can congratulate yourself for taming?”

  “Huh. Hadn’t thought about it like that.” His eyes remained steady on hers. “Anyone ever tell you that your mind’s a tad twisted?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Must be because you ran them off.”

  “I do not run people off. You’re sitting there, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but you already know I lack good sense.”

  Ridley ignored that. “A lighted stick of dynamite wouldn’t dislodge you.”

  “Wouldn’t take dynamite.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Ridley felt an unfamiliar tremor in her fingers. She quickly set her teacup down before he saw it dance in her hands. She thought she might have been too late because he was watching her intently and a slim smile lifted the corners of his mouth. His pupils were larger than they had been a moment earlier, but the way he looked at her was anything but vague or sleepy. She was put in mind of studying a slide under a microscope. He seemed just that fascinated.

  Ridley felt her heart flutter and resisted the urge to place a hand over it. She reminded herself that she was not given to dramatic dime novel gestures even if her favorite heroine was. It occurred to her that she should stand, break the hold he had over her just then, and on the heels of that thought came another: It wouldn’t take dynamite to dislodge her either.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ben sat up, unfolded his legs and arms, and stood in a single fluid motion. Ridley’s head came up as he took a step toward her. He was not certain of anything except that she was thinking too much. He curled his fingers around the wrist that hovered protectively beside her teacup and gave it an almost imperceptible tug. Still staring at him, she rose to her feet. He gave her a moment to step back, to remove her hand from his loose grip, to say something that would put him literally and figuratively back in his place, but the moment passed and nothing like that happened.

  Ben bent his head, touched her mouth on a slant. Her lips were warm but not particularly welcoming. He nudged them. Her mouth parted as she took a sip of air and he carefully pressed that small advantage, touching the tip of his tongue to her upper lip, making a sweep of the sweet, soft underside. This time it was no sip that she took; her swift indrawn breath was more gasp than whimper.

  He kissed the corner of her mouth and turned her head so that he could place his mouth against the hollow below her ear. Strands of hair that had escaped the anchoring combs tickled his cheek. Not for the first time, he caught the fragrance of lavender and wondered that it still clung to her hair, her skin, and the sensitive cord in her neck, which she invited him to explore with his lips and tongue.

  He returned to her mouth. Her lips were damp now, parted, and definitely welcoming. She met his kiss with pressure and intent. Her hands climbed to his shoulders while one of his came to rest at the small of her back. He pressed the base of her spine. She shivered and he felt her fingers dig deeper into his vest. He liked the idea of her fingertips as an imprint in the scarred and beaten leather.

  Her breathing quickened, but then so did his. He ran his tongue along the ridge of her teeth. She bit down very gently, and his skin was suddenly too tight for flesh and bone. He pushed back, deepening the kiss, and then the fingers on his shoulder were not so much holding him as holding on. Ben pushed aside the cups, saucers, and teapot. Placing his hands on either side of Ridley’s waist, he squeezed and lifted her onto the table. He parted her knees and stepped between them; the drape of the skirt of her gown was a better than adequate barrier, which he decided was proper for the time being. He was certain he’d find out what she thought, but that would be later, when she was showing him the door.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. The old adage wound its way through his head and seeped into his blood as he cupped her bottom and brought her to the edge of the table. Her thighs hugged him.

  He set his forehead against hers, breathed her in. They bumped noses. He knocked her spectacles askew. Her hands abandoned his shoulders and flew to her face. Out of habit, she began to straighten the earpieces, but he stopped her and did it himself. He drew back just enough to examine his handiwork. Her eyes seemed larger than usual behind the lenses.

  Ben spoke quietly. He put his question to her as if it were an intimate one. “Do you need them for everything?”

  “Mostly for close work,” she said, responding in a similar vein. “It’s easier to wear them all the time.”

  That explained why she was often looking over the top of the rims when she wanted to take the long view.

  “Are you going to remove them?” she asked.

  “Hadn’t thought I would. I like them. Why?”

  Ridley shrugged and looked away.

  “Why?” he asked again, dipping his head to catch her eye. “Is that what they did?”

  “Mm.” She looked at him then. “Why do you suppose they did that?”

  “Couldn’t say, except . . .” He curled his mouth to one side as he considered her face. “Maybe if you take them off for a moment.” When she obliged, nothing about his expression changed. Her brown eyes were just as large, just as luminous. “They might have thought they looked more appealing if you couldn’t see them clearly. How many fingers am I holding up?” He showed her three. When Ridley choked back a laugh and batted his hand away, he slipped it around the back of her neck. “They were idiots,” he whispered against her mouth. “Idiots.”

  Ben took the spectacles from her, carefully folded the stems with his free hand, and set them aside. His mouth never left hers. When she took her next audible breath, it was his air that she breathed. He liked that, would have told her so if he hadn’t thought it would hasten his departure. She would toss him out regardless, sooner or later. He preferred that it was later.

  His fingers sifted in the loose tendrils of hair at the base of her neck. Earlier this evening, it had been wound in a tight chignon fixed with combs and pins to the back of her head. The shape of the chignon was softer now. Too many strands had come free of their moorings and were curling against her temples and behind her ears. Occasionally she tucked them back but the attempts at order were halfhearted at best. She had more care for her patients than she did for her appearance.

  The tendrils slipped between his fingers like satin ribbons. He couldn’t hold them; he didn’t try. His fingertips brushed her nape. She shivered again, all satisfaction and heat, and rolled her neck in a way that suggested she wanted more of the same.

  Ben placed his lips against her skin and sipped. She moaned softly. A heartbeat later, he felt her stiffen. He did not think it was what he was doing that had prompted that reaction. Rather it was her response to liking it. He hesitated and then raised his head. A rosy flush tinged her cheeks—something he did not see often—and it struck him that she was embarrassed.

  “Enough?” he asked.

  “Mm. Perhaps too much.”

  “All right.” He ducked his head, placed a swift kiss on her slightly parted lips, and then backed away.

  Ridley slid off the table without help. “I believe that was an advance.”

  “Infinitely more subtle than Pickett’s Charge but worthy of being called an advance.”

  “I never know what you’re going to say.”

  Grinning, he rubbed thoughtfully behind his ear. “I hardly know myself.”

  Ridley pressed her lips together, shook her head.

  “Guess I’ll get my coat,” he said. “Show myself out.”

  “Probably for the best.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I’m going to do it anyway.” Ben pushed in his chair and started toward the front of the house. He was unaware that Ridley was following him until he turned to put on his coat. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak.

  “I think it would be better if t
hat didn’t happen again,” she said.

  Ben did not pretend he didn’t know what she was referring to. “Is it all right for me to have a different opinion?”

  “You’re entitled.”

  “But you don’t think I should.”

  She sighed. “I don’t think you understand.”

  Ben finished buttoning his coat and removed his gloves from his pocket but didn’t put them on. “You care to explain?” He took his hat off the rack and settled it on his head. When Ridley offered nothing, he started to open the door. Cold air swirled into the vestibule and she immediately hugged herself, but for some reason he did not think she was merely reacting to the temperature. He paused, suddenly sure that she was working up the courage to speak.

  And she did. “Because when you walk through that door, I will be lonelier than I was when I asked you in for tea.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ridley closed the door on Ben. She was relieved that he understood she was not issuing an invitation. What she said was true, but it wasn’t his responsibility to relieve her loneliness. The fact that he suspected she was lonely made her feel vulnerable and vaguely out of sorts with him. She did not appreciate the way he sifted through her thoughts as though he were panning for gold, and she especially did not appreciate when he showed her a nugget.

  She went to the front window and drew back the curtain only enough to watch him most of the way from her house to his. He followed the walk, which was shoveled clean. He’d sent Clay Salt around to clear a path from her front steps to the street every time it snowed, and since Clay would not accept any money from her, she had to assume that Ben was paying the boy. Ben ran his hand along the top of the picket fence as he walked. It was easy to imagine him as a young boy with a stick in his hand rattling fences as he went along.

  She let the curtain fall back and turned away from the window. Her image of him was a false one. He hadn’t grown up in Frost Falls but on the Twin Star Ranch outside of town. She’d heard that from him and more from his mother, but Ellie in particular seemed uncomfortable sharing anything from the near quarter of a century that she’d spent there. Taking her cue from Ellie, Ridley rarely asked Ben about his experiences or his relationships at the ranch, and while he showed no such reticence were she was concerned, she believed she should not rattle his fences.

  In time he might fill in the gaps in the knowledge she had gleaned from Hitch and Buzz and George Hotchkiss when he delivered wood and coals. Mrs. Springer had volunteered tidbits, none of which were asked for, about the Frost family in general, and Ben Madison’s connection to them specifically. She wished she had heard about them from Ben directly, because it wasn’t that she wasn’t interested, only that she’d grown up in a family that embraced secrets and she was reluctant to pry into someone else’s.

  Ridley extinguished all the lamps except for the one she carried to her bedroom. She set it on the side table, drew the curtains, and began to undress. She washed her face, brushed her teeth with baking soda, and crawled between the sheets. She lay there for twenty minutes, counting sheep, making a list of all the names she could think of that began with the letter E. She wondered if Ben had thought of Evangeline or Esperanza, neither of which was her Christian name, but should be included on his list. When she returned to counting sheep and naming them, she gave up and threw off the covers.

  She told herself she wasn’t lonely. She was angry, or at least more angry than lonely. He shouldn’t have kissed her and she shouldn’t have let him. Sitting up, she grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. Her face was hot. Her feet were cold. There was nothing about her at the moment that felt quite right. She fumbled around for her slippers, threw the pillow to the side, and retrieved her robe from the back of the rocking chair.

  She recalled that there was still a generous slice of rhubarb pie remaining in the bottom of the cold box. Picking up the lamp, she retraced her steps to the kitchen, and almost jumped out of her slippers when someone pounded on the surgery door. There was a shout, a voice that she did not recognize, and then more pounding. She wondered if Ben could hear. If he had already found the sleep that she couldn’t, then probably not.

  Ridley approached cautiously, setting the lamp on the table to avoid dropping it. The door rattled in the frame. The knob twisted. There was pressure from the outside, a thump as a shoulder was thrust against the door.

  “Who is it?” Ridley called from a few feet back. “I’m not opening the door until you tell me who you are and what your business is.”

  “You know goddamn well who I am, Dr. Fancy Bitches. Britches. Dr. Fancy Britches.”

  Ridley took a calming breath. “Is that you, Mr. Salt?”

  “Goddamn right it is.” He slammed the door again with his large meaty fist. “You gonna open up, Doc?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to see you.”

  That was not an answer that was going to get her to open the door. “Are you ill, Mr. Salt?”

  “I’m freezing is what I am. Damn cold out here.”

  “I understand, but are you ill?”

  He put his shoulder to the door. It shuddered but did not budge.

  “Is it someone else that brings you here? Lily? The children?”

  “I have a powerful burning in my chest. Hot. Like I swallowed a poker.”

  Ridley did not know whether she could believe him. “Have you been drinking?”

  Jeremiah didn’t answer, but he did stamp his feet.

  The floor under Ridley vibrated. She called to him again. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Not so you’d notice.”

  That meant that he’d tippled a bottle at least once. Probably quite a few more times than that. “What do you think I can do for you?”

  “You’re the doc, ain’t you? You got to figure it out.”

  Ridley inched closer to the door. She wanted to get a look at him through the side window but was afraid if he saw her, he would seize on the idea of breaking the glass.

  “I’m tellin’ you, Doc, my chest’s on fire. I know about fire. If I swallowed a bullet right now, it would melt before it got to my gut.”

  Ridley couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t talking about harming himself. She went to stand beside the window and carefully lifted the curtain so she could peek outside. Jeremiah Salt looked like a man who was hurting. She couldn’t make out his particular features, but his silhouette was bent double. It explained why he had not slammed into the door again. Now that she was close enough, she could hear him moaning deep in his throat, as much groan as growl. Surely a wounded bear could not sound as pathetic . . . or present more danger.

  Ridley went to the cupboard and opened the drawer where she kept her surgical instruments. There was very little there that was not a weapon sufficient to cause serious injury. She chose the implement that fit neatly in her palm and closed the drawer. She removed the key from the windowsill. “I’m going to open the door, Mr. Salt, but you need to know I have a very sharp scalpel at the ready, and I won’t hesitate to use it if I feel threatened.”

  “I ain’t threatened you yet, Dr. Fancy Britches.”

  She hesitated, her key poised at the lock. “To be clear, I said I would use it if I feel threatened. Whether you think you’ve threatened me counts for nothing. Do you understand?”

  “Jesus.”

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, dammit, I understand.”

  Ridley took a deep breath, turned the key, and opened the door. She expected him to charge into the room so she stepped back out of the way. Her patient’s entrance was less dramatic than that. He stumbled a little as he crossed the threshold but managed to get to the examining table without faltering a second time. “Can you sit up there?” asked Ridley, moving the lamp out of the way.

  Jeremiah Salt braced his arms on either side and lifted himself onto t
he table. This was not accomplished without noisy effort.

  Ridley watched him out of the corner of her eye as she retrieved her stethoscope. She slipped the scalpel into the right pocket of her flannel robe. “Can you sit up straight? Pull back your shoulders?” Apparently this required Herculean effort because he groaned mightily and placed one hand on his breastbone.

  It was impossible for Ridley not to react to the sour odor of spirits on his breath. She suspected that if she held a lighted match near his mouth, he could easily throw a flame across the room. She held up her stethoscope but did not apply it yet. “Why aren’t you wearing a coat, Mr. Salt?”

  He looked down at himself and then at her. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Probably. No hat. No scarf. No gloves. No wonder you were freezing.”

  She placed the stethoscope at four different places on his chest and listened. She did the same at his back. He breathed in and out on her command and she avoided the fumes. Coming around the table to face him again, she said, “Tell me about your symptoms, because there is nothing wrong with your heart.”

  “Didn’t say there was, did I?”

  “No, but chest pain can mean a lot of things. Sometimes it points to a problem with the heart.”

  He pressed fingers the size of sausages against his sternum. “Burns like the devil. Right here. I can taste the heat.”

  She nodded. “When did it start?”

  “This evening.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Could have been around the time I heard about the Fullers.” Jeremiah’s rheumy eyes narrowed on Ridley’s face. “The way it was told to me is that there was something wrong with the dampers on that stove. There are womenfolk who heard Louella complaining about them, and those same womenfolk know I fixed them for her. Cast her new ones and replaced them myself. And now her little girl’s dead and there’s fingers pointing at me, like maybe I made them while I was drinking, like maybe I didn’t know what I was doing.”