Please, Mr. Grayson, don’t be awake.
She rushed out the door and toward her patient. A deep breath helped to calm her erratic heart rate. When she neared his bed, a glimmer of glass on the floor caught her eye, and she skidded to a halt. The whiskey bottle lay shattered near the bed. She looked at her bare feet and moaned. Why did she have to be out of costume—again?
Now what? She swallowed the hard lump in her throat.
Mr. Grayson’s position on the bed had changed, and one arm flung outward. The air around her reeked of whiskey. The fool must have consumed it while she bathed.
Of course, now she had to clean up the mess, but not in bare feet. Near the bed, Mr. Grayson’s fancy boots caught her eye. She shrugged. It didn’t matter if they were too large, at least they would protect her feet.
She crept toward the boots, passing the sleeping man, trying her best not to bump the bed and draw attention to herself. The closer she came to the boots, the louder her heart knocked against her ribs.
Reaching out her arm, she wiggled her fingers. The boots sat mere inches away. Suddenly, the bed squeaked and shifted. A hand clamped around her wrist, and she gasped. Her heart stopped.
“It’s about time you came back.” A deep male voice rang out in the quiet room.
Chapter Three
Cecilia stared into Mr. Grayson’s dark, glassy eyes. He leaned on his side with his hand on her wrist. By the way his lids drooped and his body swayed, it was obvious he was very intoxicated. Maybe he wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. She could only pray.
The corner of his lips lifted in a lazy smile. His fingers slid up her arm. “Where’ve ya been, darlin’?”
She swallowed hard. A delightful shiver danced over her skin and she wished it hadn’t.
He glanced at her mouth, and his grin widened. “Have you missed me?”
Who did he think she was? Her mind reeled against the reactions in her body. She might respond to his touch, but that gave him no right to make an issue of it. Despite her twenty-four-year-old, hormone-driven physical acknowledgements, she was a professional.
And he was her patient.
Whoever he thought she was, she must play along. She couldn’t have him knowing she was his doctor. She licked her dry lips. “Yes, I’ve missed you.” She straightened to her full height, hoping his hand would fall from her arm. It didn’t. “What do you need?”
He glanced at the small space next to him in bed. “Yer company, darlin’.”
Oh, no!
He must think she was one of Deborah’s Delights.
“Mr. Grayson—”
“Thought I told ya to call me Peter.”
She nodded. “Peter, I can’t keep you company right now. I need to clean up the glass on the floor.” She nodded toward the mess. “Did you drop the whiskey bottle?”
His brows creased. “Think so. Can’t remember.”
She patted his shoulder. “Now lie down and close your eyes.”
His hand released her wrist and his long, tanned fingers laced with hers. The knot in her throat grew larger, drier, making it impossible to moisten by just swallowing. Of course, her heart pulsating out of control didn’t help.
He lifted her hand to his mouth. The stubble on his face pricked her skin, and she tingled. Heat from his body warmed her. She scrunched her forehead. He must still have a small fever. When he swept his lips across her knuckles, a different kind of fever started in the pit of her stomach and spread throughout her body. The heady sensation was not unpleasant, and Heaven help her, she wanted more.
Impossible. She had to put a stop to this. Now.
He sat upright and brought his other hand up to cup her face. His thumb stroked her bottom lip. She closed her eyes and cuddled against his palm.
What am I doing?
She snapped her eyes open and pulled away, but being faster, he pulled her forward again by her arm. To keep from falling into him, she held out her hands and they landed on his rock hard chest. Beneath her palms, the quick beat of his heart matched hers.
His hands cradled her head, his fingers pushing through her damp hair. He pulled her face toward his. Holding her breath, she focused on his parting lips.
Hot, whiskey-laced breath caressed her lips before his mouth touched hers. Gentle. Soft. He swept his lips over hers in a slow, measured dance. She tightened her grip on his shoulders but couldn’t move away. Her body refused to listen to her mind. Instead, it encouraged her to taste his offering.
She squeezed her eyes closed and waited.
When he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, she released a small squeak. She clenched her jaw tighter. Lips so warm and tender sucked her bottom lip into his mouth. Explosions ran a race all over her body, and she felt as if she’d lost all control.
She gasped.
Moaned.
Loved it.
When his arms wrapped around her body in a tight embrace, she relaxed and melded against his chest. The kiss he bestowed on her was something she’d never experienced before, and Heaven help her, she wanted more.
The longer they kissed, the more he gathered her into his arms. Slowly, he pulled her back to the bed, trying to lay her next to him. At least he wasn’t on his back, yet his upper half leaned into hers, pushing her into the mattress.
He took the kiss slow, but the fire burning inside her spread like wildfire. Because of their indecent embrace, she should put a stop to this pleasure at once. Deep within her, a little voice reminded her that because of her masquerade as a doctor, she might never get this chance again.
Then again...she may be innocent, but she wasn’t naive. The fervor her body experienced led to intimacy, sexual interaction, and pregnancy. That she couldn’t do. Although her body cried out for more, she pushed away and slid off the bed.
He reached for her and almost fell. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back up. His breathing became labored, his jaw hard. Pain etched across his face.
“Peter, are you all right?”
He shook his head. “I think I might have pulled the stitches.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “Fire. Hurts bad.”
“I’ll hurry and fetch the doctor.”
He answered with a nod.
She ran to the coatroom and ripped off her nightshirt, then yanked on her doctor’s clothes, making sure she placed the padding beneath. Before returning, she pressed on her fake mustache and beard and slipped on her spectacles.
As she hurried back to her patient, she threaded her fingers through her hair, trying to plaster it back on her head to look more like a man.
Peter rested on his side, his body covered with sweat while his large hands fisted in the sheets. She moved around the bed to turn up the lantern then came back to him. His back was toward her, so she stripped the gauze. When she removed the bandage, an acrid stench filled the air.
She cursed. Infection.
In her medicine cabinet, she searched for her bag of ergot. Wild gingerroot tea would also help. She grabbed the bottle of alcohol and sponges and cleaned the area before covering the wound with the herb.
Peter let out a curse and arched his body. She soothed him with calming words and, with gentle care, placed the square gauze on the reddened area and wrapped the long gauze around his middle. His body remained stiff, but he assisted when she told him to turn.
She stuffed a couple of pillows behind him to keep him lying on his side before running to the kitchen to turn on the kettle of water for his tea. Her head pounded, and she rubbed her forehead. She shouldn’t have kissed him like that.
Cuddling up to Peter like some common whore and letting him kiss her the way he did was so improper. Indecent. Yet so pleasurable.
She grumbled and kicked her foot into the stove, biting back the sob threatening to release from the pain shooting up her leg. With tears stinging her eyes, she turned and paced the small floor.
She had to get Peter well so he would leave her office. Even injured he still tempted her, and the Lord only kn
ew why she couldn’t fight it. She couldn’t control the heat pumping through her blood.
But she had to. She must take control. He couldn’t touch her like that again.
She squeezed her eyes closed. And what if he did remember a woman being in his room? She’d have to think up a great explanation. She’d tell him one of the girls at the saloon visited the doctor, or something like that.
A soft cry escaped her throat, and she leaned her head against the wall. She’d inadvertently put herself in danger of being caught. Doctoring thrilled her completely, and hiding her identity was the only way. Nothing must ruin her secret.
The whistle of the kettle brought her alert, and she hurried into the kitchen to prepare the tea. Taking careful steps, she walked into the bedroom.
Peter still lay on his side, his face void of color. His hands gripped the blanket, and his jaw appeared clenched. Tears stung her eyes again, and she blinked them away. If she’d been acting like a doctor and not a lonely woman, maybe her patient wouldn’t have taken a turn for the worse.
She knelt by his side and brought the tea to his mouth. “Sip this. Careful. It’s hot.”
His eyes opened, still glassy, either from the fever or the whiskey he’d consumed earlier. “What is it?”
“Wild gingerroot tea. It’ll help with the infection.”
She held the cup as he sipped. His lips were tight, his forehead furrowed. The pained expression ripped at her heart. She wanted to stroke the side of his face, run her fingers through his hair, and make him feel better.
She wouldn’t. Not ever again.
PETER AWOKE, HIS MIND clearer this time. He blinked and rubbed his eyes—then paused. Searing pain hadn’t accompanied his movement this time. He lifted his brows and then his head. Sure enough, his body didn’t cry out when he moved.
How long had he been here?
He sighed and rolled to his back. A sharp pain ripped through him, making him tense. So maybe the knife wound would take longer to heal. At least the rest of him was almost restored to health.
He glanced around the doctor’s office. Doc Copeland’s cabinet was more organized than when he first saw it. Open curtains hung on the windows letting the sunshine pour into the room. Where was the doctor?
A Heavenly scent stirred through the air, and his stomach grumbled. Stew. He smiled. He’d know that smell anywhere. Smelled like the kind Ma used to make.
A wave of homesickness came upon him. For twenty-four years he’d been under the care of his ma and pa. Learning the family business of cattle ranching was what all Peter’s brothers did. They’d take after their pa someday. Both in ranching—and in their religion.
But when Peter’s older brother, Matthew, was shot and killed two years ago, things changed in Peter’s mind. Suddenly, he was having thoughts that had been hidden in the dark tunnels of his mind. What had Matthew accomplished before he died? Nothing! All except leaving home in the dead of night to meet a woman he’d only met through letters...and to marry her without the family knowing.
Peter didn’t want to die without experiencing everything he possibly could.
Of course, his parents weren’t happy when Peter started slacking in his duties around the ranch and staying out until all hours of the night learning the art of gambling and drinking. Finally, after months of enjoying the other side of life, Pa gave him some money and sent Peter on his way. Pa said Peter wasn’t a good example for his nieces.
Which was probably true. But at least now Peter was free to do whatever he wanted.
The clanking of pots came from the kitchen, then a low humming. Peter raised his eyebrows. Obviously, the doctor likes music. Strange. Most men he knew couldn’t care less. Personally, he enjoyed music. It reminded him of his family and brought of pang of homesickness to his heart.
Peter leaned up on his elbow and stretched the kinks out of his neck. Running his fingers through his hair, he grimaced. He needed a good scrubbing. He scratched his chin. And a shave.
Footsteps creaked on the floor, and Peter looked up. Doctor Copeland entered the room.
Doc grinned. “Glad to see you’re up.”
Peter chuckled. “I’m not up the way I want to be, but I’m almost there.”
“How do you feel?”
Peter’s stomach growled again, and he patted it. “Hungry.”
The doctor’s smile widened. “Good. I’ve fixed some stew.”
The other man turned into the kitchen. Peter received a glimpse of a twinkle in his eyes before he withdrew, and in a flash, a memory assaulted him. Small hands. Soft body pressed against his chest. A responsive mouth. Sighs of passion that could make a man weep with happiness.
He creased his forehead. Why would he think of a woman at this time?
Yet, it seemed so real. His fingers still tingled with the memory of the woman’s face, arms and hands...and her silky short hair. She had wet hair, and she wore a nightshirt—like a man’s garment.
He scratched his ear. It must have been a dream. No way would Doc Copeland allow a woman in his office to entertain an injured patient. Peter shook his head. Yet, there had been a woman. She kissed like Heaven. The angel had fit perfectly in his arms and had melded against his body.
Probably the doc’s wife. His hopes sank. A married woman wouldn’t have responded like that.
“Here you are.” Doc Copeland stepped into the room carrying a bowl and spoon. “Hope you have a healthy appetite.”
Peter’s stomach retorted with a loud rumble. “You can bet I do. I feel like I haven’t eaten for a week.”
Doc helped him sit and scoot back against the wall. He handed Peter the bowl. “Well, you did have a fever for two days.”
Peter froze just as he reached for his food. “Two days? I’ve been here for two days?”
“Yes.”
Cursing, he took the bowl and spoon. “Can’t remember being out that long.”
Doc pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat. “You’ve been feverish. Usually, people with high fevers don’t remember much. In fact, most people do a lot of hallucinating during that time.”
Peter stared at the other man who held a blank expression while tracing his finger along his mustache. Hallucinate? Perhaps that’s why he thought he’d cuddled and kissed a woman. Why did it seemed so real? But it was real.
“So, Doc, when can I get out of here?”
Doctor Copeland leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his rotund stomach. “I’d like to keep you here another day, only to stop you from any activity.” He shrugged. “But I can’t keep you prisoner. You’re free to leave whenever you want.”
Good. The first thing on Peter’s agenda was to find that good-for-nothing kid, Hank, to see if he had taken his money. He gripped his spoon and shoveled a load of stew into his mouth. The warmth of the meal and the tangy spices touched his tongue. He closed his eyes and sighed.
Heaven.
After he swallowed, he smiled. “Doc, has anyone ever told you you’re a great cook?”
Doctor Copeland threw back his head and laughed. “Not in a while.”
Peter studied the other man. Although his middle section was round, his face and arms seemed slim. Friendly eyes, warm smile. Genuine laugh. Peter grinned. And a heck-of-a good cook. He shifted in the bed with minimal pain. A pretty darn good doctor, too.
“So, Doc, did I keep you away from your family?”
The other man’s wide-eyed gaze jumped up to meet his. “No.”
Peter took another mouthful, his heartbeat quickening. In between bites, he asked, “No wife?”
This time when the doctor laughed, his eyes didn’t twinkle. An underlying sadness lurked in the depths of his cobalt gaze. “Mr. Grayson, I don’t have time to marry and raise a family. Being a doctor keeps me very busy.”
The night angel wasn’t Doc’s wife. Interesting.
“Any extended family around?” Peter lifted the spoon again.
“Yes, but I rarely see them.” Copeland leaned forwar
d in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “How about you? You’re not from around here, and after your accident, we didn’t know who to contact.”
“My family lives in Montana and owns a cattle ranch. I’m a wanderer, and I thought I’d come to Texas to see the place where my granddaddy used to live.”
Copeland raised a brow. “No wife or kids?”
“Nope. I’m too busy wandering to even think about marriage.”
“Where did your grandfather used to live?”
“Around this area.” Peter spooned up a chunk of beef. “Granddad died right after he lost the place.” He chewed and then swallowed. “My original idea was to come to Texas and try to buy back his home.” He paused, remembering his dream had now been snatched out from under him. “But now I can’t. Don’t have the money.”
The doctor stood and walked to the window. “I spoke with Sheriff Hampton. He said he would talk to you about what happened the other night.”
“Good. I have quite a few things to say to him about the way he’s running this town.” Peter stuffed the last bite of stew into his mouth, the taste now bitter with revenge. He’d get Hank if it were the last thing he did.
Copeland turned away from the window and leaned against the wall. “If you’re feeling all right, I’m going to leave for a little while. I’ve got to make a house call.”
“No problem, Doc. I’ll just rest a while and wait until the sheriff comes.”
The other man nodded. “Don’t move around too much. We can’t have your stitches coming out and causing infection again. That’ll just lay you up longer.”
“Alrightie.”
The doctor took the empty bowl and spoon from Peter, then turned and walked into the kitchen. When Doc returned, he wore a brown bowler and shrugged on his overcoat. “I shouldn’t be long. Do you need anything before I leave?”
“If I do, I’ll find it.”
Without another word, the younger man nodded and walked to the door. Peter drew his brows together. There was more to the doctor than what the man presented.
Peter shook his head. Perhaps he made something out of nothing—or maybe the good ole doctor had a secret life. Maybe Doc Copeland did have one of Deborah’s Delights here last night.
Touching Heaven Page 4