“Courtship takes time. And I’ve never had much of that to spare—or found a man worth my trouble. You might say I’m married to my career.” Unsettled by his flattery, Kristin put down her empty glass, ladled some warm soup into the bowl, and added the spoon. “I need to get back upstairs,” she said. “Oh—a napkin would be helpful.”
“Here you are.” He took a folded cloth out of a basket on the counter. “Since the stove’s still hot, do you think our patient would like some coffee? I could brew some and bring it up to the room.”
“That sounds fine. It should make him more alert and help get more fluids in him. But take your time. I want him to have the soup first.” She gave him a tired smile. “As long as you’re making coffee, I could use a cup myself.”
“No trouble. I’ll make an extra.”
Kristin placed the bowl, spoon, and napkin on a tray and turned to leave the kitchen. He stepped into her path, his gaze holding her a reluctant captive.
“Kristin, you’re exhausted. You need to get some rest. The room next door has a bed you could use. I’d be willing to give Logan the soup and sit with him for an hour or two.”
She shook her head and stepped back. “Thank you for the kind offer, Webb, but Logan isn’t out of danger. As his doctor, I need to stay and check his vitals in case he shows any signs of getting worse. I’ll be fine. I’ve been in a war, remember? I’m accustomed to long nights.”
“I understand.” He nodded. “Sometime, when you’ve got time to talk, I’d like to hear the stories of your war experiences.”
“You wouldn’t want to hear my stories, Webb. And I wouldn’t enjoy telling them. Some memories should be buried and forgotten. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
Turning away before he could keep her longer, she hurried back to the stairs. With light filtering down from the hallway above, it was easy enough to see her way without stumbling.
Had Webb been flirting with her? If so, it was the last thing she’d expected. She was a member of the family he hated. And after her harrowing day, she looked like a red-eyed, frowzy, bloodstained walking nightmare.
Experience had taught her that a man didn’t say the kind of things she’d heard without some purpose in mind. But Webb Calder? That didn’t make sense. Maybe her exhausted mind had read too much into their conversation.
She found Logan sitting up in bed against her orders to lie still. She was tempted to scold him, but his color looked all right, and the dressing on the wound appeared to have stayed in place.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she said.
He cast her a defiant look. “I could be—as long as you don’t plan on spoon-feeding me. I’m not as helpless as you seem to think I am.”
“Be my guest.” She laid the tray across his lap. He took the spoon with an unsteady hand, dipped it in the soup, and managed to get it to his mouth. “How does it taste?” she asked.
“Good. My compliments to Webb’s cook.” He took another spoonful, then more, making a visible effort not to spill.
“Webb will be bringing up some coffee,” she said.
“Good. I hope he remembers that I like it black and hot.” The spoon paused as he studied her. His gaze narrowed. “You look like you’ve been dragged across the prairie behind a galloping horse. Have you been here with me the whole time?”
“Yes. It’s my job.”
“But you didn’t have to stay here. You could’ve gone home with your brother and left me to take my chances.”
“I couldn’t do that. You’d lost too much blood. Somebody had to watch you and check the tourniquet. And what if you’d needed more laudanum for the pain? I couldn’t depend on anyone else to know how much to give you. You could have died.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“But you can only die once. I couldn’t let it be on my watch.”
His mouth twitched in a wry half smile. “Sometimes I think that would be no great loss. My family is gone. There’s no one left to mourn me—except Webb, who mostly seems intent on my owning that ranch property. Even if I were to die, he could set himself up as my next of kin and claim everything I own.”
They stared at each other as the same possibility struck them both. “Good Lord, you don’t think—” he began.
“No. Of course not. Webb may be ruthless, but I can’t imagine he’d commit murder. He’s got too much to lose. Besides, according to my brother, Webb is an expert shot. If he’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
“Now there’s a comforting thought.” Logan finished the soup, laid the spoon on the tray, and touched the napkin to his mouth. “That was good. I’m feeling stronger already.”
“Would you like more? There’s plenty left in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, but that’s enough soup for now. I’ll wait for the coffee if Webb’s still planning to bring some.”
As if on cue, Webb stepped through the open doorway with two mugs in his hands. Kristin moved the tray with the empty bowl to the nightstand.
“Black for you.” Webb handed Logan the blue mug. “And I assumed the lady would want cream and sugar.” He handed the white mug to Kristin. She took it, even though, while serving in war zones, she’d learned to like it black, the way the soldiers drank it.
“Thank you, Webb.” She sipped the brew, which was so sweet she could barely swallow it.
“Anything to please a lady.” Webb’s hand brushed her shoulder. “If you could use a break, I need to talk with your patient—not long, let’s say, about fifteen minutes.”
“Of course. A breath of fresh air would do me good.”
She set her mug on the tray, then carried the tray down the stairs. This time Webb had turned on the light. Now she noticed the nearly life-sized portrait of his late wife which hung on the wall in an ornate gilded frame. Lillian Reisner Calder had been a stunning woman. Dressed here in creamy brocade with an emerald necklace setting off her rich auburn curls, she was as regal as a queen—in spite of having come to Webb straight from an immigrant farmer’s shack.
Her death must have crushed him. But almost ten years had passed since the tragedy. And Kristin’s shoulder still tingled from his not-quite-casual touch. She was experienced enough to sense when a man was interested in her. And whether for a place at his side or a night’s romp between the sheets, Webb was interested.
She left the tray in the kitchen. Still carrying the coffee, she crossed the entry hall and walked out the front door, onto the porch. The night air was just chilly enough to be refreshing. She could hear the distant lowing of cattle and the cry of a barn owl. The windows in the bunkhouse had gone dark, but the moon, drifting among the clouds, flooded the yard with its pale light.
What if Webb had serious intentions? Would she want this life of security, luxury, and power—and the chance to make peace between their families? Would she want him?
But this was no time for such imaginings. For now, all she could do was give the situation time to run its course. During the war and afterward, at the military hospital, she had dreamed of coming home to Montana and setting up her practice. If she failed to make that dream come true, she would never forgive herself.