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The Surgeon
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The Surgeon
Kate Bridges
A wife shouldn't be a surprise package.But Mountie surgeon John Calloway suddenly found himself saddled with a special delivery he hadn't signed for–mail-order bride Sarah O'Neill. He had no room in his life for marriage! But why then did he feel compelled to protect Sarah from all things dark and dangerous–including her own unspoken past? If John Calloway didn't want her, fine! Sarah would survive–and thrive!–without him!The rugged, committed doctor dismissed his proposal as an elaborate prank. So how come the two of them kept finding themselves in each other's arms? And what would Sarah be forced to deny in order to stay there?
THE SURGEON
KATE BRIDGES
Dedicated with affection and many thanks
to my editors—Ann Leslie Tuttle, who has
an uncanny skill with words and plot details and always
manages to pull out my best, and Tracy Farrell,
who gave me my first big break.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Chapter One
Calgary, early August 1889
It was a hell of a way to meet a woman.
Dr. John Calloway, a commissioned police officer and Chief Surgeon of the North-West Mounted Police, had just finished in the operating room and was striding down the hall of the officers’ quarters toward his bedroom, fighting exhaustion. Drenched in perspiration, John struggled with his white shirt collar, undoing another button. Damn, it was hot inside the fort. Even the air smelled hot. Dry pine planks and leather.
“Evenin’, Sir,” said two passing officers.
“Evening.” Was it John’s imagination or did they elbow each other and grin as he passed? John glared at them. “Something on your mind?”
“No, Sir.” The sergeant glanced down at the papers spilling from his youthful hands.
“Then I suggest you hightail it to the paymaster’s. He’s looking for the schedules you’re holding. As for you, Corporal Reid, we could use your help dousing those vacated beds.”
“Yes, Sir,” came the response.
John shoved a hand through the thick brown hair at his temple, swallowed the dryness in his throat and continued walking. His own fatigue never usually hit him until the worst was over. Under normal circumstances he’d be heading to his private house in town for dinner, then to sleep for the night. But in the past week he’d had six men in surgery at Fort Calgary and he’d been too busy for sleep.
It was still undecided whether the constable John had just operated on would lose his leg. There had also been the constable who’d lost his eye on a runaway bronco; two others with second-degree burns from fighting forest fires to the west; and finally the two discharged this morning with bullet grazes from an ambush ten days ago by that damn cattle-rustling gang. For John, their discharge brought back a wave of remorse and grief for Wesley Quinn.
John’s assistant surgeon, his friend, who was only doing his duty by racing to the ranch to help the injured, had been ambushed and murdered by the Grayveson gang. Blast them all to hell. Wesley Quinn had been a good man.
John rubbed his bristly jaw. He was starting to feel his age. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the stiff muscles.
Turning forty was a landmark, but why the hell did he feel so…unsettled?
The restlessness had started eight months ago, around Christmastime when Wesley had decided to get himself a mail-order bride.
No respectable man orders a woman from the newspaper, John had argued. What kind of woman would answer your ad? A desperate one, with little backbone and no self-confidence.
But Wes had just laughed and placed the ad anyway, claiming it was hard to meet a woman—an English one—with so few in the West.
Kate Bridges
A wife shouldn't be a surprise package.But Mountie surgeon John Calloway suddenly found himself saddled with a special delivery he hadn't signed for–mail-order bride Sarah O'Neill. He had no room in his life for marriage! But why then did he feel compelled to protect Sarah from all things dark and dangerous–including her own unspoken past? If John Calloway didn't want her, fine! Sarah would survive–and thrive!–without him!The rugged, committed doctor dismissed his proposal as an elaborate prank. So how come the two of them kept finding themselves in each other's arms? And what would Sarah be forced to deny in order to stay there?
THE SURGEON
KATE BRIDGES
Dedicated with affection and many thanks
to my editors—Ann Leslie Tuttle, who has
an uncanny skill with words and plot details and always
manages to pull out my best, and Tracy Farrell,
who gave me my first big break.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Chapter One
Calgary, early August 1889
It was a hell of a way to meet a woman.
Dr. John Calloway, a commissioned police officer and Chief Surgeon of the North-West Mounted Police, had just finished in the operating room and was striding down the hall of the officers’ quarters toward his bedroom, fighting exhaustion. Drenched in perspiration, John struggled with his white shirt collar, undoing another button. Damn, it was hot inside the fort. Even the air smelled hot. Dry pine planks and leather.
“Evenin’, Sir,” said two passing officers.
“Evening.” Was it John’s imagination or did they elbow each other and grin as he passed? John glared at them. “Something on your mind?”
“No, Sir.” The sergeant glanced down at the papers spilling from his youthful hands.
“Then I suggest you hightail it to the paymaster’s. He’s looking for the schedules you’re holding. As for you, Corporal Reid, we could use your help dousing those vacated beds.”
“Yes, Sir,” came the response.
John shoved a hand through the thick brown hair at his temple, swallowed the dryness in his throat and continued walking. His own fatigue never usually hit him until the worst was over. Under normal circumstances he’d be heading to his private house in town for dinner, then to sleep for the night. But in the past week he’d had six men in surgery at Fort Calgary and he’d been too busy for sleep.
It was still undecided whether the constable John had just operated on would lose his leg. There had also been the constable who’d lost his eye on a runaway bronco; two others with second-degree burns from fighting forest fires to the west; and finally the two discharged this morning with bullet grazes from an ambush ten days ago by that damn cattle-rustling gang. For John, their discharge brought back a wave of remorse and grief for Wesley Quinn.
John’s assistant surgeon, his friend, who was only doing his duty by racing to the ranch to help the injured, had been ambushed and murdered by the Grayveson gang. Blast them all to hell. Wesley Quinn had been a good man.
John rubbed his bristly jaw. He was starting to feel his age. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the stiff muscles.
Turning forty was a landmark, but why the hell did he feel so…unsettled?
The restlessness had started eight months ago, around Christmastime when Wesley had decided to get himself a mail-order bride.
No respectable man orders a woman from the newspaper, John had argued. What kind of woman would answer your ad? A desperate one, with little backbone and no self-confidence.
But Wes had just laughed and placed the ad anyway, claiming it was hard to meet a woman—an English one—with so few in the West.
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Последний отзыв
Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
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