The Surgeon

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.