The Surgeon

“Did you smash that?”

“Yes.” In his mind, the embarrassing photograph was John’s property, no matter what David’s flimsy excuses were for taking it—journalistic instinct for a great shot, his aunt Polly’s request…. John rapped on the hard door. His knuckles stung. “Come out and let’s discuss this like two rational people.”

“There’s nothing rational about what Polly Fitzgibbon and her nephew witnessed.”

“I’ll admit they caught me off guard, too. But I’ll go to Polly and explain.”

“What will you say?”

He talked into the painted white wood. “That…that you were waking up and I was coming home from duty.”

“And what? You were helping me to get dressed?”

Leaning back, he pressed his shoulders into the cool plaster wall. “I could tell them the truth. That we were arguing—”

“Because you slashed off my corset?”

He combed his fingers through his hair in frustration. Sarah was right. The truth would sound worse.

Sarah’s voice got louder. “Polly’s probably telling the neighbors right now what she saw—or what she thinks she saw—and David is probably writing home to New York City about the great Canadian wild.”

“Polly won’t spread gossip,” John said weakly. God, he wished he believed it himself. “I asked her to keep it quiet.”

“Polly Fitzgibbon is not one of your men. She won’t be tried for treason or court-martialed if she tells people what she saw. And believe me, she won’t be able to keep this quiet.”

Sarah was right again. He knew that Polly Fitzgibbon had the biggest mouth in town; how he’d been so lucky to have her as a neighbor, he’d never fathom. “The police don’t court-martial each other.”

“Whatever.”

John heard more thudding and furniture moving beyond the door. “What are you doing in there?”

She ignored his question. “What’s your comeback about David?”

“I told him I’d have him arrested if he tried anything underhanded.” But what John didn’t tell her was that David took photographs for postcards and novelty buttons for distribution not only in New York City but across the country. A snapshot of John and a half-naked Sarah might have been amusing to any other person, but fortunately for him and Sarah, the picture had been destroyed.

The door opened suddenly, making him jump.

“You threatened David with arrest?” Smiling in deep approval, Sarah stepped into the hallway, fully clothed in a worn-out gingham dress. The collar couldn’t be higher, going right up her throat, finished with a floppy lace flounce and a dozen tiny buttons, and the skirt couldn’t be longer, sweeping her scuffed boots.

“Do you teach Sunday school in that thing?”

She patted the bun at the back of her head. How had she managed to capture all that beautiful curly hair into one tight bun? “It was given to me by my mother. As a matter of fact, it was my mother’s.”

He looked beyond her dress to the suitcases in her hands. Relief to see her finally packed and ready to leave settled on him. “There, you see. You’ll be on the train in no time, David’s photograph will be a bad memory and no one will even remember you were here.”

His comment made her turn her head abruptly toward him. Her mouth twisted open in a stab of disappointment. The shoulders beneath the dress fell with his insult.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that no one will remember you. That was a rude thing to say. I meant that no one will remember this incident.”

Well, that wasn’t entirely true, either. He’d remember. He’d remember coming home to a beautiful temptress, his down cover spilling about her naked shoulders, the light of battle in her heated gray eyes. He’d never had a better welcoming. An unexpected smile caught his lips, but he thought better of telling her about the image he was savoring.

She stalked down the stairs. The bags, which he’d retrieved for her last night dragged behind her, thudding along each tread.

He followed, with a queasy feeling. “You are heading to the train station, right?”

“I’m going to where I should have gone in the first place. To the boardinghouse.”

“Shouldn’t we be going to the train station? I stopped by and got a schedule on my way here this morning. There’s a train leaving this afternoon for Halifax, so there’s no sense paying for a room at the boardinghouse.”

She threw her bags onto the Windsor chair by the door, then shoved past him to look into his armoire. To him, her nose seemed to get straighter the higher up in the air she held it. “You came home this morning fully intending to get rid of me as quickly as possible.”

“That’s not true,” he said, stammering for an explanation, getting lost in the creamy skin of her cheeks and the finely arched brows. “I was…I was going to the bakery to get us cinnamon buns.”

“And then after you fed me your hot-cross buns, you were going to get rid of me.” She rummaged through his coats, his duster, one gentleman’s overcoat and an oilskin slicker.

He reached past her to show her that none of her clothes were left inside the armoire. As his tight shoulder brushed against her soft one, she reeled back as if he’d bitten her.

Hmm…He watched the tide of crimson flood her cheeks. There could be worse things than biting Sarah O’Neill.

“It’s not like I’m conspiring against you,” he continued. “I had nothing to do with your arrival, remember? I’m doing everything I can to get you back home and to fully rectify the situation.”

“Is that what I am now? ‘A situation’?”

He moaned. “You’re exhausting.” He’d never met a more argumentative woman. And he’d never been at more of a loss about how to remedy a difficult situation. Black-’n-White they called him? Well, things couldn’t be grayer to him when it came to dealing with Sarah O’Neill.

“I’m staying here,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m staying put. This is my home now.”

“Sarah, maybe you’re still not feeling well from yesterday.” His hands waved the air. “There’s no reason…there’s no person…this wasn’t my idea…you can’t stay here.”

She jammed her wide bonnet onto her head, then picked up her bags. As she stormed out the front door, she blasted him. “Don’t worry. I mean, Calgary is my home now, not your house!”

Grabbing his Stetson, he dashed behind her as she strode down the sunlit front porch. “Let’s both calm down. We’re adult enough to speak frankly about this.”

“Stop treating me like the doctor knows best.”

Hell. John’s temper rose another three notches. It’d been a long time since someone had argued with him like this, not since he’d been with his brothers and sisters back home, and they’d been gone for close to thirty years. John stumbled for a moment, hit by a pang of sorrow. He hadn’t thought about them in that light for a long while, but the memories were nice. The last time they were together at the Toronto fairgrounds, the four of them had argued about whose turn it was on the carousel and whose turn to sit out. That was the last day he’d seen them conscious.

He heard Sarah huffing beneath the weight of her luggage as she reached the bottom step.

Racing to catch up, he tore the bags out of her hands. “Let me help you with those.”

She yanked them back, nearly toppling over. “I’m afraid to let you help me. Every time you do, things get worse.”

“Why do your words always manage to knock the stuffing out of me?”