Doctor And The Debutante

Peeking into the refrigerator, she found an assortment of vegetables and several cuts of wrapped meat in the drawer. Sean would undoubtedly be cold when he came in and maybe hungry. Laura loved to cook, much preferred a homemade meal to eating out. Setting the makings for soup on the counter, she hobbled about the kitchen, amazed at how convenient it was with all the latest new appliances. Sean had done a remarkable job.

She found a large pot and put it on the stove, then began cleaning vegetables. So the man was a doctor with an undoubtedly busy practice, a sketch artist who probably could sell his work if he put his mind to it, and he also built this house. There seemed very little Sean Reagan couldn’t do.

Impressive, talented and handsome, as well. Gazing out the window over the kitchen sink, Laura wondered what had gone wrong in his marriage, because she had a feeling something terrible had. He seemed more angry than grief-stricken. A story there somewhere, she was certain.

On the porch, his hands inside his gloves nearly numb, Sean stomped snow off his boots before going inside. The clock on the mantel told him he’d been out well over an hour. No wonder he was cold. He tugged off his gloves, hung up his coat and pulled off his boots. After slipping his feet into the moccasins he’d left by the hearth, he brushed snow out of his hair and stood warming his hands.

Pulling in a deep breath, he became aware of a delicious smell.

Glancing toward the kitchen, he saw Laura stirring a big pot on the stove. Had to be soup or stew, he decided. How long had it been since he’d had someone besides his mother cook for him? Four years now this very week.

Kim had loved to cook when they’d first gotten married. She’d collected cookbooks and experimented with herbs and spices. They didn’t have much money at first, but she always managed to make something tasty. How many meals had she made that had been ruined, dried out because he’d been tied up at the hospital? She’d tried to be understanding, but he knew his hours bothered her more than a little. He’d promised her things would get better, but he knew she didn’t believe him. Babies came when they were ready, not when it was convenient for the doctor.

Pretty soon, Kim stopped cooking except for Danny’s meals.

Sean had modernized the kitchen in his Scottsdale home, and the one here at the cabin wasn’t bad. Yet most of the time these days, he caught a meal on the run at the hospital cafeteria, seldom cooking himself. He ate out a good deal when his schedule permitted and occasionally at friends’ homes. Jonah’s wife, Sophie, was a great cook and was always asking him over to join them. But since Kim’s death, Sean mostly turned down invitations from married couples. He felt like the fifth wheel on a wagon at those dinners.

Then there were the matchmakers, well-meaning friends who’d invite him to dinner along with a single female “to round out the table.” He couldn’t seem to convince them that he simply wasn’t interested.

Inhaling deeply, he walked to the stove. “Sure smells good,” he told Laura.

He’d seemed angry when he left and more than a little sad, but his voice sounded all right again, Laura thought with relief. “I hope you like beef-vegetable soup.”

“I like most anything I don’t have to cook myself.” He went back to throw another log or two on the fire, stirred it up a bit, then walked to the sink to wash his hands. “You’re not overdoing, are you?”

Her ankle was throbbing a bit since she’d been on it quite awhile, and her bruised stomach ached, as did her shoulder. But she didn’t want him to think she was some frail, whining woman who couldn’t hold her own. He’d rescued her without knowing the first thing about her, taken her in, tended her wounds, given her a place to sleep. That counted for a lot in her book. The least she could do was cook for him even if it cost her a little pain. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” he said, drying his hands, his eyes roaming her face and catching the small, telltale signs of fatigue. The black eye looked sore. Though she’d insisted she had, he’d wager she hadn’t slept all that well, either. “Let the soup simmer. I want you to go lie down on the couch for awhile. Can’t have the cook passing out on us.” He smiled to take the sting from what had to sound like doctor’s orders.

She went, not solely because he told her to but because she was ready to rest. He followed her over, tucked the afghan around her, then glanced down at Max. “Should I let him out?” He’d rather there were no accidents.

“I did a short time ago. He’s set for awhile.” She settled into the warm folds of the pillows, feeling safe. Odd how being with this relative stranger wasn’t in the least alarming. Perhaps because he was a doctor. “Did you study medicine here in Arizona?” she asked, still curious about him.

He sat down near her feet, almost but not quite nudging Max aside on the long couch. “Yes, at the University of Arizona in Tucson. Interned at Phoenix General. How about you? Did you go to school locally?”

“I went to the U of A, too, mostly because I wanted to be on my own and away from Scottsdale. My mother died when I was twelve and my father was a stickler for rules, all kinds of rules. Still is. I wanted to get out from under and try my wings.”

“Overly protective, is he?”

No, that wasn’t what Owen Marshall was, not really. More like a control freak who wanted to run her life for her. Her only way out was to insist on going away to college, even if it was to a university just a two-hour drive from home. “My father likes having things his way,” was all she’d say.

“At least you got away somewhat. My father died when I was ten and my mother couldn’t bear the thought of me going away to college.” He shook his head, smiling. “She was nice about it, but firm. Very firm.”

She angled her head to one side, considering. “Funny, you don’t strike me as a mama’s boy.”

“I’m not, at least not anymore. But, like you, I was the only one, and my mother’s Irish. Need I say more? She can carry on with the best of them. She doesn’t usually have a brogue, because she was born in Boston, but let her get upset and you’d think she’d just stepped off a boat from Dublin. She’s a wonderful woman, but she can make me feel five years old with the raising of an eyebrow.”

Laura smiled at that. “How nice it must be to think of a parent with such acceptance, such warmth.”

Sitting back more comfortably, Sean stretched an arm across the couch back. “And you don’t?”

“I cherish my mother’s memory, but my father wasn’t around much. From the time I was very young, all I ever heard from him was, ‘Laura, you know I have to work.’ His reason for not being with us was always because he had to work. My father started Marshall Realty on a shoestring, built it into what it is today, by hard work, sacrifice, dedication. He repeated that to me like a mantra regularly.”