“Yes. Robbie and I both.” She lowered her gaze. “Robbie is my son. Of course, you probably know that.”
His knowledge of her life in the past thirteen years was about as limited as table scraps at a Hart family dinner. He knew of her marriage to Stuart Lawrence. Of Stuart’s death in battle. Her son’s birth. Her move to Galveston. He’d even heard rumors that she’d gotten remarried to a Galveston lawyer. From the moment he’d first heard the news, he’d despised the man, whoever he was.
“I’ve never met your son.”
She smiled, slow and soft. “He’s my greatest joy. The only true family I have except Josie and Father.”
So she hadn’t remarried after all. Relief billowed over him.
“And you. You’re a doctor now. Dr. William Travis Hart.”
He liked the way she said his name. Probably too much for his own good.
“I went to school in Louisiana after the war. Since then, I’ve been practicing right here in Hartville.”
A shaky laugh drifted from her lips. “Who would’ve thought it? A couple of kids who bandaged up stray animals out of pity. Look at us now.”
“I’ll never forget that cat.”
“Kitten. Yellow-and-white-striped.”
“You snuck out to the barn and slept in the hay all night, just so she wouldn’t be alone.”
“And awoke to find you beside me, with cocoa and biscuits.”
“I thought you might have caught cold during the night.” Though that wasn’t the only reason he’d returned to check on his “patient.” No, the main one had been to see her, twelve years old, long braids trailing down her back, forehead scrunched in concentration as she cared for the wounded kitten. He’d been sixteen. Always poring over medical books. Annoying his brothers by diagnosing their every bump and graze.
They’d been the perfect match. Until Stuart Lawrence had entered the picture, annihilating their secret hopes. For good, he thought then.
Now Travis Hart, the analytical, calm practitioner, didn’t know what to think, feel, say.
As he lost himself in Annie’s eyes, rational thought began to matter less and less.
Chapter Three
Had she not succumbed to the sleep of exhaustion, Annie’s eyes would have been hard-pressed to close in slumber after the previous night’s events.
Travis Hart had grown from an attractive youth to an even handsomer gentleman. He possessed the family’s good looks in spades, and he wore them well. Wide shoulders, wavy hair black as a raven’s wing. His eyes still held those mesmerizing flecks of gold, his smile still curved into the slightest hint of a dimple.
Enough. In her thoughts, she was behaving every inch the seventeen-year-old. Betraying her husband’s memory in death, as she had betrayed her marriage during his life. Though Stuart had not often been kind to others, he’d cared for her as much as he was able. Cared for her in a way some might prize a new riding horse or a set of fine china. Yet there had been those moments before his departure to the front. Moments when he’d treated her far better than she deserved. In those moments … she’d failed miserably.
And Travis Hart was not hers, nor would he ever be. She didn’t deserve his love. Did not deserve even to be thinking of him in such a way as this. He would be her colleague and nothing more. They had worked well together last night and could continue to do so. She would toss aside her romantic fancies and focus on the reasons she had returned to Hartville. Building a life for her son. Mending her relationship with her father. Taking Mrs. Miller’s place and helping the women of the Texas Hill Country birth new life into the world.
She jabbed a final pin into the messy chignon at the nape of her neck and smoothed the front of her tan and black riding outfit. She’d altered the skirt so it resembled a pair of bloomers, though when not atop a horse, it remained discreetly modest. In Galveston, her calls had been made using a buggy. Here, all would be undertaken on horseback.
Robbie bounded into her bedroom, Josie at his heels.
“Ma! There’s a man to see you downstairs.”
“It’s Travis Hart,” Josie supplied, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “The doctoring Hart brother. You feeling all right today, Annie? Maybe he’s here to pay a house call.”
A flush doused Annie’s cheeks. “I’m feeling just fine, thank you. Dr. Hart is probably here to discuss a patient. Wash your face, Robbie.” She ruffled her son’s tousled hair. “You’re as sticky as if you’d bathed in the syrup bottle.” She gave him a push toward her washstand and descended the stairs, supply bag in hand. What business did Travis have with her? Was something amiss at the Tatum household? Her pulse kicked up a notch as she heard voices in the parlor—because she was a midwife concerned for her patient, not because one of the voices was deep, rugged, and decidedly Texan.
Travis stood in front of the fireplace, conversing with her father. Brock Parker lounged in a leather chair, hardly the picture of a ranch owner intent on work.
“Annie.” A smile edged Travis’s mouth.