“Not today,” he answered, as was his custom.
In less than three seconds flat, she pounced on the invitation like a tabby devouring a crock of cream. “Annie Lawrence arrived in town last week to take over Mrs. Miller’s patients. Already, she saved Helen Tatum’s baby’s life, went into the mercantile and bought a yard of white cotton, and dined at the Hartville Hotel with none other than Hartley P. Burton himself. Imagine that! And her away so many years. What in heaven’s name are you putting on my finger?” Apparently, he’d momentarily diverted her attention by opening the pot of strong-smelling, green ointment.
“Comfrey salve. It’s well-known for its healing properties. I’m going to give you some to take home, and if you keep applying it, the wound should heal in no time at all.”
“Mm-hm.” Lips clamped together, Miss Spanner sounded as if she were chewing on the very needles that had wounded her finger. “So, what do you think of my news, Dr. Hart?”
He smiled, applying the salve to her outstretched finger. “You gave me four pieces of information. The first two, I know to be correct, as I was there. The third, possible. But the fourth, I know to be completely untrue, as her son broke his arm just last night. She wasn’t anywhere near the Hartville Hotel.”
“For someone who professes to know little of the doings of the town, you know a lot about the doings of Mrs. Annie Lawrence. Do I have the hope of stitching yet another wedding dress to be worn by a new Hart bride?”
Maybe the jar was slippery. Maybe his grip hadn’t been tight enough. All Travis knew was that it now lay smashed in a hundred tiny pieces, a glob of the greenish mixture adorning his shoes.
“I’m so sorry.” Thankfully, he’d finished using the salve on her finger. He wrapped it with a fresh bandage, trying to ignore the glass crunching under his feet. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Miss Spanner’s thin lips formed a feline smile. “I do. What sort of dress would your bride prefer? Does she care for silk?”
He knotted the bandage, glad to be finished with the task, simple as it was. “I’m not getting married, ma’am. At least not anytime soon. And I’d appreciate it if you’d not mention Mrs. Lawrence in connection with me.”
The middle-aged woman pouted like a child. “But you’d make such a fine husband, Dr. Hart. Out of all your father’s sons, I’ve always thought you the best marriage material. Not that I’d tell anyone else, mind you. Some of those brothers of yours are so … wild. You’re much steadier. And wouldn’t you make a fine father to that son of hers?”
Her words probed at him, small scalpels needling his insides. The sight of Annie Lawrence had revived something he long thought relegated to the dustiest corners of his mind. In the handful of hours he’d spent with her, she’d made him feel new again. As if, instead of merely helping others live their lives, he could have one of his own. The moment his father had issued his command that each of his sons wed, it had seemed an impossibility. Travis wouldn’t find a wife in order to hold on to something as concrete as land. It would be wrong, going against everything he believed.
But now? Now this woman, this beautiful conglomeration of sweetness and strength, fragility and determination, had come back into his life like a flame newly lit.
Lord, help me. Because I’m not sure if I could endure letting her go a second time.
Chapter Five
What would laying eyes upon Travis’s home do to her after so long? Memories were embedded into El Regalo’s walls, of growing up alongside Travis and the Hart family. Running away from young Hays Hart as the little prankster tried to steal her bag of gumdrops. Seeing GW come into the room and staring at him with unabashed, girlish awe. Trading smiles with Travis, and indulging in rose-tinted dreams of someday taking his name and sharing his house with all those happy, loving people.
Now she was returning, Robbie at her side, squeezed between him and Travis on the hard-backed buckboard seat. She fought the urge to squirm. Every time the wagon hit a bump, she found herself pressed all too tightly against Travis’s side. Though she wore skirts and crinoline, the layers didn’t keep her from acquainting herself with his muscled thigh as it brushed against her. And wasn’t there some sort of law against smelling so fine—all soap and leather and undeniable maleness? A hateful blush burned her cheeks.
“You’re gonna let me see your old rope, aren’t you, Doc Travis?” Robbie wriggled enough to put a hooked fish to shame. After nearly a month, his arm had healed almost totally, though he still wore a sling. This trip was Robbie’s long-awaited reward for being a good patient and obeying doctor’s orders.
“Yes, sir. I sure am.” Travis smiled. “But you can’t have it till your arm is better.”
“You mean I can have it then?” Robbie’s eyes lit.