Already she was thinking ahead to what herbs she had on hand to treat his cuts and bruises. That was, if he held still for her simple remedies.
He probably preferred modern medicine. But it was a long drive to the nearest clinic. She hadn’t wanted to tell him that. Or that it was an even longer drive to the nearest repair shop for his motorcycle.
The old truck started on the first try, which was something of a minor miracle. Usually she had to coax it to life, promising the metal heap she wouldn’t sell it to the first passerby.
Mariah patted the dashboard and smiled, then released the gear and turned the truck around, bouncing over the sagebrush toward the road—and Luke.
Visions of the man, minus his shirt, shimmered before her eyes. She hadn’t been able to draw her gaze away from him, from the smattering of dark, golden hair that arrowed enticingly down to his waist and disappeared beneath his low-slung jeans.
He was easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Not that she had seen that many handsome men—but growing up in the Hopi world, Mariah had learned to appreciate the beauty and form of nature.
And the man she’d left sitting under that spindly cottonwood tree was nature at its most perfect.
Her hands felt damp on the steering wheel, and her heart pounded way too fast. What was the matter with her? Luke was a patient, one who needed her attention. She should be concentrating on the man’s injuries, not his tempting body.
The truck coughed and sputtered over the next rise, then Luke came into view. He stood as she neared, shielding his eyes against the sun to watch her approach.
She stopped and executed a turn, backing the truck up in front of the cycle so it would be easier for them to load.
“That thing’s quite a relic,” he said, standing back to take in the truck with a slow, sweeping glance.
“At least it runs,” Mariah returned.
She lowered the tailgate with a rasp of metal, then dragged out a weather-beaten old board from the back end to use as a makeshift ramp.
“Look, you’re not exactly the weighty help I need to load this baby into the back end,” he said, running a critical eye over her smallish shape.
Mariah drew herself up taller. “That may be, but I don’t see anyone else lining up to offer his services, do you?”
Luke cursed inventively and ran a hand through his hair. He hated being at anyone’s mercy—especially a woman who heated his blood the way Mariah did.
He caught her soft scent, sweet and sun-drenched—like the flowers she collected in her basket. Her red blouse dipped just low enough at the neck to reveal the slightest hint of her delectable breasts beneath.
Her arms were bronzed by the sun, slender, capable; just not capable of raising his bike to the bed of her truck, though he had no doubt that she would try.
He had the feeling that she was accomplished at many things, that she had to be. Perhaps she was alone in the world, with no one to share the emotional and physical load she carried—or did she prefer to carry it all herself?
She made him curious, though he had no right to be anything of the sort. This was only a chance meeting of two people in time, one moment of accident that had brought them together.
He longed to feed his soul with her warmth, something he denied himself because of his failure that night in the trauma unit.
The night he couldn’t work his medical magic.
The night he failed to save his son.
Chapter Two
“This is Sunrise,” Mariah said as they passed through the tiny town of only a few businesses.
A small grocery store, an old tavern, a pizza place and a post office surrounded the small center plaza. Several square-shaped houses were scattered around the town’s outskirts. And up on the hill beyond sat the church with its old bell tower, the bell long-since missing.
“You live in town?” he asked.
She glanced over at him, his injured leg stretched out in front of him as best he could in the cramped cab of her truck. She needed to take care of that leg wound. It had to be painful—despite his insistence to the contrary.
The man pretended toughness—and Mariah suspected he wasn’t about to admit to simple weaknesses like cuts and scrapes and bruises.
“I live a short distance beyond. It’s not far,” she said as the truck rumbled past the town’s environs.
Callie would be waiting for her at home. And Una would have supper started. She always did when Mariah was away gathering her herbs and roots.
Both would be surprised she was bringing home a guest of sorts.
A few miles ahead she made a turn, the truck creaking and groaning as if it were an old woman getting out of a rocker after a long afternoon nap.
She passed Una’s small frame-and-stucco house. Her own was just past it, not much larger size-wise, but with a wide porch that Mariah loved. She often sat out there at the end of her day, listening to the night sounds, enjoying the solitude—and thinking of the day to come.
“Here we are,” she said, as she pulled into the long driveway and parked a short distance from the house.
Luke surveyed his surroundings. The house was small, but it exuded a warmth that was very much Mariah. Maybe it was the big front porch, or perhaps the soft, fluttery white curtains at the windows or the well-tended garden at the side, but he liked it. Liked its soft cream color, its peace and simplicity.
He opened the truck door and swung his injured leg out. If it hadn’t been for his little mishap back on the road, he’d have been halfway to Phoenix by now. Not that he was on any schedule.
Not since he’d left his life fifteen-hundred miles behind.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Luke glanced up to see a little girl of about six, maybe seven, tripping toward them. The first thing he noticed was her beauty—dark silken hair, like her mother’s, and the same vibrant green eyes.
The brightness in her face, her smile, eclipsed the other thing he noticed—sturdy braces on her thin, coltish legs, braces that at the moment weren’t impeding her progress much.
Mariah came around the side of the truck and swept the child up in her arms. “Callie, this is Luke Phillips,” she said.
“Hi, Luke Phillips,” she answered, using his whole name, much the same way her mother had earlier.
Luke liked the sound of it. He also liked the smile on Mariah’s face, the one that matched her daughter’s.
Friendliness was a way of life out here, it seemed, and it was Luke’s good fortune that it was. Otherwise he’d be sitting back there along the road with nothing but cactus for company.
The little girl was like a bright ray of sunshine after a long, dark day, he thought, and stuck out his hand. She accepted it shyly, her grasp light, innocent, her hand tiny in his.
Luke recognized instantly that this was a child who’d experienced pain, but there was no sign of it in her sweet smile, or the confident raise of her chin—as if she, like her mother, wasn’t afraid to take on the world at large.
“Hi, Callie,” he returned.
She glanced down at the shirt tied around his thigh, then at the scrapes and bruises on his shoulder and jaw. “You got hurt,” she said. “Is my mommy gonna fix you up?”
He swept his gaze from Callie to Mariah. Luke wasn’t exactly used to being on the receiving end of medicine, but he suspected Mariah knew how to dispense treatment, along with a little peace, a peace a man could get used to—if he allowed it.
“I