What The Cowboy Prescribes.... Mary StarleighЧитать онлайн книгу.
small, rounded script—was as well proportioned as her figure. A drug company logo embossed the top of the small square sheet. It jolted his memory. He’d prescribed their medicine many times to patients who suffered from high blood pressure.
His finger traced over the raised logo. What he’d enjoyed most in practicing medicine for five years was helping his patients adopt healthier lifestyles…
Steve pushed back the feelings that needed to stay in the past.
“It’s not too late to call.” Meg’s words broke into his thoughts.
“I don’t have a phone. I’ll drive into town tomorrow.”
“You can use mine. But I’m surprised you don’t have a cell phone.”
Her eyes were almost the same color as the shiny mahogany furniture he’d purchased for his office in Houston, then sold three weeks ago for a tenth of the price.
“I got rid of my phone.” Before he’d left the city, he’d sold all his possessions except his car and clothes.
“Oh. Well, use my phone, then. Anytime.” Her lips broke into a wide grin and dimples formed in her cheeks.
“No, I’ll wait.” The urge to outline one of the small indentations with the tip of his finger made him uneasy, then suddenly overwhelmed him.
“Cal does need the work. You’ll be doing him a favor.”
Her genuine kindness made him want to crush her to his chest and kiss her soft lips. Instead he stared at her. A smudge beneath her right eye caught his attention. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and traced it gently with his index finger.
Her long, lush lashes feathered against his skin and his breath came in ragged spurts. Meg’s eyes widened and he counted five full respirations before she pulled back.
“There’s a smudge under your eye. It’s still there.”
Meg felt her hand tremble as she brought it up to her face. Steve’s fingers were warmer than she’d expected. She rubbed hard at her skin. “Did I get it all?” She glanced down and wished her hand would quit shaking, but she knew it wouldn’t while his eyes were holding her captive.
“Yeah, it looks like it.”
Steve turned his head slightly, and Meg noticed a tiny heart-shaped mole on his jawline. She nibbled her bottom lip and forced her gaze to his jacket.
“You’re so dusty. What did you do, climb into that old fireplace?”
Steve brushed at his coat, causing tiny clouds of soot to float in the air. He studied her for a moment. “No. I got this from just walking around the place. Why’s your hair wet?” His fingers caught a wayward strand, then let go.
“I splashed my face, hoping it would make me feel better. I’m exhausted. Remember med school? Eyelids grainy from no sleep and feeling like hell? Guess that’s how my mascara got where it’s not supposed to be.”
Meg brushed back her damp hair, wondering how bad she really looked, and upset with herself for caring.
“Med school…seems like a long time ago.” Steve cleared his throat. “There’s not enough time to learn everything.”
“I felt the same way. But then eventually everything slides into—”
“Sometimes. I’d better get going.” Steve folded the note with Cal’s number in half and slipped it in his coat pocket.
Meg shifted. She couldn’t let him leave. Even though she was really tired and apprehensive, she had plans for Steve Hartly.
Chapter Three
“Why don’t you use my phone?” Meg positioned herself between her guest and the back door. “It’s a shame to wait. Besides, you’ll make Cal’s day.” She gazed into Steve’s dark eyes and, before she knew what she was doing, rested her hand on his arm.
His muscles tightened under her fingers.
“No. I can make the call tomorrow.”
Meg brought her hand away. “Please. I enjoy your company. Go ahead and call.”
“Well, if you’re—”
“Good. I’ll get us something to drink.” She motioned toward the telephone, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little.
“I guess it would be easier to call from here.”
“Of course it would. Then you can relax, drink some iced tea.” Meg stepped to the kitchen counter and started unloading groceries. She’d all but forgotten about the milk, eggs and bread.
Steve went to the phone and dialed Cal’s number. Soon he was talking about the Lemon House. Meg filled tall glasses, then sat at the table and waited for him. When he hung up, he picked up Charlie’s inhaler and glanced over at her.
“Asthma?”
“Not me. My cousin’s little boy. The child is always losing it. I’ll take it back in the morning. Just put it by my purse.”
He did as she asked and turned back.
“So was Cal happy?” She took a sip of her tea and glanced at him over the rim of her glass.
“Says he can start tomorrow.” Steve leaned against the back of the chair.
“Cal will do a great job. His wife is having their first baby in a few weeks. Oh, I told you that.” Meg took another sip of her drink. What was wrong with her? She usually never repeated herself. “Donna works too hard around their ranch. She’s healthy, but I’ve delivered her sisters’ babies, and they’ve all had difficult deliveries.” Steve’s expression tightened and he shifted as if he were uncomfortable.
Meg waved toward his glass. “Sit down and have some tea. I made yours plain. You don’t use sugar, do you?”
“No. Thanks.”
“So how long did you practice?”
“Five years.”
“Me, too. I did a one-year residency at Presbyterian in Dallas, then came back to Jackson. Been here ever since.” She tilted her head nervously. Steve was the type of man who listened—and watched. The type who made her feel…was it uneasy, nervous or what?
Her temples pounded. Why, for goodness’ sake, had she told him about her residency? He hadn’t asked. She needed to bring the conversation around to his medical practice and not talk about herself.
“I was raised in Jackson.” The information seemed to spring from her mouth.
He picked up his glass. The man sitting in front of her had a way of making her feel all mixed up. Although he was quiet, she guessed he had a wonderful bedside manner, serene and calm.
The last thought stunned her. She wasn’t really thinking at all about medicine. In just the blink of an eye, Steve Hartly was making her envision soft down comforters and cold winter nights snuggling under them—with him.
“I was born in Jackson.” Good Lord, hadn’t she said that? “I mean, uh, and I’ve lived here most of my life except when I went away to school. You practiced how long?” She’d already ask him that, too. The man was going to think she was an idiot! Quickly she vowed again to keep her mind on finding out more about Steve Hartly.
He placed the glass on the table and drew his finger through the beads of condensation.
“What kind of practice did you have?” she asked breathlessly.
“I worked the emergency room for four years.” His tone had gone flat.
“How’d you pick Jackson?”
“Wanted a place far away from Houston.”
“Know