Courting the Doctor's Daughter (13 page)

Mary wrapped her shawl around her. “Yes, that sounds nice.”

Luke gave her a hand up, calling to Doc to make sure he could handle the boys’ lines.

Doc waved them on their way. “You two run along. We’ll be fine.”

Strolling along the bank, Luke watched fallen leaves tumble along in the water, splashing against an occasional rock—small sailboats plucked from the trees, now heading to an unknown destination. Much like him.

He must regain control of his life, not continue to let circumstances chart his course. Instead, he’d focus on getting a sanatorium built. Make amends for Joseph’s suffering. Even for Lucy’s. The responsibility for her death weighed him down, as if he’d killed her himself.

His gaze settled on Mary strolling beside him, a woman with the ability to alter his plans.

But, if she somehow did, he’d disappoint her. Insight slugged him in the gut. Mary wouldn’t want him. Their relationship didn’t have a chance. So why did he yearn to spend every minute with her? With her and the boys?

He snagged a flat, gray rock lying in their path. With every ounce of frustration inside him, he flung it toward the creek. The stone skipped three times, then disappeared beneath the surface.

Mary searched the ground, found a rock and lobbed it through the air. It danced across the river—skipping four times—before it sank. She turned to him with a triumphant smile.

He chuckled, terribly pleased for some odd reason. “You’re a woman of many talents, Mary.”

She smiled, giving a saucy toss of her head. She was a beautiful woman, all goodness and light, a total departure from what he’d known growing up.

Without thinking, he tugged her to him, tipping her chin with his hand until she looked into his eyes. Hers went wide. “May I kiss you?” he said, his voice gruff.

She didn’t answer, and he held his breath, waiting. Then, she rose on her toes and encircled his neck with her arms, offering her lips to his. He lowered his head and kissed her tenderly with all the pent-up loneliness of his life. A sigh escaped her, and he hugged her closer, every cold crevice inside him filling with warmth.

He cared about this woman so much it scared him. Gently, he set her from him and ran his fingertips over her lips, giving her a crooked grin. “After that, I’ll be sure to always ask.”

She cocked her head at him. “I may not always give the same answer.” But her smile belied her statement. Or so he hoped.

Arm in arm, they walked on, stopping near a gnarled old tree, its limbs reaching toward the river. Sunlight threw the tree’s shadow onto a large rock projecting from the bank. Mary skittered down the slope and took a seat, scooting to the side to make room for Luke.

He sat beside her. “You’re a wonderful woman, Mary. A gift to all who know you, exactly as your father sees you.”

Averting her eyes, Mary studied her hands. Overhead, birds congregated, gathering in the trees, preparing to migrate, their rowdy calls breaking the stillness. “My parents saw me as a gift because…I
was
one—literally.” She smoothed the fringe on her shawl, taking her time, and then met his gaze. “As a newborn baby, someone left me in a basket on their doorstep.”

The news thudded into Luke’s stomach. Joseph, Mary, Ben—all throwaway children. In some ways he was too. And he’d done that very thing to his own child. The weight of his past hung on him like a millstone.

Moving closer, he reached for her hand and took it in his, pleased she didn’t pull away. Enjoying its smallness, the calluses on her palms, evidence of how hard she worked. He wanted to ease the burdens she carried, to ease the pain of her admission, which was easy to read on her face.

“I’ll always be grateful to my parents for taking me in when my biological mother didn’t want me,” she went on. “I’m thankful for their love, for everything they gave me. But…” Her bottle green eyes filled, glistening with unshed tears, ripping at Luke’s reserve. “It’s late. We’d better get back.”

Luke couldn’t let her leave, not like this. “Don’t go. Not yet. Talk to me.”

She hesitated, clearly torn about revealing her thoughts. He kept holding her hand, kept holding her gaze. Finally, she released a long, shuddering breath. “Deep down inside, in a place I’m not proud of, can barely admit exists, it hurts I was a throwaway baby.” Mary turned toward the river. Near its edge a bottle floated on the current. Just ahead, trapped by a submerged log, an old boot and rusty can bobbed in the water lapping against the bank. She gestured toward the litter. “Someone’s trash.”

A lump clogged Luke’s throat, closing off his air.
Trash
. Joseph. Memories still haunted his dreams. That this amazing woman saw herself as rubbish wrenched his heart. “Ah, Mary.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re not trash.”

Emotions paraded across her face, and Luke understood something she might not. No matter what she’d said, Mary Graves did not see herself as a gift.

Using her free hand, she swiped at her eyes. “It’s easy to hear those words but not so easy to believe them when those who are supposed to love you the most don’t want you.”

Swallowing hard, Luke thought of his parents. Of how they’d shuffled him off to one boarding school after another. How they’d rid themselves of the embarrassment of Joseph. And now he’d done the same to Ben, even before his birth. Would Ben think of himself as garbage one day? Because of him? The prospect hit him like an uppercut to the gut.

“Some people weren’t meant to have children,” he said quietly.

“Of course you understand. I’m sorry any child has to feel that way. All children deserve love.” Mary gave him a wobbly smile. “But you and I have God, and that’s enough to tell us we’re accepted and loved, no matter what.”

Mary wouldn’t think much of his faith if he admitted he was Ben’s father. What kind of a Christian lived a lie? Yet he couldn’t bear to dim that light in her eyes, to see her attitude toward him change. Ben had a good life with Mary. He wouldn’t do anything to destroy that.

“I’ve never told that to anyone,” Mary said with a whoosh of breath. “I’ve never admitted aloud that my wonderful parents, who gave me all their love and everything they had, couldn’t remove my feelings of rejection. When a person aches to confront someone, not to try to fit together the pieces of the puzzle, but to lash out, to shout that no reason on earth justifies tossing away their daughter—” Her voice broke. “That desire is ugly, unworthy of a child of God. I’m grateful He forgives me even for that.”

Tears spilled down Mary’s cheeks. Leaning forward, he brushed them away with both thumbs. “Whether you believe it or not, Mary, you’re as beautiful inside as you are out.”

“If so, it’s only because I’m forgiven.” Through her tears, Mary brightened. “I believe God had His hand on my life from the beginning.” She gave a wobbly smile. “God has a plan for us all, even babies in baskets.”

Tears stung the backs of Luke’s eyes. What of Joseph? Luke shook his head and tossed a rock into the water. It pinged off the bottle and disappeared into the murky depths. “In my family, God forgot someone.”

“Oh, Luke, God doesn’t forget anyone.”

A memory slammed into Luke with a tidal force. His six-year-old brother weeping, screaming, arms and legs thrashing, scrambling for footing, while a stranger wrestled him into a carriage. Luke trying to stop him, slamming his fists into the man. His father pulling Luke off. Standing helplessly, watching Joseph reach an arm out of the carriage window, screaming for his mother. Luke hadn’t been able to stop it, to do anything but weep. “Tell that to my brother, Joseph. My parents abandoned him.”

“Abandoned him. Why?” Mary’s voice was soft with concern, with understanding.

Luke’s heart raced. Admitting the family secret made him feel exposed, yet Mary had opened her heart to him. And he wanted to do the same, badly. To unburden himself to Mary, to the one person he trusted with something this raw, this personal.

Yet he hid so much from her. He couldn’t tell her about Ben and see the anger, the disappointment, even the fear of what his paternity might mean for Ben. He couldn’t do that.

“Joseph’s transgression? He failed to meet my parents’ expectations of what a child should be. He wasn’t healthy, wasn’t perfect.” His throat clogged, and he could barely speak. In his mind, he saw his brother again, grown into an adolescent, lying on a bed, thin, weak, sick and neglected. Even now, Luke could smell the foul bed linens, his unwashed body and the stench of death. “That asylum treated him more like an animal than a human being. He…died, too young.”

Mary put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Luke, I can’t
understand how your parents could do that, how any parent could.”

He lifted a hand to her cheek, silky under his fingers. He sucked in a breath, wishing he could stay forever in her world of purity and goodness. “Nothing about you and your father is anything like my family. My parents were experts at covering up, hiding behind pretty pretense.”

Luke was no different.

A bird chattered in the treetop. Mary reached for his hand, holding it in both of hers. Her touch soothed like ointment on a burn.

“After Joseph’s death, I wanted to do something that would help others like my brother. I became a doctor, created medicine, to honor his life.”

“And you have.”

He forced up the corners of his mouth. “My brother had epilepsy. I’ve worked at finding a cure. I’ve tried mistletoe, nightshade…but I haven’t gotten it yet.”

“With God’s help, I’m sure you’ll succeed.”

Why hadn’t God helped an innocent boy like Joseph? Why would He help a man like him? Luke had no answers. He rose and grabbed a nearby stick, then scuttled down the bank and shoved the boot and can free of the rock and into the current, watching as they floated downriver. “My brother suffered in that institution while my parents danced at parties and traipsed through Europe.” He turned toward her. “Do you wonder why God allowed that?”

“God doesn’t control people like they’re puppets. There’s a reason for what Joseph went through. Remember, God can bring good from bad.”

Luke climbed the bank. “How could anything good come from Joseph’s life?” he said, his tone cold, harsh.

She hesitated, her brow knit in thought. “Perhaps only that your brother’s life gave you a strong desire to help
others. Not that God approved of what your parents did but that He didn’t let Joseph’s suffering go to waste. God has a plan, Luke. You’re part of that plan and so am I.”

Luke swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. Did God save some, let others suffer? Based on what? Some heinous sin of an epileptic boy? He sighed. He couldn’t blame God. The blame for Joseph’s end lay at his parents’ door. The blame for Lucy’s lay at his.

“From what you’ve said, I wonder if your parents are believers,” Mary said. “Have you tried to talk to them about their faith?”

Luke cleared his throat. He’d been dancing around the issue. No longer. “After Joseph died, I turned to something I thought I could depend on—science. I’ve studied theories that argued against the existence of God. I lost my faith for a while, Mary. Did things I’m not proud of.” And still am not. He shook his head. “I’m not the man to talk to them.”

She touched his hand. “What better man than one who walked that path and came out the other side?”

A deep yearning filled him. He wanted to be rid of his resentment, the grudge he held against his parents, a constant burning in his gut that not even his remedy could cure. Luke’s heart tripped. He needed to forgive his parents. Worse, he needed to forgive himself for Lucy’s death. But he couldn’t seem to manage either.

Mary made things sound easy. Yet, he’d observed her struggles to trust God with the future. “If you believe God has a plan for your life, why do you worry?”

“You can evaluate my faith all you want, Luke, even say I fall short—I’d agree in a heartbeat—but don’t confuse the strength of my faith with the strength of the One I have faith in. He never fails.”

“Yet look at Sam, your birth parents. They all failed you.”

“They’re human, not God.”

“But you suffered because of them.”

“If you feel an easy life proves God’s love and a hard one denies it, then you don’t know scripture.” Her eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of this before. Perhaps giving up their baby was the greatest act of love my biological parents could have given me.”

Luke stiffened. Mary was right. If he loved his son, he’d leave things alone. Forget Ben existed…if he could. He’d send money through the Children’s Aid Society. Mary need never discover he was Ben’s father. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“You look upset. Is something wrong?”

A wall of lies separated him from Mary. Better to move on. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for a lovely afternoon.”

Luke trudged off, striding along the bank, putting distance between him and Mary. A gentle breeze stirred in the scanty collection of leaves still clinging to the trees, fighting their fate. A fate no one could evade.

Along the water’s edge, a fat bullfrog croaked at his approach, then leapt below the surface with a splash as if unable to abide Luke’s presence. Well, he could hardly abide it either.

Ahead, Doc and the boys gathered their gear. Luke hollered an excuse about getting home, not stopping to look at their catch, all too aware of the crestfallen faces watching him go.

Dusk had fallen, shrouding him in twilight. He walked on, alone, the burden of his mistakes pressing against his lungs until he could barely breathe.

S
aturday turned overcast. By afternoon, the skies ripped open under the weight of unshed rain, drenching the earth, stripping colorful leaves from the trees and sending all of God’s creatures for cover—including Mary and the boys. Holding an umbrella against the deluge, they dashed into her father’s office. Mary shook out the umbrella, collapsed it near the door and then plunked the Sunday school materials for tomorrow’s lesson on her desk, hoping she’d find a few minutes to study them. Time permitting, she would read the article on asthma in the latest
American Medical Association Journal
.

Her list of chores was long but not long enough to keep Luke Jacobs from coming to mind. Each thought was uninvited, unwelcome and unsettling.

Beside her, the boys shook their heads like drowned dogs, flinging water and bringing her back to the task at hand. Mary rushed into her father’s quarters and returned with a towel just as Luke entered the waiting room.

Even with his hair plastered to his head, he looked ready to handle whatever came his way. Yet now she knew what lurked beneath the surface, what shaped his life. He
shrugged out of his jacket, soaked from his trek between the carriage house and the office. Mary intended to sop up the mess on the floor and to wipe down the children, but Luke’s gaze locked with hers. She forgot the rain, forgot the dampness of her clothing and the puddle spreading beneath their shoes.

Moments slid through her memory—of Luke in her kitchen, up to his wrists in suds, scrubbing at her dishes. The touch of those hands, this time healing hands, on Philip and on her. And the strength of those hands, his strong, steady grip.

How she wanted to rely on that grip—but with Luke’s plans to leave, she must lean, as always, on herself. Yet how could she close her mind to the haunted expression she’d seen in his eyes yesterday, to the pain etching his face even now? Luke wasn’t telling her everything. What was he hiding? Too much stood between them. Still, he needed a friend. That much she could be.

She broke the contact between them and bent to the boys, wiping their hair and whisking water from their backs.

“Hi, Luke,” Michael said. “We had fish for dinner last night.”

“Sounds good.”

Philip nodded. “Momma fried it in a pan, but we had to watch for bones.”

“I didn’t eat it,” Ben said. “Fishies are too cute to eat. ’Sides, I might choke.”

Grateful for the boys’ chatter, Mary tidied the floor, avoiding Luke’s gaze.

Michael peeled out of his wet coat, then dug into his pockets and retrieved a paper. “I brought my arithmetic test to show Grandpa. I got a hundred,” he said, trotting off toward the backroom with Ben trailing behind.

Philip’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t have any good papers to show Grandpa.”

Luke ruffled Philip’s unruly locks—the result of his cowlick. “Having trouble with your schoolwork? I’ll be happy to help.”

“My dad was too busy to help,” Philip said quietly. “Now he can’t. He’s dead.”

Mary’s heart clutched. Her sons had experienced far too many dark days. Oh how she wished to take these moments away from them, to paint them a world filled with sunshine and happiness.

“I know,” Luke said, bending down to Philip’s level and touching the boy’s arm. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

In that moment, Mary forgave Luke for every moment of disagreement, every misspoken word. In that expression of concern to her son, a caring man emerged, a man she liked.

Liked immensely.

Yet didn’t trust. Had her past destroyed her ability to trust? Or was it something else?

Having Luke in her life posed more of a threat to her well-being than any contagious disease.

“Dr. Jacobs?”

“Yes, Philip?”

Her son looked up at him, his brows knitted in concentration. “You, uh, you don’t have any little boys and we don’t have a dad, and if you married us, we’d have a family and you would too.”

Silence as thick as quilt batting descended on the room. Mary stared at her son. Did she just hear him ask Luke Jacobs to marry her? Her heart tripped in her chest. She’d pictured that very thing yet knew what Philip did not. A chasm the width of the Rio Grande stood between her and Luke. Marriage was out of the question.

Luke’s complexion had paled to the color of paste. Evidently he was even more mortified than she.

“Umm, that’d be a really good idea, Philip, and your mother is a very nice lady, but…”

“You don’t want us?”

Her son’s face fell, dropping as abruptly as a deflated balloon. Mary rushed to Philip’s side, unsure what to do, what to say. If only she hadn’t brought the boys with her today.

Michael had reappeared and stationed himself on Philip’s other side, his expression fierce.

Luke still had his hand on Philip’s arm. “Who wouldn’t want you? You’re a wonderful boy, you and your brothers. Your mom too.”

“Then why won’t you marry us?” Philip’s eyes, big as saucers with the innocent question of a child, brimmed with tears.

“Because…” Luke cleared his throat, searching for the words to explain the complicated issues of an adult. “My work is in New York, and someday soon I have to go back there.”

“Oh.” Philip considered that and his eyes brightened. “Maybe somebody else will marry us, and we can have a dad.”

Far more perceptive than his eight years, he stepped away from Luke’s touch. Mary gathered Philip into her arms, only two arms—yet enough to hold and love her son.

Or so she told herself.

Luke rose and turned away, an unreadable expression in his gaze. Was she merely fooling herself? Philip wanted his world restored, to have a life with a mom and a dad.

No matter how hard she tried, she wasn’t enough.

Michael, wearing a scowl on his face, obviously wanted no part of such an idea. Tears gathered in her eyes, uncertain which son she worried about more.

Mary hurried to the surgery. She found Ben hanging over his grandfather’s every move. She led her son to her father’s quarters, settling the boys in the living room with a pile of metal soldiers to do battle with, then walked to her desk, trying in vain to concentrate on tomorrow’s Sunday school lesson.

But she kept seeing Philip’s sweet face brimming with hope, hope for a dad. A lump rose in Mary’s throat. No matter how much she loved him, she couldn’t fill the need her son had for a father.

The door opened, cutting off Mary’s thoughts. Geraldine Whitehall entered, her eyes wild with dread. Mary bit back a moan.

“Oh, thank goodness, you’re here!” Geraldine raised trembling fingers to her lips. “Is Doc in?”

Obviously Mrs. Whitehall had gotten herself into quite a state. Mary grabbed a pad from her desk. “Come on back.”

Down the hall, Luke and her father stood talking. At the sound of their footsteps, Luke turned guarded eyes on Mary. Her pulse skittered. Philip’s proposal, no matter how much they might try to skirt it, lay between them—forming a connection of sorts, but also an uncomfortable wariness.

The two men entered the examining room ahead of them. Her father sat across from his patient. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Whitehall?”

Clutching her hands in her lap, Geraldine swallowed. “I have lockjaw.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I can’t open my mouth.”

A muscle twitched in her father’s cheek. Writing Geraldine’s complaint on the pad, Mary clamped her teeth together to hold back sudden laughter.

“Appears to be in good working order to me,” her father said.

“I mean wide. I can’t open my mouth wide. It kinda locks.” She moved her jaw up and down. “Did you hear that click?”

Her father motioned to the patient to take a seat on the examining table and then held the stethoscope to her jaw. “Do that again for Dr. Jacobs.”

Luke complied, listening while Mrs. Whitehall opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. “Your jaw works normally,” Luke said in a gentle tone. “No need to worry. Can you explain why you thought you had lockjaw?”

Whether he intended to or not, Luke was connecting to the townspeople and they to him. All signs of a good doctor. Good doctor or not, he was leaving.

Tears sprang to Geraldine’s eyes. “Two days ago, I got a cut. I read in—”

“You read that someone got lockjaw from a cut,” her father interrupted.

Her brows rose. “How did you know?”

“Just a guess. Let me see it.”

She stuck out a finger. Her father leaned in for a closer look, turned the finger over, then glanced up, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Right there,” she said pointing at the side.

“This little scratch?”

She nodded, blinking against tears. “The article said it didn’t need to be a bad cut, like the one on this finger,” she added, holding up the still bandaged finger on her other hand.

“Now, Mrs. Whitehall, I see no sign of infection, no red streaks up your hand or arm, no reason to think you’ve got lockjaw or will get lockjaw.”

Hope shimmered in her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent positive. But let’s get a second opinion.” He turned to Luke. “What do you say, Dr. Jacobs?”

Silent communication passed between the two. Luke and her father worked well together. Once she’d been the only one to assist in the practice. But with Luke here, her father didn’t need her. The insight stung.

Luke turned to the patient. “You and your finger are the picture of health, Mrs. Whitehall. Your jaw works admirably.”

The café owner sagged with relief. “Honestly, this morning I could barely open my mouth, but I couldn’t get here until after the breakfast crowd. I’ve been so scared.”

Her father wrote something on a pad, then tore off the page, handing it to his patient. “I have a prescription I want you to follow to the letter.”

Geraldine studied the words written in her father’s hurried scrawl. “For four weeks,” she said, then hesitated, trying to decipher the letters, “stop reading about illness.” She looked up, her mouth gaping, the jaw indeed working fine. “
That’s
your prescription?”

“You’re a healthy woman, yet you’re in here two, maybe three times a month. Usually after you’ve read or heard about some illness. I want you to set your mind on what the Good Book says in the fourth chapter of Philippians. ‘Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things of good report—if there be any virtue and if there be any praise—think on these things.’” Henry patted her hand. “Our God is a God of peace. Praise Him for giving you a healthy body, and ask Him to give you a healthy mind.”

“You sound like my husband.”

“A wise man, Mr. Whitehall.”

A contrite look came over Geraldine’s face. “I feel so silly. I know how busy you are.”

“If you follow that prescription, this office visit will be the best use of my time all day.”

“I’ll try. Customers are always telling me about their cousin’s tumor or their sister’s blindness. Within minutes, I see a suspicious puffiness above my collarbone or my vision blurs.” She grimaced. “It’s a curse.”

Luke gave her a kind yet firm look. “A curse you can defeat, Mrs. Whitehall. The decision is yours.”

She nodded slowly but didn’t look convinced. Then, meeting Luke’s gaze, her eyes flared. “You don’t believe I make myself miserable on purpose, do you?”

“Not intentionally,” Luke said, his tone kind. “But perhaps these imaginary illnesses are your way of avoiding what’s really bothering you, something below the surface you don’t want to examine.”

Luke turned troubled eyes on Mary. Her breath caught in her throat. Was he implying the two of them might have something between them, something they needed to explore?

She turned away. Hadn’t she lived with enough heartache without drudging up the past? Luke Jacobs had all the answers, answers pointing blame, but what about his own life? Just when she thought they were getting closer, she sensed he hid something, kept something from her.

But what?

Doc patted Geraldine’s arm. “Now, don’t forget. No medical articles. If someone starts describing symptoms, run for the hills.” He grinned. “Well, at least as far as the café’s kitchen.”

“I promise. My, I’m relieved!” She rose and headed for the door and then turned back. “Oh, Mary, don’t forget the pies you said you’d bake for the school supper next week.”

Day after day, endless responsibilities lay heavy on Mary’s shoulders. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Luke looked from Geraldine to her. “Jesus said to rest in Him. I wonder if you ladies know the meaning of the word.”

He had no right to chastise her. How could she rest when so much needed doing? Wasn’t she to serve others? Why did this man feel compelled to make her question her existence?

Her father waved a hand. “Now go and enjoy life, Mrs. Whitehall. Stop looking for problems.”

Again, Mary’s gaze connected with Luke’s. Her stomach dipped crazily with the sudden urge to walk into his arms, to rest her chin on his chest and be held. She couldn’t fathom her response to him. The man had disrupted her life, made her question her priorities, her dreams. Philip had latched on to him and now hungered for a father. Ben, even her father, held him in high esteem. She could imagine the pain he’d bring to all of them when he left town. Luke had complicated everything. Solved nothing.

So why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Why couldn’t she stop comparing him favorably to Sam?

The answer terrified her. Luke Jacobs had become important not only to her family but also to her. Yet his plans didn’t mesh with her life. How could she be so foolish?

With Luke Jacobs around, unlike Geraldine Whitehall, Mary didn’t have to look for problems. Problems smacked her in the face.

Why had God brought him into her life?

Luke stood in front of Mary’s desk. She bent over reading material, unaware of his presence, absently coiling a tendril of hair around her finger. His fingers itched to remove the pins from her glorious tresses. Not smart, Jacobs, not smart at all.

Only a foolish man would hanker after this woman who had one son craving a dad and another erecting walls. And the third, not her son, but his, a secret that would destroy any shred of feeling she might have for him. He should leave—and soon. Yet even as he formed the thought, he knew Mary Graves had crept into his heart, her sons too—boys who reminded Luke of himself. And Ben made him long for a relationship he hadn’t expected to crave.