For the Sake of Warwick Mountain (Harlequin Heartwarming) (4 page)

Her question shocked him, not by its bluntness—he’d come to expect that from her—but by triggering memories he hadn’t thought of in years. “I went into medicine because I watched my mother sicken and die during my high-school years. I wanted to keep other children’s mothers from dying before their time.”

“So that’s why you chose plastic surgery as a specialty?” She didn’t try to hide the irony in voice.

“I chose plastic surgery because Dwight adopted me as his protégé while I was in college. That’s also where the carpentry came in.”

He resisted the impulse to squirm under her gaze, knowing how shallow his words about his mother must have sounded. Somewhere along the line between her death and reaching the pinnacle of success, he’d lost sight of his original motivations. He pushed the uncomfortable realization away.

“I worked my way through college as a carpenter. I was framing an addition to Dr. Peyseur’s Beverly Hills home when I first met him. He and Madeline sort of adopted me when they learned I had no family.”

“Lucky you.”

He heard the cynicism in her tone. “It wasn’t what you think. Dwight didn’t give me money. I was earning a good living, enough to pay my way, at least. What he gave me was encouragement—and a place where I felt I belonged.”

“Beverly Hills.” She raised a delicate eyebrow. “Must have been a very nice place to belong.”

“It wasn’t the place so much as the people. Dwight’s like a father to me. And I miss Madeline almost as much as my own mother.”

“Dwight’s a good man. Emily and I had been looking forward to his visit.”

“And now you’re stuck with me instead.”

“Not unless you choose to live here.”

He glanced around the space again, picturing improvements in his mind. “It’s doable.”

“Question is,” Rebecca said, “how much time for doctoring will you have if you’re working to refurbish this place?”

He abandoned thoughts of Fiji temporarily, drawn by the prospect of working with wood, hammer and nails again. Maybe the physical exertion would do him as much good as a South Pacific cruise. It had been a long time since he’d worked up a sweat outside a gym or off a tennis court. Too long since he’d experienced the satisfaction of building something with his own hands.

Plastic surgery, of course, was construction, or reconstruction, but it was also stressful, with its intricacies and challenges, not to mention the expectations of his patients. Carpentry was good honest toil in the open air. And air didn’t come any better than what he’d breathed on Warwick Mountain.

“I could have this place shaped up in three or four days,” he estimated. “That includes framing in a temporary examination room and waiting area. Nothing I couldn’t knock down in a hurry when I’m through here.”

“No!” Rebecca jumped to her feet.

“Hey.” Matt lifted his hands. “It was just a suggestion. I can just throw up tarps—”

“I meant don’t tear down anything when you’re through here. And I’ll pay for the improvements.”

“What if they don’t suit your plans for this building? You plan to reopen the feed store?”

She shook her head. “Folks here would rather drive forty miles to pay discount prices at the big chain stores. I have other plans for this building.”

She had tweaked his curiosity. “Turning it into a school?” he asked.

She sank back onto the crate. “So Dwight didn’t tell you?”

“Is it a secret?”

She nodded. “No one knows but Dwight and me, just in case my idea doesn’t work out. That way folks won’t be disappointed.”

He studied her with interest. Rebecca Warwick was blunt and direct, but she was far from simple. He sensed a depth to the woman quite different from the shallow starlets that moved in and out of his life like the tides on Malibu Beach.

“If you tell me what you’re planning,” he said, “I can build to your specifications.”

She lifted her head to meet his gaze. “My grandmother would still be alive if we’d had an emergency clinic in Warwick Mountain. She died on the way to the Asheville hospital. Her heart gave out. The doctors there had the medicine that would have saved her, but she ran out of time before they could administer it.”

“You plan to turn this place into an emergency clinic?” he asked in disbelief. He couldn’t decide whether she was courageous or crazy. Maybe both.

She nodded. “I do.”

Admiration swelled inside him, along with the knowledge that the spunky woman had bitten off more than she could chew. “A building’s one thing. Do you have any idea how much it costs to furnish and staff the kind of clinic you’re describing?”

She set her jaw in a stubborn line. “Dwight’s helped me with the figures.”

“Dwight encouraged this insanity?” he blurted. “He, of all people, should know what you’re up against.”

“He tried to talk me out of it at first.” She tilted her chin at an angle, as if daring him to take a swipe at her. “But when he realized how serious I am, he said he’d help.”

“Financing?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t ask him for money. I intend to apply for grants, appeal to charities. And I’m hoping when Dwight retires in a few years, he’ll come here to supervise the clinic for us.”

Matt let out a long, low whistle. “When you dream, girl, I have to give you credit, you dream big.”

She threw her arms wide, encircling the space. “But my dream’s coming true. I have the building. And now you’ve offered to build examining and waiting rooms. It’s a start, anyway.”

“Whoa,” he warned her. “Don’t get your hopes up. The improvements will be rough. If I’m treating patients, I won’t have time for the finishing details.” What was he getting himself into?

“Taking care of Lizzie and the others, that’s the most important thing,” Rebecca insisted.

Matt shoved to his feet. “Then I’d better get started. I’ll take you back to your house, then head for the closest town for building supplies.”

She scrutinized him with a stare that seemed to pierce right through him. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“Absolutely.” And when he returned to California, he’d make an appointment with Ron Featherstone, the psychiatrist he played tennis with, to have his head examined.

He followed her outside, waited while she locked the double doors, then headed for the car.

He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. Rebecca’s hopes for an emergency clinic in that old building were a pipe dream, as he’d already tried to tell her.

With a sigh, he took an internal reality check. Talk about pipe dreams. Building Becca’s clinic wasn’t Fiji, but it would definitely be a change.

CHAPTER FOUR

O
N
THE
RIDE
HOME
, Becca argued with her conscience. Matt had given her the perfect out with his offer to head back to town for the materials he’d need. No need now to put him up in her house for even one night. But she couldn’t be certain at this late hour that he’d be able to find accommodations, not at the height of the summer tourist season. And it was past suppertime.

She could almost hear Granny’s voice, demanding to know what had happened to her manners. The man had come thousands of miles on an errand of mercy, had volunteered to begin building her long-hoped-for clinic, and she was willing to send him on his way without a hot meal or prospects for a bed to sleep in.

What was the matter with her?

Dr. Wonderful was the matter, that’s what. She found the man entirely too charming, too likable, too agreeable. Too handsome, too rich, too—

The list seemed endless. And irrelevant. What difference did any of his attributes make? She wasn’t interested. She didn’t want, didn’t need a man, any man, in her life. All that mattered was showing him the proper hospitality, especially in light of the sacrifices he was prepared to make to provide medical care to her neighbors.

“No need for you to head back to town tonight,” she said. “It’s getting late. You can stay with Emily and me.”

“What will the school board think of that?” His voice seemed to hold genuine concern, as if the man really cared about her standing in the community.

She shook away the crazy thought. A man with a checkered reputation like his concerned about her reputation? Who was she kidding?

“Southern hospitality isn’t a myth,” she insisted. “We take our responsibilities to our guests very seriously.”

“I don’t want to cause problems.”

“No problem.” She hoped that was true. Surely she wouldn’t be fired because of one overnight stay. “Besides, you’ll need to measure the building before you order supplies. And I doubt you carry a tape measure in your medical bag.”

“Are you offering to help?” Matt seemed surprised.

“If you need it. And you’re welcome to borrow Grandpa’s tools. His kit’s in the barn.”

He flicked his gaze toward her before returning his attention to the road, now deep in shadows with the sun dipping behind the mountain. “I wish I could at least take you and Emily out to dinner.”

Rebecca laughed. “Eating out in Warwick Mountain means a moon pie and an RC Cola at the Shop-N-Go. Nothing like your fancy Beverly Hills restaurants. But thanks for the thought. I hope you don’t mind leftovers.”

“Leftovers were always my favorite, both my mom’s and Madeline’s. It’s been ten years since I had any.” He may have been just acting polite, but the wistfulness in his voice sounded genuine.

“Ten years without leftovers? What planet do you live on? Never mind, I know the answer. Planet Hollywood.”

“The place isn’t as weird as you make it sound.” His attitude had turned defensive until he laughed. “Yes, it is. I stand corrected.”

Becca squirmed. Granny would have been horrified at her rudeness. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offense taken. They don’t call it la-la land for nothing.” He pulled to the side of the road when they reached her house. “Okay to park out front or should I hide the car behind the barn in case someone passes by?”

He had to be teasing, for she could detect no malice in his question.

“Park out front. Let the neighbors know I have nothing to hide.”

He threw her a glance that seemed to hold more than a hint of admiration, and killed the engine.

Becca climbed out. “I’ll get supper started.”

“Last chance,” he said. “I’m still willing to spring for moon pies and RCs, if you’d rather not cook.”

“Emily would take you up on that in a heartbeat, so do me a favor—” she nodded up the road where Emily was skipping toward home “—and don’t tempt her.”

“You’re the mom.” He reached behind him for his backpack, but not before flashing her a grin that made her knees weak. In spite of her best defenses, his charm was working its magic on her.

By the time he’d climbed out of the car, Emily had reached them. Her face lit up like a burst of fireworks when she saw Matt holding his backpack. “Are you staying, Dr. Matt?”

“Just for tonight,” he said easily.

Her face drooped with disappointment. “Then you’re going away?”

Matt shook his head and gave her daughter another smile so enchanting, Becca forced herself to look away.
Probably practices in front of the mirror,
she told herself,
perfecting the look that knocks starlets off their four-inch stiletto heels.

“I’ve found another place to stay,” Matt told Emily.

“Where?”

Becca noted that her daughter was so smitten with Matt, she had yet to acknowledge her mother’s presence.

“You ask too many questions,” Becca warned her. “Go wash up for supper.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Emily skipped ahead of them into the house. Matt’s gaze followed her, a softness on his face that almost made Becca reject her cynical assessment of him.

“She’s a sweetheart,” he noted.

“She can be hell on wheels at times, too,” Becca admitted.

“Probably gets that from her mother.” Brown eyes sparking devilishly, he opened the screen door for her with a flourish.

Unable to think of a snappy comeback, Becca breezed through the door, headed straight for the kitchen, then stopped.

Her guest had her so flustered, she’d forgotten her manners.

“Your room’s this way.” She headed down the hall and pointed to the doorway on the right. “Bedroom’s here. Bath’s across the hall. Come to the kitchen when you’ve had a chance to settle in.”

“Not much settling needed for just one night,” he said in a dry voice.

She was afraid to look at him, fearful that just seeing his handsome face would overwhelm her common sense. The man had to be aware he oozed appeal. Especially in the narrow confines of the hallway—in front of Granny’s room.

The thought of her grandmother calmed Becca’s galloping pulse and allowed her to ignore the glimmer in his eyes.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Supper in ten minutes.”

She pivoted and fled to the kitchen.

She yanked leftovers from the refrigerator, turned on the stove beneath the pot of black-eyed peas, shoved a dish of collard greens into the microwave to heat and began making biscuits.

Emily, face still damp from scrubbing, came in and climbed onto the stool beside the counter where Becca rolled out dough.

“You mad, Mommy?”

“Of course not, sweetie,” she lied. She was mad, though—at herself. How could she allow Matt Tyler to affect her, especially after all the painful lessons her attraction to Grady had taught her? “What makes you say that?”

“Your face looks mad.”

Becca forced her expression to relax and vowed not to take her frustrations out on her daughter. “I’m just in a hurry. Will you put the butter on the table, please?”

Minutes later, Matt appeared on the threshold. Becca tried not to notice how fantastic he looked, his tall frame almost filling the door, his head scant inches from the lintel.

“What’s that incredible smell?” he asked.

“Mommy’s baking biscuits,” Emily said.

He inhaled deeply with obvious appreciation, then stepped into the room. “
Homemade
biscuits? Rebecca Warwick, will you marry me?”

As hard as she fought against it, she found his humor infectious.

“Cheaper to hire a cook,” she said with a laugh. “Besides, don’t go jumping to conclusions. You haven’t tasted my cooking yet.”

She motioned him to a chair at the table, and he settled beside Emily. She placed the dish of black-eyed peas between the platter of sugar-cured ham and the bowl of collard greens and added a relish dish filled with Granny’s chowchow, the last she’d canned before she died. “Help yourself.”

He didn’t need a second invitation and began filling his plate as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. “If everything tastes half as good as it smells, I’ll stand by my original offer.”

“If you marry Mommy,” Emily said, “would that make you my daddy?”

Matt spread butter on a hot biscuit. “That’s right.” He took a bite of biscuit and closed his eyes as if in a trance. “Best biscuit I ever tasted.”

“You’d make a nice daddy,” Emily said.

“Emily!” Becca slid into her place at the table. “Matt is only kidding.”

“Oh.” The little girl’s expression relayed her disappointment. “But I want a daddy. Everybody else has one.”

Becca felt a spasm of guilt, but this was not a conversation to have with Emily in front of a stranger.

“Not everybody has a daddy,” Matt said with a gentleness that scored more points with Becca. “My daddy died when I was younger than you are now, and my mother and I got along fine, just the two of us, like you and your mother.”

Emily set her fork down and gazed at her mother. “Did my daddy die?”

Matt flicked his eyes toward Becca, obviously curious, but she wouldn’t be forced into a discussion Emily wasn’t ready for. The subject was too complex for a four-and-a-half-year-old’s comprehension.

“What did you and Lizzie do this afternoon?” she asked.

“Watched Mrs. McClain peel peaches.”

Matt cocked an eyebrow and grinned at Becca. “Is that the local equivalent of watching paint dry?”

“It’s canning time,” she explained. “She’s getting ready to put up preserves.”

“Miss Habersham came to visit her,” Emily added. “They talked a lot.”

“I don’t doubt it. The Habersham sisters are our resident gossips,” Becca explained to Matt. “Warwick Mountain doesn’t need a newspaper. Everyone hears all they need to know from one of the Habershams.”

“One?” Matt helped himself to more ham from the platter she passed him and slid a slice inside a biscuit. “How many are there?”

“Four,” Becca explained. “None of the sisters ever married. The oldest is ninety-eight, the youngest eighty-three. They still live on the homestead their great-grandparents built.”

“Alone?” Matt asked.

Becca nodded. “Uncle Jake’s nephew helps with their livestock, but they grow their own garden, fix their own meals. They’re very independent.”

“Mommy,” Emily asked, “what’s a playboy?”

“Where did you hear a word like that?” Becca asked.

“Miss Habersham said Dr. Matt’s a playboy,” the girl said. “Is that a bad word?”

Becca noted that Matt had the grace to look uncomfortable. She couldn’t resist tossing the ball into his court. “No, it’s not a bad word. Tell her what it means, Matt.”

“Me?” Matt almost choked on his biscuit.

“Makes sense,” Becca said with her sweetest smile as she planted her barb. “Don’t you have firsthand experience?”

Matt swallowed hard and turned to Emily. “A playboy is a man who has so much money he doesn’t need to work for a living, so he spends all his time doing the things he enjoys.”

Emily cocked her head and considered his definition. “That’s not what Miss Habersham said.”

“What did Miss Habersham say?” Matt ignored Becca’s attempts to shush him.

Emily scrunched her face as if trying to remember. “A playboy is a man who has more money than he has sense.”

“Is that what she said about me?” Matt said.

Emily nodded. “She said she read it in a magazine.”

Becca couldn’t resist throwing him an I-told-you-so look. “Guess everyone’s read about Dr. Wonderful.”

Emily apparently wasn’t going to let the subject drop. “Do you have more money than sense, Dr. Matt?”

Matt glanced at Becca with a plea for help. “How do I answer that?”

“Honestly?” Becca suggested, then took pity on him. “Emily, it’s not polite to ask people how much money they have.”

“Or how much sense?” the girl asked.

“That’s not polite, either,” her mother said.

“Then why did Miss Habersham talk about it?” Emily asked. “I thought grown-ups were always polite.”

“Are you sure this kid’s only four and a half?” Matt said. “Sounds like she’d make a great attorney.”

Becca sighed. “I have to admit, she’s good at cross-examination.”

“Miss Habersham said you have lots of girlfriends,” Emily continued. “Is Mommy one of them?”

“Who wants to know?” Becca asked with alarm. “You or Miss Habersham?”

“Me,” Emily said. “Miss Habersham didn’t say anything about you, Mommy.”

Becca breathed a sigh of relief. Once the Habershams started a rumor, it blazed through the community like wildfire in dry grass with a high wind behind it.

“Your mother’s a girl and she’s my friend,” Matt said. “And so are you.”

“I am?” Emily said with a touch of awe.

“Sure.” Matt had handled the girlfriend issue with an ease that won Becca’s reluctant respect. “You’re Dr. Dwight’s girlfriends, too. That’s why he sent you presents.”

“Can I have mine now?” Emily asked.

“Not until after supper,” Becca said. “Finish your peas, and I’ll serve Aunt Delilah’s chocolate pound cake.”

“With ice cream?” Emily asked.

Becca nodded.

Matt wiped his mouth with his napkin and sighed with satisfaction. “Best meal I ever tasted. There’s a little bistro in Westwood claims to serve Southern food, but it can’t touch this.”

“It’s the mountain air,” Becca said. “Visitors often say it improves the appetite.”

Matt looked longingly at the solitary biscuit left in the bread basket, even though he’d already had three. “Nope. Has to be the cooking. My offer of marriage still stands.”

The twinkle in his eye was almost irresistible, but Becca somehow managed to avoid melting to his charm. She stood and began to clear the plates. “Maybe it’d be easier if I just teach you to make biscuits.”

“Can I watch?” Emily asked.

“Ready to see a grown man make a fool of himself?” Matt said.

“Dr. Matt?” the girl said.

“Yes?”

“Is a playboy a bad man?”

“Not necessarily.”

Emily frowned. “Mrs. McClain said no playboy was going to touch her Lizzie.”

Matt stifled a sigh and Becca’s heart dropped. “Are you sure you heard right, Emily?”