Rocky Mountain Redemption. Pamela Nissen
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are you, Ben Drake?” Her words sputtered between chattering teeth.
Maybe he’d landed in some saloon, drinking and gambling away the night, just like his brother, Max.
Shivering, weak and exhausted, Callie slid down the thick clapboard. She tugged her cloak tighter and pulled in a deep, steadying breath to calm her irritation. When the bitter air hit her lungs, a spasm of wrenching coughs doubled her over, threatening to cave in her resolve.
Still, she closed her eyes and pictured herself snuggled before a warm, crackling fire. A soft groan escaped her lips as she imagined her hands cradling a steaming mug of cider—or cocoa, maybe. Nestling deeper beneath the thick luxury of a cozy quilt and sleeping till she could sleep no more.
A mean gust of wind whipped across the porch, slapping reality in her face once again. She didn’t have the job yet, and until she rectified the situation that loomed like some noose before her, she was a prisoner to her past, a slave to her present and a hostage to her future.
With a stuttering sigh, she closed her eyes. She should probably be angry that Max had left her standing alone down one of life’s dark dead ends, but really, she just felt numb. The irony of that sunk deep as she shivered, slipping slowly into sleep. Yes, she was definitely numb—she could barely feel her arms, her legs, or her heart.
“Ma’am?” A deep, mellow voice stirred her senses. “Are you all right?”
“Ma’am?” Ben Drake tried again, keeping his voice low.
The woman raised her head, sending a wave of relief washing over him as a stark curtain of snow lashed across the porch.
She was alive—that much was good.
When he’d arrived home just moments ago and had spotted a dark form huddled here on his office porch next door, a sick sense of dread had roiled in the pit of his stomach. The thought of someone seeking him out for help, only to die waiting for his return, would likely haunt him for the rest of his days.
“Come on…let’s get you out of the cold.” He scooped up her rail-thin frame.
With a grunt, she stiffened arrow straight, squirming out of his arms. When her feet met the floor with a dull thud, she sliced a sharp breath through her teeth. “Oww…”
“What’s the matter?” He hunkered over to get a look at her as she sagged against the building. “Are you hurt?”
From beneath a tattered hood, the young woman peeked up at him. “My feet. They’re cold as ice.” The woman’s unfamiliar, raspy voice hit him square in the heart.
“Well, then, let’s get you inside.” He made quick work of unlocking the door. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”
“Are you Doc—Doctor Drake?” Her teeth chattered.
“Yes, I’m Ben Drake.” When he braced an arm at her back, she dodged it as though he meant to hog-tie her. “Have you been waiting long for me?”
“Long enough,” she muttered, shuffling inside, each shivering, wobbly step piercing his heart more than the last.
She pulled her cloak tighter, but the way it puddled on the floor, hanging like a big, old drape, he wasn’t quite sure how she’d managed to maneuver ten feet in such a garment.
The lingering feel of her thin, quivering frame and her wariness to his touch sent compassion thrumming through his veins, especially when she produced a harsh cough.
“That cough of yours sure doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s nothing,” she answered, her teeth chattering. “Just an everyday kind of cough, that’s all.”
“Well, it sounds like more than that to me. Good thing you came when you did. Follow me,” he said, leading the way through the dark waiting area into the exam room where he lit a lamp. “I’ll get a fire going so we can get you warmed up.”
When he wrapped two warm quilts around her quivering frame, he had to hold his confusion in check when she shrugged them off as though they were some disease-ridden rags. She possessively clutched her arms around something as though he might snatch it away, and he tried not to react. This woman was mistrustful and guarded and set against a little help. She eyed him as though she’d seen his face plastered on some Wanted poster.
“Why don’t you sit down here by the woodstove so you’ll be close to the heat?” Gesturing to a chair, he barely contained a wince when she avoided his outstretched hand as though he meant her harm. “It shouldn’t take long for the place to warm up.”
She sat on the edge of the chair. Bunching her shoulders up tight, she made a valiant effort to stop shivering, but as long as she kept that thin and wet cloak on, she’d likely never warm up.
While he banked the coals and loaded fresh kindling in the stove, he stole furtive glances at her shadowed, pale face, looking for signs of bleeding. Or broken bones.
She coughed then grabbed her side, and Ben’s blood ran cold through his veins. His hair prickled at the back of his neck. That she might be another unfortunate bride of some no-good excuse for a husband, who treated his wife worse than his livestock, made him push back a ready curse.
When her whole body heaved with a sudden cough, he hunkered down next to her. “Easy, now. That sure doesn’t sound like an everyday kind of cough. How long have you had it?”
At her dismissive shrug, he gently laid the back of his hand against her forehead, concern mounting at the heat that met his touch. “You’re fevered, too. That’s not good. I hope you’ll forgive me for not coming sooner.”
She flicked her gaze to him, cagey as a mouse in a barren field. Edging away, she angled her focus downward, intent on unknotting tattered ties that held her cloak together by mere threads.
His heart squeezed. He had to bite back a groan of sympathy at the sight of her shabby, wet shoes that poked out from her cloak. When she tipped her head back, nudging her hood off a mat of auburn waves, his throat grew tight.
And when she glanced up at him with the most beautiful almond-shaped blue eyes he’d ever seen, he struggled to gather his wits. She looked like an ethereal waif who’d been to the depths of darkness and back.
The glassy-eyed look veiling her gaze quickly snuffed out his fascination.
He struggled to find his voice. “I think you could use some hot tea about now.”
Her focus skidded to a halt at him, her lips lifting at one corner with the faintest look of pleasure.
Ben swallowed hard, then set to work measuring out a dose of sassafras tea he kept with his medical supplies. When he set the kettle on to boil he was thankful to find heat already radiating from the woodstove.
“So, what’s your name, ma’am?” Straddling a chair directly across from her, he silently tallied her respirations, unable to miss the way she breathed in shallow, raspy rhythms.
“Callie.”
“Callie…” he prompted.
“Just Callie.”
“I’m Ben Drake. I’m the doctor here, but then I think we already covered that.” He offered her a reassuring look. It was nearly killing him to take up precious time with niceties, but as skittish as she was, he didn’t want to risk having her walk out the door. “Are you from around here, just Callie?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, how can I be of help to you? You must’ve come about that cough, am I right?” He dipped his head in an unsuccessful attempt to catch her attention. “How long have you had it?”
“Not long.” Callie slowly rose from the chair, the dingy flour sack grasped firmly in her hand. A wince, so slight he almost missed it, crossed her face as she stood ramrod straight, her chin held high, a heartrending contrast in vulnerable fatigue