Jane Goodger (13 page)

Again, his mouth curved in a smile.

She touched his arm and got on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, but instead found her lips against his. It was her turn to pull back. “That was cheating,” she said, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. It was such a small kiss, really, not one that should shoot desire through her like a bolt, but it had—right to her toes.

“I suppose I should have warned you first,” he said without even a hint of apology in his tone.

She gulped. “Yes, that would have been nice.”

He looked down at her, his gray eyes intense with an expression she could hardly read. “Miss Amelia, I’m going to kiss you.”

A little thrill went through her, and she lifted her chin. “All right.”

And he did, bringing his mouth against hers, a slow, wonderful kiss that made her knees instantly weak. Carson’s kisses had been full of blatant lust, but Boone’s was more like warm, dark chocolate spreading slowly through her. Delicious, and beyond divine. He didn’t touch her, didn’t draw her against him, though she would have willingly gone if he had, but touched only her lips with his.

He pulled back after only a few seconds, an oddly happy expression on his handsome face. “That’s better,” he said.

“Better than what?” she said, her brain quite foggy, her lips still tingling from what was nothing more than an innocent kiss. Except it didn’t feel innocent.

“Better than I imagined,” he said, his voice low, and Amelia shivered as her body became intensely, embarrassingly, aroused.

“I think I’ll be heading to the hotel now,” he said, but he didn’t move, and she knew he wanted to kiss her again. She shouldn’t want him to, but she did.

“I wish you didn’t have to.” Oh, goodness, that sounded very much like a wanton invitation, and it was her turn to blush. “I mean, I feel badly that I’m taking your home and forcing you to…I didn’t mean that I want you to stay or…I wouldn’t want you to think that I…” She stopped miserably. “You should go,” she said, finally.

“I will. I’m finding you far more tempting than I should, Miss Wellesley.”

After he’d gone, Amelia went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table, her hands folded in front of her. She shouldn’t have kissed him. Shouldn’t have flirted at all. Boone was not used to such easy banter, and she did not want him to get the wrong idea about her, about them. Flirting had always been such a natural part of who she was, she had never really given it much thought. Perhaps it was because in London society, flirting was a pastime, as much as playing statue or shopping.

Did he really find her so tempting? She didn’t want him to. She didn’t want to like his kiss or think him handsome, either, but she did.

She let out a little groan. Why was nothing turning out the way she’d wanted it to? Why couldn’t it have been Carson watching the sunset with her from their front porch? It was a mistake, spending so much time with Boone. She was starting to like him too much; she found him far too attractive. The kiss was a mistake, and must not be repeated.

Boone stepped into the saloon and wished, not for the first time, that he was a drinking man. Wouldn’t it be nice to disappear for a while, to forget about what a complete idiot he was? Carson wasn’t at the bar, for once, and he was glad. He couldn’t face his brother just minutes after kissing the woman he’d been engaged to marry.

Instead he saw Enrique Benavente, Agatha’s husband, pulling back a whiskey. Enrique, or Ricky as he was known to George’s regulars, was a good enough man, though about as lazy as a man could be and still run a chicken farm. He’d grown rather fat in the past few years, a rarity among Texans, who were known for their sinewy bodies brought on by hard lives. Maybe when he was younger he’d had an ounce of ambition, but now he left that particular trait to his two grown sons, both of whom seemed happy enough working from dawn to dusk to eke out a living.

“Hey, Doc.”

“Enrique.” Boone gave the older man a sharp look; he didn’t look well.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you that one of my boys claims he saw Sam Benson over in Hanover. Still mean as a snake, he said.”

“That so,” Boone said with deceptive calm. He’d warned Julia’s husband not to get within fifty miles of Small Fork, and the tiny town of Hanover was just ten miles away. “Maybe I’ll head on over there and have a little talk with him.”

“You be careful, Boone. He’s a rough character.”

“I’m used to rough characters,” Boone said softly, and Enrique’s cheeks flushed slightly. Everyone in town, if they’d been there for any length of time, knew of the terrible things that had happened to Boone.

“Speaking of rough characters, I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell Agatha you seen me here,” he said with his mild Spanish accent. “I’m supposed to be sick.”

“Are you?”

“Just ate something that don’t agree with my stomach,” he said, rubbing his chest and flexing his arm. “Too many spicy beans.”

The truth was, Enrique didn’t look at all well. His face was pale and had a grayish cast. Boone sighed. He didn’t know when these people would see him as a doctor who could help them when they got sick. Boone sat down next to the older man, not offended in the least when Enrique ignored him. Everyone in town knew Boone didn’t drink—something that was seen as a flaw and not a virtue by most.

“Your arm hurt?”

Enrique immediately stopped rubbing it. “Naw.”

“Your chest?”

“Just too many spices. Comes and goes.”

Boone stared at Enrique and wondered whether he dared suggest what he was thinking: the man’s heart was in trouble and he needed to be in bed, not at a bar drinking. The man was sweating unnaturally.

“Enrique?”

He took another drink and winced, and Boone had a feeling it wasn’t the whiskey that had brought on that pained expression. “Agatha made those beans too spicy,” he said, putting a fist against his chest.

“Enrique, I need for you to lie down. I don’t think it’s the spicy food. I think it’s your heart.”

The older man looked at Boone like he was crazy. “I’m as strong as a bull. Never sick in my life. Why, just yesterday…” He stopped talking in mid-sentence, and his face grew deathly pale. He gasped for breath and clutched his chest, letting out a vile curse. He squeezed his eyes shut, both hands fisted against his chest. “Okay. It’s better. It’s nothing,” he managed. He opened his eyes and actually managed to wave George over to pour another drink.

“We’ve got to get you home.” Boone saw raw fear in Enrique’s eyes.

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right. Just let me catch my breath.” The man sat at the stool for a few minutes before getting to his feet gingerly. “I’m feeling better.”

“It’s your heart, and you’re not better. Not yet.” Boone had recently read an article written by a New York doctor who was able to tie obesity to deaths from heart disease. The doctor had lectured at the Academy of Medicine not long ago about ways for the overweight to reduce their flesh. Boone would talk to Agatha about treatment, and hopefully she could convince her husband to change his ways.

“I have something I could give you,” Boone said, walking slowly beside Enrique, ready to help the man should he need it. “It’s been used quite successfully on patients in Ireland, and I feel it has promising results.”

“All I need is a good night’s rest,” Enrique said, but there was a bit less bravado in his tone.

“Let me get my landau,” Boone said, practically forcing the man to take a seat on the bench outside the hotel. Three Legs was on the porch, and his tail thumped against the boardwalk.

George stuck his head out. “You okay, Ricky? Don’t want to be losing my best customer.”

Enrique smiled grimly. “I’m perfleshy fine. An’ I don’ need any gringo doctor telling me I’m not fine.”

Boone halted in his tracks. Either the effects of alcohol had come on suddenly, or Enrique was suffering from more than just a heart attack. His words were slurred, and he slumped suddenly to one side.

“Enrique?”

“I don’t feel ri…” and he slumped over completely, stopped only by Boone’s fast action. He called for the barkeep, and the two of them laid him down on the bench.

“He dead?” George asked.

“No,” Boone said, feeling the man’s pulse strong in his neck. “But you best go get Agatha. And his sons.”

“Aw, no,” George said. “I was just joking about losing him.” He wiped a hand across his bearded face, looking as if he were the cause of whatever was wrong with his friend.

Boone stayed with Enrique, feeling helpless. A small crowd gathered around him, mostly old men who stood talking quietly, secretly wondering about their own mortality. “You men watch him. I need to go across the street to get my bag,” he said, then ran to his office, assuming they’d follow his orders. He exploded into the kitchen, making Amelia scream in fright. She was sitting at the table in near darkness. Hell, he’d forgotten all about her.

“Agatha’s husband just collapsed outside the hotel. I need to bring him here. Could you get the room off my office ready for him? The linens are in the cabinet. Lighting a few lamps would help, too.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, just left her there, stunned and wide-eyed. Even with such an emergency on his hands, he had time to appreciate the fact that he’d actually surprised her into silence. He found the crataegus oxyacantha quickly, glad that he was as meticulous about storing treatments as he was about everything in his life.

The crataegus would treat the heart problem, but now Boone was far more worried that Enrique had also suffered from apoplexy, which had no known successful treatment. In medical school he’d learned that the outcome of such an event was not hopeful for many patients.

He turned to find Amelia behind him, her arms loaded with clean linens, looking worried. “Is it serious, do you think?”

He nodded, putting everything he needed neatly in his bag.

“Is he going to die?” she asked, her voice small and filled with a strange terror. As far as Boone knew, she’d never even met the man.

“I’ll know better in a few minutes.”

She nodded shakily, then disappeared into the tiny room he’d added for just such a serious patient. Boone didn’t have time to wonder about her strange reaction as he headed out the door.

Enrique was surrounded by men, and to Boone’s surprise he was sitting up and talking, his voice only slightly slurred. Perhaps it had just been the drink. Then Boone noticed the right side of his body was slightly off. Even his face seemed to sag slightly on the right side.

“I need you men to help me get him to my office,” Boone said.

“He ain’t exactly skinny,” one man grumbled.

“Hell, I don’t need any help,” Enrique said, and actually attempted to get up, only to find the right side of his body wasn’t cooperating.

His two sons, big strapping men, pushed through the crowd, with Agatha and Dulce hurrying up behind. When Agatha saw her husband sitting up, but with something clearly wrong, she threw herself on him, sobbing uncontrollably. Enrique put a gentle hand on her back, patting it, and telling her he was fine. But his voice was unnaturally slurred, and he couldn’t move his right hand at all.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dulce demanded, as if someone were to blame.

“It’s his heart. You boys support his shoulders, and we’ll get him to the office,” Boone said to Agatha’s sons, who hovered in the background stoically.

“We brought the buckboard,” his oldest son said. “We can bring him on home.”

Boone looked at Agatha with her head buried against her husband’s neck, and he nodded. If the man was going to die, and he just might, it was best he did it at home surrounded by his family. “We’ll get him home and talk there. You boys bring that buckboard right up to the boardwalk.” It would be no easy task to get a man as large as Enrique Benavente up on that wagon.

“I’ll help.”

Boone turned to see Carson standing beside him looking relatively clean. He smelled of booze but wasn’t outwardly drunk, so Boone nodded silently, accepting his brother’s help. As they helped the stricken man up, the crowd separated and Boone saw Amelia standing in the street, worrying her hands in front of her, her eyes riveted on Carson. Even as he struggled with the near dead weight of Enrique, Boone felt a sharp, almost painful pull as he watched her watch Carson. She didn’t spare him a glance. Not one.

Amelia watched as the buckboard drew away and the small crowd headed back into the hotel. Carson had seen her in the street, and for a terrible moment she felt an overwhelming need to go to him. She almost willed him to look at her, to see the pain he’d caused her. But when he did look up, his expression was completely unreadable.

“Hey Amelia,” he said, nodding toward her but not taking one step in her direction. They stood awkwardly for a few minutes, with Boone watching them from the side.

“I have to go to the Benaventes’,” Boone said, looking from one to the other. “You’re not planning to hurt him, are you, Amelia, ’cause I’m going to be busy tonight and I won’t be able to patch him up.”

Amelia gave Boone a grateful look.

“I don’t suppose a sharp slap to his face will warrant medical attention,” she said, and Boone smiled. He looked as if he were going to say more, but he took up his medical bag and headed for the stable to retrieve his horse.

“I’d deserve that slap,” Carson said, solemn for once.

“Yes, you would.”

“I just wish you weren’t so damned pretty,” Carson said, taking a step toward her.

Amelia held up a hand. “Don’t,” she said sharply. “Don’t you dare try to charm me right now.”

He tilted his hat back on his head and put his hands low on his hips, looking for all the world like that cowboy she’d dreamed of having. His hair was pulled back off his face, and it looked like he’d shaved in the past day or so. Unbelievably, she felt a tug on her heart, which only made her angry with herself, and with him.

“Honey, I know better than to try to charm you,” he said in that slow drawl she’d fallen in love with in England.

“Good. Because I cannot be charmed by you anymore. The damage has definitely been done.”

“I’m sorry about that, I truly am,” he said, and for a moment he actually looked sorry. “Does that mean I can’t get a kiss from my girl?”