Page 18 of A Rugged Beauty
A sparrow sang outside the tiny childhood bedroom she’d shared with her mam and brother, its beautiful trill coming just before dawn every morning. The knowledge emerged inside her, right and true.
"If you mind the nickname, I won't?—"
"I don't mind." Suddenly shy, she couldn't quite look at him as she pushed up to stand.
He followed, and she realized, not for the first time, how tall and broad he was.
"I'll scout out a place on the riverbank where we can put your bonfire," he said.
She nodded without looking at him. "I'll start gathering more wood."
"You shouldn’t wear yourself out," he warned. "If no one comes looking for us, we should still plan to leave in the morning."
Her heart sank. If someone did come, it would change things. Whoever might be looking for them surely knew their names, their identities.
But she and H wouldn't stay in this little clearing, no matter what happened.
The knot in her stomach remained. The future was unclear, and she didn't like it.
"You'll want to apply the salve in the morning and before you go to bed at night."
Doc Goodwin hovered just outside the tent, listening to the advice delivered in sweet tones. He'd been with this particular company for nearly a week—a transplant after leaving an eastbound wagon train that had suffered from bad leadership—and had yet to see one patient.
All because of the young lady inside that tent.
"Thank you, Miss Maddie," an older, feminine voice said.
The tent flap was thrown back and what must be Miss Maddie emerged.
She was looking down, maybe at the wicker basket she held over one arm, and didn't see him. The tent flap came down behind her, and despite his best intentions to see inside, he didn't get a glimpse of the patient.
He followed her for a few feet before irritation had him spewing, "Excuse me."
She stopped, but was rifling through her basket and didn't look up. Around them, Tremblay’s camp was quiet. No one seemed to know what to do without their wagon master or clear directives from the captains.
Doc took a step closer. "I've been hoping to meet you," he said. "I understand you've?—"
She finally looked up, her bonnet slipping back so that he had a clear view of her face.
She was younger than he'd thought—much younger than his thirty-six years. Her unlined face and guileless eyes put her age anywhere from nineteen to twenty-one.
But it was her beauty that hit him like a blow to the kidney. The spray of freckles across her pert nose, the intelligence in her blue eyes framed with sooty lashes that could tease or flirt. Beneath the bonnet, hair the color of fire. Strands had come loose somewhere along the way and framed a graceful jaw.
His breath lodged in his chest. One blink and shame flowed through him, hot and slow like a river of lava he'd once read about in a geology textbook. His lips firmed in disdain at himself, even as he saw the flicker of recognition and the minute narrowing of her eyes.
He cleared his throat, blamed a night of tossing and turning in his bedroll for the discombobulation. "I'm Dr. Jason Goodwin. Folks call me Doc. I thought it was time we met."
Jason.
What had possessed him to introduce himself that way? It was easier to think of himself as Doc, to lean into his occupation. His late wife, Marie, had been the only one who used his given name. Jason was gone. The same way she was.
The young woman’s smile, when it came, was tight. "Maddie Fairfax."
She stuck out her hand and it took a beat too long for his sluggish brain to realize she meant to shake his hand like a man might.
A flush rose high on his cheeks as his hand enveloped hers. The slight feel of her fingers in his, the brush of her palm. It was too much. He dropped her hand like a burning coal.
Resisting the urge to clear his throat again—was he having an allergic reaction to the pollen of some nearby plant?—he jerked his thumb toward the tent she'd only just vacated. "Perhaps I should examine the patient."
