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A Family Practice
Gayle Kasper
Mariah Cade was a holistic healer whose knowledge of plant medicine helped her young daughter. But Mariah's peaceful world was interrupted by a stranger on a motorcycle. A man whose injuries required her healing hands–even as he awakened her deepest desires…. Racing blindly from tragedy, Dr. Luke Phillips left his big-city trauma practice for a road trip to… anywhere.He was drawn to Mariah's undeniable grace and beauty and the delight of her precious child, and began to feel something he thought was lost forever. But to recover from his shattered past, he'll need to trust more than Mariah's love…he'll need to trust himself.



A Family Practice
Gayle Kasper

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
In memory of the real-life Una
and all you taught me

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue

Chapter One
Dr. Luke Phillips leaned his big silver Harley into the curve, racing the wind, and sometimes winning. It was the only pleasure he allowed himself.
He’d left the interstate behind somewhere south of Flagstaff, Arizona, preferring the solitude of this two-lane road to nowhere. Flowering cacti, the brutal sun and red rock kept him company. Dry red dust peppered his face and arms. He tasted its grit.
At the moment he’d sell his soul for the sight of a shade tree—or what passed for shade in this part of the country. Not that his soul was worth a whole hell of a lot these days.
He’d left who and what he was behind in Chicago forever.
Then a short distance ahead he spotted a small sliver of shade produced by one scrawny pine tree. He coasted the bike to a stop at the side of the road and dismounted.
Soon he’d have to consider traveling at night and sleeping by day. The afternoon sun could be relentless, even dangerous to the uninitiated. And he supposed he was that, despite the deep tan the last thousand miles or so had given him.
He sprinted across the dry bed of an arroyo and scaled the rocky mesa, intent on reaching that shade tree. A twenty-minute power nap and he’d be as good as new.
But a short distance from the tree he paused, finding the scenery had just improved—in the form of one very feminine, denim-clad fanny raised to the sky. The woman was leaning out over the edge of the rocky ledge, reaching for something a distant grasp away, oblivious to his approach behind her.
He wondered if the view from the front was half as intriguing. His gaze remained riveted on her, his breath caught halfway to his lungs as she leaned out farther over the lip of the rock.
Damn!
One stiff breeze could send her over the side.
He stood stock-still, not wanting to startle her into taking a misguided plunge. He didn’t mean to gape, but since any sudden movement could bring on disaster, what else did he have to do with his time?
Time—he had plenty of that.
The entire remainder of his life, in fact.
He wasn’t going back to Chicago. There was nothing there for him anymore. The medical center and trauma unit would do well without him. They had good doctors, the best.
Luke should know.
He’d been one of them himself—until two months ago.
A knot formed in his throat, but he fought it down, fought down the damning memories, as well. Life went on. It just went on without him now.
But that was the way Luke wanted it.
He didn’t know how many miles he’d ridden, how many highways he’d taken. All he knew was that not one of them had brought him the solace he desired, the amnesia for his soul.
The unrelenting sun beat down, making him eager for that quick siesta in the shade, but he didn’t dare move until the woman with the provocative fanny quit her trapeze act and righted herself. Besides, did he want to miss that first glimpse of her when she got up from her knees and turned around?
He wondered if her eyes were brown and earthy. Or maybe the azure-blue of the Arizona sky overhead. He imagined high cheekbones caressed by the sun, lips that curved gracefully into a smile, or maybe a feminine pout.
Just then she inched back from the mesa’s precarious edge and stood up. Her hair was dark and silken and tumbled over one shoulder in a long, loose braid. In her right hand she held a plant, its roots dangling with red soil and rock, small reddish blossoms sprouting in profusion, protected by pale, spiny leaves.
“You risked your life for a damned flower?”
She spun around to face him.
He’d been wrong. Her eyes were green—and at the moment, wide with surprise at the sight of a stranger in front of her.
She obviously hadn’t expected to find company out here in the middle of solitude. She drew the flower closer to her body, clutching it as if she expected he might snatch it from her.
Her frame was slight, her legs long and straight, the kind of legs that could make any red-blooded male dream of them wrapped around him during a night of hot passion.
His hands could span her tiny waist and cup the modest fullness of her high, firm breasts. The sun had given color to the tip of her nose, and a smudge of red dirt decorated the tip of her fighting chin. She nervously moistened her full, lower lip and eyed him warily.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said gently.
He didn’t want her to bolt like a frightened deer. He’d be happy to go on looking at her until this time tomorrow.
Or a month from tomorrow.
One thing he was certain of, they didn’t grow women this earthy back in Chicago. Maybe it was something in the water.
Or the red dust.
She seemed to be one with the land, comfortable with it, mistress of it, and he found he liked that.
She took his measure, too, assessing his strong-built body, the width of his square shoulders, then glanced quickly in the direction he’d come, spotting the big Harley he’d left by the side of the road.
“I stopped to find some shade,” he explained, not entirely sure why he was doing so.
Her eyes darted back to him, roaming over his wind-burned face, settling finally on his mouth curved in a crooked half smile he hoped passed for friendly and nonthreatening.
It seemed to.
She gave a soft, returning smile. “There’s not much shade around here. You have to find it where you can.”
Her voice was low, soft, innocent—and it did dangerous things to his libido.
Luke didn’t reply, only continued to watch her with steady deliberation, taking in her earthy beauty, her quiet ways—and liking what he saw.
Just then she reached for the brightly woven basket at her feet and dropped the flower into it, a basket he noticed contained other plants and what looked like a jumble of old roots and bark.
“I…I should go,” she said finally. “Goodbye. Enjoy your shade.”
“Wait—”
She glanced up, and her gaze locked with his, one feminine brow raised questioningly.
He didn’t want her to leave, disappearing from his life as if she’d been nothing more than a mirage in the desert. “You didn’t answer my question—what’s so special about a flower you have to lean out over the edge to dig up?”
She glanced down at the basket she held and toyed with a delicate bloom. “It’s not really a flower. It’s wild germander, an herb—and rare in this part of the high country.”
“And rare makes it special enough to risk falling off the side of a mesa?”
He thought he saw a shadow of pain cross her delicate features. Luke knew about pain, both personally and professionally, knew how it ate at a man’s soul.
His soul.
She pinched off a blossom and raised it to her nose, sniffing its scent. “It’s special for its…medicinal value,” she said, then her chin rose. “I really do have to go.”
She took a step, but again Luke stopped her. “What’s your name?”
She hesitated as if trying to decide if it were proper to introduce herself to a man she met on a mesa in the middle of nowhere. After a moment trust won out. She gave him a slight smile. “Mariah,” she said.
“Mariah.” He repeated it after her, liking its lilt, its music. It would slide easily off a man’s tongue during a night of lovemaking. “I’m Luke,” he offered. “Luke Phillips.”
He deliberately didn’t mention the doctor part. He wasn’t sure he could claim the right—or that he wanted to. All his finely honed skills had failed him the one night they had mattered the most.
Now they were of no use to him.
“Hello, Luke Phillips,” she answered. There was a slight hesitancy to her soft voice, something he could understand, given the circumstances.
But there was something quiet, serene, about her. Something that gave him peace somehow. Was it a part of who she was? Or something she had perfected? Whichever, he liked that about her—and wished he could find some for himself.
“Tell me about its medicinal value, this…this wild germander.”

Mariah Cade studied the man in front of her. She wasn’t afraid of him—though she had been at first. Just a little. Or maybe she’d just been surprised at seeing him. She seldom ran across another living soul when she was out gathering her herbs.
It was her quiet time—time to take stock of her life, perhaps wish things could be different, better. Better for Callie. She’d do anything to find the right herbs for her daughter, whether they grew on the side of a mesa or the far side of the moon.
She considered how best to answer the man, whose very shadow dwarfed her with its size. He had shoulders as wide as a mountain, a broad, densely muscled chest, lean hips and a strength, a potent masculinity that emanated from him like shimmers of heat off the desert plain.
His face commanded a woman’s attention, with its strong Nordic features that hinted at a ruthless Viking or two in his ancestry—steel-blue eyes, a straight proud nose, square chin and a mane of brown hair, tipped blond by the sun. His skin, too, showed the kiss of sunshine, his body glistening like gold dust.
“It’s an herb with many uses,” she said, not sure she wanted to reveal more to this stranger. Perhaps she was protecting Callie, perhaps herself.
She hadn’t missed the smile that had played at the edges of his mouth, a smile that played there now, as if he might be mocking her and her simplistic ways.
She ran a finger down a long entwined root, secure in her knowledge that this would help Callie, which was the important thing. The only thing, she thought as her daughter’s bright smile flickered through her mind.
Callie was her life, had been from the moment she’d been conceived. They were bound together as tightly as two people could be.
“Plants can cure,” she said, her voice low and wispy. “And sometimes they bring peace and calm.”

Peace.
Calm.
Luke could use a little of both in his life—and he wondered if this small slip of a woman had somehow cornered the market on them both, if she held the key there in her basket of jumbled roots and flowers.
He was tempted to stick around and find out—but he lived in a world of reality. A painful reality. And the only cure for it was to keep moving. Where, he didn’t know. Or care. Anywhere would do, if it eased his pain; if it made him forget—even a little.
His gaze skimmed over her, taking in her appealing curves in her dusty jeans and soft red blouse. Small Indian beads dangled from her earlobes in a spill of silver and bright color—and he longed to reach out and touch them.
Touch her.
If only to assure himself she was real—and not a dream his tired mind had conjured up.
Her shoulders were slight, her spine straight as a new sapling, and he had the feeling she could move over the terrain as easily as the white-tailed deer he’d glimpsed from the road as he’d passed through this high-desert land.
“So, are you off to gather more plants?” he asked, wondering if she took a siesta to escape the afternoon heat—or if she were somehow immune to it.
She checked the level of the sun, judging her time from it the way others would consult a watch. “Yes—for a little while yet.”
She turned to leave. Again Luke wanted to keep her with him, but he had no reason to, at least no logical reason. He was merely passing through and their paths had crossed.
He watched her go, tripping off down the trail in her soft moccasins. He wondered what—or who—might be waiting for her at home.
A husband?
A child?
But that, he knew, was none of his business.
At least for a little while she’d made him forget his pain. And that was something no one had been able to do for him these past dark, empty months.

A few hours later Mariah’s basket was full to overflowing. Indian fig, wild licorice, comfrey root. Mariah was pleased to have found them all. It had been a good day. She now had enough herbs to last for a while.
She turned and started back toward the ancient truck she’d parked down by the stream that flowed briskly in the spring, fed by the snowmelt from the high mountains.
When summer came, it would dry up to dust and rock, but for now there was enough cool water to splash over her face and arms before she began her drive home.
She’d strayed farther than she’d intended today, but the hope of finding more plants had lured her on. Many of the herbs she needed were scarce in this high-desert region, but Mariah would search until she found that one lone plant. And when she couldn’t find what she needed, she’d substitute.
Una Roanhorse had taught her well. The old Hopi woman’s eyes were failing now—she could no longer gather roots and plants for herself, so Mariah shared what she had with her. In return, Una looked after Callie. It was a good arrangement. Callie loved the older woman, loved the Hopi tales Una often told her, the same tales Mariah had heard as a child growing up on the land of her people.
Mariah’s father had been a bahana, a white man. She didn’t remember him, though. He hadn’t bothered to stay around. Her mother had died many years before, and Mariah had strayed from the native ways—not feeling like a bahana, not feeling entirely Hopi, either.
She’d known very little about the plants and herbs the earth gave, or how beneficial they could be. Not until she’d needed them—for Callie.
Mariah was grateful to Una for sharing her knowledge. The herbals helped Callie as nothing else had been able to do.
Certainly not the doctors’ medicines.
Una had become a friend when Mariah moved here two years ago. Mariah’s marriage to Will Cade had ended, probably even before he’d left for California and the new life he wanted for himself.
A life without the responsibilities of a wife or child.
A sick child.
She’d been frightened then—and alone. Except for Callie. Una had made her feel welcome, even taken her under her wing until Mariah was able to recover her pride and put her life on a steady footing.
She seldom thought of the past now, her marriage, or the man who’d abandoned them with so little regard for their welfare.
The herbs that she gathered for Callie soon became a source of livelihood for her, a way to support herself and her daughter. She began by preparing and packaging the extras she collected and selling them to the local people. Last year she started her own mail-order business, reaching even more people with her natural medicines.
It wasn’t a lot of money—her only large account was a health-food store in Phoenix—but it was enough to provide a modest living for them. And even a few extras now and then.
Just then she neared the place where she’d encountered the man on the mesa, the man with the golden body and the storm-blue eyes.
Luke.
She wasn’t sure why he intrigued her, but he had. She wondered where he’d come from—and where he was headed on that big cycle of his. Not many people strayed this far from the interstate. She might have asked him, but she’d needed to get on with what she was doing. She didn’t like to be away from Callie too long.
She glanced down the road, shading her eyes, curious to see if his cycle was still parked where it had been, but it was gone. She denied the quick pang of disappointment she felt, calling herself foolish for the weakness. She was no longer a schoolgirl with silly ideas in her head, but a woman, a mother—with a child who needed her.
She shifted the basket to her other hip and continued on, but Luke Phillips wasn’t easily dispelled from her mind. Sunrise was a town that had been forgotten by time, passed over by the tourist trade, though it could well boast of some of Arizona’s most breathtaking scenery. They didn’t get very many strangers passing through—but that was no reason this man should have such a hold on her.
Perhaps it had been that indefinable look she’d glimpsed in his eyes, as if he, too, carried a pain he found difficult to bear, a pain that tore at his heart.
The way Callie did hers.
Then over the next rise Mariah stopped in her tracks. There’d been an accident. The shiny silver of a motorcycle glinted back at her, looking like a fallen warrior as it lay on its side in the center of the road.
Where was Luke?
Was he hurt?
She swiftly scanned both sides of the road, then spotted him sitting under a lone cottonwood a few yards away. “Luke,” she called out to him. “What happened? Are you all right?”
He turned at the sound of her voice and she approached warily. The right side of his face was dirty and bloody. The denim of his right pant leg was ripped and he’d stripped off his black T-shirt and tied it around his thigh to stop the bleeding that was already beginning to soak through the fabric.
Her gaze slid over his bare, muscled torso, not missing the scrape across his right shoulder and the ugly purple color already starting to darken the skin.
“Damned armadillo,” he cursed.
She met his scowl. “Armadillo?”
“Yeah.” His scowl deepened. “I swerved to miss it and the bike went spinning out of control. Know what’s the worst of the deal? It just lumbered on past me without a glance, off into the damned sagebrush.”
“And left you in a mess, it seems.”
“And the bike unridable,” he added. “Don’t happen to know a good mechanic around here, do you?”
Mariah’s gaze swept over him. “Right now I think it’s more important to get you seen to. Some of those cuts and scrapes look serious.”
Luke didn’t agree. He was a doctor—at least enough of one to know that the wounds were mostly superficial. But what he’d done for the last ten years of his life was not something he wanted to reveal to this woman. It would only bring on the inevitable questions, questions he didn’t want to answer.
“Look, I’m fine,” he said. “The only thing seriously damaged is my pride. No man wants to admit he was brought down by a miserable armadillo.”
His answer didn’t dissuade her from her concern, though it did prompt a smile, a smile that could pump a little daylight into the dark reaches of his heart—if he allowed it to.
He tried to forget the brightness in her smile, but it wasn’t as easy to ignore her touch when her fingers brushed his shoulder softly, gently, probingly.
She knelt in front of him and examined the wound in his leg, loosening the makeshift dressing to make her own assessment of the damage. Her touch was as confident as any surgeon’s—and damningly sensual. That last thought had him sucking in a breath.
She glanced up. “Sorry—does that hurt?”
There was innocence pooled in her green eyes, the kind that could make a man believe in the world again. But that would be a tall order for Luke.
“Would a macho guy like me admit it if it did?” he returned.
That brought another smile to her pretty lips, and for one dangerous moment he wanted to crush those lips with his own, feel them part for him, taste their sweetness and that all-fired innocence of hers. There was something so natural about her, nurturing, and a serenity he envied.
“Look—we’ve got to get you cleaned up,” she said as she retied the dressing on his leg. “My truck is parked nearby. Sit still, and I’ll go get it. We can load the cycle in the back.”
He glanced at her slender body and decided the woman wouldn’t be of much use in the loading department.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she said.
As if Luke had anyplace to go in this wilderness.
As if he had anyplace to go at all.
He leaned back against the tree and watched as she disappeared on down the road. He should have asked her how far she had to go to retrieve that truck of hers. A mile? Ten miles? Luke had the feeling distance didn’t mean all that much to her, that she was well-accustomed to getting where she wanted to go—and under her own power.
He frowned at his now-useless bike and ran a hand over his jaw. How the hell had he gotten himself into this mess? But that wasn’t something he wanted to think about.
It was more than one nuisance armadillo in the road.
It was why he was on this road in the first place, what had happened in the trauma unit that one tragic night—and his inability to live with himself because of it.
He wasn’t sure how long he could keep on running from his pain—or if he could ever escape it. All he knew was that it had traveled with him every mile of his journey.
An unwanted companion on his ride to nowhere.

It didn’t take Mariah long to retrieve the truck from where she’d parked it. But there was no time for that cooling splash in the stream she’d planned on—not today.
Luke needed her attention.
Already she was thinking ahead to what herbs she had on hand to treat his cuts and bruises. That was, if he held still for her simple remedies.
He probably preferred modern medicine. But it was a long drive to the nearest clinic. She hadn’t wanted to tell him that. Or that it was an even longer drive to the nearest repair shop for his motorcycle.
The old truck started on the first try, which was something of a minor miracle. Usually she had to coax it to life, promising the metal heap she wouldn’t sell it to the first passerby.
Mariah patted the dashboard and smiled, then released the gear and turned the truck around, bouncing over the sagebrush toward the road—and Luke.
Visions of the man, minus his shirt, shimmered before her eyes. She hadn’t been able to draw her gaze away from him, from the smattering of dark, golden hair that arrowed enticingly down to his waist and disappeared beneath his low-slung jeans.
He was easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Not that she had seen that many handsome men—but growing up in the Hopi world, Mariah had learned to appreciate the beauty and form of nature.
And the man she’d left sitting under that spindly cottonwood tree was nature at its most perfect.
Her hands felt damp on the steering wheel, and her heart pounded way too fast. What was the matter with her? Luke was a patient, one who needed her attention. She should be concentrating on the man’s injuries, not his tempting body.
The truck coughed and sputtered over the next rise, then Luke came into view. He stood as she neared, shielding his eyes against the sun to watch her approach.
She stopped and executed a turn, backing the truck up in front of the cycle so it would be easier for them to load.
“That thing’s quite a relic,” he said, standing back to take in the truck with a slow, sweeping glance.
“At least it runs,” Mariah returned.
She lowered the tailgate with a rasp of metal, then dragged out a weather-beaten old board from the back end to use as a makeshift ramp.
“Look, you’re not exactly the weighty help I need to load this baby into the back end,” he said, running a critical eye over her smallish shape.
Mariah drew herself up taller. “That may be, but I don’t see anyone else lining up to offer his services, do you?”
Luke cursed inventively and ran a hand through his hair. He hated being at anyone’s mercy—especially a woman who heated his blood the way Mariah did.
He caught her soft scent, sweet and sun-drenched—like the flowers she collected in her basket. Her red blouse dipped just low enough at the neck to reveal the slightest hint of her delectable breasts beneath.
Her arms were bronzed by the sun, slender, capable; just not capable of raising his bike to the bed of her truck, though he had no doubt that she would try.
He had the feeling that she was accomplished at many things, that she had to be. Perhaps she was alone in the world, with no one to share the emotional and physical load she carried—or did she prefer to carry it all herself?
She made him curious, though he had no right to be anything of the sort. This was only a chance meeting of two people in time, one moment of accident that had brought them together.
He longed to feed his soul with her warmth, something he denied himself because of his failure that night in the trauma unit.
The night he couldn’t work his medical magic.
The night he failed to save his son.

Chapter Two
“This is Sunrise,” Mariah said as they passed through the tiny town of only a few businesses.
A small grocery store, an old tavern, a pizza place and a post office surrounded the small center plaza. Several square-shaped houses were scattered around the town’s outskirts. And up on the hill beyond sat the church with its old bell tower, the bell long-since missing.
“You live in town?” he asked.
She glanced over at him, his injured leg stretched out in front of him as best he could in the cramped cab of her truck. She needed to take care of that leg wound. It had to be painful—despite his insistence to the contrary.
The man pretended toughness—and Mariah suspected he wasn’t about to admit to simple weaknesses like cuts and scrapes and bruises.
“I live a short distance beyond. It’s not far,” she said as the truck rumbled past the town’s environs.
Callie would be waiting for her at home. And Una would have supper started. She always did when Mariah was away gathering her herbs and roots.
Both would be surprised she was bringing home a guest of sorts.
A few miles ahead she made a turn, the truck creaking and groaning as if it were an old woman getting out of a rocker after a long afternoon nap.
She passed Una’s small frame-and-stucco house. Her own was just past it, not much larger size-wise, but with a wide porch that Mariah loved. She often sat out there at the end of her day, listening to the night sounds, enjoying the solitude—and thinking of the day to come.
“Here we are,” she said, as she pulled into the long driveway and parked a short distance from the house.
Luke surveyed his surroundings. The house was small, but it exuded a warmth that was very much Mariah. Maybe it was the big front porch, or perhaps the soft, fluttery white curtains at the windows or the well-tended garden at the side, but he liked it. Liked its soft cream color, its peace and simplicity.
He opened the truck door and swung his injured leg out. If it hadn’t been for his little mishap back on the road, he’d have been halfway to Phoenix by now. Not that he was on any schedule.
Not since he’d left his life fifteen-hundred miles behind.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Luke glanced up to see a little girl of about six, maybe seven, tripping toward them. The first thing he noticed was her beauty—dark silken hair, like her mother’s, and the same vibrant green eyes.
The brightness in her face, her smile, eclipsed the other thing he noticed—sturdy braces on her thin, coltish legs, braces that at the moment weren’t impeding her progress much.
Mariah came around the side of the truck and swept the child up in her arms. “Callie, this is Luke Phillips,” she said.
“Hi, Luke Phillips,” she answered, using his whole name, much the same way her mother had earlier.
Luke liked the sound of it. He also liked the smile on Mariah’s face, the one that matched her daughter’s.
Friendliness was a way of life out here, it seemed, and it was Luke’s good fortune that it was. Otherwise he’d be sitting back there along the road with nothing but cactus for company.
The little girl was like a bright ray of sunshine after a long, dark day, he thought, and stuck out his hand. She accepted it shyly, her grasp light, innocent, her hand tiny in his.
Luke recognized instantly that this was a child who’d experienced pain, but there was no sign of it in her sweet smile, or the confident raise of her chin—as if she, like her mother, wasn’t afraid to take on the world at large.
“Hi, Callie,” he returned.
She glanced down at the shirt tied around his thigh, then at the scrapes and bruises on his shoulder and jaw. “You got hurt,” she said. “Is my mommy gonna fix you up?”
He swept his gaze from Callie to Mariah. Luke wasn’t exactly used to being on the receiving end of medicine, but he suspected Mariah knew how to dispense treatment, along with a little peace, a peace a man could get used to—if he allowed it.
“I am,” Mariah answered her daughter. “Luke had a little…accident. He had to swerve to miss an armadillo with his motorcycle.”
That made the little girl giggle. At the moment Luke didn’t see much humor in the incident—but he allowed a hint of a smile to break through anyway.
“Come on inside and meet Una,” Mariah urged as she set her daughter down, cautious until Callie was steady on her braces.
“Who is Una?” he asked.
“My neighbor. And friend. She watches Callie for me when I need her. And if I know Una, she has a pot of her Southwest stew simmering on the stove.”
“No, Mommy—she made chili,” Callie told her. “Do you like chili?” she asked Luke.
“It so happens I love chili,” he answered the little girl.
She smiled.
“First we clean your war wounds,” Mariah announced.
Luke’s leg was beginning to stiffen up on him. And it hurt like the devil. But he didn’t intend to admit that to Mariah. “I’m okay,” he said.
She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe that for a moment, then started toward the house. Callie bounded ahead of them, somehow managing gracefully on her braces.
“She’s a beautiful child,” Luke said.
Mariah smiled. Mother-pride shone in her eyes—but it didn’t quite hide that small shadow of sadness Luke caught in their sea-green depths.
“Callie’s a delight,” she said. “My bright joy. I—I just wish things could be…different for her,” she said softly.
Luke knew she meant the stiff braces Callie wore. His professional guess would be that the child had a form of juvenile rheumatoid arthritis.
He’d seen the disease in its cruel form during his pediatric work in med school. He knew its effects. But he didn’t know how to offer comfort any more than he knew how to find it for himself.
They found Una in the kitchen. Callie had already informed her they were having a guest for supper tonight.
“Help me set another place at the table,” Una told the child, then she turned and gave Luke a once-over. “Father Sky above! You look like you got skinned by a bear.”
Luke grimaced. “I’m afraid it wasn’t anything quite that fierce, ma’am.”
Mariah hid a grin, but she didn’t elaborate on his scrapes and bruises—or how he’d come by them.
“A little sunflower and a sprinkle of ground willow bark—that ought to fix him up.” Una gave her prescriptive advice with a brisk nod to Mariah.
It was exactly what Mariah had in mind for her patient—providing the man would sit still for it.
She wasn’t sure he would.
“Why don’t you boil some water,” she told Una, “while I get this man stripped.”
Luke’s eyes widened in surprise for a quick moment, then a very male frown took its place on his face. “It’s only a few scratches. I can look after them myself.”
“The injury to your thigh needs treatment—and so does your shoulder. If you have a problem with that, you can complain about it later.” She motioned him toward a small room off the kitchen. Finding a large blue towel in the cabinet, she pulled it down and handed it to him. “I’ll go help Una with that hot water. You get out of those jeans,” she told him.
Luke grumbled under his breath as she left the room, but he undid the shirt he’d tied around his leg as a makeshift compress. Beneath it the gash didn’t look too bad, he decided. It wasn’t deep enough to need suturing. Just bothersome enough to make riding out of here uncomfortable. That was, if he could even find someplace to repair his cycle.
Luke knew one armadillo with a price on its head.
He’d just finished sliding off his jeans when he heard Mariah return.
“Are you decent?” she called through the closed door.
Luke frowned. “As decent as I can get wearing damned little,” he answered, dragging the towel around him, and wishing it had a little extra yardage.
Mariah kept her eyes averted as she entered the room, wishing there was some other way to do this. And that her patient wasn’t so overwhelming. Both dressed or in the altogether.
Luke Phillips had more male appeal than the laws of nature should allow, an innate masculinity she was having a difficult time dealing with at the moment.
Her hormones bucked, but she tamped down her reaction to the man and set the bowl of steaming water on the small worktable in front of her, then motioned Luke to a chair.
She would get through this somehow, hopefully with her wanton hormones intact.
“Una sent you a little firewater, in lieu of a bullet to bite on,” she said, drawing a pint-size bottle of whiskey from the back pocket of her jeans.
That produced a wide-eyed glance from Luke, followed by a slow smile—a smile that was as potent as the rest of him beneath that blue towel.
“You expect the surgery to be that bad, Doc?”
He was teasing her. Mariah swallowed hard and tried to remain calm, focusing her gaze on his wounds instead of his broad chest and equally broad shoulders, every muscle firm and sleek and tanned. The man was too good-looking for comfort.
Her comfort.
Awareness clawed at her nerves here in the close confines of the room. She tried to picture him fully clothed instead of in that precarious blue towel.
But it did little for her senses.
His broad shoulders would fill out a shirt to perfection—or a suit. Did he wear a tux back where he came from—perhaps for a special event?
Or a date?
That thought flashed into her mind and she tamped down her reaction, trying to focus on the task at hand.
“I’ll try to be gentle,” she said.
His body heat radiated to her in the small room. He smelled of fresh air and sunshine and forbidden stranger. And it was having a decided effect on her.
Luke watched Mariah work, sprinkling something into the water he supposed was that ground willow bark Una had talked about, then dipped a soft, white washcloth into the mixture. But he hadn’t been ready for her touch as she cleansed the gash on his thigh.
Her hands were gentle, yet sure—and damningly sensual. He struggled with the effect they had on his body, and decided a little of Una’s firewater might be in order after all.
Not to dull the pain in his leg—but to numb his suddenly threatening testosterone.
“Damn,” he cursed, then sucked in a breath and reached for the bottle of whiskey.
“Sorry, does this hurt?”
He was in a world of hurt—and not sure he’d survive. Her touch was driving him wild. “I think that’s good enough,” he ground out. “Why don’t you work on my shoulder for a while?”
“Your shoul—oh!”
The light dawned in her pretty green eyes and a heated blush climbed her neck and spread across her cheeks before she glanced away, unable to meet his gaze.
“I’ll just rinse the cloth and…and…”
He put a hand on her arm, then thought better of it and drew it away. “It’s okay, Mariah. I’m, uh, just on a rather short fuse right now.”
Her reply was a deeper blush, and Luke took a long swallow of whiskey.
“Tell me about Callie,” he said as she immersed her cloth in the hot mixture again. He needed to get his mind off the tempting woman beside him, and conversation was the best way he knew to deal with the situation. Besides, he wanted to know more about her, about Callie, about their life out here in the middle of nowhere. “The plants you gathered…they’re for your daughter, aren’t they?”
Mariah dabbed the herbal solution onto Luke’s shoulder wound. She’d been so engrossed in her work, cleansing the injury on his thigh, that she hadn’t realized she’d been…affecting him. It seemed that this awareness was a problem on both their parts.
Her hands shook at the merest brush of his skin and her heart beat heavily. How long had it been since she’d been this close to a gorgeous male? Never, she admitted. At least not one as gorgeous as Luke.
Will had been good-looking, she supposed. At least she’d once thought so—then she’d seen the ugliness beneath the surface.
There’d been no man in her life since Will had left, which suited Mariah just fine. She’d been sorely hurt by his defection, hurt that he could care so little about his daughter.
Callie was what was important to her now.
She always would be.
“Yes,” she said. “The herbs are for Callie—for her arthritis, at least most of them are. Una taught me their uses, when the doctor’s medicine failed to help.”
Luke seemed to understand about Callie. He hadn’t shown the slightest surprise when she’d come bounding toward them on her cumbersome braces. Instead he’d seen her beauty and the sun in her smile.
“Callie’s had conventional treatment, then?”
She nodded at his question. Mariah had had her daughter to the best doctors in Phoenix, spending the last pittance of money she had on their treatments, the newest medicines.
“Nothing seemed to work for her,” she said. “At least, not to any degree. It was a long trip to Phoenix for care, and the ride often left Callie worse because of it. Then Una told me of the healing power in the plants and herbs that grow around here. Callie seems to thrive on them.”
“And perhaps a little on her mother’s love?”
Mariah gave him a quick glance and saw a pensive look on his face, the shadow of something in his eyes. Luke was a man who was hurting—and not from the wounds she could see, the wounds he’d received in that tumble from his bike, the wounds she hoped her herbs would heal.
It was the other wound, the one she could only sense, the one that claimed his soul, his spirit, that she wasn’t sure she could do anything about. She suspected that wound ran deep. But whatever his torment was, it was none of her business.
At least none that he would share with her.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Callie’s very special to me.”
Luke wondered what it would be like to be someone special in Mariah’s life. He suspected she loved with a fervor, an honesty, a completeness. And when she gave herself to that love, she’d never take it back.
Mariah was a nurturer. She found comfort in the very world around her. She took it from the earth and gave it to others. To her daughter. And even to Luke.
A total stranger.
He hoped this medicine of hers worked damned fast—because Mariah could make a man want to stick around, seek a little of that comfort she dispensed.
Finally finishing with his shoulder, she reached to cleanse the scrape along his jawline. Her touch was feather-soft, soothing.
“I’m afraid you’re not going to feel like shaving anytime soon,” she said, cleansing his jaw and applying some cool ointment to it, something that smelled faintly of lavender.
He knew she was right about the shaving. Maybe he’d grow a serious beard—and he wondered if Mariah would like the rasp of it when he kissed her.
Before Luke let that thought play itself out further in his mind he reached up and grasped her hand. Her touch was driving him wild, her closeness a temptation he wasn’t sure he could resist, at least not for long.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“You didn’t hurt me,” he said. But neither could he let her touch him. The feel of her hands, no matter how purposeful, how innocent, was impossible for him to ignore. “I’m fine, Mariah. You’ve done enough.”
She fixed him with a determined gaze and a stern lift of her chin. “That leg wound needs a dressing.”
He groaned low in his throat, and was certain his soul was damned—damned by this bewitching female who was intent on helping him.
It was just his rotten luck to find a perfectionist for a healer.
“This will only take a minute,” she insisted. “It won’t hurt a bit. You’ll see.”
Easy for her to say, Luke thought, as he steeled himself against her touch.
Her hands were brisk, her movements sure and smooth. The woman was grace and loveliness, all rolled into an all-too-tempting package.
He gritted his teeth as her fingers applied the gauze, pressing it against the raw gash. Every nerve ending jumped to attention at the lightest touch of her silky fingers.
His wayward hormones must be there, too, he decided, because they sang with raw need at her closeness, her flowery scent, her soft, feminine heat.
“There—that should do it,” she said, applying the last strip of tape and standing back to admire her handiwork.
Her cheeks glowed, her eyes big and green in the play of light in the room. A smile brushed her sweet lips—and Luke knew he’d never seen a more beautiful woman.
“Thank you,” he told her, though he suspected she didn’t need to hear it.
It was simply her nature to help—whether it be man, woman or child. Mariah was a healer—as much as any doctor he knew. It flowed from her like a life force, a gift Luke had to envy.
And admire.
“I think Una probably has that chili ready—if you’re hungry,” she said, then began gathering up her medical supplies with skillful efficiency.
“I’m starved,” he admitted. “Then I need to find someplace to stay for the night. Is there a motel in Sunrise?”
“Sorry, no, there isn’t. There’s no place close. It’s not much, but there’s a small cabin out back. Callie likes to use it as her playhouse, but you’re welcome to it, if you like. It’s clean, and I can bring you some fresh linens. You’d be comfortable.”
Luke didn’t doubt that. But how much more of her hospitality could he let himself accept?
He started to refuse and then remembered he had no transportation. And he couldn’t ask her to drive him miles to the nearest hotel.
She had Callie to consider.
He’d have to take her up on her offer, then find a way to repay her for her kindness. As soon as his cycle was operational again, he’d be on his way.
It was all he could do under the circumstances.
“I accept,” he said. “At least for tonight.”
Tomorrow he’d assess his circumstances and come up with an alternative plan, providing an alternative existed out here—miles from anywhere.

A short time later they were gathered around the kitchen table, enjoying Una’s chili and warm corn bread. Mariah noticed that the beleaguered place mats were gone, replaced by her one good linen tablecloth. Una had obviously deemed this man deserving of special status.
Callie had chosen to sit next to Luke, and she chattered away to him like a magpie. Her daughter was more exuberant than usual tonight.
And Mariah had no doubt it was prompted by their guest.
If Sunrise had a disadvantage it was in its sameness. Very little new or different made its way here. So Luke Phillips at tonight’s dinner table was an event on par with Christmas.
Mariah stole a quick glance at him. He’d donned a fresh shirt pulled from one of his saddlebags, a white knit polo that hugged his muscled chest and showed off his tan to perfection.
He’d borrowed her kitchen shears and fashioned his torn jeans into a pair of cutoffs. They, too, hugged him in dangerous places.
He turned to glance at her, and she hoped he hadn’t caught her ogling. His face bore an uncertain expression, and she wondered what he was thinking.
She sensed he was a man who concealed his emotions, not sharing them easily with others. It was something Mariah could understand. She shared herself only with a few people she knew and trusted.
She glanced at Luke’s empty bowl. “Would you care for more chili?” she asked.
He smiled and patted his flat stomach. “Thanks, but no. I’m definitely full.” He turned to Una seated at the other end of the table. “That was delicious, ma’am. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted any better.”
Una let a rare smile slip, obviously pleased with the compliment.
Was she, too, caught up in Luke’s charm?
There were probably few females who could resist a man as compelling as Luke Phillips, she decided.
Mariah didn’t know where he’d been headed on that big Harley of his, but he’d no doubt leave a trail of broken hearts along the way. And perhaps where he’d come from, as well.
Was he married? There was no ring on his left hand, no lighter mark where one had been on his tanned skin.
Did he have children?
He seemed so capable, so at ease around Callie.
What was his life? she wondered. And what was the cause of the pain she saw in his storm-blue eyes? She admitted she was curious, though she had no right to be.
All she’d done was rescue him in the desert and treat his wounds.
As soon as he had transportation again, he’d be leaving.
She stood and began to gather up the supper dishes.
“You’ve done enough for one day, Una. I’ll clean up in here.”
“I’ll help,” Luke offered.
“Good,” Una said. “I promised Callie a story before I go home.”
The pair retreated to the front porch swing, Callie’s favorite spot for hearing Una’s Hopi tales, leaving Mariah alone with Luke in the big kitchen that suddenly seemed a whole lot smaller.

Chapter Three
With both of them working together it didn’t take long to finish the dishes. Luke enjoyed the task—or maybe it was just being alone with Mariah.
He couldn’t remember having been stuck with KP duty growing up. Nor could he remember having helped his wife, Sylvie, during their ill-fated marriage. He’d been the golden doctor then—slated to take his place in the hierarchy of the hospital where his father and grandfather had practiced before him.
Luke had never considered himself special—he’d just been treated like he was. It had been a given that he would do great things.
He hadn’t helped Sylvie raise their son, Dane, either. At least not as much as he should have. He’d been at the hospital night and day, doing what he loved. Doing what was important. All other work he’d relegated to Sylvie.
No doubt the reason she’d left him for someone else.
He wished he could go back, do things differently, be a real father to his son. But life didn’t work that way. Life wouldn’t let a man turn back the clock.
Life took—and didn’t give back.
One failed marriage, his failure as a father—and as a doctor who couldn’t save his son—had taken its toll on Luke’s ability to believe the world could be a happy place.
Yet tonight he’d glimpsed something akin to that in this small family that had included him in their life however briefly. Tonight he’d been able to forget, just a little.
Tossing the dish towel onto the countertop, he turned to Mariah. “Consider that payment for tonight’s dinner. Now, about your medical fee…”
Mariah gave a soft laugh, a sensual sound that could curl a man’s toes. “You don’t owe me anything,” she said. “But I do think you need to get off that leg for a while.”
“I was thinking more like a short walk to loosen it up.”
“Elevating your leg is sound medical advice,” she said, arms folded resolutely over her chest.
“I’d rather take that walk. Join me?” he asked.
He hoped she would say yes. He wanted to be with her. He liked her, liked this little family—and he felt like walking, absorbing the night and its dark peace.
She seemed to hesitate. “I—I need to get Callie tucked into bed.”
Of course, he thought. Callie would require an early bedtime. Proper rest would be an important part of treatment for a child with this disease, Luke knew. And Mariah would be a stickler for what was best for her daughter.
“I understand,” he said.
“If you want to wait, I could go in a little while,” she added, and Luke’s head came up.
He read something indefinable in her eyes, and suspected she didn’t often take time for herself. Time away from Callie. She had her priorities and they were in the right place.
Her daughter came first.
He wished now that he’d put Dane ahead of other things in his life. Why had his medical career, the hospital, seemed so damned important, anyway? He’d have made it to the top—it just would have taken him a little longer.
And in the end, none of it had mattered.
“I can wait,” he answered. “I’ll even prop up my leg.”
She smiled at that, then turned to leave. “I won’t be long.”
Luke nodded. “Take your time.”
Mariah’s living room was warm and inviting. The walls were a soft cream, uncluttered by pictures or other bric-a-brac. There was an old stone fireplace at one end for cool evenings, with two blue overstuffed chairs flanking it, a red-plaid sofa facing it.
Luke decided on one of the chairs and pulled up a small footstool to prop his leg on. The damned thing had begun to throb again. So had his shoulder.
Not that he intended to let Mariah know that.
On the table beside him was a picture of her with Callie, a soft mother-daughter pose that stirred him. Mariah’s dark hair was worn loose, cascading over her shoulder, as she gazed down at a laughing Callie.
Visions of the woman treating his wounds, the memory of her sensual touch, would torment him half the night, he was certain. He was equally certain he needed to keep a tight rein on his emotions. Mariah was tempting, a beautiful woman, one who’d be hard to resist for long.
He’d better just hope he could put his Harley in working order again—and fast. He was in no position to involve himself with this small family, with Mariah. He had nothing to offer her.
He had nothing to offer anyone.
His life was in sorry shape and going nowhere. He no longer knew up from down, right from left. He’d spun out of control after Dane’s death, hating himself, hating medicine, hating life itself.
From the other room he could hear Mariah’s lilting voice, sometimes Callie’s sweet laugh. The sound of his son’s laughter echoed through his memory—laughter Luke would never hear again.
The accident had happened on his son’s eighth birthday. The car had come racing around the corner and struck him, leaving his small battered body for Luke to salvage. He closed his eyes against the damning memories.
Don’t think about it, he cautioned himself.
Don’t think about anything.
It seemed a long while later when Mariah returned to the living room, but he knew it hadn’t been. She glanced at his leg, propped on the footstool, and offered that soft smile of hers.
“Are you sure you want that walk? You look like you’re right where you should be—resting that leg.”
Luke didn’t need rest. He needed to be moving. If he couldn’t roar off down the highway on his Harley, he’d pace the yard, the road, walk for miles, and then some. He wanted—needed—to escape his pain, the memories. How far would he need to ride to put his life behind him?
“Yeah, I want that walk,” he said.
He pushed to his feet, then saw the small frown of worry that had edged itself between her brows. Mariah was concerned about him, concerned about his injuries—but she needn’t be. He was fine. He’d be fine. Luke was tough—just not tough enough to deal with one little boy’s death.
He strode toward the front door, careful not to show signs of pain, careful not to limp on his leg that had stiffened up on him.
Outside, the night was cool. A breeze tugged at his senses. A perfect counterpoint to the hot, dusty day. For a moment he found himself relaxing, letting go.
Mariah fell into step beside him. Her soft scent wafted over him, and the night tortured him with the temptation to reach for her, to tuck her hand in his, to press her to him and taste her lips that glistened so softly in the moonlight. Jamming his hands into the pockets of his cutoffs, he drew in a deep breath of air.
Dangerous thoughts, he knew.
But he didn’t know how to rid himself of them.
They reached the small copse of trees at the back of Mariah’s property. A stream ran through here, with cool, clear water burbling and purling over the flat stones on its way to lower ground.
“This is my favorite place. I like to come here,” she said. “It’s always refreshing on a hot afternoon.”
And tempting at night with the moonlight slanting through the trees, Luke thought. Mariah’s eyes were luminescent, her lips soft and smooth, and he fought back the urge to taste them.
Just once.
He reached down and plucked a small stone from the streambed, turning it over and over in his hand. “I can see why it’s your favorite spot,” he said. “It’s beautiful here.”
She smiled, apparently pleased he liked it, too.
“Tell me about yourself, Mariah.”
She took a step or two away, then sat down on the grassy bank. Her hair gleamed dark in the moonlight; her skin shimmered like warm bronze.
And her mouth…
Her mouth was made for kissing.
He tore his gaze away and tossed the stone back into the stream, counting the ripples that ebbed away.
“What do you want to know?”
Luke heard her small voice as if it were coming from a distance. “Have you always lived here?”
She plucked a blade of grass and ran it through her fingers, absorbing its damp coolness. “I grew up nearby,” she answered. “On the Reservation. The Rez, as it’s affectionately called. Then two years ago Callie and I moved here.”
When Will had left them. She’d had very little money and a lot of doctor bills. The house had sat empty for years. Ever since her grandfather’s death.
It had been in sorry shape when they’d moved in, but still it had been a godsend to Mariah. She’d fixed it up little by little and she was proud of what she had accomplished.
Will’s leaving, and her subsequent divorce from him six months later, had been hard on Callie. It had been hard on her, as well. But she and Callie had forged a new life for themselves, and it was a good life, a happy one.
“What about you?” she asked. “Where are you from?”
Her question seemed to cause him pain. His eyes darkened and he glanced aside. “A long way from here—Chicago.”
Chicago might as well be a foreign country to Mariah. She’d never been farther away than Phoenix. She wondered about Luke’s life there, tried to picture him with a wife, a family.
Did he have a wife?
A lover?
Was she beautiful?
“Sunrise is a far cry from where you’re from,” she said. “Where are you headed on that big bike of yours?”
And who’s missing you at home? she wanted to add.
Luke was handsome. The women in Chicago would have to be blind not to find him so. She was certain someone had staked a claim to him by now.
He gave a small shrug of his broad shoulders. “As of this afternoon, I’m not headed anywhere, it seems. Not until my bike is operational again.”
“And then?” she probed.
“West.”
“That takes in a lot of territory. Anything more specific?”
He frowned. “Are you always this inquisitive?”
“Only about stray men I rescue from the desert,” she quipped back, which made him smile.
The first smile she’d seen on him in a while.
It was devastatingly seductive, and she forced herself to picture a wife waiting for him back in Chicago. And maybe a passel of kids. Little kids.
And one on the way.
But it didn’t gel. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t place Luke in a domestic scene.
“Are you married?”
Her words had tumbled out—and she felt instantly foolish for them.
His smile broadened. “I was right about that inquisitiveness of yours. But no, I’m not married.”
She didn’t want to admit to herself that she was pleased. Secretly. Didn’t want to admit that she found the man intriguing. That he could make her pulse pound with very little provocation.
She didn’t need to fall for men who rode through town on motorcycles, stopping only long enough to tempt her heart. She’d vowed never to entangle herself with anyone who would leave again, who wouldn’t stick around and be a real husband, who wouldn’t be a father to Callie with all her special needs.
She didn’t want Callie hurt again.
Or herself—by hoping for too much.
“I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that,” she murmured.
“No harm done.”
He held her gaze prisoner a little longer than he should have, and Mariah couldn’t tear her own away. “Maybe I should get back,” she said finally. “I hate to be away too long, in case Callie wakes up.”
He helped her to her feet, and his touch sent a shiver through her, one she knew had nothing to do with the cool night air. His gaze whispered over her lips, and she could almost taste his kiss.
In the space of one restless moment her need meshed with his and she thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he only reached out a hand and brushed her cheek.
“You’re right, we’d better be getting back,” he said.
Was there a hint of regret in his words?
Or had she imagined it?
Whichever, the moment had passed, and Mariah didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. What she felt was a strange mixture of both.
She’d never thought of herself as a needy woman. Or a lonely one. She had Callie. Her daughter was her life. She was happy. Her days were full and filled. So why could this man tempt her so easily in the moonlight?
She tried to shrug away the question as she walked, careful to keep a comfortable distance from him—though she wasn’t sure what that distance might be.
“The cabin is over there, just beyond the rise,” she said. “Come on, I’ll show it to you.”
Luke followed her across the property toward the small rough-hewn structure barely visible in the moonlight.
“It isn’t much, like I said. I hope you don’t mind roughing it a little.”
“I’m sure it’ll beat hard ground with a cactus for a pillow. I didn’t see much else out there on that road I was on.”
She turned and smiled at him. The softest, sweetest smile Luke could recall ever seeing on a woman.
“True enough,” she said softly.
He’d found her so damned appealing back there in the cool grass, the moonlight slanting across her face, her sultry lips.
He wasn’t sure why he didn’t act on the moment, seize the chance to kiss her, taste the sweetness he knew he’d find on her lips.
He tried to shove that thought aside. It could only bring them both trouble. Mariah had a daughter. She wasn’t someone interested in a brief fling. Though he wasn’t at all sure any interlude with her could be brief.
The woman would be damned hard to walk away from when the time came to do so. He’d do well to keep that realization in mind the next time temptation hit him.
“This is it,” Mariah said as they reached the cabin. “It’s probably not what you’re used to back in civilization.”
She drew a lantern from its nail on the wall, found a match and lit the wick. Flickering light flooded the little room and Luke took a look around.
A small cot was pushed against one wall. There was also a chair—a little lumpy in the seat cushion, but usable—and a well-scarred coffee table.
A few toys and a rag doll with one eye missing were scattered about, and he remembered Mariah telling him Callie liked to use the cabin as her playhouse.
He picked up the doll and grinned at its one-eyed countenance, then set it aside. He remembered Dane’s toys had always been scattered about, remembered how he’d hated it when he tripped over them. He wished now he could take back his annoyance over something so minor. But it was too late…
“The place is fine,” he said. “I hope Callie won’t mind my borrowing it for a while.”
She gave him a soft smile. “Callie won’t mind. Besides, I think she’s quite taken with you.”
“And what about her mother?”
“Her mother won’t mind, either,” she answered, unaware that wasn’t the question he’d asked her.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” he said, taking a step closer. He reached out a hand and softly traced the margins of the blush that had risen to her cheeks. Her skin beneath his touch was silken. Her eyes were wide and filled with want. Or was it a trick of the flickering lantern light? “I wondered if Callie’s mother was taken, too, just a little.”
Her blush deepened. He could feel its heat beneath his fingertips. Mariah was warm and vibrant—and everything he shouldn’t want in a woman. He was a man on the move. To where, he didn’t know, didn’t know if he’d ever get there, if he’d ever be whole again. One pretty woman with hopes and dreams—and needs—was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Not now, maybe never.
“I should go and find you some linens,” she said quietly, her voice sounding as if it came from someplace far away.
She wasn’t unaffected by him—any more than he was by her. But, somehow, that knowledge didn’t make Luke feel any better about himself.
When Mariah returned with fresh sheets and towels for him, Luke was out front of the tiny cabin, studying the stars. Strange how he’d never noticed them back in Chicago. Or the moon. He could use the peace this place offered.
At least for a little while.
“Here are the linens,” she said. “I’ll just go and lay them on the cot.”
Luke watched her go. He had no right to want her. He was hurting, and Mariah offered peace, if only a temporary peace. But he had nothing to offer her in return.
She deserved a man who could pluck down the moon for her, those cool, glittery stars. A man who could give her some of himself.
“Will you be comfortable for the night?” she asked, stepping out the cabin’s front door.
Comfortable? More than he had been on the seat of a motorcycle. More than he’d been the last six months—since his son’s death. “I’ll be fine,” he answered, hating the ragged sound to his voice.
“If you need anything, just let me know.”
“I won’t need anything.”
She stepped off the porch slowly, a little unsurely. “I’ll be getting back then,” she said and started to leave.
Luke stopped her.
“Mariah?”
She turned softly to gaze at him, and Luke knew he was lost, lost in those luminous green eyes, that prettily shaped mouth, her haunting femininity.
He’d only wanted to thank her for what she’d done, but she stood so close he could touch her, stroke her hair, smooth back the few rebellious strands that escaped her braid.
“Thank you,” he managed to get out. “For…everything.”
She smiled softly, and it was his undoing.
He brushed the back of his fingers along her cheek, then her lower lip, tracing its silken curve. She didn’t draw away, only gazed up at him with her own soft need.
His resolve melted completely. He had to taste her lips, just once. He leaned down and brushed them lightly with his own, finding something that surely had to be heaven.
His tongue traced them slowly, outlining their shape, memorizing it for the long, lonely night ahead of him. Still she didn’t pull away, and he tasted deeper, wanting what he shouldn’t have.
She kissed him back, thoroughly, sending his soul into the darker regions of hell. Her mouth was sweet and sinful, her breasts soft and full as they pushed gently against him. Mariah was delight and innocence, peace and treasure, all in one dangerous package.
She gave a slow sigh, then drew away. She was trembling and wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I—I…we shouldn’t…”
“I know,” he said, agreeing totally. He didn’t dare touch her again. “I’m sorry, Mariah.”
Her troubled eyes flickered and she met his gaze for one eternal moment, then she turned and fled, back up the path to the house.
Consigning him to a night of tortured want.

What had she done?
Mariah hurried along the path to the house, determined to escape inside and bar the door. Not to keep Luke out, but herself in. Safely in. She had just thrown herself at the man.
A perfect stranger.
Hadn’t she gotten herself in trouble just this way before, with Will? Except that at least Will hadn’t been a stranger. Will had been the first boy she’d known who lived off the Rez. And that had seemed exciting.
She’d seen him often, thought him special, older, though a little wild. She’d liked the wild part. He’d invited her to a party and she had gone. There’d been beer and the music was loud and electrifying; Mariah had felt she’d finally escaped the Rez. She could do what she wanted.
The party had been in an old, abandoned adobe out in the desert. Her new friends, Will’s friends, used the place to party, drink beer, get high on marijuana and sometimes peyote. She’d been afraid of the drinking and drugs, and told Will she’d thought they were going to dance.
Mariah loved to dance; she’d wanted to dance with Will. But he insisted she smoke the marijuana, then he’d dance with her. The stuff had made her nauseous, light-headed, but she’d wanted to fit in, wanted Will to like her. She’d gone along that night with anything Will had wanted—and her life had changed.
But Mariah was no longer a teenager. And that kiss she’d just shared with Luke had been the kiss of a man, not a young, still-wet-behind-the-ears boy.
And that made it twice as dangerous.
She’d felt Luke’s need, and her own, as if lightning had struck, searing her to the spot and her body to his. She could still feel the smoldering kiss, his mouth enticing, hauntingly sensual. She’d felt comfort in his arms, as if sheltered for the moment from all things bad.
Something she certainly had never felt with Will.
But Luke was temporary, fleeting. He’d be leaving as soon as his motorcycle was repaired, and her life would once again go back to the routine she was used to.
She needed to find her composure that had scattered like the wind with that kiss. She needed to find her sanity, too. She could not afford to lose herself around a man like Luke, a man who was headed out as soon as he could, a man with a painful past she shouldn’t be curious about. A man who didn’t belong here, didn’t understand this way of life.
Her life.
She leaned her shoulder against the door frame, willing the calm back into her body, forcing her mind to return to reality.
She didn’t know how long she’d stood there, how many minutes had passed, how many waves of temptation washed over her before she finally pushed away and embraced the reality of her world again.

A noisy raven had awakened Luke with its annoying call. It had been 3:35 the last time he’d pressed the lighted dial of his watch to note the time, and now it was 5:30—which meant he’d had only a couple hours of sleep.
And a fitful sleep at that.
Thoughts of Mariah had kept him tossing and turning, hoping for even the briefest respite from his troubled thoughts and perfect recall of her body.
Just holding her, touching her, had been madness, awakening every hormone he had, and weakening his defenses. He’d tasted those lips and was certain heaven couldn’t be any sweeter.
His hands had traced the column of her spine, feeling its curve, its strength and power. Mariah was a woman tough enough to take on whatever came her way, yet malleable to the needs of others, to bend down and help a child.
Or to meld against him.
He’d wanted to go on holding her, kissing her, but he knew the danger in that. He couldn’t take from her goodness, no matter how badly he wanted to.
He stared at the rough-planked ceiling over his bed, knowing sleep was hopeless now. The beginning shadows of daylight were already seeping into the cabin, through the tiny windows, through the chinks between the half logs that made up the cabin’s walls.
And then there was the raven.
The damn pesky bird had to be sitting on the pitch of the roof directly over his head, caterwauling like mad. He thought he remembered that the feathered creatures were considered sacred or something in this part of the country—and that it was bad luck to harm one of them.
But Luke had had enough.
If the bird didn’t stop with the crowing shrieks, reverberating through his brain like a fire bell on steroids, he might just forget about that sacredness and bad luck.
Especially if it gave him a few more minutes of shuteye.
Silence. There were three whole minutes of blessed silence. Luke hollowed out a spot for his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, hoping the noisy raven had developed a bad case of laryngitis.
Sleep. He needed sleep. He closed his eyes and attempted to shut down his mind, as well, shut out the crazy bird, shut out his haunting thoughts of Mariah and the glory of her kiss, her slender body pressed so innocently against his.
He rolled onto his stomach, hoping for even ten minutes of rest. The cot, though small, was amazingly comfortable, and the sheets Mariah had brought him carried her mesmerizing scent.
Luke had barely been able to make up the bed last night with the soft scent teasing at him, reminding him of her freshness, of the sunshine that seemed to surround her and her little corner of the world.
Sleep, Luke thought. Then he’d get up and start in on his cycle. Once it was repaired he’d be on his way again.
And Mariah’s kiss would be only a fond memory.

Chapter Four
Mariah awoke with a start. And not to the sound of the annoying raven’s call that usually dragged her from sleep. This was different. This was the clang of metal against metal.
She hopped out of bed, and the covers she wasn’t quite ready to abandon, and drew aside the lace curtain. The pink, early morning light of day danced through the window and into the room, catching on everything. Mariah ignored it in favor of finding out what the noise was all about. She didn’t want it to wake Callie.
The sunlight glinted off Luke’s bike and the man who stood staring at the pieces he’d dismantled. Her heart bumped at the sight of him—and she instantly remembered his kiss last night, the forbidden way it had tasted.
Luke had dragged dangerous needs to the surface, stirring longings in her she thought she’d buried long ago. He had the power to make her vulnerable, make her lose all good sense—and that was something she’d promised herself no man would do to her again.
She had responsibilities, a daughter to look after. She couldn’t afford to let any man foolishly turn her head—or hurt her, the way Will had done.
She focused her thoughts and her gaze on the cycle part Luke was inspecting. The thing didn’t look salvageable to her, but he must believe he could force it into some kind of workable shape.
She dropped the curtain back into place, then hurriedly dressed in fresh-washed jeans and a loose denim shirt. She gave her hair a slight consideration in the bedroom mirror and declared it passable after some finger-combing to straighten out the tangles. She didn’t have time right now for her usual braid.
She went to Callie’s room and peeked in at her daughter. She was asleep, her dark hair spilled across the pillow. Fortunately the noise hadn’t awakened her.
She made her way to the kitchen and stepped into the moccasins she’d abandoned there the night before, then pushed open the back door. Mariah wished it didn’t creak so loudly. She’d have to give it another lubrication.
It was an oft-repeated repair, made necessary by the blowing desert grit and red dust that made its way into every crack and crevice around here. But Mariah didn’t mind. She loved the old place.
She started toward the driveway where Luke had unloaded the cycle from the bed of her truck, and had a half dozen parts spread over the sparse grass.
He didn’t hear her approach, and for a moment she let her gaze linger on his tall, muscled frame. He worked in his newly fashioned cutoffs of last night, a denim shirt and well-broken-in sneakers, the white of the shoes and the laces already coated with the perennial, high-desert red dust.
For a brief moment she could see him belonging here in this untamed country—with the rugged red rocks, its scruffy trees and the surrounding mountains. She could see him belonging here—with Callie and her.
But she quickly eradicated that thought from her mind.
Luke didn’t belong here; he was only passing through.
Maybe it was the way he looked in his denim shirt, his deep tan and windblown hair that had fooled her senses. She ordered herself to think rationally.
“Hi,” she called out as she neared. “What has you up so early? Didn’t you sleep well?”
He turned to face her, looking a little surprised to see her, then his gaze trailed over her slowly, lazily, and his mouth crooked into a pleased half smile.
Mariah felt every inch of his smile.
And his gaze.
“I slept all right, until one insufferable raven decided to become my personal alarm clock.”
Mariah felt a laugh bubble up. The bird was a nuisance, but he seemed to have found a home here. Probably because Callie fed him—which destroyed any chance of him flying off to torment some other family, Mariah was sure.
“You mean Bandit? I should have warned you about him.”
“Bandit?”
She smiled. “Callie named him that. Making noise isn’t his only bad habit. If you leave one of those tiny silver parts lying about, it’ll soon be missing.”
“The bird is a thief?”
“With no conscience, I’m afraid.” She glanced down at the metal part in his hand. “What are you doing? Assessing the damage from yesterday?”
She wasn’t sure how he’d unloaded the cycle from the back of her truck without help, but Luke was strong and muscular. Still, he shouldn’t have risked tearing open the laceration on his leg or putting strain on his shoulder.
“I’m trying to fix it. I need to leave, Mariah.”
His tone carried such resolve that it jolted her senses. She knew he’d be leaving, but still his words struck her with the force of a truck slamming into a mountain.
If she hadn’t allowed that kiss last night, hadn’t responded to him the way she had, maybe she wouldn’t be so thrown off balance now. “How soon?” she asked.
His gaze slid over her, and she read something indefinable in his eyes.
Was he, too, regretting their kiss?
Was there something—or someone—drawing him to the road?
“Tonight,” he answered. “If I can figure out how to get the bike in running order by then.”
“Tonight?” Mariah’s voice sounded like Bandit’s, at the bird’s most annoying, she was sure. But she couldn’t believe he’d even think of getting back on his bike before he’d had a chance to recover. “You’re not in any shape to ride again that soon. Your leg, your shoulder—you need time to heal.”
He turned back to his bike, seemingly ignoring her concern. “So I’ll be a little uncomfortable,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”
Mariah wanted to spin him around to face her, make him listen to reason, but he was absorbed in fitting some part to the silver machine. “Luke Phillips, I am not in the habit of patching up people only to have my handiwork undone. The least you can do is give your cuts and bruises another day or two.”
The woman looked like a small firecracker exploding with fury. She was concerned about him. She cared. And that hit him where he lived. It had been a long time since anyone had cared what happened to him.
But Mariah did.
He knew she was right about his injuries. His thigh still hurt like the very devil, and his shoulder had stiffened up on him. Still, he couldn’t stick around. He had to keep moving—always hoping relief, peace, was just over the next rise.
Mariah had treated his wounds with her herbs and salves, but Luke had battle scars worse than those, scars none of her medicines could heal.
“I’ve infringed on your hospitality enough. I need to move on,” he said.
He couldn’t explain anything beyond that. He couldn’t even explain it to himself. His heart ached from his son’s death, an anguish so deep he didn’t think he’d ever get over the pain. Mariah was a healer with her special medicines, but she couldn’t heal his deeper pain, couldn’t exorcise his guilt.
He turned back to the cycle—and the part he wasn’t at all sure he could render usable again. He didn’t know much about mechanics; he only knew bodies—or at least he once had.
The little bit he knew about motorcycles he’d picked up from repair manuals, like the one he’d packed up and put in storage, along with everything else he owned.

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