The Lady Who Lived Again by Thomasine Rappold Page B

storm had turned fierce. Maddie stood at the window, as if awaiting his return. While he could justify his relief at finding her safely sheltered, the sudden vitality in his weary steps as he unrigged the buggy told him something else. He was happy to see her.
    Christ Almighty.
    He snatched up his bag, then dashed for the door. He ducked inside, shaking off the rain. Maddie greeted him with a towel and took his bag.
    “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said into the towel as he dried his face.
    “You are?” Her pensive smile warmed the chill from his bones.
    “This storm is a mean one.”
    Her smile fell.
    “I thought it best to wait it out,” she said as she reached for the towel. She hung it on a peg by the door, then followed him down the hall. “The mountain road can be a challenge in bad weather. I was beginning to worry.”
    He couldn’t remember the last time anyone worried for him, and her concern caught him off guard.
    “The trip was unpleasant, but no broken wheels.” He glanced around, surprised by what he saw. She’d cleaned and arranged the patient waiting room. He could actually see the braided carpet beneath the large center table and the chairs lining the walls.
    “It was damp in here,” she said to explain the fire crackling in the hearth.
    Flames flickered, setting the room in a golden glow. The vase of lilacs on the mantel scented the once-musty air. In one day, her hard work and subtle touches had transformed the room from dreary disarray to a cozy, comfortable place for his patients.
    “You’ve done a fine job with the room.”
    She smiled, and he welcomed the jolt of energy that coursed through his veins. Her dark hair was pinned up, but the twined knot had loosened considerably during her chores. A few wisps brushed her temples and coiled along her neck. The unfettered look stirred his senses. As did the open buttons at her delicate throat. He took a deep breath to ward off his arousal. The smell of onions drifting from the kitchen made his stomach growl.
    “Mariah Whitby stopped by with a nice roast beef,” she said. “Compliments of her mother for your help yesterday morning.”
    “Is that what smells so good?”
    “I’ve cooked supper. Henry told me you were on the mountain for a house call until almost midnight. Since you were out so early this morning, I thought you might be hungry.”
    Jace was unused to this kind of attention—he’d been on his own for so long. Her concern for his welfare was as discomfiting as it was pleasing.
    “I’m famished,” he admitted. But not solely for food. Coming home to a woman certainly had its advantages, and he’d never considered them as thoroughly as he did right now. He pushed away his base longings as he peeled off his wet coat.
    “It’s still pouring out there,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll join you for supper.” She tilted her head, lips quirking. “Unless you fear dining with me would threaten propriety.”
    She was incorrigible. And as alluring as hell.
    “I can’t very well send you out in the rain.”
    She grinned like a cat that had cornered a mouse. “Rhetta does most of the cooking at home, but I can manage a simple pot roast. It should be ready soon. Some coffee in the meanwhile will warm you up.”
    After removing his boots and changing his clothes, he met her in the kitchen. She’d tidied here, too. The linoleum floor shined, as did the white tiled walls. A jar of flowers sat between two place settings. The room fairly breathed with her presence. Pots steamed on the stove. He sat, watching as she darted about, serving the coffee and checking the doneness of the roast and potatoes. The checkered apron tied around her small waist accentuated the tantalizing curve of her hips. The plainness of her beige dress did nothing to camouflage the shapely figure beneath, and her confident flirting told him she knew it. She turned suddenly from the stove.
    “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said. “I’m not one to