The Surgeon
A wife shouldn't be a surprise package.But Mountie surgeon John Calloway suddenly found himself saddled with a special delivery he hadn't signed for–mail-order bride Sarah O'Neill. He had no room in his life for marriage! But why then did he feel compelled to protect Sarah from all things dark and dangerous–including her own unspoken past? If John Calloway didn't want her, fine! Sarah would survive–and thrive!–without him!The rugged, committed doctor dismissed his proposal as an elaborate prank. So how come the two of them kept finding themselves in each other's arms? And what would Sarah be forced to deny in order to stay there?
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THE SURGEON
KATE BRIDGES
Dedicated with affection and many thanks
to my editors—Ann Leslie Tuttle, who has an uncanny skill with words and plot details and always manages to pull out my best, and Tracy Farrell, who gave me my first big break.
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
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Chapter One
Calgary, early August 1889
It was a hell of a way to meet a woman.
Dr. John Calloway, a commissioned police officer and Chief Surgeon of the North-West Mounted Police, had just finished in the operating room and was striding down the hall of the officers’ quarters toward his bedroom, fighting exhaustion. Drenched in perspiration, John struggled with his white shirt collar, undoing another button. Damn, it was hot inside the fort. Even the air smelled hot. Dry pine planks and leather.
“Evenin’, Sir,” said two passing officers.
“Evening.” Was it John’s imagination or did they elbow each other and grin as he passed? John glared at them. “Something on your mind?”
“No, Sir.” The sergeant glanced down at the papers spilling from his youthful hands.
“Then I suggest you hightail it to the paymaster’s. He’s looking for the schedules you’re holding. As for you, Corporal Reid, we could use your help dousing those vacated beds.”
“Yes, Sir,” came the response.
John shoved a hand through the thick brown hair at his temple, swallowed the dryness in his throat and continued walking. His own fatigue never usually hit him until the worst was over. Under normal circumstances he’d be heading to his private house in town for dinner, then to sleep for the night. But in the past week he’d had six men in surgery at Fort Calgary and he’d been too busy for sleep.
It was still undecided whether the constable John had just operated on would lose his leg. There had also been the constable who’d lost his eye on a runaway bronco; two others with second-degree burns from fighting forest fires to the west; and finally the two discharged this morning with bullet grazes from an ambush ten days ago by that damn cattle-rustling gang. For John, their discharge brought back a wave of remorse and grief for Wesley Quinn.
John’s assistant surgeon, his friend, who was only doing his duty by racing to the ranch to help the injured, had been ambushed and murdered by the Grayveson gang. Blast them all to hell. Wesley Quinn had been a good man.
John rubbed his bristly jaw. He was starting to feel his age. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the stiff muscles.
Turning forty was a landmark, but why the hell did he feel so…unsettled?
The restlessness had started eight months ago, around Christmastime when Wesley had decided to get himself a mail-order bride.
No respectable man orders a woman from the newspaper, John had argued. What kind of woman would answer your ad? A desperate one, with little backbone and no self-confidence.
But Wes had just laughed and placed the ad anyway, claiming it was hard to meet a woman—an English one—with so few in the West.
And then he’d gone and got himself killed.
With a sigh, John neared his bedroom door. He stopped at the linen laundry basket. Although he’d worn a surgical gown, a few blood drops had still soaked through to his shirt. He peeled it off and tossed it in, knowing the clerk would need to boil it, too. Down to his sleeveless undershirt, he burst into his private room, glancing to his desk for drinking water.
He was shocked to discover a strange woman inside, who’d reeled toward him at the sharp sound of the door.
“Ah!” he yelped. She let out a choked laugh.
Standing at his open closet, she’d been rummaging through his uniforms. She dropped his scarlet tunic from her fingers like a child caught with something forbidden. A pink stain infused her cheeks.
A wall of curly reddish-blond hair, braided at the sides and clasped at the back, spilled down her shoulders. Finely arched brown eyebrows framed her clear gray eyes. Her lips parted in a pretty smile, revealing a front tooth that slightly overlapped its partner.
Her clothes were fancy for the West. Her heavily boned and corseted red jacket clung to her waist; a long red skirt with protruding bustle accentuated full hips. When one polished black leather boot peeked out beneath her hemline, he noticed a ridiculously spiked high heel. Why was she so dolled up?
He lurched back. His dangling suspenders slapped against the thighs of his tight black breeches. “How’d you get in here?”
She smiled but he didn’t smile back. “Corporal Reid let me in. I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just…I was so nervous to meet you…and here I’ve made you jump.”
If Travis Reid had let her in, she must be here for a good reason. Was that why Reid had been chuckling in the hallway?
She took a step forward, holding out her hand. Happiness shone in her eyes. “I know this is a bit of a surprise, but I managed to pack up sooner than I’d thought. I’m Sarah.”
