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