Under Alaskan Skies (7 page)

“That’s right,” he said to Mira. “I’m stuck here for the night. Sorry I missed the party but I guess you heard there was a medical emergency. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow in Skagway if the weather clears.”

Mira expressed alarm that he might not get back the next day. He tried to reassure her, telling her he was fine, seeing a few patients besides the boy he’d
come to see. She described the reception, the trip to the bald eagle reserve, and all the while he was watching Carrie, watching her clear the cups and take the tray to the kitchen. Without her in the room he should be able to pay attention to what Mira was saying, but he couldn’t. He did hear her ask who that woman was who answered the phone.

“That was the bush pilot who flew me here,” he said. “The one who will take me back tomorrow.”

“Are you staying at a hotel?”

“There are no hotels. She was good enough to put me up for the night.”

“Oh.”

Mira wouldn’t say anything else. But he could tell she was worried. In all the years he’d known her, she’d never had any competition. Except for his career. Now that he was almost in a position to find a wife, and she’d waited patiently for him to propose, this was no time for someone to pop up out of nowhere.

She talked a little more about the ship’s activities, about the menu at dinner and the plans for the next day, while he could hear Carrie working in the kitchen. Finally he hung up. He found Carrie kneading dough on a large butcher block in the middle of the kitchen.

“That was Mira,” he said. “She’s on the cruise with her parents who are best friends of my parents. I don’t know why she called.”

Carrie looked up. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek. “Maybe she misses you.”

He shrugged. “Anyone who gets involved with a doctor better get used to missing them.”

“Is she involved with you?” She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, leaving a trail of flour mixed with the copper strands of hair.

“Never mind. Don’t answer that. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You can ask anything you want,” he said. “The answer is I don’t know. Our parents have been pushing us together since we were children. Given the commitment to med school, I’ve been too busy to look around. Mira hasn’t found anyone else, either, so everyone has taken that to mean that Mira and I will end up together. This cruise was supposed to bring about a decision. At last.”

“Has it?”

“No. I thought at one point it would make sense to marry Mira. But making sense is not something at the top of my list of things to do.”

“What is?”

“You really want to know?” he asked, bracing his hands on the other side of the butcher block and fixing his steady gaze on her. “I want to make love to you on that fur rug in front of the fireplace in there. I thought about carrying you up the stairs, but right now I don’t think I can make it. Besides I want to see your skin by firelight. I want to see the flames reflected in your eyes. I want to see your hair on your naked shoulders and…”

“Stop,” she said with a gasp.

He stopped.

He waited for her to say something. He couldn’t tell what she thought. The brightness in her eyes was either tears of joy or dismay. She might throw him out in the rain or start for the living room to turn
down the lights and tear off her clothes. He hoped for the latter.

“This is pretty ridiculous,” she said at last, transferring the dough from one hand to the other. “You just met me. You’ve known this Mira for years. I don’t know what’s happening here, but it doesn’t take an analyst to make an educated guess. You’ve been studying and working for years without any breaks. All of a sudden you get a break you never expected. You’re transported to a different world where you know no one. None of the old rules seem to apply. As for me, I’ve been alone, isolated, except for a whole town that appreciates me, and I don’t have anyone special. You come along and…”

“And what?” he asked. He wanted her to say it. He wanted her to say that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. That she wanted to make love all night under a slanted roof or in front of a fire on a fur rug.

“And I completely lose it. I cry, I cling, I see things that aren’t there, I imagine things that aren’t going to happen. I’m a strong, independent woman. I have a life. I don’t need anybody to take care of me. Sure, I miss my dad. I always will. But that doesn’t mean…”

“Doesn’t mean you want one night of love with a stranger,” he said grimly. “Of course not. What would be the point of that?” He knew the answer to that. For him it would be a night to remember. To etch into his subconscious. To keep him going when he was overworked and overtired; for the memories. For her, there was no point. None at all. He should
have realized that. She shouldn’t have to spell it out for him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, seeing the distress on her face. Her fingers continued to work the dough. She gnawed on her lower lip and her eyes were downcast, focused on her work. “You’re right, of course. I’m behaving like an adolescent let loose for the first time. You couldn’t have made a better diagnosis if you were a psychiatrist.”

“Thanks.” She looked up and gave him a weak smile.

He grabbed a kitchen chair and straddled it. “Your diagnosis was right on, Doc. I have a case of arrested development complicated by an overactive libido and a vivid imagination. I’m in a place I couldn’t have imagined with a woman I never knew existed. And you’re right, I don’t know the rules here. But you do. What do you recommend? Is there any hope for me? Is there a cure for what ails me?”

Her lips curved. A small dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth. It was a good thing he was sitting down because that smile robbed him of the strength he needed to stand up.

Expertly she stretched the dough into a large rectangle, spread it with butter, raisins and cinnamon and shaped it into individual rolls in a large pan. Then she covered it with a small dish towel. He watched, fascinated. She appeared to have forgotten his question. It was just as well. There was no good answer.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said.

“What, my making rolls? Come on. I guess you never watch the food channel or any cooking shows.”

“Hardly. I never watch anything at all. When I get
home from the hospital I fall asleep before I even get to my bedroom. On the couch, in a chair, wherever.”

She leaned back against the counter and met his gaze. “That kind of life can’t be good for you.”

“It won’t last forever, although…” Although his father’s life had always been work, work and more work ever since Matt could remember. Not that he didn’t enjoy it. He loved it. “What about that cure?” he reminded her.

“A cure for an overactive libido?” she said. “Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but wait for the symptoms to go away.”

“You read that in a book, didn’t you?” he asked. “Do you really think time will cure what ails me?” he asked. He hoped it would, but he’d never felt this way before. On the other hand, he didn’t want her to think he’d completely lost his head. He had a little pride left. Not much, but a little.

“I don’t know. Sometimes there are no cures. There are some things you just have to live with.”

“That’s not very hopeful,” he said.

She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s the best I can do. I’m tired and I’m going to bed. Tomorrow may look brighter for everyone, for Donny and the weather and you, too.”

“What about those cinnamon rolls?” he asked.

“They’ll rise overnight, then in the morning I’ll put them in the oven and they’ll be done in time for breakfast. I’m an early riser. I’ll be very quiet so as not to disturb you. Will you be all right on the couch?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll get you a blanket and pillow.”

They both knew her father’s room was unoccupied, but nobody said anything about his sleeping there. He knew he’d be much better off on the couch, even if his knees were permanently bent and the space was so narrow he might roll off from time to time. Anything was better than sleeping across the hall from her. He didn’t want to hear her tossing and turning. He didn’t want her to hear him pacing the floor.

He didn’t want to run into her in the hall. She’d be wearing a nightgown. But what kind? Something warm and practical, he supposed. Something large and flowing and buttoned up to the neck. Or something soft and clinging. He squeezed his eyes shut to block the mental image. It was no use. No matter how he warned himself not to go there, he couldn’t think of anything but her. His hands itched to touch that imaginary nightgown, to peel it off her.

He took a deep breath, vowed to take control of his hyperactive imagination and went back to the living room to put another log on the fire, then stood back to watch the flames. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight as long as he was anywhere in this house. How could he when his brain wouldn’t quit working overtime and every fiber of his body was alert. Force of habit, he told himself. Years of being on call, getting too little sleep and when he did sleep, it was never very deep.

Carrie came back with sheets, blanket and pillow. She set them carefully on the couch instead of handing them to him. She didn’t seem to want to get that close to him. He didn’t blame her. She probably didn’t trust him. She might think he couldn’t control himself. But he could. He’d had years of practice of
ignoring his impulses. She started up the stairs, then paused and looked over her shoulder at him.

“Matt? Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it. All that talk about you and me? Let’s forget it ever happened, okay?” Her tone was brisk. He had no reason to doubt her sincerity.

He shrugged as if it was no big deal. Forget about it? No problem. If she could forget about it, so could he. Deep down he knew there was no way he’d ever forget anything about her. Even if he left at dawn tomorrow. Even if he married Mira tomorrow. Even if he underwent a course in behavior modification or hypnosis, whatever. As she said, there were some things you just had to live with.

Carrie lay in her bed unable to sleep. She hadn’t lied when she said she was tired. Her whole body cried out for sleep, but her brain was racing, replaying every word Matt had said, every gesture he’d made. Her lips stung from his kisses; her skin felt as if it was on fire. She was just as good at diagnosing her own problems as she was Matt’s. She knew exactly what was wrong with her, and she had no intention of letting it get the best of her.

She only had to use her willpower and build up her immune system. Today she’d been vulnerable, she’d been weak, she’d allowed herself to give in to her emotions, but only temporarily. Tomorrow she’d be strong. Tomorrow he might be gone. If not, she’d go about her life as if he weren’t here. She had the library, she had her friends in the village, she had her boat and her plane and…and…what else? There must be more. She wanted more. She wanted so much more. God help her, she wanted him.

The last time this happened, when she’d fallen for someone almost as unattainable as Matt, she’d fooled herself into thinking it would work out. He would learn to love it in the bush. He’d adapt to her way of life, even though it was completely unreasonable to think so. Hadn’t her own mother walked out on her and her father because she couldn’t stand the isolation?

This time she was smart enough to know it would never work. She knew this was just a crush on the most attractive man she’d ever met. She knew how to get over it. There was time. There was work. There was…oh, there must be something else.

She heard water running downstairs. She pictured Matt in the kitchen getting a drink. Was he hungry? Did he want some tea, hot chocolate? Was he still wearing her father’s clothes or…

She turned over and hit the pillow with her forehead. She strained to hear something from downstairs. There was silence. She could not, should not, must not go down there. His words came back to torture her.

Make love to you on that fur rug in front of the stove…see your skin by firelight, see the flames reflected in your eyes…your hair
…

No, she couldn’t do this. She had to think of something else. She had to forget what he’d said to her. She had to forget that hungry look in his eyes. The desire that flared and matched hers. The harder she tried to sleep, the more elusive sleep became. She turned over and looked at the clock. Almost midnight. She squeezed her eyes shut. She told herself she had to sleep. The tension of making an effort turned into
a headache. She went to the bathroom but couldn’t find the aspirin.

She tiptoed down the stairs. If he was asleep, she’d tiptoe right back up. He wasn’t asleep. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, his head in his hands. When she realized he was wearing a white T-shirt and boxer shorts, she quickly turned around to go back upstairs. There was just so much she could take.

He looked up when he heard the stairs creak. She paused. His face was half in shadows. She could barely see his eyes, but in the flickering light from the fire she could see something in his gaze that held her there like a prisoner.

“I … I have a little headache,” she said. “I came down to get an aspirin.”

“Come here,” he said. “I have a cure for headaches.”

She knew she shouldn’t listen. She knew she should just go back upstairs and forget the headache, but there was no way she could ignore him or pretend she hadn’t heard. She couldn’t imagine his patients ignoring his orders, either. When he said come here in that certain way he had, she had no choice but to obey and come.

He told her to sit on the floor with her back against the couch and rest her head between his knees. She was too tired to protest that she wasn’t dressed and thus at risk, and to make matters worse, he was in his underwear. She was too tired to ask what the cure was. If he said he had a cure, he must have one. They were alone, half dressed, miles from anywhere. The air in the room was filled with tension as thick as the
fog outside. Whatever happened here would stay in this room. But nothing was going to happen. She’d only known him for a number of hours, but somehow she knew she could trust him implicitly. It was herself she couldn’t trust.