Free That Certain Spark by Cathy Marie Hake Page A

to give in to my vengeful spirit. If that Smith doesn’t trust you or have faith in your professional ability, he oughtn’t call you out to help care for them.”
    “He had a pair of decent-looking horses hitched to the wagon. Maybe he has a natural talent with animals and won’t need help. There are plenty of other animals in the area. I’ll be busy enough.”
    “So you strolled around and gave hitching-post consultations?”
    He seesawed his tongue at the corners of his lips to get the last speck of flavor. “Suppose you could say that. It started out with my going over to visit the barn site. Men would pause and visit for a minute or so, just to get a feel for my medical opinion on anything from ticks to torsion.”
    “And whether you’d treat them because they refused to have a woman as their physician?”
    Enoch met her gaze. “A few asked. You know my answer. Give them time, Sis. They’re backward. You can’t take it personally.”
    A brave smile flitted across her face. “Enough about that. Tell me all about the barn.”
    Her attitude about some of the men’s ignorant stance was far better than he could have hoped—but it was all he should have expected. Taylor wasn’t one to moan and fuss, so he went along with the change in topic. “They did a really nice job, Sis. Since you didn’t have a chance to see it yesterday, maybe later today we can go out and take a look at it together. It’s all exactly to my specifications.”
    Taylor smiled at him. “I’m so glad for you, Enoch.” She’d given up the maternity/pediatric practice she’d slaved to achieve in order to come here for his dream, and what was she getting? Not much. In fact, she was getting a whole lot of difficulty. Yet her voice rang with sincere pleasure for him. “So what kind of consultation earned you a basket of apples?”
    “None at all. Clicky dropped them off. Maybe I’m not the only man in town experiencing love at first sight.”
    “Then he’ll need to go to Austin to get his eyes and head examined. I—”
    A loud crash upstairs cut short whatever else she planned to say.

Seven
    E noch charged upstairs with Taylor on his heels. With every single step, she rued women’s fashions. He stopped in the doorway of the sickroom, and she slammed into his back.
    “Move,” she ordered, trying to shove him aside. Any number of terrible images flooded her mind. The blacksmith lying on the floor with a concussion . . . or a broken leg . . . or worse still, lying there hemorrhaging . . .
    Enoch moved out of the way, but laughter shook his frame.
    Work-scuffed boots were sticking out from under the bed—each attached to a leg! One she could only see the calf, and the other she saw just past the knee. Disbelief shot through Taylor. “Mr. Van der Vort, get in that bed this instant.”
    “Just a minute” came the muffled reply from beneath the bed.
    “A minute is more than I’m willing to give you.” She marched over and stared down at the feet. How had he gotten those boots on? For that matter, how had he gotten to them—or the jeans—at all? “I took pains to explain the risk of your hemorrhaging.”
    “And I just thought you were the pain.” A head and broad shoulders rose from behind the far side of the bed. It was Mr. Van der Vort, giving her a jaundiced look.
    Taylor’s focus darted to the floor, confirming that those big booted feet remained in place. It’s physically impossible for those legs to be his. Then who’s under the bed? “Enoch, please assist Mr. Van der Vort back into bed.”
    “I’ll be okay.” A foot attached to that voice thumped the floor as proof of the claim. “Well, blast. Maybe not. These are my favorite suspenders.”
    Her patient shot Enoch a look. “Piet—my brother—is stuck. Help him. I can take care of myself.”
    Curiosity burned within her. She wanted to ask why his brother got stuck. But Enoch started snaking under the bed, so he’d be able to tell her later exactly how the man