Free That Certain Spark by Cathy Marie Hake Page B

was stuck.
    “Mr. Van der Vort, you must remain in bed. It’s vital for you to rest.” Stepping over the booted feet, Taylor headed toward the far side of the bed.
    “Just what are you doing?” Mr. Van der Vort barked from his seat on the floor.
    It wasn’t his tone that stopped her; it was the realization that instead of the roomy calf-length cotton nightshirt he ought to have on, he was sporting a blue flannel shirt. She jerked her chin upward. “Sir, I expect you to be in that bed, covered up, when I return to this room in exactly one minute.”
    “And if I’m not?”
    “I want to watch this,” Piet declared. The whole bed shuddered from his attempt to wiggle free.
    Wild threats whirled around in her mind. “If you’re not—” Taylor’s focus drifted down from the ceiling and locked with her patient’s eyes—“I’ll be back in here, and you’ll still be down there.” A smug little smile tilted her lips. “Now, I don’t think either of us wants to give even one more second’s thought to that.”
    “You might not . . .”
    “Enoch!”
    Roars of masculine laughter filled the room.
    He betrayed me. Just for the sake of a few laughs. She’d dealt with male jeers, derision, and heckling in medical school. Automatically drawing on the skills that had gotten her through then, she pasted on a half smile. Jaw tight and head held high, she turned and marched from the room. I’m going to return just as I said I would. Those men were acting like naughty children, testing her limits. Fine. They’d soon discover Taylor MacLay Bestman stood her ground.
    But it was Enoch’s jesting that made her heart ache. Already he’d declared he’d fallen in love and found his future wife, and now he’d chosen coarse male camaraderie over what had once been an unshakable allegiance to her. Taylor walked into her own bedchamber and collapsed onto an empty trunk near the door.
    “With or without you, I’m going to Texas.” Remembering his words to her now triggered a panic. Had Enoch truly wanted to come by himself? Had she stifled him when he wanted to break free?
    The same crash that had brought her running upstairs sounded again next door. “Piet, are you trying to crack all your ribs?” Enoch asked, sounding mildly irritated. “I told you to wait.”
    He coerced me into coming here. “Come with me, Sis,” he had pleaded. “I sold my practice. You and I have always been a team. Look to the future with me. Come.”
    Well, I came. He got what he said he wanted. Now we’ll have to make the best of it . . . If Saint Paul could learn to be content in prison, I can do well here. A wry smile twisted her lips. Until that moment, it had never occurred to her that Paul had written he’d learned to be content. Heartened by the knowledge that he’d had his share of struggles or he wouldn’t have had to learn, she decided not to feel quite so guilty about being upset.
    One minute—she’d given the men more time than that. Squaring her shoulders, she smoothed her hair. Regardless of how she felt, she had a job to do, and she was going to get it done.
    Karl heard her coming—not because of the creaking floorboards but because of the I-mean-business drumbeat of her heels. Until now she’d always walked silently, so he knew she fully intended to make this racket. It had been downright funny watching the doc go all prissy and proper, jumping to the wrong conclusions. She’d probably do the same thing again as soon as she spied him. Sitting on a chair in the middle of the floor, halfway between a small bookcase and the bed, he was supposed to hand Enoch books to prop up the legs of the bed.
    With a Sears’ nightshirt on, Karl felt ridiculous. A couple months back, Piet had been so delighted to have found something with a seventeen-and-a-half-inch collar and long enough to hit their shins that he’d sent away for a pair of the dumb-looking things. Rarely did ready-made clothing come of a size to accommodate the muscles