Free Courting the Doctor's Daughter by Janet Dean

city like New York and failed. He touched the mother’s hand. “Mrs. Cummings, your son is breathing. He’s got a concussion and he’s going to need some stitches, but skulls are tough. Except for a headache, he’ll be fine.”
    “Thank you, God,” someone murmured.
    Evidently, the boy’s mother heard Luke. She quieted and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Are you sure?”
    Suddenly an older man, breathing heavily, his face ruddy with exertion, bent over them. “Let’s get Homer to my office and stitch him up.”
    The boy groaned. “He’s coming around,” Luke said.
    Dr. Lawrence patted Mrs. Cummings’s back. “It’ll take more than a kick in the head to keep young Homer down.”
    Mrs. Cummings gave a weak laugh and let Luke take her son from her arms—yet kept a grip on his hand.
    The boy opened his eyes. “Oh, my head hurts. Wh-What happened?”
    Color returned to the boy’s cheeks. “You and a horse got in a kicking match, and the horse won,” Luke said. “You’ll be fine.”
    Dr. Lawrence stepped alongside Luke. “My office is just down the street.”
    Luke remembered seeing the cozy clapboard house with Dr. Lawrence’s shingle out front.
    Inside the waiting room, Luke’s steps slowed. Mary Graves rose from behind the desk, alarm plain on her face, her gaze fixed on the small, quiet form in his arms.
    At the sight of her, Luke’s heart hammered in his chest—the same rush of energy he’d experienced helping the boy. The realization sunk to the depths of his stomach with a thud. Careful, Jacobs. Don’t get involved.
    Mary Graves lifted her gaze to him and her mouth thinned. Obviously the woman could barely stomach him. Perhaps the fact she worked for a doctor explained her intense mistrust of his medicine. Giving Ben that ball had only increased her hostility.
    She followed the procession into the surgery, where Luke eased Homer onto the table, being careful of his head.
    Taking one look at the matted blood on the makeshift dressing, Miss Graves hurried out. Within minutes, she returned, carrying a basin of water, a bar of soap and towels, the epitome of efficiency and calm.
    His gaze collided with hers and held. A flush crept up her neck, and she quickly turned to the boy. In the moment before she’d looked away, something flared in her eyes. She might hate him, but she wasn’t unmoved by him. To his dismay, he found the insight appealing.
    Miss Graves smiled at the boy and covered him to his chin with a blanket. “Trying to get out of school, Homer?”
    The boy gave a lopsided grin. “No, ma’am, I like school.”
    Then she looped an arm around Mrs. Cummings’s middle and pulled her close. “He looks good, Martha,” she said softly, easing the worry lines on the mother’s face.
    Petite, with wavy chestnut hair and vibrant jade eyes, Mary Graves was more than equal to the task. She knew her way around a surgery, knew how to comfort a patient and his family. Nothing about her demeanor spoke of the woman who’d battled with him on the square. He shouldn’t be surprised. At their first meeting, this woman possessed an almost passionate concern for others,though she hadn’t shared it with him. Odd how he’d called her Miss Nightingale, as if he’d sensed her medical training.
    Dr. Lawrence smiled. “He’ll look even better with the new haircut I’m about to give him.” Easing Homer onto his side, he snipped a hank of brown hair, then cleaned the wound with soap and water, eliciting soft moans from the patient.
    Luke couldn’t keep his eyes off Miss Graves, pleased by her calm demeanor at the sight of blood. Of course, he’d expect that of a doctor’s assistant. She glanced at him and caught him watching her, then lowered her gaze.
    Dr. Lawrence finished cleaning the wound. “Mary, take Martha to the waiting room.” Before the mother could protest, Miss Graves led Martha Cummings away.
    The older man met Luke’s gaze. “Mrs. Cummings is a wonderful woman but