stupor waiting for you?” she snapped.
His laughter made her hair move. She reached for another bandage, and he grabbed her hand. His large palm swallowing hers up whole. There was simply no way to contain her gasp.
“Anne?” She felt his breath against her neck, down the worn collar of her work dress. She shied away, turning slightly and nearly tripping thanks to the uneven ground and her foot. He grabbed her elbow, holding her still.
He was very nearly embracing her. Out here in the open.
It had been a rather alarming few days. She could admit that. And though she could talk about being bold and brave and not caring what people thought of her, she’d had a long many years before the war of being conditioned to feel otherwise.
And the truth was, she was scorched with embarrassment.
Embarrassed by Dr. Madison's offer. Embarrassed by her own offer to Steven.
Hurt by Steven's rejection. So hurt that she couldn’t think about it, for fear of realizing how hurt she was. Like the soldiers she’d heard about who limped off the battlefields only to realize they were missing the better part of a hand or a foot. An ear even. If she looked down, she feared there would be a hole where her stomach should be. Her heart having been pulled out through her body.
But now Dr. Madison was holding her hand, and it was alarming. Confounding, even.
She turned and found him looking at her, his dark hair an inky sweep over his high pale forehead. His eyes were clear this morning, but he looked ill. As if the sunlight hurt him.
“I don’t want there to be awkwardness between us,” he said.
“I’m not awkward,” she said, and he smiled at her, letting her know what a terrible liar she was.
“Steven Baywood—”
“What of him?” she asked, too fast.
His smile was hundreds of years old. “You have feelings for him.”
Other women, practiced women, might have been able to control their flinch. But she could not.
“I saved his life.”
“I’ve saved quite literally hundreds of lives, and I don’t look at anyone the way you look at him.”
“Because your soul is dead. And Steven and I are friends,” she said, reaching for her next excuse.
“No. You and I are friends, and you berate me and watch me with stern, disappointed eyes. You watch him…”
“How?’ she asked, unable to resist knowing what sort of fool she looked like when it came to Steven Baywood.
Yes
, she thought,
tell me, so that I may add to my mortification
.
“The way Shakespeare tells us Romeo looks at Juliet.”
“Shakespeare, Dr. Madison?” She arched an eyebrow at him.
“You look at him the way my parents looked at each other. Gives a cynic like me hope.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, freeing her hand from his so she could pull another bandage off the line.
“Does Steven know how you feel?”
She felt her blush creeping up across her chest. “I am done speaking of this,” she said, turning to get away from him, but he stood in her way.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed.
“It is none of your business.”
“He’s hurt you.”
“It’s not his fault.” Steven was one of those unclimbable mountains to the west of Denver. It wasn’t his fault he was too steep and covered in ice and unreachable. This pain—it was her fault. For wanting him to be something different than he was. “The war has simply taken too much from him.”
“The war has not taken too much from me,” he said, his grin boyish and handsome.
No, Doc simply left all his doors unlocked and allowed chloroform to take what it wanted from him.
“My offer still stands,” he said. “Marriage. The freedom to continue working as you do with more safety, and—”
“I am not interested in ‘and.’”
“I think you're lying,” he said, his voice pitched low.
I think I am, too.
“Marry me, Anne,” he said. “Marry me and I will satisfy all that curiosity.”
He leaned down, and she didn't move. She didn’t push him away. No. She waited.