Sarah's Sin Page 2

  Sarah shook a finger at him as if it were a magic wand that could force him to do her bidding. “You are to stay in bed.”

  “My favorite place to be—provided I'm not alone.”

  “Well, you're sure going to be alone here,” she said tartly, finding a little bit of the sass that had always brought her a glower of disapproval from her father. With this man it only seemed to generate more of his teasing humor.

  He chuckled weakly, wincing a bit and laying a hand gingerly against the white bandage that swathed his ribs. “Oh, come on, Sarah. Have pity on a poor cripple. You're not really going to make me stay in bed all alone, are you?”

  “You bet.” She nodded resolutely.

  “Them I'm afraid I'm going to have to make a speedy recovery. I can't stand the idea of having a beautiful nurse and not being able to chase her around the bed.”

  Beautiful. Sarah did her best to ignore his compliment. To accept a compliment was to accept credit for God's doing. It was Hochmut—pride—a sin. She didn't need to be charged with any more of them than she already had. So she brushed aside the warm glow that threatened to blossom inside her and decided to match him teasing for teasing. “The shape you're in, I'll have no trouble getting away.”

  Matt closed his eyes briefly against his assorted pains. “I'm afraid you're right about that. Tell me, do I look as bad as I feel?”

  She gave a little sniff, stepping closer to the bed as her initial skittishness subsided. “I don't suppose you feel as bad as you look, else you'd be dead.”

  Matt gave her a look. “Gee, don't spare my feelings here, Sarah. Lay it on the line.”

  “I'm sorry,” she said, having the grace to blush. “I'm much too forthright. It's always getting me into trouble.”

  “Really?” Matt chuckled. “I can't imagine you in trouble.”

  “Ach, me, I'm in trouble all the time,” she admitted, rolling her eyes. A secretive little Mona Lisa smile teased her lips as she stepped closer to the bed.

  A sweet, warm feeling flooded through Matt. It wasn't exactly lust. It was … liking. Sarah Troyer was beguiling him with her innocence, and he would have bet she didn't have the vaguest idea she was doing it. “What kinds of things get you in trouble?”

  Her smile faded and she glanced away. Wishing for things I shouldn't want. Wanting things I can't have. But her thoughts remained unspoken. The flush that stained her cheeks with color now was from guilt. She was what she was, and she should be grateful for the things she had, she reminded herself, tamping down the longing that sprang eternal in her soul. Like weeds in a garden, her father would say, they must be torn out by the roots. Somehow, she had never had the heart to dig that deep and tear out all her dreams.

  She realized with a start that Matt was watching her, waiting for an answer. “Neglecting my work gets me into trouble,” she said quietly, eyes downcast to keep him from seeing any other answers that might be revealed by those too-honest mirrors of her true feelings. “I had best go down and see to making you some supper.”

  “In a minute,” Matt murmured, catching her by the wrist as she turned to go. Her skin was soft and cool beneath his fingertips, like the finest silk. He'd always had an especially acute sense of touch, and now he picked up the delicate beating of Sarah's pulse as if it were pounding like a jackhammer. He wondered if she would even know what a jackhammer was, and he marveled again at how untouched she seemed to him. He felt like the most jaded cynic in comparison.

  She would know nothing about the kind of violence that had disrupted his life. Street gangs and drug wars and inner-city desperation were the trappings of another world, a world far removed from farm life and people who disdained automobiles as being too worldly.

  For a moment all the weariness and hopelessness caught up with him, and he wondered what it would be like to just chuck it all, plant a garden and buy a horse. He wondered what Sarah Troyer would think if he told her that. He knew what his friends in Minneapolis would think. They would think he'd gone nuts. Sophisticated, cosmopolitan Dr. Matt Thome a gentleman farmer? Absurd didn't begin to cover it. His concussion had to be worse than he'd realized, he thought, dismissing the notion.

  He wanted to ask Sarah about the shadows that had crossed her face an instant before she had answered his question. He found he wanted to know all about her. He wrote it off as a combination of boredom and natural curiosity, and conveniently ignored the fact that he was not usually so curious about the deep, dark secrets of the women in his life.

  It wasn't that he was so self-absorbed, he didn't care. It was more a matter of practicality. His career took precedence over all else in his life, and it left little time or energy for deep relationships. He wore his title of hospital Romeo with ease and good humor, and thought of all-consuming romantic love in only the most abstract of ways. So when Sarah Troyer turned back toward him, her eyes as blue as twin lakes under the sun and as round as quarters, he put the jolt in his chest down to a reawakening libido and counted himself lucky to be among the living.

  “I think I might need a little help getting up,” he said, his voice a notch huskier than usual.

  “I think you might need to get your hearing checked,' Sarah said breathlessly. She extricated her arm from his hold and stepped out of his reach, absently rubbing her wrist as if she could erase the tingling his touch had roused. “You are not to get out of bed.”

  “You take things too literally,” he complained. “I'm not to get out of bed much”

  “At all.”

  He gave her the superior look that normally brought bossy nurses to heel and said dryly, “Look, trust me on this. I'm a doctor.”

  “Yes.” Sarah nodded, unmoved. “I can see how well you have healed yourself so far.”

  “Fine,” Matt said, scowling, his doctors ego not taking well to pointed truths. “Don't help me. Ill manage.”

  It occurred to him that he would have ordered a patient in his condition to remain in bed, but then he wasn't a garden-variety patient. He was a physician. He knew his own limits—most of the time. He certainly knew one of his limits, and it had been reached. He was getting out of this bed, duty-bound maid or no duty-bound maid.

  Taking great care to move slowly, he eased his legs over the edge of the bed and waited for his head to stop swimming. Out of deference to Sarahs undoubtedly delicate sensibilities, he pulled the black-and-purple quilt around himself toga-style, then he took as deep a breath as his taped ribs would allow and rose.

  The earth tilted drunkenly beneath his feet and he staggered forward in an effort to keep himself from falling. The quilt dropped away as he reached out to grab onto something— anything—to steady himself. The “something” his hands settled on gasped and squirmed. His eyes locked on Sarahs for an instant, an instant full of shock, surprise, and the unmistak able sparks of attraction, then they both went down in a tangle of arms and legs, quilt, and ankle-length cotton skirt.

  Sarah gave a squeal as she landed on her back. Matt groaned as he came down on top of her, pain digging into his ribs and pounding through his head. A red-hot arrow of it shot down his left leg and a blissful blackness began to descend over him, beckoning him toward the peace of unconsciousness, but he fought it off. He sucked a breath in through his teeth, held it, expelled it slowly, all the while willing himself to remain in the land of the living.

  After a moment that seemed like an eternity, the pain receded. He slowly became aware of the feminine form cushioning his body. There really was a woman under all those clothes, he thought, mentally taking inventory of full breasts and shapely legs. His hands had settled at the curve of her waist, and he let his fingers trace the angles of it. She was trim but womanly. Very womanly, he thought, groaning again, but this time in appreciation as she shifted beneath him, and the points of her nipples grazed his chest through the cotton of her gown.

  “Are you all right?” Sarah asked, trying to sound concerned as a whole array of other feelings assaulted her—panic, desire, guilt. Matt Thome
was pressed against the whole length of her, and while there might have been some question about his health, there was certainly no question about his gender. She squirmed frantically beneath him, only managing to come into even more intimate contact with him. She had automatically grabbed him as they had fallen, and now she found her hands gripping the powerful muscles of his upper arms. His skin was smooth and hot to the touch, and her fingers itched to explore more of it. How she managed to push the thought from her head and speak was beyond her. “Are you injured?”

  “Me?” Matt said dreamily, his thick lashes drifting down as his smile curved his mouth upward. “I'm in heaven. How about you?”

  “I'm being pinned to the floor by two hundred pounds of dead weight,” Sarah said irritably, using anger to burn away the traitorous threads of longing. She had no business thinking such … such … carnal thoughts about this man. She hardly knew him and, even if she had known him from birth, he was out of her reach. She had to be content to confine her secret yearnings to her imagination where they did no one harm.

  “Gee, Sarah, you sure know how to bolster a mans ego,” Matt complained. He raised himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, one black brow arched sardonically.

  It seemed to Sarah that no part of him needed bolstering, but she didn't have the chance to tell him that. With a clatter of toe-nails against the hardwood floor, Blossom arrived on the scene. Ingrid Woods basset hound hurled herself into the room, skidding to a halt beside the heads of the fallen, and set up a terrible howling. Sarah winced. Matt swore liberally and clamped his hands over his ears. Blossom gulped a breath and flung her head back again with such force that her front paws came off the floor. The sound was pitiful, mournful, but, most especially, it was loud.

  “She thinks you're attacking me!” Sarah yelled at Matt, smacking him on the shoulder.

  Blossom snatched another breath and hit a note that should have shattered every glass in the house.

  Matt rolled carefully off Sarah and struggled to stand, grabbing hold of the oak nightstand to steady himself. He sat on the chair beside the bed, staring in disbelief at the dog as Sarah pushed herself to her feet as well. Blossom let out one more good howl, then settled herself on Sarahs feet, apparently content that the danger had passed. Looking at the dog, with her woeful brown eyes and furrowed brow, Matt found it impossible to believe so much sound had come from such a little animal. She looked up at him with her speckled nose and pendulous lips and sighed with satisfaction of a job well-done. Sarah bent over and stroked the dog's head.

  “Good girl, Blossom.”

  Blossom beamed, breaking into unrestrained panting, her doggy lips pulling back into an obvious smile.

  “Leave it to my sister,” Matt said, sticking a finger in his ear and wiggling it back and forth in an effort to restore normal hearing. “She couldn't have a Doberman or a German shepherd or any other self-respecting guard dog that would merely take a chunk out of an intruder. She has to get one that renders its victims permanently hearing impaired. I hope darling Blossom catches her and John in the throes of passion some night.”

  Sarah chuckled at the thought, but the laughter caught in her throat as her eyes settled on Matt. He was indeed all but naked, wearing nothing except bandages and a pair of teeny-tiny burgundy briefs that left little to her overactive imagination. The air in her lungs turned hot, and her jaw dropped.

  “What's the matter?” Matt asked, his voice soft with amusement and something like compassion. “Haven't you seen a man in his underwear before?”

  “Only my husband,” Sarah murmured. And Samuel Troyer had never looked quite like this. He had certainly never made her feel what she was feeling now—all shivery and weak.

  The word hit Matt on the head like a hammer. Husband. He shuddered with dread and disappointment. “You're married?”

  “I&m a widow.”

  “I'm sorry,” he said automatically, but with genuine feeling. She seemed too young to even have been married. To be a widow at her age was truly a tragedy. He watched her busily straightening her skirt and apron, dusting off imaginary lint. From the way she avoided his searching gaze, he thought she must still be hurting from her loss. He had no way of knowing what she felt was guilt. “He must have been very young.”

  “He would have been twenty-five this year … like me.” Even though it had been a year since he'd gone, she still wished she had been a better wife to him.

  “What happened?”

  “A farming accident.”

  “That's a shame. Do you have children?”

  She couldn't quite keep from flinching at the question. He meant no harm, she knew. He was trying only to express his concern and his sympathy. He couldn't know the depth of the wound that particular question struck.

  “No,” she said shortly.

  Dislodging the basset hound from her feet, she went to the bed and began straightening the covers with brisk efficiency. She turned the sheet down and fluffed the pillows. She dis missed the topic of her husband and her widowhood so thoroughly, Matt thought he might have imagined the whole interlude, but he knew he wasn't that groggy. And now he knew there was a lot more to Sarah Troyer than blue eyes and innocence.

  “Let this be a lesson to you, Matt Thorne,” she said. “You had ought to stay in bed. You're not strong enough to be up and around.”

  “That's probably true,” he admitted, taking the black terry robe she thrust in his direction without looking at him. He eased his arms into the sleeves, pulled it around him, and tied the belt. “But I'm afraid some things can't wait— like a trip to the bathroom.”

  “I'll find you a chamber pot.”

  “No thanks. No offense, Amish, but I'll walk on my lips before I stoop to using a chamber pot—no pun intended.”

  Sarah lifted her chin to a sanctimonious angle and intoned her father's favorite words. “Pride goeth before a fall.”

  “Yeah, well,” Matt said, unchastened. “I goeth to the bathroom. Are you going to help me get there, Nurse Troyer, or do I get Blossom the Wonder Dog to drag me?”

  Blossom gave an outraged booming bark and darted away, hind feet chasing her front like a child's pull-toy as she disappeared into the dark hallway.

  Sarah heaved a much-put-upon sigh and planted her hands on her hips. “All right. Ill help you. But youll come back to bed and stay there after?”

  “Scout's honor.”

  “I don't know anything about no Scouts. It's your honor that worries me.”

  “And well it should,' Matt said, doing the best Groucho Marx imitation he could considering he could only waggle one eyebrow.

  Sarah just blinked at him, looking mildly bemused.

  Matt was crestfallen. His Groucho always won him smiles and giggles. “You don't know the Marx Brothers?”

  “I don't think so,” Sarah said, handing him his cane. “Do they farm around here or are they from the Twin Cities?”

  “Never mind,” Matt shook his head and chuckled, utterly charmed by her naivete and the effect it had on his own slightly tarnished soul.

  She was a gem, this Amish girl, a natural pearl. In spite of the dents she put in his ego, she was exactly the bright spot he needed in his life right now, when everything in his day-to-day world seemed bleak and hopeless, when he'd almost given up hope of ever finding any goodness in the world again.

  Maybe he'd have to thank Ingrid after all.

  “Ingrid was right. You are a terrible patient.”

  Matt froze as he lifted the razor to his cheek. His eyes met Sarah's in the mirror above the sink. She stood in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed over her chest, shoulder braced against the jamb, Blossom sitting on her feet. She wore a dark blue dress identical to what she had on yesterday, a black apron, and a stern look that would have done any head nurse proud.

  “Shaving doesn't seem like too strenuous an activity,” he said.

  Straightening, Sarah lifted one brow and planted her fists on her hips. “No? Well, dangerous is maybe a b
etter word at that. The way your hand is shaking, you'll likely cut your own throat.”

  She was right. His hand was trembling with the effort of lifting the razor toward his cheek. It amazed him how weak he felt. The trip to the bathroom and back the night before had done him in. The instant he had crawled back in bed and let his head touch the pillow he'd been unconscious, and he'd remained that way until the buttery light of morning had peeked in around the edges of his window shade.

  He had expected to feel stronger with the dawn of a new day, and he had managed the walk to the bathroom himself with the aid of his cane. But now he stood leaning heavily against the oak vanity, his heart beating a little too fast, his breathing a little too labored, his hand shaking in a way that made his razor look as safe as a chain saw.

  He managed a smile as he met Sarahs eyes in the minror again. “If I did myself in with this thing, would you be sad?”

  “You bet,” she said, teasing lights brightening her eyes, her Mona Lisa smile curling up one corner of her mouth. “Think of the mess I'd have to clean up.”

  “You're the soul of sympathy.”

  “You don't deserve sympathy if you're not going to follow your doctor's orders.”

  He shook his razor at her, narrowing his eyes. “You could go far in the nursing profession. Or as a marine. The requirements are similar.”

  Sarah sniffed at him, working at looking annoyed. He was teasing her, of course, but she had, in fact, once fantasized about becoming a nurse … or a teacher … or an astronaut. When she was twelve, she had fantasized about becoming a spy because she had been pretty sure spies got to go all over the world. But at twenty-five she knew it was not likely she would become any of those things no matter how one foolish corner of her heart still wished for it. Because of her ties to her family she would always be just an Amish girl. Overseeing the recuperation of the dashing Dr. Thorne was probably, as exciting as her life was ever going to get.

  Matt watched her carefully in the mirror. She did an admirable job of maintaining her stern expression, but she couldn't stop her eyes from looking wide and vulnerable and a little bit sad. He had only been teasing her, as he had teased every female he'd ever known, but he'd struck some hidden chord inside her, and she didn't want him to know it. Too bad, Sarah, he thought. I'm beginning to want to know everything about you.