It didn't seem right that she should make him choose between the life he wanted and the woman he loved. He would get pen and ink and tell her so.
He was halfway to his feet before it occurred to him that that was precisely what he was asking her to do: choose between the life she knew and her love for him.
He slumped back into the chair. The difference, of course, was that he was the man. Tradition held that a woman left everything behind and started a new life with her husband. Doreena, however, would be leaving behind considerably more than most women. And getting far less.
Besides, he wasn't her husband yet. She could still refuse. It came down to the same question. Was he willing to give up his dream of practicing medicine on the frontier in order to be with Doreena?
With a sigh, he rose and moved to the desk. She had given him a year. Perhaps he could change her mind.
It took him most of the afternoon to write the letter, in part because he carefully chose each word, but also because of the interruptions. Two separate farm families stopped to meet him. They were in town anyway, they pointed out. Neither needed medical attention, but were merely checking him out, deciding, he supposed, if it would be worth calling on him if the need arose. He hoped he made a favorable impression. The fact that one of the farmers called him son did not seem like a good sign.
Finally the letter was written. He tapped the pen against his chin as he reread it. He had told about Billy Tallon, pointing out that without his help the boy might have been crippled for life. He had mentioned the Cartland sisters, brushing very lightly over their flirting. He hoped he had depicted them as amusing neighbors.
He had skillfully written of the old woman dying of pneumonia and of taking his meals at the boardinghouse next door without ever actually mentioning Jane. Now he wondered why. He hadn't been afraid Doreena would be jealous. He simply hadn't been sure how to describe her.
Thinking of his neighbor, he was considering arriving early for dinner when he had another knock at his door. "Come in," he called as he turned the letter over and placed the cleaned pen on top.
He stood as Rose Finley, the woman who had introduced herself at the funeral dinner, stepped across his threshold. She moved aside to admit a woman Adam guessed was just shy of twenty.
"This is my daughter Rosalie," Mrs. Finley said, smiling proudly as the girl curtsied. "This, my dear, is Dr. Adam Hart."
"Pleased to meet you," Rosalie said, with a tilt of her head that reminded him instantly of Nedra Cartland.
"She's been feeling poorly lately," Mama Finley continued. "I'll just wait here while you examine her in private." She plopped down in a chair and folded her arms, looking rather pleased.
Adam hesitated a moment before directing the young woman into the adjoining room. He closed the door behind them and leaned against it for a moment.
Rosalie stood in the center of the room, making a slow turn as she studied her surroundings. "I'd feel more comfortable if the shades were drawn," she said.
Adam opened his mouth to protest, but she had already stepped to the window that overlooked the street and was stretching to reach the shade pull. He quickly found a match and lit the lamp.
"Miss Finley-"
"You can call me Rosalie," she said, tossing a smile over her shoulder as she went for the other window shade.
"Rosalie," Adam began, becoming conscious of just how tightly the girl's dress fit when she stretched up on tiptoe.
"Yes?" She turned around and eyed him innocently.
Adam would have bet money there was nothing wrong with this woman except an overeager mother. Still …
"Have a seat," he said, indicating a stool that would bring her nearly eye-to-eye with him. "What seems to be the problem?"
"It's my throat," she said. "It's been sore lately."
Adam brought the lamp forward, positioned it on the table and turned up the wick. "Let's have a look."
She opened her mouth, and Adam turned her head until he got a good view of a very healthy throat.
"Your hands are warm," she said as he drew away.
"Thanks," he said, pretending not to notice the way she leaned toward him. "Have your eyes been watering? Do you have a runny nose?"
The pert little nose in question wrinkled distastefully. "No."
"Have you been coughing up any blood or phlegm?"
She shook her head, shuddering. "Don't you want to listen to my chest?"
Before Adam could catch her hands, she had loosened three buttons on her bodice. "That won't be necessary," he said.
"But you can do it, anyway," she said, leaning toward him again.
Adam was torn between the danger of continuing to hold her hands and the danger of letting them loose. Before hechad made up his mind, she whispered, "Do you want to kiss me, Dr. Hart?"
Adam looked down into her eyes, barely six inches from his. "Not if you have a sore throat," he said softly.
He watched her as she considered her predicament. He expected her to admit that she had been lying, but perhaps she realized that she would then be admitting to throwing herself at him as well. After a moment she leaned away and lowered her eyes. He let her hands slip out of his grasp.
"My advice, Miss Finley," he said softly, "is to, ah, stop working so hard. Let things take their natural course."
"But Mama says-"
"I can imagine what Mama says," he said, moving away from her. "Don't let her push you into anything."
"Yes, sir," she muttered, gazing down at her lap.
Adam couldn't suppress a smile. "I think you'll be fine."
"Yes, sir." She slipped off the stool, still not looking at him.
"One more thing, Rosalie." She glanced up. "Button your dress."
Two bright spots of color appeared in her cheeks. She hastily refastened the buttons as she moved toward the door. Adam reached out and opened it for
her. He followed her into the front room.
Mrs. Finley came to her feet and eyed her daughter expectantly.
"I think she'll be fine, Mrs. Finley," Adam said in his most professional voice. "Just go a little easy on her for a while."
Mrs. Finley looked from him to her daughter and back.
"That'll be a dollar, Mrs. Finley."
The woman opened her purse and carefully counted out the coins. With a last quizzical look at Adam, she herded her daughter out the door.
Adam turned back to the examining room and put out the lamp. He opened the shades and stood for a moment looking at the boardinghouse next door. Why should it seem particularly inviting now? The Cartland sisters weren't any more subtle than Rosalie.
Jane, however, was another matter. He could use a dose of her frankness after this afternoon. He grabbed his coat, tacked the oft-used note on his front door and was climbing her steps in a matter of minutes.
Jane gazed at the zinnias in the center of the table as her boarders and guests ate. When she had arranged the bouquet she'd thought she should take a few back to Grams. It was an odd feeling to realize that for just a moment she had forgotten she was dead. But maybe in a sense Grams was still with her, would always be with her.
Adam's words had eased some of her guilt over her grandmother's death, leaving her glad that the pain was over. Her sorrow now was for the loss of her closest friend and confidante. If Naomi said something outrageous to get Mr. Bickford's attention, with whom would she laugh with about it later?
At that moment, Adam chuckled over something that George had said. She hadn't been paying attention. When Tim Martin was there the conversation was always a little livelier, creating a diversion from her own thoughts. Tonight she had let herself drift away.
She turned her attention to the man beside her. He flashed her his boyish grin and whispered, "Welcome back."
"Sorry," she murmured. "My mind was elsewhere."
He nodded in understanding.
The Cartlands and George were arguing the relative merits of horseback versus buggies, and no one noticed the brief exchange. "What did I miss?" she asked.
"I asked about renting a buggy to get out to the Tallon farm tomorrow. It appears I may have to learn to ride horseback."
Jane smiled. "I've heard Mrs. Tallon talk about a creek that can make it impossible for her to get into town. Or to make it home if she gets caught in a rainstorm."
Adam nodded. "Mrs. Tallon made it in today, so I'm sure a buggy could make it put tomorrow. But that won't always be true."
Jane tried to look serious. "You need to learn to ride, anyway, if you're going to live in the West. You'll be a cowboy before you know it."