“Sarah will be glad to hear that, won't you, Sarah?” He glanced up at her as she settled in her chair once again, perversely enjoying the dark look she sent him. He was being childish, but he didn't care. “Mrs. Parker says she didn't hear a thing last night. How about Mr. Parker?”'
“Slept like the dead.”
“I spent half the night tossing and turning myself. How about you, Sarah?”
She picked up a carafe and thrust it at him. “More coffee, Dr. Thome?”
“No, thanks. It keeps me up. It's just one of the things that can keep me up at night.”
“You suffer from insomnia, Dr. Thorne?” Mrs. Parker asked as she trimmed the crusts from her toast and piled them beside her plate like tiny cord wood.
“Oh, I wouldn't call it insomnia, no. Would you, Sarah?”
Sarah sent him a fuming glare. “Jacob, why don't you and I go gather the eggs together?”
Jacob was halfway to the door as he answered. “I can't. I have to get home to help. We are stuffing the mattresses today. It's a big job.”
Sarah felt a twinge of resentment as he disappeared out the back door, the pockets of his trousers bulging with muffins. It was followed closely by guilt. She had no right to demand Jacob's time; he was needed at home. Besides that, she should have been ashamed for wanting to use him for her own purposes. Both feelings, however, took a backseat to the need to get away from Matt. Mouthing words of love one minute and making suggestive remarks the next, he had her off balance again.
She pushed her chair back from the table. “Will you be needing anything else, Mrs. Parker?”
“No, no, honey. You go on with your little jobs,” the woman said distractedly as she picked blueberries out of a muffin and made a smiley face with them on her place of scrambled eggs.
“Dr. Thorne will keep you company, then.”
Sarah didn't even glance at Matt as she made her exit. She wanted to get out into the fresh air where she could think. In the com foiling dark of night she hadn't given much thought as to how she would deal with Matt during the day. In the comforting dark of night she could be anything she wanted to be. With the rising of the sun came the sure fact that she was nothing but an Amish woman. How else was she supposed to behave? She knew nothing of taking a lover; in truth, knew little about physical intimacy. She had experienced more in one night with Matt than she had in all the time she'd been married to Samuel.
He seemed hurt that she hadn't been openly affectionate with him in the kitchen, but that kind of behavior was foreign to her. Even if Jacob hadn't been there as a set of eyes and ears for Isaac, Sarah didn't know if she could have done it. Their loving was a very private, very personal thing to her; she didn't want to share it with anyone who happened to be looking their way. What passed between them would be a secret because that was the way it had to be and that was the way she wanted it. When he left, she would keep that secret locked in her heart, taking it out at special times to appreciate like a treasure.
“Can I help?”
She looked up sharply, freezing in the motion of snatching an egg from beneath a dozing red hen. Matt stood in the doorway, blocking out much of the morning light. “No,” she said, returning to her task. “Seems you can only hurt,'
“Well, you would know all about that, wouldn't you, Sarah?” He made no move to enter the henhouse, but turned and leaned his back against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. Blossom settled herself on his feet and stared at the chickens. The chickens watched the basset hound, making low sounds in their throats.
Sarah moved from roost to roost, plucking the eggs out of the straw beds with a stealth and speed bred from long experience. She piled them carefully in a basket slung over her left forearm. She didn't know what to say to Matt. If she told him she was holding back because she didn't want other people to know about them, he would be hurt. If she told him she was holding something back because she knew in the end he would leave, he might just end it now, and she didn't want that. What she wanted was for the world to recede as it did every time he kissed her. What she wanted was to be transported to a different place and time where loving him wouldn't be difficult or dangerous or doomed to disappointment.
“Don't you regret it,” he said tightly, turning to block her path as she neared the door. He dislodged the dog from his feet and planted himself squarely, filling the frame of the doorway like a gunslinger come to duel. “Don't you regret what we did last night, Sarah. It was beautiful and special. Don't you dare regret it.”
“I don't regret making love with you,” she whispered, staring down at her feet.
“What then? I spend the night making love with you, and in the morning you treat me like a leper. What conclusion am I supposed to draw from that?”
Sarah sighed, still not looking at him. What was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to feel? The answers to those questions were so much clearer when the adventure existed only within the safety of her imagination. The bliss of it was not clouded by issues then; there was no tomorrow to be wary of.
“I just don't know what you want from me,” she murmured.
Matt watched her fight with her own inner questions, her straight brows pulling together above closed eyes, and a current of love and desire surged through him, making eveiything else unimportant.
“This,” he said, coming forward and tilting her chin up. “This is what I want.”
He settled his mouth over hers slowly and softly, cupping her face in his hands. The taste of him was heaven. The heat of his mouth and his body against hers seared away the cloud of doubt that had been hanging over her. Sarah responded to him without hesitation, letting him bend her back over his arm as he deepened the kiss. Arched against his solid body, she was oblivious to everything but the warmth that welled and glowed inside her. She wished with all her heart that they could just stay this way, out it wasn't to last. It wasn't to last more than a minute or so, because that was when all hell broke loose inside the chicken house.
Behind Sarah there was a growl and a chicken war cry, and suddenly it seemed as if a tornado had revved into high gear inside the close confines of the little shed. Chickens squawked as Blossom tore around in circles, baying her lungs out as she tried to nab a red hen. IWo chickens hurled themselves against Sarahs back, wings beating frantically. She lunged forward in surprise, knocking Matt off balance. He went backward out the door, tripping and landing on his back in the dirt. Sarah stumbled after him, her skirts tangling around her knees. She sprawled forward and had to give up her hold on her egg basket to save herself. She ended up on her hands and knees. The eggs—at least some of them—ended up on Matt. The red hen shot out of the coop like a missile. Blossom, in hot pursuit, scampered under Sarah, then trampled across Matt's prone form.
“Wait&ll they hear about this in the ER,” an amused voice sounded from above him. “How I caught the great Dr. Thorne with egg on his face.”
Matt eased himself into a sitting position, wincing at the nip of pain in his ribs and the gooey mess on his chin. He wiped the egg away with his hand then stared in disgust at the yellow ooze on his palm, not sure what to do about it. He shot a glance at the woman who seemed so amused at his predicament, taking in battered dusty cowboy boots and legs that stretched a mile straight up. “Would you care to shut that lovely mouth long enough to give me a hand up, Nurse McCarver?”
She grimaced at the slimy palm he offered. “No way. The yoke's on you, Doc.”
“You're a regular Florence Nightingale,” Matt said sarcastically. “Has anybody told you your bedside manner stinks?”
“Not recently. You certainly never complained,” she said sweetly, a wry smile canting her wide mouth.