For the Sake of Warwick Mountain (Harlequin Heartwarming) (2 page)

“Bones don’t heal fast at his age.” Worry for her old friend filled her. “He lives alone. How will he manage?”

Matt’s eyes twinkled. “He doesn’t live alone any longer. I saw to that.”

“How?” She hoped he hadn’t confined the old doctor to a nursing home. Dwight Peyseur loved his independence too much to adjust to such a routine.

“Hired him a housekeeper,” Matt said.

Becca thought back to what the older doctor had shared with her about his life. After his wife had died ten years ago, he had continued to live in their Beverly Hills home. He ate his meals out, and he had a cleaning service that came once a week. “I thought he already had someone who takes care of the house.”

The twinkle danced a little faster in Matt’s striking eyes. “Mrs. Sanderingham is different.”

In spite of her best efforts, Becca couldn’t keep the blush from flaring in her cheeks. “You’re not suggesting—”

“Not suggesting a thing. But I admit to playing matchmaker.” Oozing self-confidence and satisfaction, he leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs in front of him. “Dwight’s been alone too long since Madeline died. Mrs. Sanderingham is not only a registered nurse, an excellent cook and a superb housekeeper, she’s exactly the kind of witty, intelligent woman Dwight needs in his life.”

“
Mrs.
Sanderingham?”

Annoyance stirred inside her. Matt Tyler had a nerve to force unwanted attention from a strange woman onto his partner. Becca knew all too well the irritation well-meaning meddlers could wreak on a person’s life. When it came to matchmakers, Aunt Delilah considered herself world class. Becca was constantly fending off attention from so-called eligible men her aunt aimed her way.

“From what Dr. Peyseur told me,” she said with more vexation in her tone than she’d intended, “he enjoys his solitude. That’s why he likes being here so much. In fact, he also said that no woman could ever take Madeline’s place.”

Matt nodded agreeably. “Quite right. And I’m sure Dwight could never replace Mr. Sanderingham. That doesn’t mean the two can’t enjoy each other’s company.”

“Do you live alone?” Becca regretted the question the moment it left her lips. Her query was not only rude, but unnecessary. Matt Tyler’s living arrangements were no concern of hers.

Except for the next month, she corrected herself. Unless she could make other arrangements, he’d be sleeping in Granny Warwick’s black walnut poster bed, one floor directly beneath her own.

* * *

“I
’
M
NOT
MARRIED
, if that’s what you’re asking,” Matt replied easily, amused by her curiosity.

He took another sip of coffee, decided it tasted even better than the Starbucks he favored, and finished the cup. He hoped he’d managed to hide his surprise earlier when the enchanting woman across from him had announced that
she
was Rebecca Warwick.

Dwight had explained that Miss Warwick was the schoolteacher in this godforsaken backwoods, and Matt had expected an elderly crone with a neck like a chicken, a figure like a stick and a voice like gravel.

Man, had he had it all wrong.

Rebecca Warwick didn’t come anywhere close to his misconception. In fact, she was very appealing, in spite of the fact that her emerald-green eyes were a shade too far apart, her mouth a bit too wide and her nose turned up a tad too much at the tip. He assessed her with a plastic surgeon’s eye. The proportions of her slim figure were classic, and the prominent cheekbones of her heart-shaped face would turn any Hollywood starlet green with envy. The satiny smoothness of her peaches-and-cream complexion defied improvement by even the most skilled movie-makeup artist. Even though her thick mane of golden-brown hair framing her face in a tangle of curls would make Matt’s stylist run for his scissors, her tousled look held an undeniable charm.

But only from a strictly professional viewpoint. After all, he’d seen enough female pulchritude in his practice to remain relatively unimpressed by gorgeous women. And she wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Then why couldn’t he take his eyes off her?

“More coffee?” she asked, and he amended her list of attributes to include a voice as silky smooth as the finest bourbon with just a hint of a Southern drawl.

“Thanks.” He cooled his jets, handed her his cup, then watched her retreat into the kitchen for a refill.

Shaking himself out of his dazed surprise at Miss Warwick’s being far from the white-haired, homely spinster he’d envisioned, he contemplated the situation he found himself in so unexpectedly. In spite of his appealing hostess, he really didn’t want to be here, not in the cold, gloomy drizzle of the Smoky Mountains.

Smoky?

Gray and dreary were more appropriate, and the damp penetrated to his bones. Right now he’d intended to be sunning himself on the teakwood deck of a chartered yacht anchored off the coast of Fiji. But how was he supposed to say no to his best friend and mentor? Dwight was such a good guy, how could Matt turn him down, even when it meant giving up the vacation he’d been looking forward to for months? A vacation he desperately needed to drive away the deep dissatisfaction that had haunted him lately.

A discontent he was certain that time off in the right locale with the proper amenities and pleasing company could cure. He was tired and could use a rest. Although he didn’t begrudge the people of Warwick Mountain the medical care they seriously needed, he felt like a bucket that had been drained dry with nothing left to give. His problem had to be fatigue. His life, after all, was as perfect as a life could be. He had gained international acclaim as a plastic surgeon, had more money than he could spend in his lifetime, an enviable Malibu beach house and a full social calendar. What more could a man want?

A vacation.

Which he wasn’t going to have, thanks to Dwight. Guilt stabbed at him when he considered his friend’s broken bone. It wasn’t as if Dwight had fractured his wrist on purpose to sabotage Matt’s cruise.

He shook off his gloomy thoughts. If he could finish Dwight’s work in Warwick Mountain quickly, regardless of the slow mountain pace Dwight had warned him about, Matt might still find time for that vacation.

“Who are you?” A high, shrill voice sounded beside him, jolting him from his thoughts.

Standing by the arm of his chair was a miniature version of Rebecca Warwick. The little girl with round green eyes alight with curiosity—and more than a hint of suspicion—and a riot of honey-brown curls had to be related to the schoolteacher. A younger sister?

“I’m Matt. Who are you?”

“Emily.”

He considered the tyke with interest. No more than about five years old, from the flush on her face, her tousled hair and feet clad only in socks, she apparently had just awakened from a nap.

“Do you live here?” When Dwight had told him Rebecca Warwick was single, Matt had assumed the teacher lived alone.

“Uh-huh.” Emily climbed into the rocker beside the fire and sat with her feet sticking just over the edge of the seat.

When he’d first arrived at the Warwick house, Matt had noted that wings had been added to the original log building and now wondered how many other residents filled its rooms. “Who else lives here?”

“Just Mommy and me.”

“Mommy?”

Emily nodded. “She’s a teacher. But not now. It’s summer.”

“So just the two of you live in this big house?” His interest was piqued. Where was Emily’s father?

“Granny went to heaven,” Emily announced solemnly.

“I’m sorry.”

The little girl shook her head. “Mommy says don’t be sad. Granny’s in a pretty place. Her heart doesn’t hurt now.”

Emily was a charmer with a vivacious personality. Intelligence sparkled in her green eyes. Matt couldn’t resist another question. “Where’s your daddy?”

Emily shifted her weight to make her chair rock. “Don’t have a daddy.”

Glancing past Emily toward the kitchen door, Matt spotted Rebecca standing there, her face a blank mask, and wondered if she’d overheard his questions.

When her gaze met his, she hurried into the room. “Here’s your coffee. I see you’ve met Emily.”

His hostess gave no indication that his third degree of her daughter had rattled her, except for the slight hint of breathlessness in her voice.

“Dwight didn’t mention Emily,” Matt said. “Although, come to think of it, that must be why he sent two presents with me. Must be one for each of you.” He set his cup aside. “They’re in my luggage. I’ll get them.”

Rebecca’s face flushed, and she shifted her feet with obvious uneasiness. “Dr. Tyler—”

“It’s Matt, remember?”

“Before you unpack your car, we need to talk.”

Maybe his inquiries to Emily had offended Rebecca more than he’d realized. He settled back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

Before Rebecca could utter another word, the front door flew open, and a small, wiry woman burst into the room and headed for Rebecca.

Remembering the manners his mother had drilled into him as a child, Matt pushed to his feet, but the woman didn’t seem to notice him.

“Has Dr. Peyseur already arrived?” the newcomer asked. “I saw the car out front, and I brought him a chocolate pound cake.”

“Dwight can’t come,” Rebecca announced. “He broke his wrist. This is Dr. Tyler, his partner. He’s taking Dr. Peyseur’s place.”

The gray-haired woman faced Matt, and her eyes lit with recognition. Her mouth fell open and the cake bobbled in her hands. She saved it from crashing to the floor with a maneuver that would have made an NFL wide receiver proud. Shifting the captured plate to one hand, she grabbed Rebecca’s elbow with the other and dragged the young woman with her toward the kitchen. Before Matt could say anything, the door slammed behind them.

“That’s Aunt Delilah,” Emily announced matter-of-factly, as if her relative always descended on the house with the speed and fury of a whirlwind.

Matt sank back into his chair, curious over Delilah’s obvious negative reaction to him. Maybe she was one of the bevy of older women who found Dwight so attractive and was disappointed that he’d been replaced.

“You’ve got to get that man out of here!” In spite of the closed door, Delilah’s hysterical tone carried clearly into the living room.

“Shh, he’ll hear you,” Matt heard Rebecca’s hushed and slightly frantic reply.

“He can’t stay in this house.” Her niece’s warning had failed to lower Delilah’s volume. “Don’t you know who he is?”

“He’s Matthew Tyler, Dwight’s partner,” Rebecca answered in a reasonable tone.

“Oh, no, he’s much worse than that!”

Emily, also tuned in to the conversation in the kitchen, studied Matt with renewed interest.

“What are you talking about?” Rebecca asked.

“He’s Dr. Wonderful,” Delilah said in a tone that seemed to equate the nickname with evil incarnate. “You’ve got to get him out of this house. Now.”

CHAPTER TWO

B
ECCA
RESCUED
THE
cake plate from Aunt Delilah’s hands when it wobbled precariously a second time and placed it safely on the counter.

“Dr. Wonderful?” She cast a worried look at the door between her and the room where Matt Tyler sat with Emily. “What are you talking about?”

Before her great-aunt could answer, Becca edged her toward the far end of the kitchen in hopes her guest wouldn’t overhear their conversation.

Aunt Delilah settled onto the bench in the bay window of the breakfast nook, fanned her heated face with one hand and clasped her heart with the other. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of him.”

Becca slid onto the bench across from her. Although Granny’s younger sister looked enough like her grandmother to be her twin—small, wiry frame, luxuriant gray hair that refused to remain in a sedate bun and wily gray eyes that sparked with wisdom—their personalities were as different as night from day. Where Granny had been calm and unflappable, Delilah’s moods were as mercurial as the mountain weather, sunny and bright one moment, gloomy and stormy the next. The sisters held in common, however, their deep abiding love of family and the land from which generations of Warwicks had sprung. What affected one touched all, and Aunt Delilah always rose to a perceived threat to protect her clan like a mama bear with cubs.

She leaned across the table, her gray eyes snapping like thunderclouds laced with heat lightning. “That man was on the cover of
People
magazine just last month.”

That’s
where she’d seen him, Becca recalled. On the magazine cover in the beauty shop that Cousin Bessie ran out of the front room of her house. Becca pictured the gleaming smile, the handsome face—then forced the image from her mind to concentrate on what her aunt was saying.

“That man has more money than God. The article said he’s the doctor to the stars. Showed pictures of him with bunches of young celebrities, most of them with bosoms out to here—” Delilah held her hands a foot from her own flat chest “—and some in bikinis that should have had them arrested for indecent exposure. He’s dated most of Hollywood’s prettiest women.”

Becca blinked in surprise. “The magazine actually said that?”

“Of course not.” Her aunt gave an impatient shake of her head that loosed another gray curl from her bun. “His lawyers would be on them like a duck on a june bug if they had, but I could read between the lines. The man’s a lothario. That’s why he can’t stay in your house. He’ll ruin your reputation.” She gave a self-righteous sniff. “What little of it you have left after your escapades in Pinehurst all those years ago.”

Becca flinched at her aunt’s bluntness, but she knew Delilah didn’t mean to be unkind. She was merely concerned for the welfare of her great-niece.

“I’ve already reached the same conclusion,” Becca said.

“That he’s a lothario?” Delilah’s eyes widened in alarm. “He hasn’t tried anything—”

“No, he’s been the picture of perfect manners.” Matt hadn’t had to do anything, Becca thought. Just his knock-’em-dead appearance and his compelling charm were enough to catch the attention of any woman who wasn’t blind and deaf. Any woman except herself, of course, since she’d sworn off all men since Grady. “But it wouldn’t be fitting for him to board here with Emily and me. I don’t need to give the community more fuel for gossip.”

Delilah sat back on the bench with a sigh. “That’s a relief. I’m glad you’re being sensible about this. You weren’t the last time, you know.”

Becca shut out memories of that painful past and focused on today’s dilemma. Her aunt had provided the perfect opening for Becca’s request. “That’s why I want him to stay with you and Uncle Jake.”

“What?” Her aunt reacted as if Becca had dropped a load of bricks on her.

Becca smiled. “With your sterling reputation and Uncle Jake to act as watchdog, you’re the perfect couple to host Dr. Wonderful while he fills in for Dr. Peyseur.”

Varying emotions scurried across Aunt Delilah’s milk-and-roses complexion, still lovely in spite of the fine lines seventy-eight years of clean living had etched there. “I’d love to help you, but I can’t.”

Panic squeezed Becca’s chest. “Why not? You have that beautiful spare room—”

“It’s not spare anymore. Jake brought his sister, Lydia, up from Blairsville yesterday. Her sciatica has her bedridden—in our guest room. According to the doctors, it could be weeks before she’s on her feet again.”

“Then maybe Cousin Bessie—”

“Not a chance. That poor woman’s on her feet all day at the beauty parlor. She doesn’t have the strength left to wait on company. Besides, you know how jealous Frank is. He wouldn’t tolerate the man in his house.”

Becca was grasping at straws. “The preacher and his wife have room—”

“They’re leaving tomorrow for a pulpit exchange with a church in Bryson City. The Bryson City preacher’s coming here with a wife and five children. Won’t be room for a guest.”

“There has to be someone who can board him.” Becca couldn’t believe the predicament that faced her.

Her aunt shook her head. “Not many who’d want to, knowing his infamous reputation.”

“How can they know if we don’t tell them?” Becca asked in frustration.

“Every woman who has her hair done at Bessie’s knows. Bessie had two copies of that issue in her shop. And they were both dog-eared and well read, let me tell you.”

Becca felt the old rebellion rising inside her. “Then he’ll just have to stay here. I won’t deny people medical care for fear of a bunch of gossipy old women.”

Delilah’s eyes glowed with sympathy. “Your motives are good, honey, but you can’t sacrifice yourself. You have Emily to think of.”

“That’s true. I don’t want Emily’s feelings hurt.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Emily’s feelings. It’s your job I’m worried about. You know how the school board is. They set a higher standard for their teachers than anyone else. How will you support Emily if you lose your job?”

“How will I face Lizzie McClain and Jimmy Dickens if I turn away their best chance for a healthy, happy life?” Irrational anger at the man in the next room surged through her. Why couldn’t he have been old, stodgy and ugly as homemade sin, as well as one of the world’s most brilliant plastic surgeons?

“Maybe Dr. Peyseur will come next year,” her aunt said.

“Do you remember how long a year is to a child? Especially an unhappy child?” Becca buried her face in her hands and accepted the blow fate had dealt her. She had no choice. She couldn’t sacrifice her own daughter’s welfare for the other children, no matter how needy they were. She had to keep her job to support Emily.

She was all Emily had.

She rose from the bench and squared her shoulders. “Well, that’s that, then. I’ll tell him he has to leave.”

Her aunt stood and hugged her in a fierce embrace. “I’m sorry, honey. I know how much all the children of this community mean to you. But you have yourself and Emily to consider. You’ve made the right choice. Enjoy the cake. I’ll let myself out the back.”

As the screen door slammed behind Aunt Delilah, Becca sank onto the bench. If she’d made the right choice, why did it feel so wrong?

* * *

M
ATT
SUFFERED
A
PANG
of disappointment when the women in the kitchen moved farther from the door and cut off his access to their conversation. Their discussion had just been getting interesting.

With a scowl, he recalled the nickname “Doctor Wonderful,” the invention of the feature writer who’d interviewed him for a recent magazine article. The name lacked dignity and made him feel like some kind of comic-book character, but once the publication had hit the stands, the distasteful moniker had stuck. Maybe its unwanted notoriety was part of the dissatisfaction he’d felt so keenly recently.

“Are you Dr. Wonderful?” Emily asked.

Matt shook his head. “I’m Dr. Tyler.”

“Did Aunt Delilah tell a lie?” A sharp discernment shone in the tiny girl’s big green eyes.

“No. Dr. Wonderful is a nickname someone gave me, but I don’t like it, so I don’t use it. Do you have a nickname?”

Emily nodded. “Granny used to call me Sweet Pea. I like Emily better.”

Sweet Pea suited her. The child was a sweetheart. He’d never paid much attention to children before. Never saw them in his practice, because Dwight treated the youngsters. But this little girl touched his emotions in a way that surprised him.

“So,” Matt said with a smile, “you understand what I mean about nicknames.”

“I guess.” She wrinkled her nose as if deep in thought. “If Dr. Dwight isn’t coming, are you going to stay with us?”

Matt cocked his head but couldn’t distinguish anything more from the murmur of voices behind the kitchen door. “I guess that’s up to your mother and Aunt Delilah.”

“I hope you stay,” she said with earnestness. “You’ll like it. It’s nice here.”

Matt glanced around the room, its low ceiling supported by hand-hewn beams. It seemed ancient and small, lacking the style of his Malibu home with its fourteen-foot ceilings, expansive glass walls overlooking the Pacific and the sparse elegance of chrome and glass his interior designer had insisted on. Matt’s house was the perfect place for a party, but he’d need a crowbar and a shoehorn to fit even a dozen people into this room.

Still, the mountain house had a certain charm. Earthernware jugs held casual bouquets of wild flowers, roses and a fragrant blooming vine that were a drastic counterpoint to the stark ikebana twig and orchid arrangements in his own home.

The rug on the highly polished floor of wide oak planks was hand braided, its colors muted by time and wear. Schoolteachers were underpaid, but made enough to afford more than Rebecca Warwick apparently had. What made her stay in this poverty-stricken pocket of the mountains?

The thought of poverty triggered memories of his boyhood. He’d never known his father, who’d died when Matt was two. The home his mother had kept had been old and well lived in, like this room. Money had been tight then. Tight? It hadn’t existed, and Matt had sworn once he grew up, he’d see that his and his mother’s lives would be better. His mother hadn’t lived long enough for him to make good his promise to her, but he’d worked hard for his success and the expensive trappings that accompanied it.

He leaned back in the worn, overstuffed chair that in spite of, or because of, its age seemed to embrace him, and an unusual sensation hit him, one he couldn’t remember experiencing for a long time.

Relaxation.

Something in the atmosphere of the mountain house, maybe a combination of the cheerful crackle of the fire and the soft patter of rain against the windows, had bled the tension from his muscles and the worries from his mind. Almost as effectively as a South Pacific cruise.

Almost, but not quite. He really needed that vacation.

“Yes,” he assured Emily, who was staring at him as if waiting for a response, “your house is very nice.”

Thinking of his canceled cruise and the South Pacific sun he was missing, he itched again to finish Dwight’s work in a hurry so he could squeeze in that much-needed R and R.

The sound of a screen door slamming somewhere in the house reverberated into the living room. A moment later, Rebecca opened the kitchen door and came into the room. Twin blotches of color stained her cheeks, and her eyes held a distracted look.

She approached Emily and placed her hand on her daughter’s flyaway curls. “The rain’s stopped, sweetheart. Why don’t you run over to the McClains and see if Lizzie wants to play.”

With mischief gleaming in her eyes, Emily glanced down at her sock-clad feet. “Can I go barefoot?”

Rebecca shook her head. “I’ll get your sneakers and help you put them on.”

“What about Matt?”

“He’s Dr. Tyler to you, young lady.”

“Is he going to stay with us?”

“Dr. Tyler and I have to discuss that.” Avoiding Matt’s gaze, Rebecca disappeared into the hallway.

Emily cut her eyes toward Matt and rolled them with a sophistication far beyond her years. “That’s why I have to play with Lizzie. So you and Mommy can talk.”

Matt suppressed the urge to chuckle.

“I heard that,” Rebecca’s voice called from deeper in the house.

She returned seconds later with a pair of tiny sneakers, placed them on Emily’s feet and tied them snugly.

Emily hopped from the rocker. “See you later, Matt.”

“Emily—” her mother warned.

Emily’s gamine face crinkled in a grin. “I mean, Dr. Tyler.”

“See you later, kid.” The girl was a charmer, and he wondered if her mother would kick him out before the child returned.

After the front door closed behind Emily, Rebecca settled in the rocker her daughter had vacated, straightened her spine and looked him straight in the eye. “There’s no easy way to put this, Dr. Tyler, so I’ll just come right out with it. You can’t stay here. I’m sorry.”

He raised his hands, palms outward in apology. “I’m sorry if I’ve placed you in an awkward position.”

“Dr. Peyseur placed you in one. I guess he didn’t consider the consequences of a young single man as my houseguest.”

Matt raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “That’s the problem? We’re in the twenty-first century, not the Dark Ages.”

She shook her head, stirring the tumbled mass of curls until he felt an irresistible urge to run his fingers through them. “Not in Warwick Mountain. We just left the eighteenth century during World War II, according to my grandmother.”

He hadn’t known a society filled with such restrictions existed in the United States. The standards Rebecca referred to were definitely foreign to the laid-back, anything-goes, weird-is-wonderful, always fluid culture of southern California that Matt had grown up in. “So my being ‘Dr. Wonderful’ isn’t the problem?”

“It doesn’t help,” she admitted bluntly. “Every woman in the community read that magazine article about you at the beauty shop. And drew their own conclusions, whether the article was accurate or not.”

Her voice ended on an upward note, like a question. The publicity piece had painted him as a superstud, or, as his mother might have said, a womanizer. Matt found Rebecca’s interest in his social life flattering, until her next statement burst his bubble.