House Calls: Callaghan Brothers, Book 3 (4 page)

Michael returned as she was trying unsuccessfully to button the shirt.  She was still seeing double and her fingers weren’t working the way they should. 

“Here,” he said, kneeling before her once again.  “Let me.”  The sexy bartender/doctor brushed her poorly functioning hands aside and fastened each of the buttons for her as she gazed on, certain that she was hallucinating.

Maggie instinctively placed a hand on his shoulder for support as she felt herself leaning sideways – her balance was definitely off – and immediately drew in a breath.  Beneath the cotton shirt was warm, solid marble, bunching and flexing as he worked his way upwards on the flannel.  She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually touch his flesh, then decided that such thoughts were not in the least bit helpful.

The room spun ominously as she tried to stand.  Before she realized what was happening, Michael was wrapping the blanket around her, then placing one arm behind her knees and another under her arms and carrying her out the back way.  Maggie thought briefly of protesting, but with Michael’s arms holding her and her face tucked against his collarbone, she couldn’t for the life of her remember why she should.

I
t was a moonless, cloudy night, heavy with the threat of yet another snowstorm.  Maggie gave him her address, then sat back and drifted in and out of consciousness for the half hour drive.  The sleek black sedan drove smoothly, the seats were plush and oh so comfortable, the cabin warm and filled with Michael’s dark, sensual scent.  Even feeling as miserable as she was, there was definite pleasure to be had in the experience.

When he finally pulled into the long drive, the single porch light she’d left on was enough to spear through her optic nerves, forcing her to shield her eyes with her hands.

“Here we are,” Michael said, his voice again like heavy but incredibly soft down as he pulled the black Jag as close to the house as possible.  It was an old farmhouse, one that had definitely seen better days.  Thankfully much of the disrepair was not easily visible in the darkness.  The house, outbuildings, and secluded acreage allowed her the peace and solitude she desired.  She had planned on restoring it after her grandparents passed away, but those plans, like so many others, had been necessarily placed on the back burner when she walked away from a decent, steady paycheck.   

“Yes.”  Infinitely glad she hadn’t yakked in his beautiful car, she placed her hand on the door handle and turned to thank him, but he was already outside and opening the door for her.  He really was too fast.  Or maybe she was just doing everything in slow motion.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, accepting the hand he held out to her.  “I’ll be fine from here.” 

“Humor me,” he said, pinning her with a gaze that told her he knew she was completely full of shit.  Of course, maybe the fact that his gentle but firm hold on her was the only thing keeping her from crumpling to the ground had given him a subtle clue.  Go figure.

“Ah, you’re the chivalrous type then,” she said, leaning into him a bit as he slid one of those massive arms behind her and around her waist.  “You think just because a woman nosedives off a stage and knocks herself senseless she needs a man’s help.”  She stumbled across the gravel; Michael caught her before she hit the ground.

“Yes.  Apparently it’s one of my more irritating qualities.” 

He helped her up the couple of extra-wide steps to her large wraparound porch.  She fumbled with her house key for a few minutes - she kept seeing two or three and couldn’t decide which one was the right one – before he took the keys from her hand and opened the door for her. 

She paused at the threshold and tilted her face up to his, trying desperately to focus even as the rest of her began to sway backwards in response to the change in perception.

“I suppose you feel the need to see me safely inside?”

His mouth quirked at the corners even as his arm kept her from doing a Nestea-plunge back down the steps.  “The thought did occur to me, yes.”

She gave a resigned sigh, then stepped through the doorway.  Michael followed in directly behind her, closing the door.  Almost instantly there was an odd thumping sound from below.  With obvious effort, the huge Basset pulled himself to his feet.  His ears were so long he actually tripped on them in his excitement, head-butting Maggie in the process and pushing her against the wall. 

Michael chuckled.  “At least I know where you got that last dance move from.”

Maggie shot him a reproachful glance, but she couldn’t really be offended when she caught the playful smile tugging at his lips.  “Now you know.” 

The hound turned soulful eyes up toward Michael.  “Michael, meet George.  George, Michael.”  She chuckled. “Ha.  George Michael.  Like Wham.”  Uh-oh, she thought.  She was becoming downright silly.

George immediately laid himself across Michael’s shoes and rolled over to offer his belly.  Maggie’s eyes widened as much as possible through the swelling.  Normally George would be slinking off to hide about now – he did not like strangers.  It took him forever to warm up to Sherri, and she gave him
cookies
.

“Would you mind petting him?” Maggie asked, pledging silently to abstain from saying anything else ridiculous.  “He’s a real hands-on type of guy, and I just don’t think I can bend over right now.”

Michael crouched down and gave George a good and thorough rub across the chest.  George gave a little doggie moan of pleasure.  The foyer started spinning around her, and Maggie placed her hand on his shoulder for balance. 

“Watch him,” Maggie warned Michael, “he’s vicious.”

“Yes, I can see that.” 

* * *

M
aggie swayed a little, a timely reminder of why he had brought her home in the first place. 

“Sorry, big guy,” he said to George, standing slowly.  “But I think she needs me a little more than you do at the moment.”

Maggie snorted derisively, but it was done with so little effort it didn’t make much of an impact.  As if to prove him wrong, she forced herself to stand on her own.  With much focus, she made her way wobbily down the narrow hallway, keeping one hand on the wall for support.  Michael followed slowly behind.  He wondered at her stubbornness and remained ready to catch her if she fell, which looked increasingly probable with each step she took.

With nearly all of his attention on Maggie, he only caught brief glimpses of her home as she led him down the hall.  The house was old, he could tell, but it had a distinctly homey feel.  It was immaculately clean, but decidedly lived in.  The colors were warm and welcoming, the hardwood glowing on either side of the multicolored runner that ran down the center.  The banister on the stairs, he noticed as they passed, was probably the original, intricately hand-carved from a century or more ago, smoothed from years of use.  This wasn’t a house, he thought.  This was a
home
.

She pushed through a swinging door and into a kitchen big enough to rival the one back at the Pub.  It was huge, spanning the entire width of the house.  A single light burned over the sink at the far end, illuminating the large space in a warm glow. 

Michael inhaled deeply.  The room held the aroma of a bake shop – a mouth-watering combination of freshly baked-bread, butter, cinnamon, and chocolate.

Images of Maggie bustling around in here filled his mind:  pulling a fresh loaf of bread out of the oven, washing dishes at the sink while wearing a pretty pink apron, her face lighting up as she turned and saw him coming through the back door.  It was so clear, more like a memory than a stray thought. 

Whoa
.  Where the hell did that come from?

“Ah,” she said, misinterpreting the momentary longing on his face, “a man after my own heart.  Here.”  Maggie hobbled over to the counter and grabbed a covered platter piled high with cookies. 

Michael, a little shaken by the clarity of the image and the intensity of its effect, accepted the plate with one hand and steadied her with the other.  “Maggie,” he commanded, his voice slightly less professional than it had been earlier.  “Please sit.”  Her face was growing paler by the minute; he hadn’t missed the way the plate trembled in her hands.

She did without argument, which he figured pretty much confirmed his suspicions that she was winding down in a big way.  So far she had resisted his every attempt to help her. 

“I made them today,” she said slowly, as if it was an effort.  “I was so nervous...”  She tried to conceal a yawn with her hand.

Michael took one, mainly because she seemed to expect him to.  “They’re delicious,” he said, keeping his voice soft and soothing.  It wouldn’t be long now.  Her eyes were losing focus, her lids growing heavier by the second, and still she fought against it.

“Glad you like them.  George likes them too.” 

“I can see that,” he nodded, keeping his expression neutral, though the weakness in her voice had him concerned.  She absently took a cookie from the plate and offered it to George, who had conveniently placed himself on the floor between them and was looking at her with pure adoration.

“Thanks for bringing me home, Michael.  I wish I could be a better hostess, but I’m afraid I’m feeling very sleepy.”  Her lids were heavy, the last of her words just slightly slurred. 

“It’s okay, Maggie,” he said in his soothing voice, the same one he used to lull his niece and nephew to sleep sometimes.  “I understand.”

“You’re a very kind man, Michael.  And you smell wonderful.  I bet your patients love ...” The last words were spoken even as her head fell forward.  Luckily, he was waiting for it and managed to get his arm out between her already-bruised face and the scarred wooden table top before she hit. 

Gathering her into his arms, Michael cradled her against his chest.  George whimpered, regarding him curiously.

“Don’t worry,” Michael told him.  “I’ve got this.”  If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn the hound actually smiled.

Michael moved back to the living area and laid Maggie out on the couch.  He slid his finger along the front of her wrist and checked her pulse; at least, that’s what he told himself he was doing.  It certainly wasn’t a hidden attempt to see if her skin was really as warm and silky as it had felt before.

Pleased to find her pulse steady and strong, he pushed her hair away from the side of her face.  It was starting to swell again, and he didn’t like the dark purple bruising that had already begun to show.  They should be at the hospital, having this X-rayed; it was always better to err on the side of caution with head injuries.  But Maggie had made her thoughts on the subject abundantly clear:  no hospital.

Michael studied her face; relaxed in slumber as she was, he was once again stricken by her beauty.  He ran his knuckles lightly over her cheeks, relishing the softness of her skin. 

Given the fall she’d taken, he wasn’t quite ready to turn her loose yet.  He understood strength, understood pride.  But something inside of him wouldn’t allow him to tuck a blanket around her and leave.  He told himself it was that same part of him that had steered him toward the medical profession in the first place – the desire to care for others – that kept him there. 

Another part – a part that had been relatively silent through most of his life – suggested something much different, something to do with the way his chest tightened when he looked at her.

George, who was quite possibly the biggest Basset hound he’d ever seen, nudged his leg.  Big, sad eyes looked up at him.  Michael reached down, scratching the dog behind his ears.  “Is she always so stubborn?”

The dog thumped his tail, which Michael took as a yes. 

“Well, then, I guess it’s up to us to take care of her tonight.”

T
he shrill ring of the phone dragged Maggie reluctantly out of her wonderfully warm, dark place.  Pain and stiffness accompanied each increasing degree of awareness, and she longed to sink back into the blessed depths of peace again. 

Maggie strained to hear the voice of the caller as the answering machine picked up. 

“Maggie!  Pick up the damn phone!”  Sherri’s voice, shrill with worry, cut like shards of ice through her brain.  Maggie shut her eyes tight against the pain, which only made her bruised face hurt that much more.  She stifled a groan and tried to turn, feeling the ache from shoulder to hip as Sherri continued her tirade, threatening to call the police if Maggie didn’t answer soon.  Maggie pulled the covers up over her head and tried to block out the noise, at least until she could get her bearings.

* * *

M
ichael crossed the kitchen floor on silent feet and picked up the phone, hopefully before it woke Maggie.  “Sherri, right?” 

Sherri was shocked into a brief silence, but regained herself rather quickly.  “Yeah.  Who is this?”

“Michael Callaghan,” he said. 

“Where is Maggie?  Oh my God, you’re the doctor, right?  Is she okay?”

“Maggie is fine.  She’s sleeping.”

Another pause.  “Alone?”

“Yes,” Michael assured her, the amusement in his voice apparent.  “Her virtue remains intact.”

“Only Maggie...” she mumbled, sounding almost disappointed.  “So then why are you there?”  Equal parts curiosity and suspicion colored her voice.

Michael hesitated, unsure of just how much he should say.  “It’s a long story.”

“Try me.” 

Michael grinned.  Everyone should have such protective friends.

“I’ll let Maggie tell you herself when she’s had some rest.  She has your number?” 

As dismissals went, it was smooth and polite, but it was still a dismissal.  After Sherri ensured him somewhat huffily that Maggie did, in fact, have her number, Michael wished her a pleasant night and hung up the phone, hoping he hadn’t created an uncomfortable situation for Maggie.  He sincerely hoped not.  There was something about the pretty little redhead that made him want to learn more about her. 

* * *

W
hen Maggie woke again hours later, she exhaled with great care, letting the breath escape slowly to lessen the pain in her ribs.  No doubt Sherri would be calling back again soon; the woman might have had the looks of a model but she had the tenacity of a pit bull.  With any luck, Maggie would have enough time to get herself up and moving by then.  Otherwise she feared Sherri would end up calling 911 and a barrage of emergency vehicles would be flashing their lights outside her peaceful little home.