“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.