Tempest in the White City Read Online Free

from the University of Michigan. I’ve been practicing for seven years. And I can help you. But you have to tell me where it hurts.”
    “You’d lie to a dying man?”
    “Nobody dies on my watch. Not if I can help it. And I’m not lying. I’m Dr. Tate. I really, really am. Now, you need to tell me what’s going on while you still can.”
    His grip on her wrist had weakened to a point where she simply pulled free and removed his cap. From there, she went straight to the brass buttons holding his jacket together. Shoving the jacket open, she started on his shirt. Maybe dying in the Woman’s Building wouldn’t turn out to be so bad after all.
    “Where does it hurt?” she asked.
    “The gut.”
    “Did something happen? Did you run into anything?”
    A sharp pain lanced through him. Sucking in a breath, he gave a quick shake of his head.
    “What did you have for breakfast?”
    “A grizzly.”
    “I hope you’re joking.” She shoved open his shirt, then wrenched his undershirt from his trousers and scrunched it up to his armpits with quick strokes. Without missing a beat, she swept her gaze from his torso to his eyes.
    Jaw clamped against the spasm, he managed a wink. “Not bad for a dying man, huh?”
    Her expression was all business. “Point with one finger to where it hurts the most.”
    He drew an upside down U from his hip bone up over his belly button and down to the other hip bone. If she wanted to see it, though, she’d have to undo his belt. Instead, she simply pressed her fingers against the indicated area.
    He jumped, forgetting about everything but the pain, and shoved her hands away.
    “I know it’s tender. I’ll be as gentle as possible.”
    This was why he hated doctors. Instead of taking his word, they prodded him to see if they could get a holler. Well, he’d be dad-blamed before he’d give her the satisfaction of a holler.
    She finished her exam, then, quicker than he could spit and say howdy, she released his belt, unbuttoned his fly, mumbled an “excuse me,” and slipped a hand down to his hip bone. He registered a flash of shock until she pressed down. Agony arched his back.
    He gripped the edges of the cot. She continued her inspection, hands kneading the path he’d drawn for her.
    “Have you been on any long train trips recently?” she asked.
    He opened one eye. Was she trying to distract him? Even without the pain, he’d be hard-pressed to dismiss the fact that she had her hand inside his pants. “Rode up from Houston last month to—” He winced as she pressed a spot just to the right of his belly button.
    “Sorry.” Still, she didn’t let up on the pressure. “What did you do before you became a Columbian Guard?”
    He tightened his hold on the cot, but forced his spine to relax. “I’m a Texas Ranger.”
    “I see. I assume life as a Ranger is quite a bit more active than life as a Columbian Guard?”
    “Yes’m.”
    Head cocked, eyes closed in concentration, she kneaded the area up over his navel, then back underneath along his right side.
    “Where are you staying?” she asked.
    He rolled his eyes. Diploma or not, she was female, and clearly felt the need to fill the awkwardness with chitchat.
    “We stay in some barracks here on the grounds,” he answered.
    At least her eyes were closed, allowing him to grimace undetected. It also allowed him to study her. He surveyed the tendrils of hair still loose from this morning. The lashes resting against smooth cheeks. The pulse at her throat. The curves so close to brushing him, but not quite making contact.
    She must bathe in a basket of apples, peaches, and summer berries. Whatever it was, it smelled mighty good. The boys back home could put whatever they wanted on his tombstone. He couldn’t imagine a better way to die.
    “When’s the last time you defecated?” she asked.
    All thoughts went up in a powder. “What?”
    She opened her eyes, her creamy brown finding his dark brown without even having to