The Doctor's Medicine Woman by Donna Clayton Page A

Their smiles. Their laughter. Their whoops of unrestrained joy.
    “Cup of coffee?”
    “Thanks,” he said, accepting the steaming mug that Diana offered him.
    She sat down on the far side of the couch.
    “Although, rather than sitting here basking in all this relaxation,” he told her, “I really should be straightening this place up. Sloan’s going to be bringing the girls by in a bit.”
    With Greg and Jane on their honeymoon with little Joy, Travis and Sloan had opted for a short visit over a light lunch today rather than the full-fledged dinner celebration they usually shared together.
    “There’s plenty of time.” She sipped at her own mug. “No harm at all in enjoying a second cup of coffee.”
    He breathed in the heady aroma, swallowed a mouthful of the creamy richness. “You know,” he said at last, “I can’t remember a time when I enjoyed a Christmas morning with as much enthusiasm as Josh and Jared enjoyed this one.”
    “That’s the good thing about experiencing things through the eyes of children,” she told him. “Not only do you get to enjoy the here and now of their fun, but their joy churns up good memories.”
    He laced his fingers around the heated mug. “Maybe I phrased that wrong.”
    Perplexity shadowed her gaze.
    “What I should have said,” he explained, “is that I never experienced that kind of joy at Christmas.”
    Her arched eyebrows crinkled. “Never?”
    He shook his head, thinking back over time. Thinking hard. Then he shrugged. “Maybe I did very early on. But the Christmases I remember were fraught with disagreement and nit-picking that invariably turned into all-out arguments between my parents. Shouting and ranting that had me and mybrother heading for our room. Unsettling memories, actually.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said.
    He didn’t know why he was telling her this. Her calm spirit just seemed to invite him to confide his innermost thoughts.
    “It’s a shame that your parents gave you those memories. Grown men and women should know better.” Finally she said, “They must have been terribly unhappy with each other to act that way in front of their children. Maybe—” her head tilted a fraction “—they never really belonged together.”
    He sighed. Something she’d said made him want to pause. To take stock. To examine the past more closely in relation to what felt like the momentous statement she’d just made. However, more confession began tumbling from his lips, keeping him from pondering the moment.
    “Once they divorced, things didn’t get much better. My mother constantly and bitterly complained about how little my father contributed toward our gifts and our general expenses. And my dad would always call and complain to me about my mom keeping us from visiting him. I felt guilty for loving my dad. I felt guilty for loving mom.” He heaved a sigh. “I didn’t like holidays much.”
    “That’s understandable.” A wayward strand of her sleek black hair had come loose from her braid and she absently reached up to tuck it behind her ear.
    He suddenly felt uncomfortable, as if he’d put a damper on the day. “How about you?” he asked, trying to brighten his tone. “What were your childhood holidays like?”
    “Well,” she began, “my grandparents made holidays special. You see, I never knew my parents. I’ve been told that my father had a problem with alcohol. He and my mother went out one evening. On the way home, my father drove their car into a ravine. Neither of them survived. My grandparents raised me.” She smiled. “Spoiled me rotten, really. Especially on my birthday and Christmas. They didn’t have much, but they gave me everything I needed.”
    Her smile was beautifully content.
    “And lots of things I didn’t,” she continued. “I’m very blessed. Very loved.” Seeming to steel herself with a deep inhalation, she said, “My grandfather passed away while I was at college. I miss him.” After a brief pause, she