Ladies of Intrigue

by Michelle Griep

  “Doctor!” She tried again.

  Nothing.

  Resting her fingers on the latch, she hesitated. Dare she? What would Aunt think of her entering a man’s chambers?

  She sucked in a breath and pushed open the door. “Dr. Clark, please …” Her words fell to the floor. No doctor sat at the tidy desk against the wall, or closed his eyes on the made bed, or sat lacing his shoes on the chair in the corner. The orderliness didn’t surprise her. That he’d left the building without a word of his whereabouts did.

  Retracing her steps, she grabbed her coat off the hook, ignoring Makawee’s haunted look. “Maybe the doctor was called by the colonel. Wait here.”

  She flew out the door. If she couldn’t find him, then what? No way would she venture out alone, not after what happened last time. She set her jaw. He had to be there, that’s all.

  A few soldiers scurried across the parade ground, all eager for the warmth of a fire instead of the wicked air. No one paid her any mind. Since word of the doctor’s rage last month when he’d come to her aid, most men left her alone.

  As she ascended the steps to the colonel’s office, a soldier strode out the front door.

  “Excuse me, but is Dr. Clark about?” She craned her neck, hoping to glimpse the doctor beyond his shoulder. “He is needed.”

  “No, ma’am. Haven’t seen him.”

  The fellow whisked past her, and for a moment, she tried not to give in to panic. Where in the world had he gone? Ought she take a horse and try to find Jack on her own? The question hit her like a boulder fallen into still waters, jarring, disturbing, sending out ripples of fear and trepidation. Her throat closed. No. That was not an option.

  The next gust of wind slapped her cheek with icy pellets, and she raced back to the dispensary, where Makawee greeted her with hopeful eyes.

  Emmy shook her head. “It appears Dr. Clark is missing as well.”

  Makawee reached for the door. “Then you and I will go.”

  “No, Makawee.” She tugged the woman back. “It’s no more safe for you to be outside the camp walls than it is for me to be inside. Not to mention that you are with child.”

  Makawee spun, an angry slant on her lips. “I will not sit here—”

  “But that’s exactly what we must do. As soon as Dr. Clark returns, he will help. I am sure of it.”

  “No!” The woman flung out her hands, her voice rising like a fever. “My husband is gone; I will not lose my son too. I will go. I will find him.”

  “Listen!” Emmy grabbed her friend’s shoulders and shook, praying the action would jolt her to her senses. “Either God is in control or He is not. What do you believe?”

  The question slammed into her own heart. If she really believed God was in control, would she not sacrifice her safety for the rescue of one of His little ones?

  “You are right,” Makawee finally breathed out. “The Creator governs all.”

  “Then let us hope and trust in Him with full confidence, hmm?” She spoke loudly, boldly, forcing the words to fill the frightened cracks in her soul.

  Makawee’s mouth wavered, not into a smile, not when her son was somewhere out in a land as cruel as the wind beating against the door. But Emmy took it as a smile, anyway.

  “You are a gift, Miss Emmy.”

  She frowned and tightened her bonnet strings. “I doubt Dr. Clark will think so when he discovers I’ve gone ahead without him.”

  Twice! Twice in the space of a month. James kicked his horse into a gallop, following the flattened path of grass that led to a stand of woods. Fool-headed, strong-willed woman. He’d excused the first time she’d ventured out alone, chalking it up to naivete, but after his stern warning to never leave the dispensary without him?

  Sleet stung his face, as goading as Miss Nelson’s disregard for his rule. This time he ought to take her over his knee when he found her. A cold worry lodged behind his heart as the sleet changed to snow. If he found her.

  He reined the horse to a walk and entered the trees, leaning forward to study the ground. He should’ve thought to ask a scout to accompany him. What did he know of tracking anything other than the course of a disease? Already snow gathered in a thin but growing layer, covering leaves that might’ve been kicked up by hooves. And here in the wood, the last of day’s light faded to a color as dark as his hope. Which way would she have gone?

  Dismounting, he scanned the area for a better clue. Wind rattled the branches overhead, mocking his rash decision to search for her alone—and then it hit him. He lifted his face to the iron sky.

  “I am as culpable as Miss Nelson, eh, Lord? Letting emotion get the better of me, running ahead of You time and again, wanting to help others but not waiting for Your lead. Oh God”—he drew in a ragged breath—“forgive me, even as I forgive her.”

  The next gust of wind did more than shake tree limbs—it waved a small snatch of cloth tied to the end of a low-hanging branch. His breath eased. He knew that bit of calico, for he’d often admired the way it followed Miss Nelson’s curves.

  Launching himself into the saddle, he trotted the horse over to it then squinted in the whiteness to catch another glimpse of bright fabric. There. Not far off. He fought a rogue smile, wondering just how much of her skirt might be missing when he caught up to her.

  He didn’t wonder long. Ahead, a dark shape walked, a bedraggled swath of blond hair hanging down at the back.

  “Emmaline!” He dug in his heels.

  “Doctor?” She turned. “Thank God!”

  He slid from the horse before it stopped and ran to her. The way she cradled her left arm, the sag of her shoulders, the stream-clear eyes now clouded to muddy waters—all of it screamed agony, and not just from want of a missing boy.

  “You’re hurt.” He reached for her.

  “I’m fine.” She shrugged away, but not before he caught the slight groan she couldn’t disguise.

  “I know an injury when I see one. Now are you going to let me examine that arm, or are we going to stand here and waste time?”

  Snow collected on her long lashes as she stared at him. It would do no good to prod her further. Wait for it. Wait. And there, the pursing of her lips, a standard signal she was about to give in.

  She offered up her arm, her nose wrinkling with a poorly concealed wince.

  He stepped closer, using one hand to brace her arm, the other to peel back layers of sleeves. “What happened?”

  “A falling branch spooked my horse, and he threw me. I landed wrong, and—ah!” She grimaced.

  Her pain sliced into his soul as he did what he must—probe for fractures or breaks. “Sorry. Won’t be a moment more. You were saying?”

  “By the time I stood, my mount was gone. Ow!” She gasped once more then scowled up at him. “That hurt.”

  “No doubt.” Examination finished, he released her. “That’s quite a sprain. It’s not broken, though it will take some time to heal.”

  “Good.” She sidestepped him and strode to his horse. “Then let’s continue.”

  “Hold on.” He pulled her back, taking care not to jostle her injury overmuch. “That arm needs to be wrapped first, and—”

  “No, I’ll ride with you and keep it as immobile as possible. Little Jack is still out here. His life is on the line, now more than ever.” Fat, white flakes collected on her bonnet, adding emphasis to her words.

  A sigh—or mayhap defeat—emptied his lungs of air. “Fine.”

  He hoisted her into the saddle then swung up behind her. She never cried out, but her muffled grunts belied her brave front.

  She used her good arm to point. “That way.”

  He narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of her confidence in the growing whirl of whiteness. “What makes you so sure?”

  “My father was often called to tend settlers here, and—Oh!”

  The horse lurched sideways and she slipped. Shifting the reins to one hand, he wrapped his other arm around her, settling her against his chest.

/>   She peeked up at him, an accusing arch to her brow.

  He winked. “In situations such as this, Miss Nelson, propriety be hanged.”

  She nestled back, allowing his hold. As much as he wanted to find the boy and get them all to safety, he gave in to the sweet feel of the woman snuggled against his coat.

  “There’s a ravine not far from here with a maze of fallen trunks,” she continued. “A haven for a young boy in search of adventure.”

  “How do you know little Jack is in this wood?”

  “It’s near to where Makawee gathered kindling earlier this afternoon. That and, before the snow started falling, I followed a trail in the dirt from a dragged stick. Wild animals don’t play with sticks, but little boys do.”

  “Except for when it comes to your own safety, Miss Nelson”—he bent his head so she’d hear not only the words but the admiration in his voice—“you are a very wise woman.”

  She stilled in his arms, and slowly her face lifted to his—but then she leaned forward, pointing, a cry of pain accompanying the movement. “There!”

  “Wait here.” He missed her warmth the moment he dismounted. Picking his way down the ravine, he alternated between calling for Jack and straining to listen.

  Halfway down, he stopped. Then turned.

  “Jack?”

  Beneath a fallen trunk, in a world of white and cold, a dark little head peeked out, wailing for his mama.

  “Thank You, God,” James whispered as he scooped up the lad and hefted him to his shoulder. The boy’s tears burned onto his neck.

  No. Wait.

  Holding the boy in one arm, he yanked his glove off the other with his teeth then pressed the back of his hand to the lad’s forehead.

  Fire met his touch. And as he looked in the boy’s throat, a blaze raged there as well.

  He worked his way back to Miss Nelson, thanking God for her injured arm. There was no way she could hold the boy, exposing her to—no. He wouldn’t think it. He couldn’t be sure of the lad’s diagnosis yet, but even so, he would buffer Emmaline by putting the boy in front of him and her behind. She may have survived measles, but he was pretty sure she’d not yet experienced the reason why he’d been absent from the fort in the first place.

  Setting up quarantine for those with smallpox.

  Chapter Six

  Emmy retrieved the last cloth from a bucket of cold water and wrung it out as well as she could with a tender wrist. How many times had she done this the past week? She frowned at the cracked, red skin on her hands. Clearly, too many.

  Coughs and a few moans followed her across the sick ward. Winter winds raged against the windows, but the blankets she’d nailed up blockaded drafts from attacking those too helpless to parry. No sense adding more misery to the men suffering from the spate of severe measles.

  Major Clem occupied the bed nearest the door. When she bent to lay the cloth on his brow, his eyes popped open, glassy and shot through with red.

  His lips worked a moment before any sound came out. “Thirsty.”

  “Good, I’ve just the thing for you.” She smiled, taking care to mimic the soothing tone her father used to employ. Papa always said healing was more than medicine. Oh Papa.

  She straightened, once again shoving grief to a cellar in her heart. “I’ll be back in a trice with some licorice-root tea, Major.”

  Crossing to the dispensary door, she eased it open, glad she’d stood her ground for the extra bear grease. The men slept fitfully enough without ill-mannered hinges scraping against their ears.

  Sweet tanginess rode the crest of the smoky scent in the room, and she inhaled deeply as she drew nearer the hearth. Some said licorice smelled of wildness, the untamed spoor kicked up by one’s feet when tromping through loamy earth, but not her. Why, she’d pour herself a large mug just for the sheer enjoyment of it if they weren’t so low on stock.

  “Afternoon, Miss Nelson.” Dr. Clark’s voice entered on an icy gust from the front door. “How goes it?”

  She felt the touch of his eyes upon her, and irrationally wished she’d chosen her green serge instead of her drab grey. La! What a thought. She was worse than a moonstruck schoolgirl. Even so, after she returned the kettle to the grate, she smoothed her skirts before she faced him.

  The doctor shrugged out of his coat, waistcoat fabric taut across the muscles of his back as he reached to hang it on a peg. Ahh, but she could look at that fine sight all day and never tire of the long lines, of the suggestion of strength and protection. And when her thoughts strayed to what lay beneath that fabric, heat flared up her neck.

  “Quite dashing,” she murmured.

  “Sorry?” He pivoted, head cocked.

  She grabbed handfuls of her apron to keep from slapping a hand over her mouth, for surely that would be even more indicting. “Oh, er, the day is quite dashing away from me, I’m afraid. How goes it down at the camp?” She rushed on. “How is little Jack faring?”

  One of his brows quirked as he crossed to the counter and set down a package. “Makawee won’t let me near him. Swears by the ‘old medicine,’ as she calls it.”

  “Good. It is enough you tend the smallpox victims on your own. You needn’t add another disease to your repertoire.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I am no novice, Miss Nelson. I assure you, I take every precaution.”

  “Of course.” She bit her lip as warmth bloomed over her cheeks. Sweet heavens! What was wrong with her tongue today? Or any day, for that matter. Whenever the man entered the room, her words flew out before she could think. “I am sorry. I never meant to imply such.”

  Little crinkles highlighted the sides of his mouth as he grinned. “Apology accepted. And you’ll be glad to know Jack’s rash has stopped spreading.”

  “Then he’s on the mend, unlike a few of the men in there.” She nodded toward the ward, though she needn’t have—wretched coughing crept from under the closed door. “Truthfully, I fear for Major Clem, which reminds me …” She reached for the mug of tea.

  But the doctor stayed her arm with a light touch. “Then I’ve come just in time. I’ve brought something.”

  There was almost a bounce to his step as he retrieved the package from the counter and ripped it open, revealing a small wooden box. He held it out to her like a crown of jewels to be admired. “A new shipment of fresh leeches, which was quite the feat in this weather.”

  She suppressed a groan but couldn’t stop the censure in the shake of her head. “You know my feelings on the matter.”

  He drew back his box, taking the warmth in his voice with it. “The siphoning out of bad blood is proven science, Miss Nelson.”

  “Maybe so, yet my experience proves it weakens the patient. My father said—”

  His hand shot up, and what was left of his grin faded into a straight line. “Not another lecture. If your methods are not working with the major, then it’s time you use scholarship.”

  The implication smacked her. Hard. Scholarship? As if what she’d been using was nothing but folderol and superstition? For a moment, she clenched her teeth so tightly, crackling sounded in her ears. Perhaps she should give in to Aunt’s entreaties, go where she was wanted, find an orphanage in the city and tend to their needs instead.

  She met his stare dead-on, not wanting to leave, but not wanting to stay either. “Maybe, Doctor, it’s time I leave. You barely consider my medical advice, nor do you use me at the encampment anymore. Give me one reason why I should stay.”

  Because your beautiful smile will no longer brighten this barracks.

  Because you are life and breath and air.

  James staggered, pushed back by a rush of emotions and the real reason lodging low in his gut.

  Because I fear my heart will stop beating without you.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, a desperate attempt to push back the wild thoughts and fatigue that ailed him. This couldn’t be. When had this snip of a wilderness woman worked her way so deeply into his soul? A relationsh
ip with her would change his plans, his future … his everything. Everything he’d worked so hard to gain. Years of study. Of jockeying for position on Harvard’s wobbly ladder of success. His goal to achieve all his father had dreamed for him. He should just stride to the door, hold it open, and thank the lady for her service.

  And while he was at it, he might just as well grab a knife and stab it into his chest.

  For a moment, he searched her eyes, desperately trying to judge if leaving was what she really wanted. Did she?

  Sweet mercy! The woman ought to be a card shark the way she hid every emotion behind those long lashes. There was no reading her desire—and there was no discounting his.

  He forced words past an ache in his throat. “You should stay because I ask it of you.”

  “But why do you ask?”

  The question gaped like the sharp jaws of a bear trap. If he answered too personally, he’d frighten her away. Too detached, and she’d not feel needed. Either would set her and her bags on the next possible wagon out of the fort.

  He caught both her hands in his, hoping the added touch might sway her. “Despite our differences on manner of care, the fact is, Miss Nelson, that you do care. I would be hard-pressed to replace you and, in fact, could not. Truth is, I am in over my head at the encampment with this foul weather. I cannot possibly tend to both the men here and the people down below. Would you force me to choose, knowing what the colonel would have me do?”

  A sigh deflated her shoulders. “No. Of course not. I will stay, leastwise until you can manage both.”

  “Thank you.” He squeezed her fingers then released his hold. “If it’s any consolation, the colonel is holding a Christmas dinner day after tomorrow. Would you do me the honor of attending with me?”

  A small smile lifted her lips. “I suppose it would please my aunt to know I am owning some measure of society out here.”

  “Good.” He returned her grin. Though the festivity might pacify her relative, it would please him even more to have her at his side.