Ladies of Intrigue

by Michelle Griep

  “Well!” Emmy swished into the room with a smile that would shame a summer day. “Good to see you are on the mend, Dr. Clark.”

  “Oh? It’s back to that now?” His voice, while raspy, at least worked this time. “I rather liked it when you called me James.”

  Fire blazed across her cheeks. She turned from him and poured liquid into a mug. “Yes, well, I tried anything and everything to pull you through.”

  “Whatever you did apparently worked.”

  She held the cup to his mouth, and as water dampened his lips, his thirst roared. He grabbed the mug from her and—though she warned against it—drained it. His stomach revolted, and he pressed the back of his hand to his lips.

  “When will you listen to me?” She removed the mug then settled the chair so that she faced him.

  Slowly, the nausea passed, and he lowered his hand. “I did listen—especially when you called me James.”

  She smirked. “I see your wit is quite recovered as well. Tell me”—she leaned closer, her worried gaze searching his—“how are you feeling?”

  He studied her for a moment. Her cheekbones stood out. Her dress hung loose at the shoulders—and the brooch he’d given her for Christmas was pinned at the top of her bodice. Dare he hope she entertained a place in her heart for him? And if she did, then what? How could a wife fit into his life at a time when he needed to focus on scholarship?

  He sank into the pillow. The questions exhausted him. He’d think on them later. For now, better to get her to do the talking. “I might ask the same of you. How do you fare?”

  She nibbled her lower lip, one of her stalling tactics. Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “I am better, now that I know you are well. You gave me quite a scare, you know. I thought I’d lost you. I tried everything, but nothing worked.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his chin, where whiskers scratched. He could only imagine the days—weeks maybe—of hard work she’d endured for him. She should be attending dinners and dances, not slogging away in a sick man’s chamber. How many other women would willingly suffer through such?

  “Yet I live, thanks be to you.” His words came out more husky than he intended.

  She laughed. “More like thanks be to God and to Makawee.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I employed every manner of care I knew for pneumonia. I read through all your books and applied those treatments also. But I believe it was Makawee’s methods, the rabbit tobacco, the pleurisy root, that helped you turn the corner.”

  Roots? Tobacco? How could he even begin to understand that? He frowned. “Preposterous.”

  “Yet as you’ve said, you live.” She leaned toward him. “Think on that.”

  He sank farther into the pillow. Had he been wrong? Was there more to healing than the sterile procedures of academia? Maybe knowledge and all he held most dear were not to be found in the East, but rather here, in the middle of a wilderness he’d scorned not long ago.

  He fastened on her clear blue gaze a moment more before closing his eyes. “I believe there is much I should think on.”

  Chapter Nine

  With a last shudder, winter turned its back on March and shuffled off, taking along with it the icy chill and the worst of the measles and smallpox outbreaks. By April, spring ran wild with flowers and green and promise, reviving the dead, and spurring Emmy into a sprint down the path from the encampment.

  “Hold up,” James called from behind.

  She waited, content to simply watch him as he strode toward her, his long legs eating up the ground. After having witnessed him near death, she’d never tire of seeing the flush of health on his cheeks or the bounce in his step. The past few months had flown by, working at his side, living for his smile, but mostly drinking in his companionship like cool water from a stream.

  “I’ve got something for you. Hold still.” He produced a spray of tiny flowers, each petal brushed with a faint swath of violet. His strong fingers could crush them without trying, but he used his surgeon’s skill to work them into her hair like a crown. She’d wished to be a princess once—and now she was.

  It took every bit of willpower she owned not to wrap her arms around him and nestle her head against his shirt. Though they never spoke of it, that kiss on a wintry evening had changed everything.

  He crooked his finger and lifted her chin. “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.”

  Her lips ached, her whole body yearned to rise up on her tiptoes, lean a little closer, and—what was she thinking?

  Judging by the gleam in his eye and the way he bent just a breath away, he thought the same.

  She smiled up into his face. “Do you like nature, James?”

  “I do.”

  She ran her hands up his arms and lightly rested them on his chest. His heart beat strong against her fingers.

  “Would you like to be closer to it?” she whispered.

  “I would.” He leaned in.

  Laughing, she shoved him backward, so that he stumbled into a tangle of sumac.

  “Pixie!” he roared.

  She giggled and fled down the path toward the road—then pulled up short before running headlong into an oncoming carriage.

  “Whoa!” A familiar voice, wooly and gruff, rumbled from the driver’s seat.

  “Jubal? Aunt Rosamund?” Skirting the prancing horses, Emmy strode to the window of Aunt’s lacquered carriage.

  “Emmaline?” A gunmetal-grey head peeked out the window, a single peacock feather wagging from her sateen bonnet.

  Emmy choked back a sob. The Nelson family high cheekbones and long nose reminded her of her father. “Oh Aunt! How lovely to see you.”

  “This is exactly what I feared.” Aunt’s lips pinched, as did her tone. “Look at you! Running about in the wild. What would your father have to say?”

  Emmy bowed her head, feeling as small as the time her aunt had caught her splashing in a puddle as a young girl.

  “I think he’d say, ‘Job well done.’” James caught up to her side, his presence as solid and strong as the poplars taking leaf around them. “Thanks to Miss Nelson,” he said, “there are two new souls in the camp, for she just delivered twins, and breech at that.”

  Aunt peered at him then rummaged for a moment and produced a set of spectacles, eyeing him as if he were an insect to be dissected. “And you are?”

  Emmy stepped forward, filling the gap between the doctor and the carriage. “Aunt Rosamund, allow me to introduce Dr. Clark. Doctor, my aunt, Miss Rosamund Nelson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Nelson.” He dipped his head in a bow, ever the charmer. “I’ve heard so many good things about you.”

  “Have you?” She lowered her glasses and speared Emmy with a frown. “I wonder.”

  Hooves pounded up the road, heading straight toward them. Jubal’s arms strained to keep the carriage horses under control.

  A corporal on a bay reined in next to them. “Colonel’s looking for you, Dr. Clark. Says you’re to come at once.”

  “Oh? Is someone hurt?”

  “Nah. Nothing like that.” The corporal’s horse pawed the ground, scraping up gravel. “First mail of the season arrived upriver, and along with it, the new doc.”

  James’s brows rose.

  Emmy’s heart sank. She knew he’d be leaving sometime this spring, but were these halcyon days to end so soon?

  James nodded then turned back to her and Aunt. “Forgive me, but I need bid you ladies adieu. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  He swung up behind the corporal, leaving Emmy to face her aunt alone. Her throat tightened, fearing the purpose for Rosamund’s visit. She swept an arm toward the fort’s front gate. “Will you come in for tea, Aunt?”

  “I didn’t come for tea, child.” Grooves carved into the sides of Aunt’s mouth, forged by a magnificent scowl. “I came to take you home. Get in the carriage.”

  James slid off the horse with a “thanks” to the corporal, feeling a little uneasy for leavi
ng Emmy alone with her aunt. The woman could intimidate a battalion of dragoons. No wonder Emmy had learned to fend for herself.

  A makeshift post office—nothing more than a table with a bag of letters dumped onto it—sat in front of the colonel’s quarters. For the first mail of the season, the usual protocol—and discipline—stretched as thin as the cook’s gruel. A swarm of soldiers buzzed around, some with stony faces as they read of bad news from home, others letting out whoops of happiness. The worst, though, were those walking away with a drag to their step from receiving no letters at all.

  Bypassing the ruckus, James climbed the front stairs then halted when he heard his name called.

  “Letter for you, Doctor. Looks all official-like.” A private who might better serve as a scarecrow held out a thick-papered document.

  “Thanks, Private.” Grasping the letter, he retired to a corner of the front porch and leaned against the wall.

  His name was scrawled across the front in black ink. Burgundy wax bled into a circle on the back, a single word embossed in the center—veritas. He sucked in a breath. Truth, indeed. He didn’t need to read the signature inside to know that Dr. Stafford was either opening the door for his advancement or slamming it shut in his face … but which did he really want?

  He swallowed then broke the seal.

  Greetings James,

  Word of your stellar performance this past winter season at Fort Snelling has reached my ear. I trust by now that from your experience, you’ve learned there is more to medicine than textbooks. I know you weren’t happy about this arrangement initially, but I hope you’ve come to see the benefit and necessity. The position for director of surgical instruction is recently opened up. I can think of no better candidate than yourself. It will be a fight, but one I am sure we can win. Catch the next available steamship back to Boston, where we may begin your campaign strategy.

  ~ William Stafford, MD, MS

  Stunned, James tucked the letter inside his waistcoat then ran both hands through his hair. Director? So soon? Could he really bypass being an instructor first? This was unheard of—but so was attaining the sponsorship of Dr. Stafford, one of the most influential men walking the hallowed halls of Harvard Medical. And if Stafford thought he had a chance, then, well … veritas. There was no doubt about it.

  “Dr. Clark?” A major held open the front door. “Colonel Crooks is asking for you.”

  He pushed away from the wall, shoving aside further speculation—for now, anyway.

  “Pardon me, but you’re the doc?” A tall man, tawny headed and with eyes bluer than cornflowers, stepped into his path.

  James angled his head. Something about the fellow was familiar.

  “I’m Dr. Clark,” he said.

  The man reset his cap, likely fresh off the steamship and eager for some movement. “I just came from a meeting with the colonel. He said you’d know the layout of the encampment, having tended the inhabitants all winter, particularly who lived in what tent.”

  “Ahh.” He nodded. “So you’re looking for someone.”

  “I am.” His hand dropped, and a starved look haunted his blue gaze. “My wife and son.”

  James took a step closer, studying the man. Like the combining of symptoms to diagnose an ailment, he added up the information and what his own eyes told him. “Let me guess … Makawee and little Jack?”

  The fellow’s mouth dropped. “How did you know?”

  James grinned. “Because except for the hair color, your son is a miniature of you.”

  “How are they?” The fellow leaned toward him, as if by sheer proximity he might learn the answer.

  “They are well, and you will find them very conveniently in the second tent to the right as you enter the camp.”

  The fellow reached out and pumped his hand. “Thank you.”

  Then he flew down the steps and sprinted across the parade ground before James could answer.

  With a chuckle, he headed for the colonel’s office, imagining what a homecoming that would be.

  The colonel stood near his desk, nodding at his entrance. “High time you show up, Doctor. I’ve other matters to attend.” He motioned James into the room. “Dr. Griffin, meet Dr. Clark. And Clark, meet Dr. Griffin.”

  At the mention of his name, a short man pushed himself up from a chair and crossed the room. A few memories of hair tufted near his ears. His handshake matched with a wispy grip.

  “Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” The man pumped his hand, or tried to, anyway. “Colonel Crooks has been telling me of the hardships you’ve endured this past winter.”

  He schooled his face, trying hard not to smirk. This slight fellow wouldn’t last the summer. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, eh? I’m sure you’ll have an easier go of it, though.”

  The colonel skirted his desk. “Dr. Clark, would you see that Dr. Griffin is familiar with the dispensary and ward before you leave? Oh, and there’s a bit of paperwork I’d like to have you take care of as well.”

  Leave? His breath hitched at the colonel’s words. It was so final. So jarring. Like the slamming of a door in an empty house, the implications reverberated in his chest. His work here was done. Finished. It was time to leave the natives he’d come to admire—and the woman he’d come to love.

  “Dr. Clark?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course.” He turned to Dr. Griffin and swept a hand toward the door. “Shall we?”

  Griffin exited. He followed but stopped at the threshold at the colonel’s command.

  “Oh, one more thing, Dr. Clark.”

  “Sir?”

  Crooks tapped a letter against one palm. “I’ve received word the Sioux are to be shipped out West, away from those with long memories and longer arms of vengeance. They’ll be under the management of Fort Randall—a garrison without a doctor. You’ve done a fine job here. Lives were saved because of you. On my word, the position is yours, if you want it.”

  Him? The one who barely survived a Minnesota winter? He let out a breath, long and low. “I shall think on it, Colonel.”

  “I couldn’t ask for more. Dismissed.”

  James strode out into the sunlight. How dare the day be so bright when dark and heavy decisions weighed on his shoulders? What to do? Hop a steamship east to his former dream of power and prestige—one that would eclipse any thought of love or family? Or mount up and ride farther west, to a land more rugged than the one he now claimed?

  His steps stalled. So did his heart. How could Emmy possibly fit into any of this, especially with an aunt determined to drag her into society?

  Well, Lord?

  He stood waiting a long time, praying, ignoring the soldiers around him. Waiting for what? A lightning bolt to write an answer in the sky? Show me, God. Clearly.

  And … nothing.

  With a sigh, he lowered his gaze—then jerked his face back overhead. Two sparrows, flying in tandem, swooped gracefully toward the west.

  Moving as one.

  He smiled. It was a small answer, but answer enough. Thank You, God.

  Setting his hat tight, he set off at a run, straight toward the dispensary.

  Chapter Ten

  Emmy sat on the edge of her bed, her trunk by her chamber door ready for Jubal to fetch. Her father’s medical bag lay in her lap. She ran a finger along the top, smearing tears into the worn leather. Once she moved to Aunt Rosamund’s fine Minneapolis home, this bag would be relegated to the attic. Aunt would never allow her to degrade herself by caring for the sick. No more tending to births or coughs or fevers. No more sweet friendship with Makawee and little Jack.

  And no more working long days next to James, shadowing his every move, inhaling his scent of sandalwood and strength. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, stifling a sob.

  She might as well box up her heart and store that in the rafters too.

  “What’s this?” James skirted the trunk as he entered the room, the pull of him drawing her to her feet.

  Oh, how she’d love to
run into his arms, rest her head against his chest, and forget about Aunt and the new life she didn’t want. Yet she stood there, as straight as one of the soldiers at attention.

  His gaze slid from the empty nightstand, to the bare pegs on the wall, and finally rested on her. He cocked a brow. “Are you leaving?”

  She shrugged, stalling for the right words. How to tell him that in mere minutes she’d be walking out that door forever? Her throat closed, and it took several swallows before she could manage a simple, “I am.”

  “Oh? What a coincidence.” He grinned. “So am I.”

  She grabbed handfuls of her skirt to keep from slapping the silly smile off his face. Did the man not care their friendship would be ending? That he’d never see her again? Had she been wrong about his feelings?

  She drew in a sharp breath. “Evidently your meeting with the colonel went well.”

  “Better than that.” He rocked onto his toes, the movement stoking her anger. “My dream is nearly within reach.”

  Coldhearted, selfish man! She knotted the fabric tighter, choking the life from her skirt. Had the past six months meant nothing to him that he could ball up all their tender moments and cast them aside like a wadded bit of paper?

  So be it. If he could let her go that easily, neither would she hold on. She splayed her fingers, letting her skirt drop.

  “Well, then, Dr. Clark, I am happy for you. It’s good to know some of us get what we desire. You will no doubt rise quickly to the top at Harvard Medical.” She hurled the words like a porcelain teacup against a wall, wishing the impact would break his heart into as many pieces as hers. How could she have been so wrong?

  “But I—”

  “Goodbye.” She swished past him. She didn’t need justifications or explanations. Her eyes filled, turning the room into a watery mess.

  “Emmy!”

  A tug on her shoulder pulled her back.

  His breath came out in a huff. “You jump to conclusions faster than a raging bout of chicken pox, woman. Hear me out.”

  She scowled at his hand on her arm, then up into his face. “What more is there to say? Aunt is waiting for me. I’m bound for Minneapolis, and you’re headed east.”