by Donna Dalton
Buildings gave way to open space and to Dancer’s Creek threading its way along the base of the Shoehorn. Gunderson reined the horses to the left and onto a well-worn path that paralleled the waterway. The crystalline water rushed along, undisturbed by the recent upheaval. A good thing. Disruption of the town’s main water source would only worsen the disaster left in the earthquake’s wake.
A large millhouse surrounded by a hodge-podge of open-sided sheds loomed ahead. The usually busy sawmill was eerily still. Nothing moved in or around the front of the building.
Gunderson guided the horses to the rear of the mill. Toppled boards littered the yard. Others balanced dangerously on listing stacks. Men surged around the piles, pulling out planks and shouting to one another. A battlefield after a barrage of cannon fire couldn’t look more chaotic.
Gunderson tugged on the reins, and the two draft horses plunged to a prancing stop. Moira footed the cleat and clambered to the ground. The sun sat a hand’s width from the top of the Shoehorn. Not much of the day left. They had about an hour of light before darkness intruded. She would have to work fast.
She shaded her eyes with a hand and scanned the swarming yard. “Where are the injured workers?”
Gunderson pointed to a large mound that looked as if someone had up-ended a box of oversized matches. “Over there. On the other side of that stack.”
Clutching her medical bag and a handful of skirt, she raced around the heap. On the other side, three patients were lined up, waiting for treatment. The closest was a young man sitting with his knees bent and holding a bloodied rag to his head. She squatted next to him. His eyes were clear, his pupils equal and reacting to sunlight. No head injury. Good.
“I’m Miss Devlin from the doctor’s office. I’m here to help. What’s your name, young man?”
“John. John Smith. Most folks call me Johnny.”
“Very well, Johnny. Would you please remove your hand, so I can have a look at your head?”
He hesitated, his brow furrowing. While his hesitation pinched, she couldn’t let it interfere with her task. “It’s all right. I only want to examine you. I won’t do anything without your permission.”
He nodded and lowered the rag. Blood leaked from a deep slash splitting the skin just above his ear. The red ooze clumped in his hair and slithered down his neck. Unlike Miss Neagle, this wound would require medical attention.
“You have a good-sized gash that will need stitching. I can do that at my office if you’d like. Are you hurt anywhere else? Any nausea or light-headedness?” At his shake, she pushed his hand back to the wound. “Keep that cloth pressed tightly to your head for now. I’m going to check these other workers.”
She shifted to the next patient. While pain twisted his face, she recognized his bulbous nose and pock-marked skin. Hank Jones had come into the office several weeks ago, seeking help for an obstinate cough. He sat with his back against a wood barrel, his left arm clutched across his chest.
“Is it your arm that’s hurting, Mr. Jones? Or your chest?” Arm would be preferable. Chest injuries could be quite dangerous, considering the precious organs protected beneath frail ribs.
Hank grimaced. “Arm. Feels like it’s broke.”
Nothing life-threatening, then. At least not at this point. His shirt sleeve was intact with no tears or blood stains. If fractured, the bone ends had not broken through the skin. A blessing for Mr. Jones. There would be no open wound to go septic.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to examine your arm. Check for any fractures. I promise to be gentle.” At his nod, she reached out and began prodding his lower arm with her fingertips. The bones were solid. No breaks. She moved her examination upward. Her fingers met a bulge halfway between elbow and shoulder. The man moaned.
“You’re right…it is broken.” She pulled her hands back. “The break will heal faster if the bone is properly reset and a splint applied. I can do that at my office and give you something for the pain, if you’d like.”
He heaved a resigned sigh. “I can’t be out of work waiting for this thing to mend. Mouths to feed, you know. Your tonic worked on my cough, so I reckon it’d be all right if you patched up my arm.”
“Same for me,” Johnny said. “I’d like you to stitch up my head. I can’t afford to be out of work either.”
“Perfect. When things settle down, I’ll have someone help you to my office. Just relax for now.”
She scooted over to the third patient. He lay prone on the ground, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow draws. Unlike the other two coverall clad men, he wore a tailored tweed suit and shiny brogans. Definitely not a worker.
A soldier from the nearby army fort knelt beside him. Private Greene often visited the orphanage, bringing treats and town gossip. While beloved by everyone at Seaton House, he wasn’t privy to the special abilities of the inhabitants. Mrs. Campbell only allowed a select few normals into the fold.
“Where is he injured, Private?”
Greene shook his head. “I’m not sure, Miss Devlin. Mr. Pardue was awake for a while, moaning and mumbling. He only just drifted off.”
Not a good sign. “Is this Ben Pardue, the mill foreman?”
“Yes’m. We were picking out lumber for a requisition when the quake struck. I was on the other side of the yard, so I didn’t see him get hit. One of the workers said they found him under a pile of boards.”
She dropped to her knees beside the unconscious man. There were no visible gashes or bruising. No blood staining his clothes or the ground around him. Yet his skin color was fading, his lips and fingertips turning blue. An internal bleed could cause such symptoms and would quickly turn fatal if not stemmed. However, stopping the bleed would require something no one should observe.
She turned her gaze to Claude Gunderson. “All three of these men will need to be treated at my office. If you and Private Greene could assist Johnny and Mr. Jones to the wagon, I’ll stay here with Ben until you return.”
“Certainly, Miss Devlin.” Claude motioned Private Greene. “You help Johnny. I’ll take Hank.”
Together, they helped the less critically injured workers to their feet. As the foursome disappeared around the stack, she made a quick survey of the yard. No one seemed to be paying her any mind. Most were digging through the wreckage and restacking fallen lumber. It was the perfect time to employ her gift.
She unbuttoned Mr. Pardue’s jacket, vest, and then his shirt, exposing his chest and upper stomach—the core of the body. His skin was pale and dotted with sweat. His breaths were slowing. She had to work fast, else death could descend.
She closed her eyes and rubbed her hands together in a brisk motion. The noise in the yard diminished until all she heard was the rapid thud of her heart. The sharp odor of cut wood retreated. The breeze batting her face abated. The only sensation she felt was the energy building inside her like a swirling whirlpool.
A ball of heat formed beneath her ribs. It pulsed and bucked, fighting for release. It was time. She gave the ball a mental push. A current of heat streamed down her arms and pooled in her palms. Her skin tingled. Her fingers twitched. It was like submerging her hands in a tub of warm water after being chilled by the snow. Soothing, yet not without pain.
Ignoring the ache, she placed her hands on Mr. Pardue, just below his breastbone. Energy leapt from her and gushed into him. His muscles shuddered beneath her fingertips. He moaned but remained still.
She guided the probing stream along his spine and up to his head. Everything was white and warm…normal. She moved down his throat to his heart. Still beating—a little unevenly, but that was to be expected when there wasn’t as much blood to move through the vessels.
His lungs were clear, drawing and expelling air with no whistling or rattling. She slowed over his ribs. The curved bones swathing his back glowed red and throbbed. Most likely the place where he’d been struck. She shifted her search to the liver. It was cold and oozing. There you are.
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sp; She drew in a deep breath and concentrated on sending pulsing waves of heat into the injury. The coldness warmed. The blackness lightened to gray and turned white. The seeping slowed and then stopped. She’d stemmed the bleed, but the liver still throbbed with rawness. Her healing only had the power to start the mending. It would be up to Mr. Pardue to do the rest.
A shout broke through the veil surrounding her. She withdrew her hands, trembling now from the aftereffects of using her gift. She would have to take care for the next few hours. Deep healing sapped her own ability to heal. Any injury to her person could be deadly.
Mr. Pardue moaned, and his eyelids fluttered open. Pink flooded into his cheeks and lips. His breathing evened out. He tried to sit up, but she stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.
“Keep still, Mr. Pardue. You have an internal injury. Moving may make it worse.”
Frown lines scored his face. “I remember the ground shaking, and I crouched beside a pile of lumber. The stack shifted, and boards started tumbling off. One of them struck me on the back.” He reached for his side. “What the devil… My pain. It’s gone. What did you do?”
Dingles. Perhaps she should have stopped just shy of fully repairing his bleed. Unfortunately, the sawmill foreman was too far gone for that. Anything less than a total heal would have resulted in his death. She’d have to do a little zig-zagging to keep him off the scent.
She reached out and pulled the folds of his shirt together. “I didn’t do anything except examine you for injuries. There’s bruising on your back and your stomach is rigid…all indications of a possible internal injury. The shock is concealing the pain right now. However, once the numbness wears off, you will feel the ache. A lot of it. I’d like you to come to my office where I can apply a constrictive bandage and give you something for the pain.”
He cocked his head and eyed her like a schoolboy puzzling over a tricky math calculation. “You’re that healer from the orphanage. The one who took over for Doc Troutman.”
Here it comes. The colorful epithets. The rejection. She forced a nod. “I am.”
“Hank told me about you. Said your tonic cured his cough. And Fuller said you fixed his boy’s broke finger as good as new.”
“I did.”
“Well I reckon that’s good enough for me.”
Relief swamped her. She would take good enough any day.
Footfalls thumped the ground, and then Claude Gunderson and Private Greene rounded the stack of lumber. The lanky soldier pulled up, his eyes going wide as wagon wheels.
“Glory be. I coulda swore Mr. Pardue was on death’s door. Miss Devlin, you must be an angel.”
Chapter Two
The stationhouse was no bigger than a two-stall barn. The door had been propped open, most likely to catch a breeze since the builder failed to fabricate any windows. The wallboards were faded and pocked. Several roof shingles hung at odd angles near the apex. In comparison, the antiquated train station in Philadelphia looked like the Taj Mahal. If this was any example of the rest of the town, his life of comfort and luxury would soon be nothing more than a cherished memory.
A train attendant approached, toting a traveling trunk as if it weighed no more than a sack of feathers. Muscles bulged beneath the cotton shirt, evidence of the man’s fitness. “Here’s yo’ baggage, Doctor. Where does you want it?”
Anson motioned to the stationhouse. “Just set it over there near the door. I’ll send someone to fetch it after I am settled in town.”
The dark-skinned man grunted a response and rolled the trunk off his shoulder and onto the platform. Anson nestled his bowler hat onto his head. Now to take care of his own settling, whatever form that may take.
He traded the platform for a narrow lane leading toward a potpourri of buildings spread out at the foot of a towering mountain. The Shoehorn, Mrs. Wentworth had called the mount in her letters. Situated in the heart of the Indian Territories, the mountain and an army garrison protected the small mining town of Mineral from bad weather and bad men. For the unforetold future, this fortification would be his home.
The last slice of sun glimmered just over the mountain peak. Dusk would soon be upon them. He’d best hurry with his task, else he’d be fumbling around in the dark, a stranger in a strange town. Not a healthy situation to be in.
Dust billowed around his brogans, ruining the shine the bootblack had painstakingly worked into the leather. During the rainy season, the rutted lane would be nothing but mud. As would the wide thoroughfare that loomed ahead. There were no cobbles, no street lamps, or bricked walkways. Just rolling boardwalks that stretched along either side of a dirt-packed street. The town looked like a beggar needing a hand-out. He fisted the handle of his medical bag. He couldn’t turn back now. He’d given his word, and he wouldn’t betray Alice’s memory by breaking it.
He footed the plank walkway to the right. False-fronted buildings lined the street, their windows glowing with muddied lantern light. There were only a handful of people going about their business. A woman stood near a shattered window, sweeping shards of glass into a pile. Farther down, two men toiled at straightening a store placard that dangled from one end. The place was in worse shape than he first thought. Beggarly didn’t begin to describe it.
A man toting a lantern rushed toward him, his face pleated with worry. Anson held up a hand. “Pardon me, sir. If you could spare a moment… I’m looking for Dr. Troutman’s office.”
The man slowed and glanced at the medical bag. “Are you a doctor?”
“I am. I have come to assume Dr. Troutman’s practice at the behest of Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth.”
“Good. We can sure use your help. Especially after a day like today.”
“Why? What happened?”
“An earthquake is what happened. Shook the town right hard. Some folks were injured by falling rubble. The worst ones were taken to Doc Troutman’s office so Miss Devlin can tend to them.”
“Miss Devlin? Who is she?”
A shout echoed down the street. The man looked in that direction and frowned. He began shuffling backward. “Don’t have time to explain. The doctor’s office is back that way, first building on the left after you cross Stationhouse Lane. Good-day to you, Doc. Welcome to Mineral.”
The man raced off, lantern swinging wildly at his side. Anson wheeled around and headed back the way he’d come. Earthquake. What next? An erupting volcano? He wouldn’t discount such a calamity in this land of bleakness.
He crossed over Stationhouse Lane and bounded onto the walkway on the other side. The first building to the left was a two-story wood plank structure with a shingle hanging over the door that read, Troutman MD – Surgeon and General Prac. That would need to be changed as soon as possible. Let the people of Mineral know there was a new doctor in town.
He twisted the knob and pushed inside. A bell perched over the door clanged obnoxiously at the intrusion. He grimaced. Noisome creature. Yet another thing he would have replaced.
He stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind him. The brisk aroma of soap mixed with a hint of vinegar assailed him. Not the carbolic acid he was accustomed to smelling, but any disinfectant was better than none.
To his right was a brightly lit parlor with chairs lining the walls. Two men sat quietly, one with his head swathed in bandages. The other had his arm cradled in a sling. Cripes. He didn’t expect to be seeing patients on his first day in town. Yet that was the life of a physician, big city or not.
On the other side of the foyer, an open doorway led into another well-lit room where a man sat on an examination table. A band of white sheathed his upper torso. A woman stood beside him with her back to the doorway.
“Have a seat in the waiting room,” she called out. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
Her voice carried a slight lilt. Not nearly as pronounced as his Irish nanny, but still detectable. The sound conjured thoughts of his youth, of playing hide-and-seek and hot-and-cold. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fun.<
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Lantern light painted the woman in a golden glow. Dark hair coiled at the nap of her neck. She wore a serviceable gown of gray with an apron tied at her waist. She was of average height with a slender waist that tapered to generous hips. Curves in all the right places, his schoolmate Donald Marcum would have said. Donald also had several missing teeth, courtesy of an angry husband who didn’t appreciate having his wife’s attributes so verbally categorized.
She handed the man a glass swirling with murky liquid. “Drink this, Mr. Pardue. It will help with the pain, and there’s also something in it to stimulate faster healing.”
Anson stiffened. Images surfaced of a crate of empty tonic bottles shoved beneath the bed. Of Alice lying on the mattress, cold and lifeless. No one would die of drinking a charlatan’s brew again. Not while he drew breath.
He pounced into the room. “Don’t drink that.”
The woman whirled around. She had a pert nose and full lips. The faint kiss of sunshine tainted her silky skin. While beautiful in an exotic sort of way, he preferred his women more refined. Not this bold raven with ebony eyes spitting fire and outrage.
“Excuse me?” Incredulity stained her voice. “Who are you? And why are you interfering with my patient?”
He thumped his medical bag onto the sideboard. “I am Dr. Anson Locke, the new town physician. These are my patients now. I won’t allow you to administer snake oil or any other poisonous concoction to them.”
Red blossomed in her cheeks and rushed to her ears. She cupped those wide hips, her left hand notably absent of a wedding ring. “My potions are not poisonous, nor do they contain snake oil.”
The man sitting on the table wagged his head. “Miss Devlin wouldn’t give me anything harmful. She’s good and kind and has a gentle touch. Her doctoring didn’t hurt a’ tall.”
Footfalls thudded in the foyer and sling-arm man filled the doorway. “Mr. Pardue is right. Miss Devlin set my broke arm quick and clean as you please with almost no pain. She’s a real prize, she is.”
