by Donna Dalton
He followed Mrs. Wentworth down the hall and into a small parlor. A painting of a young lady garbed in a sea of blue ruffles hung over the mantel. Her pale eyes drilled into him, condemning him for his failure.
Despite the heat in the room, a cold sweat popped over his skin. His chest tightened, and breathing became an effort. He forced his focus onto the hearth where a hearty fire popped and crackled. Odd for such mild weather. Yet the skeleton of a man huddled in a chair in front of the fireplace explained the need for warmth.
His face was sunken, his eyes rimmed with black circles. A lounging jacket sagged on gaunt shoulders. The past few years had been even crueler to Alice’s father.
“Look, Stanley,” Mrs. Wentworth crooned. “It’s Anson. He’s finally arrived.”
The hairless skull turned, and a smile broke through the bony edifice. Mr. Wentworth fumbled for the cane propped against the chair arm. He pushed to his feet, wobbling like a newborn calf. “Anson, my boy. It’s good to see you.”
Anson crossed the floor in three quick strides. He extended a hand, more to keep the man from falling than to offer a greeting. “It’s good to see you too, sir. Please, don’t get up on my account.”
A bony hand clasped his and held for the requiem three seconds before releasing. Friendly, yet reserved. The reception he’d expected.
“Welcome to Mineral, son. It’s good to have you here. Sorry we’re not dressed for company.”
“It’s not a problem. I should have sent a note earlier, but things were quite chaotic at the office.”
A claw claimed his elbow, fingers digging in. “Anson was helping folks who were injured in the quake. Such dedication. We’re so glad you agreed to come. Mineral desperately needs a good doctor.”
“I’m happy to be here.” He motioned to the other chair facing the hearth. “May I sit, sir? It’s been a long day. My legs aren’t as young as they used to be.” While he didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary, getting Mr. Wentworth back into the safety of protective padding took precedence. Not to mention unfettering his arm from needy talons.
Wrinkles deepened on an already craggy face. “Don’t I know it. By all means, my boy, have a seat.”
As Mr. Wentworth settled back onto the chair, Anson eased out of Mrs. Wentworth’s grasp and took the other one. His rear sank into the padded cushion and kept going. Something hard jabbed his left buttock. Definitely not in the best of condition. Nor was the rest of the room. The curtains were faded and showed signs of moth damage. The rug had a worn streak across the middle. Perhaps the mining business wasn’t as prosperous as Mrs. Wentworth’s letters proclaimed.
“Pour us a drink, Edeline. From the brandy Anson sent for Christmas.”
Anson dismissed the offer with a wave. “No thank you, sir. I’m off for bed soon. Brandy will only keep me awake.” It had been a long day. Full of hard work and mental turmoil. It would take that entire bottle of brandy and then some to shut off the prattle raging in his head.
“Oh toosh. One drink won’t hurt.”
“I agree. You could use a drink, Anson. You’re looking a little pale.” Footfalls shushed across the carpet. “Brandy will put some pink back in your cheeks.”
Who was the doctor here? The clink of glass echoed from the sideboard. Then came the soft gurgle of liquid. His mouth watered. Perhaps she was right. He could use a drink.
“What changed your mind about coming to Mineral?” Mrs. Wentworth tossed over her shoulder as she poured. “You sounded so uncertain in your letters.”
He’d been foundering in uncertainty for years. Alice’s death had cannonballed into his life, destroying everything he knew and loved. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Not his comfortable brownstone in Hamilton Village. Not his favorite foods. Not even his medical practice served to cheer him. He’d been a ship without a rudder. When his inattentiveness had almost killed a patient, he’d decided it was time for a change. The vacated medical practice in Mineral offered a lifeline, and he grabbed onto it.
“As you can imagine…” He glanced up at Alice’s portrait. “Philadelphia holds far too many sad and regretful memories.”
Mr. Wentworth nodded, his milky eyes watering. “Indeed.”
Damn. The last thing he wanted was to cause the man pain. He shifted for a more comfortable position in the chair and only received another stab for his efforts.
“Moving to Mineral offered the opportunity to start anew…to honor Alice’s memory without all the pain.”
Lips cracked with dryness turned up in a knowing smile. Had Mr. Wentworth discovered a way to deal with his loss? He hoped so. The man deserved some ease in what appeared to be the last few years of his life.
Footfalls shuffled behind him and then Mrs. Wentworth was there, setting a pair of brandy-filled glasses on the table nestled between the two hearth chairs. Her gaze settled on the portrait. “Alice would understand your decision to leave Philadelphia. Mineral was her home for many years. She treasured her life here. She would be happy knowing you were recuperating with her friends and family.”
Treasure. The reason he’d come. He fished the box from his pocket and held it out to Mrs. Wentworth. “I thought you might want this returned to you. Alice said it was a family heirloom.”
She accepted the box and slid off the lid. Tears swam in her eyes. She traced a finger over the precious contents. “This necklace has been in our family for decades. I gave it to Alice on her sixteenth birthday. She said wearing it made her feel like a princess.”
And he’d beheaded that princess. Well, not literally. But he might as well have. He snagged the glass from the table and took a hearty swallow. Fire bathed his tongue and coursed down his throat. It collected in a numbing pool in his stomach. Yet the spirit did little to deaden the ache piercing his heart. His incompetence as a husband had brought pain to these wonderful people, pain they didn’t deserve. He had taken away their only daughter, their only joy. He owed them a lifetime of recompense.
“You don’t have to return this, Anson. You can keep it. To remember her by.”
His collection of memories would stagger Hercules. “No. It’s a precious treasure. One you should have. Not me.”
“As you wish. But I’m sure Alice would understand if you wanted to keep it.”
He tossed back the rest of the brandy and set the glass on the table. He’d had enough. Of futile spirits and bleak talk. He pushed to his feet. “Thank you for the brandy, but it’s getting late. I should be going. Tomorrow promises to be another busy day.”
“You’re welcome to stay here with us,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “There’s plenty of room.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I’ve already sent my belongings to the boarding house just down from the office. Mrs. Gilliam’s, I believe it’s called. Miss Devlin recommended the place.” As much as he wanted the charlatan gone, he didn’t have the heart to evict her or her chaperone from the apartments over the office. From the look of Miss Devlin’s outdated gown and worn shoes, she didn’t have the funds to board elsewhere.
Mrs. Wentworth’s mouth turned down as if she’d sampled something distasteful. She crossed arms over her bosom and gave a shudder worthy of the famous actress, Charlotte Cushman. “You shouldn’t have anything to do with that healer woman. She’s trouble. Send her on her way as soon as possible.”
“That’s my intention. However, she appears to have the support of a good number of the townsfolk. I must tread lightly with her dismissal. I want to earn people’s trust; not offend it.”
“You watch yourself, Anson. The devil lives in her. She comes from that orphanage of evil children. Witches, all of them.”
Witches? Now that was going a little too far. Fanatical allegations of witchcraft had died out with the Puritans. Had Alice’s death affected this heartbroken mother more than he thought? Was her mind, like her husband’s body, on the decay? It wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities with an emotion as powerful as grief.
****
Moi
ra opened her eyes to pale sunlight dribbling through the curtains. Her head thrummed, and her body ached. Bedsheets snaked around her legs. Sleep had been elusive as a coin in shifting sand. She had one month to prove herself. Not a long period of time considering the folks in Mineral had only just begun warming to the notion of a lady healer. But she wasn’t about to give up. She wanted this job, needed it, and nothing was going to stand in her way…not even her own misgivings.
That Dr. Locke would be watching her every move added to her unease. Not only was he a most handsome man, he was quite observant. Nothing missed that highly trained and penetrating gaze. She would have to take extra care to avoid prodding his suspicions—be as unremarkable as a noon shadow.
With a grunt, she flipped aside the bedcovers and rolled off the bed. It was past time to be up and about. Knowing her ill luck, Dr. Locke was already in the office and elbow-deep in some important task. He would frown at her idleness.
She slipped on worn but comfortable shoes and donned a simple work dress, one of two that hung in the wardrobe. After pinning on a clean apron, she secured her hair into a serviceable bun. A quick check in the mirror said she was as presentable as she would get. Hopefully the hawk-eyed doctor wouldn’t notice the shadows cradling her eyes. He didn’t need to know how much his presence affected her sleep. It would only encourage more hammering at her resolve.
Halfway down the staircase, the tinkle of the doorbell drifted up from the hallway. A patient? It was early, but then illness didn’t carry a pocket watch.
She made for the entrance and found Evan Smithers standing in the doorway. Worry lines pocked the boy’s face. Was his mother having more troubles? Annabelle Smithers had come into the office a few weeks ago, seeking ease from the strain of a late term pregnancy. White willow bark for a soothing tea and a good dose of reassurance should have lessened her pains.
Grubby fingers twisted a threadbare cap. “You gotta come, Miss Devlin. Ma’s been trying to have the baby all night, and it won’t come. Pa sent me to get you.”
The mule tied to the hitching rail just outside the open doorway brayed as if punctuating the urgency. Moira clasped the boy’s shoulder and squeezed. “There’s no need to fret, Evan. Everything is going to be all right. Is that your mule?” At his nod, she gave him a nudge. “Ride down to the livery and have Mr. Gunderson ready two mounts. One for Dr. Locke, and Dolly for me. We will meet you there shortly.”
Evan grunted an agreement and slapped on his cap. He wheeled around in a squelch of shabby boot leather and made for his mule. As he vaulted onto the animal’s back, Moira pushed the door closed and hurried down the hallway. A million thoughts clanged in her head. Granny Tate had once told her about a woman whose baby refused to enter the birthing canal. The mother languished for days in agony until the rotting infant took both their lives. She prayed nothing like that happened to Annabelle.
Just as she reached the storage room door, a tall figure stepped into her path. She pulled up with a gasp and avoided a collision by a mere hair’s breadth. Her knees wobbled, and she reached out to steady herself. Her hand curled around a bared arm lightly dusted with fine hairs. He’d rolled up his sleeves for whatever task he’d been about. Her mouth went dry as a summer pond.
“Whoa, there. What’s the hurry?”
She released his arm and retreated a step. “Pardon me, Doctor. I didn’t see you coming into the hall.”
“No. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have charged through the doorway like that.” He cocked his head to the side and peered down at her with those arresting eyes. “Are you all right? You’re looking a little bland this morning.”
Bland? What did he expect after the sentencing he’d handed down? Sunshine and roses? She pushed back a stray tendril tickling her forehead. “I’m perfectly fine. Just in a hurry is all.”
“Were you rushing because there’s a patient to see? I thought I heard a bell ding.”
“You did hear the bell, and we do have a patient. But she’s not here. Evan Smithers just rode in to get us. Says his mother is in prolonged labor and not doing well. I sent the boy to the livery to have our horses readied. The Smithers live about ten miles outside of town. We should make haste.”
“Our horses?”
“Mrs. Smithers trusts me. I have been helping her through these last few weeks of her term. I want to be there for the birthing.”
He opened his mouth as if to say more, then snapped his lips shut with a grunt. “Very well. Give me a moment to ready my medical bag.”
“Perfect. I’ll ready mine as well.”
He followed her into the storage room. “There’s no need to bring a bag. I will have everything that is needed.”
Dingled man. Childbirth could be tricky. He couldn’t be prepared for every consequence. She scooped a tin from the shelf and held it out. “Do you have this?”
“What is it?”
“Tallow. For lubrication should the lower end of the birthing canal not stretch enough or dries up. Considering how long she has been in labor, it’s a possibility.”
“Interesting. I hadn’t thought of using lubrication.”
Of course he hadn’t. He was a man. She stuffed the tin into her medical bag and reached for a sealed jar sitting at the back of the shelf. Shredded roots jangled against the glass.
“And that?” he asked.
“Angelica root. For stimulating contractions.”
“Absolutely not. I have not had a chance to evaluate its efficacy. This is much too dangerous a situation to be experimenting with medications.”
“But—”
“No buts. We had an agreement. Remember?”
How could she forget? She set the jar back on the shelf. “Yes, Doctor.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Good. I’ll get my bag and meet you on the boardwalk.”
She waited for him to leave and then grabbed the jar from the shelf. Experimenting her tush. She knew what the root could do. Annabelle might need it. She would risk Dr. Locke’s wrath if it saved a life.
Footfalls shuffled in the hall. She jammed the jar into her bag and snapped the latch closed. She turned, heart jumping like a March hare.
The figure in the doorway barely reached halfway up the frame and had gray hair and wrinkles. Moira let go the breath she’d captured in her lungs.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lidle. I’m glad you came downstairs. Dr. Locke and I have been called out on a medical crisis. I don’t know how long we’ll be. You’ll need to greet any patients that come in and advise them of the wait.”
“Very well. I can attend to some mending for Eliza. She’s still too weak to sit for long periods of time, much less have the strength for sewing.” Mrs. Lidle’s sister’s recuperation from a potent lung illness was taking longer than normal. Moira made a mental note to go by and check on the woman when she had a free moment. Whenever that might be.
She left the storage room and joined Dr. Locke on the boardwalk. His gaze raked over her, but he remained silent. A Christmas gift in September.
She pointed down the street. “Gunderson’s livery is about four blocks down on the other side of the street.”
“Yes, I recall seeing the signboard yesterday when I arrived.” He fell into step beside her. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Smithers’ pregnancy?”
“I know she has had difficulty with lower back pains these last few months.”
“Did you palpate for the child? Was it moving about?”
“The last I treated her was two weeks ago. The babe was active, though it was still high in her belly. Odd for so late in her term.”
“A possible breech birth, then. Why would this woman wait so long to send for a doctor?” Concern and frustration spiked his tone. “She could be hemorrhaging severely by now.”
“She’s had two successful births with no complications. I imagine she thought this one would be no different.”
Fingers curled around her elbow. “Well, she
thought incorrectly.” He herded her across the street toward the stable where Mr. Gunderson held the reins of two saddled horses. “Mount up, Miss Devlin. We must hurry if we want to save both mother and babe.”
Chapter Four
A small cabin loomed ahead, smoke leaking from the chimney. It had one window and a crude, leather-hinged door. The rough-hewn logs were faded and pocked. Moss coated the chinking. The sun had bleached the thatch roof to a milky gray. It looked much like her childhood home in Tennessee. While meager and lacking amenities, the one room shack held her happiest memories. Loving arms cradling her, laughter, and stories told by the fire. That was before trouble came traipsing up the mountainside. Before a religious posse came looking for retribution. Before she, her mother, and her grandmother had to flee for their lives.
Moira reined in her sorrow and her mount. Now was not the time to be clouding her mind with the past. She needed to focus on the impending birth, else her inattention could cause Annabelle or her babe to suffer.
The cabin door squealed open and a coverall-clad man stepped onto the stoop. A short-cropped beard of black swathed his jaw He bounced a toddler in his arms, his mouth as pinched as the whimpering child’s.
“Miss Devlin. Thank God, you’re here.”
Dr. Locke dismounted and turned to assist her. He might be a curmudgeon about her healing potions, but he was still a gentleman. Once on the ground, she shrugged out of his grasp and rushed toward the cabin.
“We came as quick as we could, Mr. Smithers.” She pulled up at the edge of a wooden landing outside the door. “How is Annabelle faring? Has she delivered the babe?”
“No babe yet. The bleeding has slowed, but her strength is nearly gone. She can hardly hold her head off the pillow. I’m a ’feared she and the baby ain’t gonna make it.”
A sharply indrawn breath pulled her attention to Evan. Color had fled from the boy’s face. Tears swam in his eyes. He needed a distraction. Moira motioned to the fenced enclosure. “Evan, would you put our horses in the corral with your mule? Then come and take your little sister out into the yard to play? That would be a great help to everyone.”
