Magic in Her Touch

by Donna Dalton

  What dreams did she hope for? In his experience, most women wanted a husband, a family, and a place to call home. Miss Devlin seemed to desire more from life. Helping folks and administering to the sick and injured took precedence over her own needs. Just like him. The connection wrapped around him like a comforting blanket.

  He returned the note to the box and closed the lid. Where to next? There wasn’t much left to search in the sparsely furnished room. He’d already gone through the armoire. It held the same plain cotton garments as the bureau. She would look stunning in a satin ball gown, the material hugging her curves and perfectly showcasing any exposed skin…silky creaminess a man could drown in.

  He ground his teeth around a curse. He had to put such lustful thoughts out of his head. Miss Devlin was forbidden fruit. One taste and he’d be lost.

  He shoved the drawer shut and stalked to the bed. Perhaps she had secrets hidden under the mattress. One of his classmates from medical school had stashed a bottle of whiskey under his mattress, an expensive Scottish malt shared only with a select few chums. It stayed concealed until the whale Henry Buckley flopped onto the bed. The bottle shattered and spilled precious spirit all over the floor. Some treasures were simply not meant to be hoarded.

  Dropping to his knees, he pushed back the bedcovers and thrust his hands between the downy mattress and the webbing. The soft scent of vanilla and lavender nuzzled him. It was a pleasant scent. Her scent. He closed his eyes, unable to stop the image of the two of them on the bed, naked, his fingers twined in that silky mane, his lips tasting hers. She would writhe beneath him, calling his name. It would be heaven on earth.

  He doused the image with a grunt. What the devil was wrong with him? He was a man of medicine. A man of refinement and self-restraint. Not a low-bred rogue allowing free rein to his carnal cravings.

  He thumped onto his belly and ducked his head under the bed. No more distractions. He had a job to do. Perverse thoughts would only slow his search.

  The space under the bed was bare except for a pair of slippers and a dog-eared lady’s magazine open to a page displaying stylish bonnets and lavish gowns. Interesting. The single-minded Miss Devlin did have dreams and desires like other women.

  The thud of the front door rammed into the room. He jerked, and his head struck the wood bed frame. Pain blasted down his neck. Cripes. Either a patient had arrived, or Miss Devlin was returning. Whichever, his investigation was over. For now.

  He backed away from the bed and pushed to his feet. A quick scrub revealed a slightly raised and very tender spot at the back of his skull. The lump would recede after a few days. Until then, it would be a reminder to keep his mind on his mission.

  He crept to the door and craned his neck around the jamb. In the bedroom across the hall, Mrs. Lidle dozed in a chair by the window, warming herself like a cat in a slash of sunlight. Perfect. He stole into the hallway and down the stairs. Near the bottom, he slowed and angled to one side. There was a loose tread waiting to herald his presence. He heard it often enough from his office, squealing most annoyingly and breaking his concentration.

  He made it safely to the landing. A quick tug set his contortion twisted jacket back to rights. Doctor turned burglar. He never imagined such a thing of himself before Miss Devlin. He also never imagined craving another woman after his failure with Alice.

  He let his heels click loudly down the hallway. The need for stealth was over. Instead of Miss Devlin, he found a patient had arrived. Part of him was relieved. He’d never been good at concealing his emotions. Henry had often chided him for his inability to bluff at cards. His recent foray into the criminal would surely be written all over his face.

  In the waiting room stood a short, squat man wearing a plain suit of brown tweed, a brown necktie, and a brown shirt. The only coloring breaking the drabness was the man’s face. He was greener than a summer frog.

  Anson extended his hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Dr. Locke. What can I do for you, sir?”

  The man took his hand in a weak grasp. “John Hammock, Doctor. I’ve been meaning to come by and welcome you to town but…” The man grimaced and rubbed his stomach. “I haven’t been feeling well lately. Thought it might just be a passing illness, but it seems to be getting worse.”

  John Hammock. The owner of Hammock Savings and Loan. He’d caught a glimpse of the man inside the bank as he walked past on his way to the mercantile. So far, he hadn’t the need for a bank or a banker, considering his only payment since arriving had been a salted quarter of venison from the Smithers.

  Anson motioned to the doorway across the hall. “Please, come into the examination room and have a seat on the table. I’ll see if I can figure out what’s plaguing you.”

  He followed the banker into the room. Although a good dose of sunlight poured through the window, he turned up the flame on the lantern. The brighter, the better for examinations.

  He moved to the table and gave his patient a quick assessment. Mr. Hammock sat slightly slouched, his eyelids and jowls droopy. His green-tinted skin was dry, and his lips slightly chapped. Something had him out of sorts.

  Using his thumb, he lifted an eyelid. The white vitreous of the eyeball was shot with tiny red veins. The iris was pale and cloudy. All symptoms pointed to some sort of malaise.

  He released the eyelid. “What ailments have you been experiencing, Mr. Hammock? And for how long?”

  “It all started about a week ago. Had a throbbing in my head that wouldn’t go away. Then the trots to the outhouse began. I have no pep a’tall.”

  “Have you been feverish?”

  “No. No fever.” The man’s face buckled, and he cupped his stomach. “But it feels as if my gut is being ripped in two.”

  Definitely something going on. He collected his stethoscope from the counter and set it on the table. While a little outdated, the instrument had been a gift from Dr. Giles and did the job required.

  “I want to palpate your stomach, Mr. Hammock. Check for any abnormalities. Then I’ll use this listening device to see if I can detect anything amiss. Is that all right with you?” An explanation of what was to come often eased anxious minds. As did putting control back into the patient’s hands.

  The banker nodded. “Do whatever you need, Doc. I just want to feel better.”

  “Very well. Unfasten your jacket and lie back.”

  His jacket undone, Mr. Hammock sank onto the table. Anson gently probed the upper quadrants of the man’s fleshy abdomen. Plenty of give. No rigidity. He moved his examination to the lower section. Soft and pliable. Nothing to indicate a trauma.

  He picked up the stethoscope and placed the bell on the banker’s belly. He then leaned over and set his ear to the earpiece. Gurgles and soft rumbling filtered up the tube. No stoppage. That was good.

  He straightened and held out a hand. “You can sit up now, Mr. Hammock.”

  The bank pulled upright. “What did you find, Doc?”

  “I didn’t feel or hear anything irregular. You could just be experiencing a touch of the stomach ills. Have you eaten anything unusual or tainted recently?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. The pretty young lady who took over from Dr. Troutman gave me a tonic for a scratchy throat week before last. It cured my discomfort almost immediately. Then all this nonsense started.”

  Could Miss Devlin’s potion be the cause of the man’s illness? It was too coincidental to dismiss. “Has anyone else in your family experienced the same problems?”

  Mr. Hammock shook his head. “The missus and the children are doing just fine.”

  So, it wasn’t something being passed among family members or tainting their drinking water. “What about your neighbors?”

  “Claude Gunderson complained he was off his feed a bit. He runs the livery just down the street. Do you think we have the same sickness?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” He replaced the stethoscope on the counter. “For now, I want you to consume only weak broths and gruel.
Give your stomach a rest from any heavy foods. Come back if you’re not feeling better or if the symptoms worsen.”

  “What about whiskey? That seems to help with the pain.”

  Restricting a man’s spirits could cause a rebellion. Best to offer a compromise. “Whiskey is fine; just keep your consumption to small doses.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I’m feeling better already.”

  He wished he was. Suspicion fumed in his gut. Miss Devlin could very well be the source of a developing pandemic.

  Was it by accident or by choice?

  Chapter Six

  Moira lifted the small crate off the store shelf. Inside, multi-colored bottles rested on a cushioning bed of straw. Luckily, the fragile glass had survived the quake. She would need all the vessels she could find to replace the ones that had been destroyed. Twenty-four bottles wouldn’t be nearly enough for the upcoming winter season, but they would have to do until Mr. Cavendish placed an order for more stock.

  She tucked the crate under her arm. Meredith had insisted on furnishing the funds to purchase the bottles. There was no one more generous than Meredith Booth. Or wiser. Yesterday’s visit to the orphanage had been just what she needed. The dark clouds that had been hovering over her were lighter now. Less disheartening. Nothing would stop her from getting what she wanted in life. She would do as Meredith suggested. If a relationship developed between her and Anson Locke, fine. If not, he would merely be a stepping-stone on her path to becoming a much sought-after healer and herbalist. She didn’t need a man for that. All she needed was perseverance and patience. A lot of patience.

  “Is that you Moira?” came a familiar voice.

  She turned to find Nelda Sawyer standing at the end of the aisle. Younger by eight months, Nel had become a close friend and confidant during their stay at Seaton House. She was the sister Moira never had. Over the years, they had shared many an adventure, some ending in mud-caked disasters that had the orphanage housekeeper lapsing into colorful Scottish rebukes.

  “Nel.” She rushed to give her friend a hearty, one-armed hug. “How are you doing? I didn’t realize you were back.” It had been nearly two weeks since Nel and Mrs. Clement had taken the train to Leavenworth, Kansas. A grand shopping adventure, the housekeeper had called it. Moira couldn’t imagine traipsing through such crowds. She liked people, she just preferred them in smaller doses.

  “We arrived about an hour ago,” Nel said. “While waiting for Mr. Hoggard to collect us, we visited with the dressmaker. Mrs. Stone has so many design ideas. Lace on this. Pearls on that. The long trip combined with her incessant chattering set my head to spinning.”

  “Are you all right? Do you need to sit?”

  “No. I’m fine now.” Nel jiggled the items clutched in her hand. “Mrs. Clement sent me to get some fresh air and to purchase some thread and pattern paper. The walk cleared my head.”

  “Good. The last thing you need is to become ill. So how was your trip to Leavenworth? Did you find the perfect material for a gown? What about shoes? You’ll have to tell me every little detail.”

  Nel was getting married at the end of the month. Her fiancé wanted her to have the wedding of her dreams and had sent her to Leavenworth where there would be a better selection of dress material to choose from. Nel was fortunate to have found such a thoughtful and generous man. Men like Sergeant Reese were few and far between.

  “I promise to tell you everything, but not now. I have to get back to the dressmaker’s shop. Mrs. Clement is waiting for me. We have a lot to do and not much time left before…” Nel stiffened and looked beyond her. Frown lines dug into her brow.

  “What is it?” Moira glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No. It’s nothing. I’m just tired from the trip and all the tedious planning.” Nel reached out and gripped her arm in a gentle squeeze. “Please come by the orphanage when you get a chance. I’ll tell you all about my trip. And I want to hear about your adventures as the town healer.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  Nel’s scowl deepened. “They’re still not warming to you? What’s wrong with these knot-headed people?”

  Knot-headed. Nel always did have a way with words. She waved a dismissive hand and shoved on her brightest smile. Nel didn’t deserve to have cold water tossed on her high spirits. “It’s just going to take time to win them over, that’s all. Nothing to fret about.”

  “Well, you let me know if there’s anything I can do. I have an inroad to some pretty remarkable persuaders.”

  While Nel’s persuaders would make her mission easier, she had to wage this battle on her own. She shifted the box cradled under her arm. “I appreciate your offer. But truly. All is well…or it will be once I get these bottles filled. I lost most of my stock in the earthquake.”

  “Earthquake? Here in Mineral?”

  As they walked to the front counter, she related the details of the earthquake and assured Nel that everyone was safe and sound, including her beloved fiancé.

  After paying for their purchases, they went outside. Nel slowed and leaned closer. “I didn’t want to stay anything until I was certain, but there’s a woman trailing you, Moira.”

  She looked behind her. The closest person was a man about to enter the nearby feed store. “Where? I don’t see a woman.”

  “She’s not of this world.”

  Of course. Nel had the gift of seeing and talking with the departed. And they had plenty to say about the living. Sometimes nice details, sometimes not.

  “Who is she? Is it my mother or Granny Tate?”

  “No. She’s much younger. I’ve not spoken with her before.”

  “What does she want?”

  Nel cocked her head and stared into empty space. Anyone seeing her would think she was touched in the head.

  Shouts echoed down the street. A group of boys raced by, laughing and shoving at one another. A scuffling sounded beneath the boardwalk. A second later, a mongrel emerged and set off down the street, barking and chasing after the boys. A horse shied at the commotion and his rider wagged a fist at the frolicking youngsters. There was never a dull moment in Mineral. From the living or from the dead.

  “I understand,” Nel finally said, the clouds veiling her eyes clearing. “She says she means you no harm. She knows you have a good heart and only wants the best for you.”

  “Well that’s a relief.”

  “She wants her husband to be happy. And she believes that can happen with you.”

  “With me? Who is the woman? Is she anyone I know?”

  “Her name is Alice. Alice Wentworth Locke.”

  Her heart tripped. She clutched the crate tighter against her. “As in the departed wife of Dr. Anson Locke?”

  “Yes. And she has a warning for you. Danger is coming. You must be vigilant.”

  “What sort of danger?”

  “Miss Devlin. Hold up.” Heavy footfalls accompanied the greeting. She turned to find a soldier approaching at a purposeful clip. It was Private Bolton from Fort Dent. He was her most avid caller at the office, more for personal reasons than medical she suspected. His sprained wrist was well on its way to mending, yet the man came almost weekly for a checkup.

  He slowed and shucked off his wide-brimmed uniform hat. Moira avoided meeting his gaze. She didn’t want to encourage any lingering. She wanted to hear more about the ethereal Alice Locke.

  It was not to be. Private Bolton stopped, a pleased grin stretching into the short-cropped beard shadowing his face. He had pale green eyes and a face that many women would call heart-fluttering. Her heart kept a steady beat.

  “Good morning, Miss Devlin. Miss Sawyer.” He dipped a nod to each of them. “A lovely day is it not?”

  Only if he continued on his way. “Lovely, indeed. I wish we had time to chat, but…” She caught Nel’s elbow. “We’re expected at the dress shop, and we’re already late.”

  Nel dug in her heels. A mischievous gleam stole into her eyes
. “We can spare a few minutes for a fine soldier like Private Bolton. Can’t we, Moira?”

  Moira contained a grunt of annoyance. Now was not the time for Nel to be playing matchmaker. She liked Private Bolton, but only as an acquaintance, and not a close one at that. His friendly behavior hovered just under improper.

  She tightened her grip on Nel’s arm. “We really should be going. Mrs. Clement is waiting for us. You know how bothered she gets when we dawdle.”

  “Pshaw. We’re not dawdling. We’re just being sociable. What brings you outside the fort, Private? Do you need Miss Devlin to have another look at your wrist?”

  Moira dug an elbow into Nel’s side. Friend or not, Nel was going too far.

  Private Bolton waggled his wrist. “It’s feeling much better now, thanks to the wonderful care I’ve been receiving.”

  His appreciative gaze rolled over her, a mudslide of scrutiny that left her feeling unclean. If Anson Locke looked at her like that, her skin would tingle and burn and ache for more. Dingled men. A pox on both of them.

  “I’m glad you’re on the mend, Private.” She mustered a smile. “Although I didn’t do all that much. Just supplied bandaging and some instructions. You did all the hard work.”

  A shout pulled their attention to the General Store. Another soldier stood in the doorway, wagging a hand. “Bolton, what in blue blazes are you doing? Sergeant Wilson wants us back at the fort by noon. He’ll have our hides if we’re late.”

  “Coming, Rafe.” Private Bolton tipped his hat. “Pardon me, ladies. Duty calls. I hope to see you again. Soon. Real soon.”

  She could do without the real. Or the soon. She murmured a “good-day” and watched as he strode away. His legs were a bit bowed, and he walked with a hitch in his gait. Probably from sitting astride a horse all day. Odd that she hadn’t noticed the imperfection before.

  Nel scowled and rubbed at her ribs. “You didn’t have to poke so hard, Moira.”

  “And you didn’t have to play matchmaker. I’m not interested in finding a husband.”