by Donna Dalton
“You should be. A man could take care of you. Keep you safe.”
She’d been taking care of herself for as long as she could remember. She didn’t need anyone, least of all a man. “I can look after myself just fine. Always have. Always will. Now, what was the danger Alice Locke warned me of?”
“I don’t know. She vanished when Private Bolton arrived.”
“Can you summon her back?”
“No. Her mist trail is gone.” Nel’s tone turned solemn. “Be careful, Moira. The danger she warned about is grave. I could feel the fear in her. It was quite potent.”
****
She was in danger. But from whom? And why? The only person who had her in his crosshairs was Anson Locke. While he was a curmudgeon, he wasn’t the type to intentionally cause anyone harm. She would just have to be vigilant. Warnings from beyond the grave shouldn’t be lightly dismissed.
She pushed through the door and into the medical office. The tinkling bell drew the attention of several men seated in the waiting chamber. They looked up and relief creased their faces. One man nodded and tipped his hat. Another mumbled about finally getting seen.
Across the hall in the examination room, Dr. Locke stood beside a patient lying on the table. The office had become busy during the short time she’d been at the mercantile. Good. Work would take her mind off troubling thoughts.
“I’ll get my apron and come help you, Doctor.”
“You will go up to your room and wait until I am done.”
His voice was stern and cold and cautioned no argument would be tolerated. She ignored the warning. “There are a good number of patients waiting to be seen. We’ll get to them sooner if I assist you.”
He wheeled around in a squelch of shoe leather and joined her in the hallway. Red tainted his cheeks and ears. The skin over his jaw ticked. A bothered hornet couldn’t look more agitated.
He waggled a finger at her. “What I need, Miss Devlin…is for you to obey my orders…without question. Is that understood?”
Lordy. Whatever had him in a snit was quite potent. For the good of the patients waiting to be seen, she would retreat and save the quarreling for when they had more time and privacy.
“As you wish, Doctor.” She adjusted her grip on the crate of bottles and tromped down the hallway. Pigheaded man. How could Alice think she would be the answer to Anson Locke’s happiness? He didn’t trust her. He didn’t even like her. Nothing would develop between them. Nothing.
She huffed up the stairs and into her bedroom. The low flame from the oil lamp did little to cut through the gloom of dusk. Perfect. It fit her mood.
She plunked the crate on top of the bureau and stiffened. Something was wrong. The disorder glowed like a torch. Her tortoiseshell hairbrush sat at one end of the bureau, the matching hand mirror at the other. One of the drawers was canked slightly ajar, caught open by a wedge of clothing. What the devil? She would never leave her things so disorganized. Someone had been sneaking about in her room.
She glanced through the doorway at the closed door across the hall. Mrs. Lidle would never stoop to snooping. She was honorable and respectful of others, traits that made her the perfect companion. Besides, she rarely left her bedroom unless needed. Louise Lidle was not the trespasser.
Only one person had the wherewithal and the gall to do such a thing. Anger climbed in her. How could he be so inconsiderate? She had done nothing to warrant such a personal invasion. It was inexcusable.
She turned up the lamp wick, and then slid the brush and hand mirror back to their places. Even the dresser scarf needed straightening. Rotten skunk. He was as meddlesome as he was pigheaded. How could she ever consider a relationship with a man like that?
With a grumble, she yanked open the dresser drawers and began tidying the disarray he’d left behind. Her pulse quickened at the thought of his fingers brushing over her stockings and clawing at her underthings. Had he imagined the intimate garments on her, or even worse, imagined himself peeling them from her heated body? A ribbon of desire curled inside her, a longing for something wonderful, something new, something exciting.
She shoved the last drawer shut. She had never allowed herself to consider having a man in her life…for good reason. In her experience, men were complications best left unsampled. There was too much that could go wrong. Loss of independence. Loss of reverence. And even loss of life. She’d seen it before. Her grandmother had treated a woman who had been beaten to within an inch of her life by her husband, by the man who had professed before God to love and protect. Not something she was willing to chance.
The faint thud of the front door sifted into the room. She crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain. Lamplight burnished a man stepping off the boardwalk and into the street. He tugged his green overcoat closer against the descending chill. It was one of the men she’d seen in the waiting room. Was he the last of the patients? If so, it wouldn’t be long before Dr. Locke arrived, and their battle resumed.
She dropped the curtain and squared herself. She would be ready for him. Whatever his agenda.
Footfalls padded in the hallway, and then the open doorway filled with a towering presence. The breath caught in her throat and her pulse hopscotched. What was it about this man that had her acting like a silly schoolgirl?
His glance skittered from her to the bed and back. She stiffened. He was not thinking of her lying there. He was not. A straight-laced man like Dr. Locke would never allow himself to be drawn into the carnal.
She anchored her arms across her chest, clamping down on errant thoughts. “Good. I’m glad you’re here. I noticed some of my things have been gone through. Someone was my room. Was it you? Were you looking through my personal effects?”
He didn’t deny her charge. Merely squared his jaw and held firmly in the doorway. Why let propriety stop him now? He’d already violated her with his snooping.
“You had no right,” she huffed.
“I have every right. I purchased the building earlier in the week. The office is my property now.” He gave a brisk, sweeping motion with his hand. “Anything and everything within these walls is subject to my inspection.”
He owned the building. He could evict her at any time. For any reason. She softened her tone and her stance. “All you had to do was ask. I would have gladly opened my room for your…inspection.”
“Indeed. After hiding any evidence.”
“Evidence? Of what? I have nothing of value. Nothing illegal.” She dropped fisted hands to her sides. “What is it you think I am hiding?”
“Proof that you are poisoning the citizens of Mineral.”
“Poisoning them? I would never do such a thing.”
His gaze narrowed. “Are you certain of that? Nearly a dozen patients have come in recently, complaining of headaches, stomach cramps, and diarrhea…all unrelated to any illness. Yet every one of them has consumed one of your herbal potions.”
She dug fingernails into her palms, using the pain to cut through the ache of his mistrust. “So, the only possible conclusion you can draw is that I am the culprit?”
“It’s a reasonable deduction.”
“Their symptoms could be from any number of illnesses. Cholera comes to mind.”
“I considered that, but the sickness seems to be limited to the menfolk and specifically to those whom you provided a remedy of one sort or another.”
No. It couldn’t be true. There had to be some other explanation. She barreled toward him, heels clicking on the floorboards. “Who are these men? I want to speak with them. Examine them for myself.”
“I won’t allow it.”
She stopped in front of him, hands hooked on her hips. Oh how she wanted to pummel his chest…to give free rein to the anger and hurt that churned inside her. But he might see that as being unhinged and cast her out. She would be the embodiment of control.
“Step aside, Doctor. I wish to leave this room.”
He maintained his barricade of the doorway. Ocean blu
e eyes crashed over her, hard and fast. A flock of seagulls swarmed in her belly. Her heart thumped against her ribs. Surely he could hear the noise. Her ears rang with the din.
She drew in a calming breath and counted to three. Three was always a good number. Three wise men. Jesus rising on the third day. Three leaflets on a shamrock.
Her wits collected, she tilted her head back and stabbed him with a pungent stare. “May I pass, or are you going to stand at my door all night?”
His gaze again flicked from her to the bed and back. Something darted in the blue depths. Regret? Guilt? Desire? His lips parted, and his gaze drifted to her mouth. Was he thinking about kissing her? The thought clouded her mind like peat smoke in a one-room cabin. She ran a tongue over lips gone dry as a summer pond.
A soft moan rumbled from his throat. He stretched a hand toward her. She froze, waiting, watching. His fingers halted inches from her face. Long, slender fingers that would set fire to her skin. Tingles rippled across her scalp and down her neck in anticipation of his touch.
“Moir…uh, Miss Devlin. I…uh.” He swallowed, his throat muscles convulsing with the effort.
He was as mind-muddled as she. “Y-yes?”
His shoulders rose as he sucked in a draw of air and let it go on a long exhale. “You were right. I shouldn’t have gone through your things without your permission. For that, I apologize.”
She wanted more than an apology. She wanted his trust. And the kiss that his eyes promised.
“Is everything all right, Miss Devlin?” came a curious voice from across the hallway.
Perfect. Now they had disturbed Mrs. Lidle. “Everything is fine, Mrs. Lidle. Dr. Locke and I were just discussing a patient and lost track of time and place. We’re sorry to have disturbed you. We’ll take our discussion back downstairs.” She hefted her chin. “Won’t we, Doctor?”
He gave a grunt and stepped back from the doorway. Coldness had returned to his face, the blaze in his eyes all but extinguished.
She hiked up her skirt and sailed forward. As she brushed past, her arm raked his. He recoiled as if her touch might result in his poisoning. Her insides shriveled. She might as well jump for the moon as to hope for his love and trust.
Mrs. Lidle stood in her bedroom doorway, a Bible in one hand, the other clutching her shawl around skeletal shoulders. Thankfully, her face held more curiosity than condemnation.
“My apologies, Mrs. Lidle. The good doctor and I seem to be at odds over a patient’s treatment.”
Mrs. Lidle nodded. “I understand, my dear. It’s plain to see how devoted you are to your patients. The town is lucky to have the two of you working together for their good.”
Hmmph. More like butting heads than working together. “Please, return to your scriptures. I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast.”
As her companion disappeared back into her room, Moira fled down the stairs to the first floor. She made her way into the office, a place where she could keep her thoughts and her body under wraps. In addition, it held the information she needed.
She flipped open the ledger sitting on the desktop. He’d insisted on maintaining a journal of all patients who came into the office…names, illnesses, and treatments. It was one of the wiser practices he’d instituted.
His hand closed over hers on the journal. “I cannot allow you to speak with or examine my patients, Miss Devlin.”
“Why can’t you? What has changed?” She couldn’t keep hurt from staining her voice. “I thought we had reached an understanding. Started to trust one another.”
He pulled her hand off the ledger, holding on for a fraction longer than was necessary before releasing her. “Until I discover the source of these illnesses, no one is above suspicion. Not even you.”
His tone was softer, less infected with reproach. Hope surged inside her. She trailed a shaky finger over the desktop. “What if I agree to stop dispensing my potions until we discover the source? Would that be acceptable?”
His expression remained bland. He flipped the ledger closed with a resounding thud.
“Please, Dr. Locke.” She hated to beg, but she needed to be involved in the search. For her own peace of mind. “Surely you’ve come to know me over the past few weeks. I would never intentionally harm anyone. I want to uncover the source of this sickness as much as you.”
His gaze locked with hers. “I want to trust you, Miss Devlin. I do. You have been a great asset since my arrival.”
“What does your gut say?”
“Pardon?”
“Deep inside. What do you feel? Am I a bad person?”
His shoulders fell a fraction, the hard line to his mouth softening. “You are not a bad person.”
“Then, please…give me this chance.”
He crossed arms over his chest and studied her like a hawk eyeing his prey. “I will have your word that you will not dispense any potions, tinctures, or any other medicines without my express consent. In addition, I will supervise all examinations and treatments in which you participate, whether conducted here or outside the office. Can you agree to this?”
Some battles had to be forfeited in order to win the war. She set her hand over her heart. “I give you my solemn promise. I will not dispense any potions, medicinal or otherwise. Together, we will discover the source of this mysterious sickness…whatever it proves to be.”
Chapter Seven
Moira snipped off the end of the cat gut thread and scrutinized her work. Nice even stitches. No puckering of the skin. No oozing. The wound should heal nicely without any noticeable scarring. The seamstress Elizabeth Keckley couldn’t have done any better. She could only hope the apron-wearing hawk perched beside her was as appreciative of her needlework skills as Mary Todd Lincoln had been with her modiste.
She grasped the shoulder of the man lying on the table. “There, all stitched up, Mr. Gunderson. You can sit up now.”
With her help, Claude pushed to a sitting position. He canted his head to the side and scowled down at the two-inch gash on his upper arm. “Thank you, Miss Devlin. It doesn’t look so bad all cleaned and stitched up. I’m just glad it wasn’t any worse. That dizzy spell hit out of nowhere. I must’ve scraped my arm against something sharp when I fell.”
“That’s most likely what happened,” she said. “You’ll want to keep the wound as clean as you can for the next few days. Protected by bandages would be best. Otherwise infection could set in.”
“Clean is not always possible around animals, but I will do my best.”
“Wash your hands with soap and water as often as you can. And changing the bandage daily will help. You’re welcome to come by the office if you need help doing that. Isn’t that right, Dr. Locke?”
Heavy breaths rasped behind her. Her skin pimpled with awareness. The man could make a rock perspire.
“Quite right,” he replied. “Come by at any time, Mr. Gunderson.”
She pointed to the patient’s arm. “If my suturing meets with your approval, Dr. Locke, I will apply the bandaging.”
He leaned forward, his shoulder brushing her arm. Tremors rocketed through her, and her knees went weak. She stepped to the side, away from the contact. She didn’t want him to notice her reactions to his touch. It would only add tension to a tenuous truce.
He straightened with a nod. “Very nice, Miss Devlin. I couldn’t have stitched any better myself. Apply one last swabbing of carbolic acid, and then you can begin the bandaging.”
Well, well. A compliment. Would miracles never cease. She saturated a clean cloth with carbolic acid and gently swiped the stitched wound.
Dr. Locke retrieved a roll of bandaging from the sideboard and set it on the table in front of her. He sure was being nice. Was he making up for yesterday’s irascible behavior? If so, she wouldn’t complain. Any reprieve from his distrust was welcome.
“How long have you been having these dizzy spells, Mr. Gunderson?” Dr. Locke asked.
“They didn’t start until a few days ago. Yesterda
y I could barely walk a straight line. Today it feels like I’ve been on a four-day drunk.”
“Have you eaten anything out of the ordinary? Taken any medicinal elixirs?”
His gaze raked over her, ending the reprieve. She tossed the wiping cloth onto the table and picked up the roll of bandaging. His distrust cut scalpel sharp. She’d kept her word. No one had been given any potions.
Gunderson shook his head. “Nothing that I recall. The missus did use some special seasoning in her cooking the other day. I remember remarking on how delicious the chicken tasted. Sarah said Miss Devlin gave her some herbs to spice the meat.”
Dr. Locke’s hard expression condemned her. She hefted her chin. “I gave Sarah some dried rosemary last week. But it’s not tainted. I used it myself recently, and neither I nor Mrs. Lidle have taken ill.”
Her stomach twisted. Yet people were getting sick. Was she the reason? Others had taken her potions and hadn’t become ill. She needed to find out what had caused Mr. Gunderson’s mysterious illness…and she needed Dr. Locke out of the room to do that.
“Perhaps you could examine a sample of Mr. Gunderson’s blood with that fancy microscope you brought with you from Philadelphia, Dr. Locke. It might provide a clue as to what is making him sick.”
Mr. Gunderson tipped forward, expression eager. “Microscope, you say? What’s that?”
Moira smiled and tucked in the tails of the bandage. If she could get Gunderson on her side, he might lead the unwilling doctor to the trough. “It’s a device that magnifies very small particles so you can see them better. Our blood has dozens of them, each with their own job to do. If any are out of sorts, you can see them with this microscope.”
“Ain’t that something.” Gunderson fastened a fervent gaze on Dr. Locke. “I’d like you to do that, Doc. Have a look at my blood with this microscope device. See if everything’s working as it’s s’posed to.”
Dr. Locke’s brow crimped. His narrowed eyes walked over her, accusing her of inciting mutiny. She worked at looking innocent.
He gave an indecipherable grunt. “Very well. I need to gather the apparatus from the storage room. I’ll be right back. Don’t move. Either of you.”
