by Donna Dalton
As his footfalls faded into the hallway, she stepped out of Gunderson’s field of vision. She only had a few minutes before Dr. Locke returned. She had to work fast.
She briefly closed her eyes and rubbed her hands together. Warmth pooled in her palms and spread into her fingers. Energy pulsed inside her, coiling and twisting. A few seconds later, it gathered into a throbbing ball of heat. Her gift was ready.
She picked up Mr. Gunderson’s jacket from the table. He’d removed his shirt and jacket earlier to allow access to his wound. “Your shirt is a bit bloodied and torn. You can put the jacket on if you’d like. It’s large enough that it ought to fit over the bandaging. I’ll help you with it.”
He nodded, and she held up the jacket. As he slid his bandaged arm into a sleeve, she pressed a hand to his bare back as if to lend support. Energy flowed from her fingertips and into his body. She probed his core. Nothing abnormal there. She moved her search to his stomach. Pink and gray and throbbing. Irritated, but not fatal.
She slipped into the blood stream. A metallic taste with a hint of garlic flooded her senses. Fear coiled inside her. Back in Tennessee, Granny Tate had perceived a similar taint in a patient. It was arsenic poisoning. A search of the area revealed tailings from a nearby mine had polluted a creek near the man’s house. Luckily, they were able to stop the spread of the poison before anyone died.
As she helped Gunderson into the other sleeve, she sent a quick burst of healing into him. It was risky, but she couldn’t let him suffer when she had the power to help.
He heaved a sigh. “You have the warmest hands, Miss Devlin. And soft too. My missus has hands like ice and rough as a mule’s tongue.”
She chuckled. “I learned to warm my hands before touching a patient’s bare skin. It keeps from giving them a shock.”
“Well, I thank you for that.”
Dr. Locke entered the room, his gaze sweeping over her like a magistrate eyeing a felon. “What are you doing, Miss Devlin? Why is Mr. Gunderson thanking you?”
Her pulse skipped. Had he seen her employing her gift? No, it wasn’t possible. He had returned after the healing was completed.
She adjusted Claude’s crooked collar. “I was merely assisting Mr. Gunderson into his jacket. With nightfall approaching, it’s getting a little chilly in here. I thought he might be more comfortable if he dressed.”
Dr. Locke mumbled something under his breath and set the microscope on the sideboard. Ornery pigs didn’t grumble as much as he did.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Gunderson?” Dr. Locke joined them at the table. “Any lightheadedness since you’ve been sitting upright?”
“None a’tall. I’m feeling better now. Much better.” He gave her a wink. “Must be the exceptional care I’m getting.”
“Good.” Dr. Locke extended his hand. “Let me have your hand. I’m going to prick your finger with this lancet and collect a drop of blood. Then I can look at it under that microscope.”
“Sure thing, Doc.”
He gathered Mr. Gunderson’s outstretched hand and singled out a finger. “Hold still. This will only sting for a second.”
He jabbed the tip of a small pin-like knife into the tip of the finger. Most people flinched at the invasion, but Gunderson didn’t even bat an eyelash. He must have some lingering immunity from her healing.
Dr. Locke spread the resulting droplet of blood onto a small rectangular glass plate. He then crossed to the sideboard and set the glass beneath a long tube-like section of the microscope. He leaned over and peered into an eyepiece attached to the other end.
“What do you see, Doc?” Gunderson asked.
Dr. Locke twisted a knob. “Just a minute…”
“Are any of them so-called particles out of sorts?”
Dr. Locke paused a moment and then lifted his head. Frown lines creased his brow. “They all appear to be normal and at a normal count. Both white and red cells. I don’t see anything unusual with your blood, Mr. Gunderson.”
Not surprising. Arsenic was undetectable to the eyes, nose, and tongue. The Borgias in Italy had used the deadly powder quite successfully to kill their rivals and amass great wealth. It was doubtful anyone in Mineral was intentionally dispensing the poison. So where was it coming from and how? Thus far, only a handful of people had reported becoming mysteriously ill. They had to find the source of the arsenic soon…before more people became ill or worse.
****
Anson pushed aside the strings of dried plants dangling from the edge of the top shelf. Her herbs. For her potions. Odd how he had so doggedly pressed to find Miss Devlin guilty of quackery, yet now that he had substantial proof, it tore holes in his gut.
Over the past few weeks, he’d come to know more about her than he ever imagined or wanted to imagine. She cared for her patients. She felt their pain and did everything within her power to help them. It was difficult to believe she would knowingly cause anyone harm. She was good and kind and thought of others first. She did for them before doing for herself. She was just the type of woman he envisioned working by his side, lying in his bed, sharing his life.
He shoved the microscope onto the shelf. No matter what feelings he might have developed for her, he couldn’t turn a blind eye to the truth. He had an oath to uphold. And nothing should sway him from it. Not even his own desires.
A shuffling noise sounded behind him. The aroma of lavender swathed him, bringing with it a sense of calm, of belonging, of home. Without her, the medical office would be dark and stale.
“Dr. Locke, we need to talk.”
He’d uttered those same words in the same ominous tone seemingly an eternity ago. Had they wounded her as much as they stung him now? He turned and fell into ebony eyes that would stay branded in his memory until the day he died. Pink lips parted, and hunger pulsed in his veins. He fisted hands against the ache to slake his thirst. Such insanity had to be contained. For both their sakes.
Fingers toyed with the apron tied at her waist. “I know what you’re thinking, Doctor.”
No. She didn’t have a clue what he was thinking. If she did, she would turn and head for safety in the hills. “The evidence speaks for itself, Miss Devlin.”
“Indeed. And that evidence leads me to a conclusion about the cause of this baffling sickness.”
“Your potions are responsible.”
“Perhaps. But not because of negligence or intent. The men are being poisoned by something undetectable. I believe they are suffering from exposure to arsenic.”
A slap to the face couldn’t have shocked his faculties more. Arsenic. Of course. How could he have missed it? The ailing men’s symptoms precisely mirrored those of arsenic poisoning.
“And just how did you come to this diagnosis? Arsenic is one of the most difficult toxins to detect.”
She reached up and straightened the strings of leaves he’d knocked askew. Was she buying time to invent a tactful answer, one that would hold her above suspicion?
She dropped her hand to her side, her expression gaunt. “Years ago, back in Tennessee, folks began getting sick in a similar fashion. Headaches and stomach cramps that could not be attributed to any illness. It was eventually determined that tailings from a local mine were leaching mercury and arsenic into the creek water.”
The Wentworths owned a large mining operation in the Shoehorn. Were they responsible for the contamination? Before condemning them, he had to be certain of their guilt. He owed Alice that much.
“If the local water sources are tainted,” he said. “Why aren’t other folks sickening? Very few of the women and none of the children are exhibiting the symptoms of poisoning.”
Hands wrung together, fingers twining and untwining. He wanted to reach out and silence her fretting. But he couldn’t. It would only encourage feelings that should remain smothered.
She wagged her head. “I don’t know why some people are getting ill and others are not. I discarded all the potions unharmed by the quake, and I have not brewed any new ones
. However, I can’t dismiss the possibility that the folks who are becoming sick may be taking potions I dispensed before the earthquake.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. Her bottom lip quivered. She was truly suffering with the thought that she might have caused anyone harm.
He eased the tautness from his face and his tone with a soft sigh. “Let’s go into my office. We can discuss the situation over a cup of tea. Mrs. Lidle brewed a pot before she left on her errands. Nothing like a hot cup of tea to brighten the mind and the spirit, she says.”
Her smile whispered over him. “Tea sounds wonderful.”
She turned and sailed across the hall, the muslin folds swishing around boots as faded and worn as the material of her skirt. Although she hadn’t asked to be paid, she deserved compensation for her hard work. She had put in long hours without complaint. If she was found innocent of the poisoning, and if he decided to let her stay on as his assistant, he would see about paying her a wage. That was a lot of ifs to overcome first.
He followed her into the office. The room was only big enough to hold a desk and two ladder-back chairs. A single painting decorated the back wall. It depicted a gleaming blue lake flanked by a forest of greens and browns. Dr. Troutman’s, most likely. His predecessor seemed to favor the simple things in life, from the plain wooden desk to the rudimentary kit of surgical tools he’d found in the examination room.
As Miss Devlin settled in the chair facing the desk, he rounded the desk and took the other chair. Wooden legs squawked at his weight. The sound and the hard surface didn’t bother him. He had become accustomed to the lack of amenities…had even become stronger for it. He could now sit in a saddle for hours without suffering muscle fatigue.
He picked up the teapot and filled the pair of porcelain teacups on the tray. Mrs. Lidle had left a service for two on the desktop. Was the woman clairvoyant? She was the size of a leprechaun. Why not a psychic, too?
He set the pot down and glanced at Miss Devlin. She sat primly, hands folded in her lap. “Sugar? Cream?”
“Sugar. One cube will do.”
Sweet, but not too sweet. Just the way he preferred his tea. And his women. Gripes. He had to get a rein on his thoughts, take a page from her Bible and adopt more puritanical demeanor.
He stirred a cube into each cup and then slid one of them across the desktop. She picked up the teacup and took a sip. Lips framed pearly white teeth. “Wonderful,” she murmured. “Just the right amount of steeping.”
Indeed. He sipped his tea, giving her time to enjoy the soothing beverage and relax. After a few minutes, the tautness in her shoulders slackened. Her face lost its worry lines. It was time.
He set his teacup on the saucer. “As to the arsenic…let’s start with the obvious. Where do you draw water for your potions?”
Fingers anchored around the porcelain cup handle. “From several places. I have used water from Dancer’s Creek as well as from the community well. But hundreds of folks in Mineral do the same. More people would sicken if those were the sources.”
“Agreed, but we should test them for arsenic regardless. Rule them out before we look elsewhere.”
She leaned forward and set her cup on the desk. Her expression perked up. “How do we do that? I don’t know of anything that can detect arsenic.”
He kept his gaze rooted on her face and not on those rounded breasts swelling with each draw of breath. “There’s a simple test I learned in medical school. It’s not always accurate, especially if the concentration of arsenic is very low. But it’s worth trying.”
“What is required for this test?”
“I’ll need a chunk of fresh charcoal and several glass containers for collecting water specimens. Preferably sanitized.”
“I just cleaned out the potbelly stove. There should be some useable charcoal in the ash bucket.” She rose from the chair, face flushed, arms animated. “I boiled a fresh supply of bottles the other day in preparation for making potions…er, but that was before you ordered me not to.”
“Good. Go gather five or six bottles. We can collect a few specimens while there’s a lull in patients. The sooner we determine if folks are being poisoned by arsenic, the sooner we can stop the sickness from spreading.”
She whirled for the door. “I’ll go get them right now.”
As she disappeared into the hallway, the dark clouds hovering over him lifted. She wouldn’t be leaving. At least not yet. He should be dreading the fact that they would be spending more time together as they searched for the source of the arsenic. But he was looking forward to being with her. She was like the sunshine after a long spell of rain. If he was honest with himself, he needed the brightness.
Chapter Eight
Could her potions, however inadvertently, be the cause of the arsenic poisoning? Her stomach pulled suture tight. She could be making people ill, not helping them as she’d vowed. Mrs. Campbell would be so disappointed. Yet, there was little she could do other than find the source and make sure no more people suffered. She would make this right, no matter what it took.
The sun sat directly overhead, beating down on the valley with thick beams of heat. Only a handful of people had ventured outside. A pair of riders and a mule-drawn wagon laden with burlap bags navigated the deserted roadway. On the other side of the street, old man Turner napped in a chair outside the feed store. Most likely folks were inside, enjoying the shade and their midday meal. It was the perfect time to carry out their investigation.
Dr. Locke walked with quiet determination, eyes forward, back straight, and legs churning. He was like a hound on a scent. She had to extend her stride just to keep up.
His medical bag swung in his hand as he moved, the clink of glass ringing softly from within. When she emerged from the storage room, he had immediately appropriated the sterilized bottles, announcing that he would conduct the collection of the specimens. Was he concerned that she might try to perform a slight of hand to absolve her guilt? As much as his distrust rankled, she couldn’t fault him. Were their situations reversed, she would have done the same.
The woodsy aroma of tobacco smoke issued from the open doorway of Cavendish’s mercantile. Memories surfaced of Tennessee and Uncle Spivey sitting on his porch, surrounded by a billowing white cloud. The man had few teeth and less hair, but he loved his pipe. He was rarely seen without it. Said there were few pleasures left to him after ninety years, and he was a’ going to enjoy all of ’em.
Speaking of pleasures…Mrs. Stone’s millenary loomed ahead. On the other side of the large display window, the shop owner bent over, rearranging the hats and bonnets set out to entice customers to venture inside. Moira’s heart sank. The green felt decorated with white tulle was missing. Had someone purchased it? She always seemed to be a day late and a dollar short.
“Is something wrong, Miss Devlin? You groaned.”
Dingles. She would have to work harder to keep her emotions in hand. She shook her head. “Nothing is wrong.”
“You’re certain? You appear to be distraught over something in that display window. What is it?”
A hawk with a spyglass wouldn’t be as perceptive as he was. She shrugged. “Mrs. Stone had a hat sitting in the window. A green felt with white tulle. A pretty little gee-gaw that caught my eye. It’s no longer there. I just wondered if someone bought it.”
“If they did, I’m sure the shop owner would craft you another one.”
And she could purchase it with coins plucked from her money tree. She waved a dismissive hand. “I have no need for fancy trappings. My straw bonnet is more than adequate.”
He grunted. “You are a curiosity, Miss Devlin. In my experience, most women would bankrupt themselves or their husbands to own such gee-gaws.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not like other women.”
“No, my dear. You most definitely are not.”
Was that a compliment? With him, one never knew. They fell into silence as the false-fronted business district gave way to the t
wo-story saloons with their bat-wing doors and piano music emanating from within. Dr. Locke angled closer and rested a hand at the small of her back. His protection was unnecessary; she could take care of herself. But she wasn’t going to say anything. She didn’t want to upset the comfortable truce that had settled between them. Besides, she rather liked having his hand guiding her. It made her feel worthy of his protection…accepted.
A red-haired woman leaned over the upper balcony of the Starlight Saloon, her barely concealed breasts spilling over the top rail. “Good afternoon, Miss Devlin. What brings you and your gentleman friend out our way on this fine afternoon?”
She recognized the woman from an earlier visit to the office. The lady of the evening had purchased a bag of pennyroyal, a common remedy against unwanted pregnancies.
Moira smiled up at her. “Good afternoon, Miss Birdie. This is Dr. Locke. He has taken over Doc Thompson’s medical practice. I’m giving him a tour of the town. We’re on our way to visit the sawmill.” Not quite the truth, but it would have to suffice. The true reason for their mission might incite a panic.
The woman chortled and pressed a hand to a red-rouged cheek. “The new town doc? La, and handsome, too. I think I might just have to take you up on that offer to come by the office for a thorough medical examination.”
Since many diseases could be passed from person to person through intimate contact, she had suggested the ladies get routine examinations. Keeping the prostitutes disease-free ensured they and the menfolk they served stayed healthy.
“Please do. You and your ladies are welcome any time.”
Fingers pressed deeper into her back, urging her forward. She cut her companion a glance. The skin covering his jaw twitched and his lips were pulled taut as bowstrings. Definitely not an admirer of prostitutes.
Once they were past the saloon, she shrugged out of his heavy-handedness. “I can see by the set to your face that you disapprove of my association with such women.”
“You shouldn’t be speaking with them in public…much less inviting them into our office.”
