by Donna Dalton
She wanted to reach out and comfort him. But wasn’t sure how such a gesture would be received. She sipped her coffee instead. “That’s not unusual. I have known many women who experienced extreme sickness during their confinement.”
“As have I.” He poked harder at the logs. Sparks shot upward, spitting and darting like angry bees. “Yet everything I tried failed. Nothing seemed to help. She slipped deeper and deeper into despair.”
She had seen that before as well. Women so weakened by the battle, they simply gave up. One even went so far as to rid herself of the babe. Both mother and child had perished. Had that happened to Anson’s wife?
He rested the poker against the hearth, but remained leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. “My practice was starting to build, and I was busy with patients. As much as I wanted to stay by her side, I couldn’t. So, I hired a woman to sit with her. Unbeknownst to me, Alice had this woman purchase elixirs from a snake-oil salesman who claimed the tonic would cure any illness, even confinement sickness.”
“I’m guessing the tonic didn’t help.”
“It made things worse…much worse.”
So that was the reason for his distrust of her potions. He associated them with his wife’s demise.
His heavy sigh clawed the air. “I had no idea she was poisoning herself. She began slipping away, turning into nothing but skin and bones. I tried everything I knew to help her. Nothing worked. Perhaps if I had known about the tonic, I could have saved her…could have saved our child.”
A soft ache filled her chest. She had regrets as well. Many of them. “I’m so sorry for your loss. But you must know her death was not your fault. There was nothing you could do if she kept things from you.”
“I should have done more…should have put my practice on hold and cared for her myself. I failed her and my child.”
“You did not fail anyone. In the short time we have worked together, I feel I have come to know you. You would sacrifice your own wellbeing to help a person in need. I imagine that would be doubly true for someone you loved.”
“Love? I’m not so sure I’d call what I felt for her as love. I wanted to provide for Alice, give her and our child a good life. But she wasn’t in my every thought. I wasn’t struck with an overpowering obsession for her. She was just a part of my life, like a lamp or a chair. Perhaps that’s why I failed her.” His chin fell to his chest. “I just don’t know.”
She wanted to comfort him with a sympathetic embrace, but that would only invite trouble. She resorted to words. “There are all kinds of love in this world. I’m sure Alice knew you cared for her; just as I’m sure she cared for you.”
Thoughts of another woman sharing his love pinched. She reached for the pot. “More coffee?”
He shook his head. “No, thank you. I’ve had enough.”
Enough coffee, but not enough talk of his wife. He needed to purge himself of the poison that clearly still had him in its grip. She set her empty tin on the hearth. “Tell me how the two of you met.”
He rose from the chair and braced an arm across the mantle. His face buckled into frown lines. “It was at Mrs. Dalrymple’s evening gala. I didn’t want to attend…socials are not my cup of tea. I prefer the company of a good book and a fire raging in the fireplace.”
So did she. They really were peas of the same pod.
“I watched this lovely butterfly flitting around the ballroom, putting smiles on people’s faces and laughter in their hearts. I thought she would make a wonderful complement to my practice.”
“She sounds enchanting.”
“She was.” He wagged his head, a wry smile splitting through the wrinkles. “Did you put a potion in my coffee, Miss Devlin?”
Her heart stuttered. “Wh-what?”
“I’ve never opened up to anyone about my feelings for Alice. I must be under a spell.”
Was that a good thing or bad? He didn’t look upset. He looked…relieved. The hardness had left his face. Even his eyes had softened.
She smiled up at him. “I’m glad you feel comfortable talking with me. It always helps to get things off your chest. Unburden yourself from your demons.”
He reached out and cupped her arms, pulling her to her feet. “I feel more than comfortable. I care for you, Moira. Deeply.”
“Anson, I…”
“Say it again.”
“S-say what?”
“My name. I’ve never heard it cross your lips before. I quite like the sound.”
He didn’t give her a chance to reply. His lips fell to hers. A perfect mixture of firm and supple. His tongue teased her lips apart and dipped inside, hungrily searching for sustenance. She melted against him, ready to provide whatever nourishment he needed.
He moaned deep in his throat and lifted a hand to cup her breast. Warmth flowered inside her, and she gave a moan of her own. If this was heaven, she never wanted to leave.
He shifted and thrust against her. A very noticeable bulge pressed into her lower belly. Cold reality flooded her. She wanted to help him heal. But this was not the way it should be done.
She shrugged out of his arms and backed away, putting distance between her and temptation. “We can’t do this, Dr. Locke. It’s wrong.”
He heaved a sigh and dropped his hands to his side. “You’re right. We can’t. I apologize for putting you in such a compromising situation.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. You were caught up in an emotional moment. I understand.” So had she. Almost to the point of no return.
“It was wrong of me to push my attentions on you. I should have considered the ramifications.”
Ramifications. Like being forced to marry her? Or the possibility he might enjoy being with her and how that could compromise his heart?
****
Birds chirped. Squirrels chattered. Leaves rustled in the wind. Peaceful sounds. Yet a strained silence screeched between them. Anson rode ahead, leading Miss Ruby. His back was rigid as a tree trunk, his shoulders bunched. When the rain refused to let up, they had spent an awkward night in the cabin. She had slept on the cot, while he made a pallet by the fire. Morning had brought sunshine, but not a letup in the tension. He had retreated into his self-imposed dungeon and clearly intended on staying there. He would keep their relationship platonic, even if it killed him.
How could she view him as a mere friend and colleague after that kiss? Nothing she had ever experienced came close to the feelings he evoked. Heat and passion. Fire and yearning. She ached to have more, to be more to him. She couldn’t just sweep the incident under the rug as if it had never happened. It was permanently branded into her soul.
The woods thinned and opened onto Dancer’s Creek. The water level had risen with the overnight rains and flowed briskly over the submerged rocks. Anson found a shallow spot, and the horses crossed without mishap.
As they rode into town, the toll of church bells filled the air. It was Sunday. A day of worship. She hadn’t seen the inside of a church in years. Not because she didn’t believe in God…she did. But in her experience, most who attended church regularly and claimed to be Christians were far from it. If they believed half the words they spouted, the world would be a much better place.
Anson twisted in his saddle, looking at her for the first time in hours. “Let’s drop the horses off at Gunderson’s livery. Then we can join the others at church. It will be the perfect place to reveal our discovery.”
Her belly attempted a dismount. “Is that a good idea? What if they don’t believe us?”
“Why wouldn’t they believe us?”
Oh, maybe because people rarely believed her. She had to earn their trust before they put their lives in her hands. And she hadn’t quite reached that point. Perhaps they would react differently to a certified doctor, to a man.
She shrugged. “The people in this town are a skeptical lot. They don’t trust easily. When faced with danger, they shoot first and ask questions later. We will have to tread carefully.”
>
“Everything will be just fine. You’ll see.”
She could only hope it would. They left the horses and Miss Ruby with Gunderson’s stable boy and walked the short distance to Trinity Presbyterian Church. While not the only church in Mineral, it was the most attended. Once they disclosed their findings, word would spread quickly throughout the town.
White-washed clapboard walls gleamed in the sunlight. The large double doors had been thrown open in invitation. Her skin prickled, and she rubbed at the scar at back of her neck. She knew first-hand how very unwelcoming church-goers could be.
She tugged in a fortifying slug of air and climbed the stairs. Footfalls trailed behind her and urged her forward. She stepped into the church. Conversation droned in the nave, low and threatening, like the buzz in a busy hive. She kept her head bowed, eyes averted. An empty pew appeared, and she slid onto the polished wood bench, quick and quiet as a mouse.
Anson settled beside her, his thigh pressing against hers, strong and comforting. Her agitation eased. Some, but not entirely. Just enough that she wouldn’t squirm like a worm on a hot rock.
The congregation rose and began singing Rock of Ages. Granny Tate’s favorite hymn. She stood and sang along, the familiar words further easing her tension. Everything would turn out just fine. All she had to do was believe.
As the last notes of the hymn faded, Reverend Turnage moved onto the raised dais at the front of the church. He looked out over the congregation, his sallow face pleated with a smile as genuine as iron pyrite. Moira hid behind the bulky shoulders of the man seated in front of her. If the good reverend caught sight of her, it might doom their cause.
“Welcome, everyone. Welcome. We gather today on this glorious Sabbath; the body of Christ assembling like Ezekiel’s dry bones coming together in the resurrecting power of God’s Holy Spirit.” He lifted his hands. “I ask you to greet one another in love, as family. For even if we haven’t met, in Christ we are brothers and sisters, children of God.”
Moira choked down a grunt. If only he practiced what he preached. A low hum boiled around her as the congregation turned to one another to shake hands and offer greetings. The woman seated next to her held out her hand. Moira pasted on a smile. When in Rome…
She shook the woman’s hand, repeating the salutation of “peace be with you.”
The hum subsided, and Reverent Turnage motioned to the gathering. “Are there any announcements? Family news?”
Anson set his hat on the pew and pushed to his feet. “There is, Reverend. I have something of grave importance I wish to announce.”
“Please. Dr. Locke, is it?” At Anson’s nod the reverend waved him forward. “Come up to the dais, so everyone can hear you.”
Anson eased into the aisle and strode to the front of the church. He stepped onto the platform and turned. Sunlight dove through the stained-glass windows and painted his hair and face with colorful slashes. He looked like an angel. A loving, trustful seraph. And was just as unattainable as one.
“As you may have heard,” he said. “Some among you have been struck with an unusual and quiet persistent stomach ailment.”
Someone coughed. Others nodded, including Claude Gunderson who sat a few pews in front of her. Most looked on with curious expressions.
“The healer Miss Devlin and I have been working tirelessly to uncover the cause of this ailment. After much research and collecting of samples, we have discovered the source. It’s coming from a creek located near the summit of the Shoehorn.”
Indrawn breaths and disturbed mumblings carved the air. Expressions blanched. Reverend Turnage’s bushy brow knitted together in one formidable line. His piercing gaze flew over the crowd. Moira slouched more, hoping the giant in front of her shielded her from his view. Why did Anson have to mention her? He was more than welcome to claim the glory for himself.
“Is it cholera?” someone called out.
“No. No. Please, do not panic,” Anson said, his tone calm and steady, the Rock of Gibraltar. “I assure you, it’s not cholera. Our investigation revealed that the patients complaining of these stomach ailments had consumed Henry Jukes’ mountain brewed whiskey.”
Sniggers and tsks-tsks greeted this announcement. Moira risked a peep around her barricade. Reverend Turnage had thankfully given up his search. His beady gaze riveted on Anson. Was he calling on God to rain fire and brimstone on the good doctor for associating with a witch?
Anson lowered hands he’d apparently raised to garner calmness. “Miss Devlin and I took a trip up to Henry’s place to further explore this connection. We found Mr. Jukes, but unfortunately, he had perished days before our arrival. Tests of his moonshine and of the water from a nearby creek exposed a deadly secret. Both were contaminated with arsenic.”
“Arsenic, you say?” Claude Gunderson asked.
“Yes, we believe a vein recently opened up tainted the creek he used to brew his moonshine.”
The lady beside her gasped and clasped a hand to her chest. “What about the town? Has it tainted our drinking water as well?”
Claude twisted around to face the anxious woman. “Not to worry, Mrs. Smithe. The creek that runs by Henry’s place empties into Dancer’s Creek a few miles below town. Our drinking water should be just fine.”
The banker, Mr. Hamilton rose to his feet. “Do you have any idea what could have opened up that vein, Dr. Locke?”
“Anything that moves the earth,” Anson supplied. “Mudslides, earthquakes…mining blasts.”
“Was it that earthquake? It shook everything rather fiercely.”
Claude wagged his head. “Couldn’t have been. I bought my whiskey from Henry weeks before that quake hit. And there haven’t been any mudslides in months. It must be the Wentworth’s mine.”
Shuffling and grunts filled the air. A second later, Mrs. Wentworth shot into the aisle, hands waving as if shooing away a swarm of bees. “That is not true. Our mine is on the other side of the mountain. It could not be the cause of the tainting.”
“Then what else could it be?” Gunderson fired back.
Mrs. Wentworth stalked to the pew where Moira sat and stopped. Pale eyes flamed with Satan’s bonfire. A bony finger took aim. “You should be looking at that one for the cause. Miss Devlin has the most to gain from polluting the water.”
Dozens of gazes shifted in her direction. All warmth left her body. She’d been discovered.
Anson vaulted from the dais and rushed down the aisle. “Why would you make such an accusation, Edeline? Moira would never do such a thing.”
“Of course, she would. By discovering the source of the poisoning, she makes herself look good in the eyes of the townsfolk.” Mrs. Wentworth turned her pointed gaze on Anson. “And in your eyes. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. All cow-eyed. She wants you for herself.”
Heated blood rushed to her head. Moira bolted upright. “You have no right to say such things.”
“Do you deny your attraction to him? A prominent doctor would be quite the catch for a jezebel like you.”
“That’s enough,” Anson bellowed. “Moira is not responsible for the tainting.”
Mrs. Wentworth puffed up like a bothered hen. “And just how do you know this?”
“Because I know Moira. She is good and kind and only has the best interests of this town at heart.”
“Bah. You’re just bewitched by her.”
“If being in awe of her dedication and selflessness is being bewitched, then I am. And so will the folks of this town once they get to know her. Miss Devlin will continue to serve this community as herbalist and my assistant. On a permanent basis.” He stood there, a mountain, daring anyone to naysay him.
Mrs. Wentworth’s face turned a mottled shade of red. If she were a train engine, she’d be spouting steam. “You’ll regret your choice, Anson Locke. Mark my words.”
Chapter Thirteen
Anson accepted her. He wanted her to remain and work beside him at the medical practice…permanently. A drunk with t
he keys to the saloon couldn’t be happier. Yet there was more to her than just being able to mix herbal potions. A lot more. Learning about her abnormal ability could cause him to rethink his decision. To renounce her. It would mean an end to their partnership. And if she was honest with herself, it would ruin any hope of discovering if anything special could develop between them.
He was at the very least intrigued by her. That kiss at Henry Jukes’ cabin had been full of passion and want. But he still mourned the death of his wife. She didn’t want to push a relationship on him. Besides, she still had plenty of misgivings about getting involved with a man. There was too much danger in such closeness. For now, she would continue as his colleague, making her potions and only using her special gift when necessary, covertly, just as Mrs. Campbell had instructed. It was the best course of action…for everyone.
Wagons and carts congested the roadway. People scurried along the boardwalk. Like her, they’d risen early to conduct their errands. Mondays were always busy after a day of respecting the Lord. Shop owners had thrown their doors open to welcome the throng and the moderate weather. The temperature had climbed since the rainstorm and didn’t appear to be abating.
Standing outside his mercantile and holding a long-handled broom, Mr. Cavendish tipped his hat. “Good morning, Miss Devlin. A wonderful day to be out and about.”
She stopped and nodded. “And a good morning to you, Mr. Cavendish. It’s hard to believe winter is right around the corner.”
“For certain. We should enjoy this mild weather while we can. My Mary says she saw a wooly caterpillar near the woodpile. It’s going to be an early winter, I’m afraid.”
“Let’s hope not too early. Most folks, myself included, are just starting to stock their pantries.”
“Indeed, they are. I wanted to thank you for convincing me to try that hay fever remedy. It worked wonders. I shall certainly come to see you when I need more.”
“I’m glad it worked for you. Come by any time.”
A woman approached, basket in hand. Mr. Cavendish backed into the doorway. “Please excuse me, Miss Devlin. I must cut short our conversation. Mrs. Brown has arrived to collect her order. You have a nice day.”
