by Donna Dalton
The clatter of wagon wheels drifted through the open window and rattled into her thoughts. She should rise and get dressed. There were chores to do and possibly patients to see. With Mrs. Lidle away helping her convalescing sister, this was no time to be a slug-a-bed.
She tossed aside the bedcovers and rolled off the mattress. After a quick cleanse with a wet cloth, she dressed and went downstairs. A pot on the stove spewed the heady scent of coffee from its spout. Such a thoughtful man. Was it any wonder he had captured her heart?
A soft noise buzzed in her ears, then came a voice, “Moira, we need you. Come to Seaton House. Quick as you can.”
It was Sally Hunt. The girl had the gift of sending mental messages over long distances. For Sally to contact her in this way meant something was wrong at the orphanage. Very wrong.
She penned a note to Anson of her whereabouts and left for the stables. Claude Gunderson had Dolly saddled and ready within minutes. She mounted and once outside of town, urged the mare into a steady lope. Nothing too strenuous. Just enough to get her to Seaton House as swiftly as possible without endangering the horse’s health.
Dolly’s hooves pounded the dirt-packed roadway in a soothing rhythm. Moira relaxed in the saddle and let go of the tension coiled inside her. The stress wouldn’t do her or whoever needed her help any good. Mrs. Campbell would expect her to have a clear head and steady hands. Nothing less was acceptable.
The road undulated over hilly terrain where short expanses of thick copses were sandwiched between broad patches of cleared farm land. Years ago, Mrs. Campbell had established Seaton House some twelve miles outside of Mineral. She wanted the orphanage to be as far from prying eyes as possible, but still have the outside world accessible. Unfortunately, with the coming of the railway, the small mining town had expanded into the outlying countryside. Folks were taking advantage of the Homestead Act and securing property in the unassigned lands in the center of the Indian Territories. It wouldn’t be long before the orphanage had farmers instead of forests for neighbors.
The road plunged into a dense thicket, dousing the sunlight. Scrub oaks and underbrush lined either side of the roadway. The birds and squirrels were oddly silent and still. A shudder rattled through her. Was this a sign of bad tidings ahead? She prayed not.
Sunlight basted them as Dolly loped out of the thicket and into the open. The orphanage loomed ahead. As if aware of her impending arrival, Mr. Hoggard stood in the driveway, watching her approach.
She reined up in front of him. Worry shaded his normally sunny expression and clouded his bright eyes. He assisted her off the horse and motioned to the house. “Inside, Miss Moira. Quickly.”
“What is it, Joseph?”
“It’s Mrs. Clement. She collapsed this morning, and we have been unable to revive her.”
No. Not the jovial housekeeper who was more family than staff. Heart thudding, Moira rushed inside. Meredith called out to her from the top of the stairs. “Up here, Moira. Quickly.”
She bounded up the stairs and trailed Meredith into a bedroom. Mrs. Clement lay on the bed, eyes closed, her face white as the bedsheets.
“What happened?”
“We don’t know. Mr. Hoggard found her collapsed on the kitchen floor. Maddie tried a reviving potion, but it didn’t help. We can’t rouse her no matter what we do.”
Maddie was just as competent with potion making as she was. If the younger girl’s remedy didn’t work, then the housekeeper was indeed in critical condition.
Moira shucked off her cloak and riding gloves. “I will probe her and see what is going on inside.”
She crossed to the bed and pulled back the covers. The housekeeper’s chest rose and fell in shallow draws. Her nightgown was damp with sweat. Her body was fighting off something malevolent.
Moira rubbed her hands together. Nothing happened. She rubbed harder. Her hands remained cool and slightly clammy.
“What’s wrong, Moira?” asked Meredith
“I don’t know. My healing power won’t come.”
“Try harder. Concentrate.”
She focused on drawing the healing power from her core. Nothing happened. Not even a twitch. Panic fisted her chest. “I can’t bring it forth. What is going on with me?”
“Have you injured yourself recently? You know healing yourself can drain your powers.”
Years ago in Willoughby, after healing the burns caused by the collapsing shack roof, she’d slept for two days. Nothing that severe had happened to her since.
“I haven’t done anything recently that would require the use of my…” An image blasted into her head of tangled, blood-smeared sheets. Embarrassing heat flamed in her face. “Oh dear. I think I know what may have caused this.”
“What.”
“Not what. Who.”
Meredith cocked her head to the side and gave her a pointed look. “You and Dr. Locke? When?”
“Last night.” She fretted with the bedsheet. “Will my power return?”
“Only time will tell.”
Time Mrs. Clement might not have. “I’ll send for Anson. He may know what to do.”
****
Guardian Angels came in many different forms. Lucky for him, his had a soft body and pliant lips that made his blood sing Hallelujah. Even now, he was having trouble focusing on his patient. Moira’s curves called to him like a siren to a drowning sailor.
Last night had been perfect. She had been perfect. His body still hummed with contentment. The only gloom shading his sun…her reluctance to immediately accept his proposal. She needed time to decide if marrying him would impact her calling as a healer. He would never take that away from her. All he wanted was her happiness. But she had to come to that realization on her own. He would give her whatever time she needed to work through her reservations. She was well worth the wait.
She stood across the bed from him, adjusting the bedsheet covering the patient. A frown stitched her brow. He wanted to pull her into his arms and assure her everything would be all right. That her friend would recover. That he could make her happy. But he couldn’t do that. Not with a room full of spectators. Later, perhaps, in the privacy of her bedroom.
He pressed the stethoscope bell onto the housekeeper’s chest and leaned over to listen through the earpiece at the other end. Her heartbeat was slowing, becoming steadier and stronger. Her breaths were deepening, and her color was pinking up. Mrs. Clement would recover. His assessment of her condition had been correct.
He had just arrived at the livery in Mineral when one of the orphans from Seaton House had ridden up. Moira needed him at the orphanage. The housekeeper had collapsed and couldn’t be revived. No one knew what was wrong with her. Even Moira was baffled.
A swift ride across the countryside had brought him to a massive two-story farmhouse sitting like a castle in the middle of the woods. He’d been rushed up the stairs and into a bedroom. After a brief assessment of the housekeeper’s condition, he’d queried the small gathering of onlookers.
Mrs. Clement had been off her feed for several days and had exerted herself quite strenuously that morning chasing a recalcitrant chicken. He knew almost immediately what ailed her. She’d succumbed to Diabetes Mellitus. He’d treated several patients with the ailment in Philadelphia. The only question…did her blood have high or low glucose from the malady. One was easily managed, the other required a more extensive treatment that more often than not failed.
He had Moira make a simple syrup of sugar dissolved in boiling water. Once the concoction cooled, the two of them managed to get the housekeeper to drink the sugary liquid. That had been ten minutes ago. Thankfully, her rapid improvement pointed to low blood glucose as the culprit. Mrs. Clement would be waking soon and with a restrictive diet, should fully recover from her ordeal.
Translucent eyelids fluttered open. Milky eyes settled on him. “Who…? What…? Why am I abed? ’Tis midday by the light in that window.”
Moira patted the woman’s shoulder. “This is Dr. L
ocke, Mrs. Clement. You collapsed this morning in the kitchen and couldn’t be revived. We had to send for someone with more medical expertise.”
Anson nodded. “Not eating properly caused the sugar levels in your blood to drop. That combined with strenuous activity sent you into an unconscious state.”
Lines shoveled into plump cheeks. A confused gaze latched onto Moira. “Why didna you cure me, lass?”
Moira’s mouth sagged open. Her eyes went wide as cheese wheels. She seemed more afraid of the answer than regretful. Odd. When talking of her life at Seaton House, she had spoken highly the housekeeper, that the woman was like family. Why the fear?
A hand closed around his upper arm. He turned to find Mrs. Booth standing beside him.
“Why don’t you come downstairs, Dr. Locke. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove and a plate of scones left over from breakfast. I’m sure you could use some sustenance after being out of the office all morning. Moira can look after Mrs. Clement.”
A smile reached into violet tinted eyes. If she had any ulterior motives, like getting him out of the bedroom and away from Moira, it didn’t show in her face. Besides, he was famished.
“Scones and a cup of coffee sound wonderful.” He stowed his stethoscope into the medical bag and peered across the bed. “Call out if you need me, Miss Devlin. Though I don’t think you will. Mrs. Clement appears to be recovering quite nicely.”
The panic on her face was gone, replaced by a tender smile and glowing eyes. “Thank you, Dr. Locke. We are grateful for your quick thinking and expert advice. You saved our Ida. She’s special to us and now, so are you.”
He smiled at the underlying inference. He was special to her. Perhaps he wouldn’t have a long wait for her answer after all.
He followed Mrs. Booth out the door and down the stairs. Less rushed than when he arrived, he took his time and appraised the place where Moira had found happiness and acceptance. The floorboards and furniture gleamed from a fresh polishing. Flowery wallpaper decorated the walls. The glass window panes sparkled and shined. The orphanage was as clean and well-kempt as any surgical office.
A door swung open and a flood of children poured into the foyer, all talking at once. Short ones, tall ones. Ones wearing dresses. Others in short pants. Worry stained their little faces and peppered their voices.
Mrs. Booth stopped, hands cupping two small heads. “Quiet now, children.”
The din subsided, and Mrs. Booth smiled down at the menagerie. “There’s no need to fret. Mrs. Clement is going to be just fine. She’s awake and talking and with a little rest, should be up and about in a day or so.”
“What happened to her?” asked a little girl with pink ribbons twined in her red hair. “She didn’t look so good when Mr. Booth and Mr. Hoggard carried her up the stairs.”
Mrs. Booth patted a slender shoulder. “She merely overworked herself is all. She’s not as spry and young as she used to be. We’ll all have to pitch in and help, so it doesn’t happen again.”
“I can have a talk with that ornery hen,” a boy with cottony white hair suggested. “Make sure she stays in the yard and doesn’t try to run off again.”
Anson stuffed down a chuckle. Children invented the oddest tales. He wanted at least a handful of the little creatures. Maybe more. There was no question that Moira would make a wonderful mother. There was no one more loving.
A tug on his coattail drew his attention. He glanced down and met eyes the color of summer violets. Golden ringlets framed the girl’s pretty face. No doubt this was the daughter of Mrs. Booth.
“I saw you with Miss Moira. Are you her friend?”
More than a friend, he hoped. He squatted to her level. “Miss Moira and I have been working together in town, helping folks who need medical care. I am Dr. Locke. Who might you be, young lady?”
“My name is Sophia. I’m four.” A pudgy finger pointed at Mrs. Booth. “That’s my momma. She looks after the orphanage. My daddy works at the reservation. He’s the agent for the Indians. He used to be a trooper in the army, but he wanted to be with my momma. So, he re-assigned himself.”
“Is that so?”
“Uh-huh. And then they had me.”
Mrs. Booth sidled closer, her expression exasperated but tender. “That’s enough, Sophia. Dr. Locke doesn’t need to hear your life’s story. Go on back to the schoolroom with the others.”
“Yes, Mama.” Tiny fingers waggled. “Bye, Dr. Locke. It was nice meeting you.”
As the darling Sophia and the other children filed back through the doorway, Mrs. Booth wagged her head. “I’m sorry. Sophia would talk the ear off an elephant if given a chance. She’s quite the social lioness.”
“No need to apologize. She’s enchanting.”
“You sound like my husband. Sophia has him wrapped around her finger.”
“Not a bad place to be, I’d say.”
She smiled and motioned at a short hallway just ahead. “The dining room is this way. At the end of the hall.”
As he trailed behind her, she glanced over her shoulder. “I take it you enjoy children then.”
A statement, not a question. “I adore them. I want a whole flock one day. Sons to teach to ride and fish, and daughters to pamper.”
“Moira loves children, too. She has a way with them. Always has.”
“Moira is very special.” Very special indeed.
Mrs. Booth pushed open a door that led into a room with a large dining table in the middle. “We wouldn’t take it kindly if she was mistreated in any way.”
Was that a veiled warning? If so, it wasn’t necessary. He wouldn’t harm a hair on Moira’s head. “You have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Booth. I only have Moira’s best interests at heart.”
“She tells me the two of you have become…close. Do you love her?”
Direct and to the point. Mr. Booth must have his hands full dealing with such strong women. “I love her with all my heart. And before you ask, yes, I intend to marry her. I proposed last night as a matter of fact. Moira has requested time to consider her answer, which I am gladly giving her.”
“I’m happy to hear it. Moira has had a difficult life, filled with suffering and loss. Trusting others doesn’t come easy to her.”
“I believe that can be said for many people.”
“Indeed. But Moira has secrets hidden deep inside her…secrets that will be hard to expose and harder to accept All I ask is that you keep an open mind. Listen to what she has to say and think well before you answer. If you love her as much as you claim, you will accept her for who she is, not who you want her to be.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sunshine poured through the window, basting the small kitchen in a golden glow. The pot belly stove radiated with warmth and the soothing aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Moira sank onto the chair and lifted a steaming mug to her lips. It was good to be back. While she loved Seaton House, the medical office had become her new home. It was where she had ventured back into the world. Where she had regained her confidence. Where she had met and fallen in love with Anson Locke.
She couldn’t deny it. She loved him with every fiber of her being. She wanted a life with him. Wanted to be his wife. She just had to find the courage to go after what she desired and not let anything stand in her way…not even her own misgivings.
While at the orphanage, she had sought counsel from Meredith and Mrs. Campbell. Both had found love and acceptance from the men they loved. If they could find a way to live such a life, there was no reason she couldn’t. The problem was in the how.
The two women offered sage advice about a future with Anson. If she truly loved him and wanted a life with him, then she should be open and honest. Secrets were death to relationships. She needed to trust him with the knowledge of her gift. If he couldn’t accept her for who she was and what she could do, then he wasn’t the right man.
She anchored her grip on the cup handle. No more dilly-dallying. Anson was a good man. He deserved to know the trut
h. Tonight, she would tell him about her past, about her gift. She would bare all and let the cards fall where they may. No amount of worrying or wishful thinking would influence the outcome. He would either accept her, or he wouldn’t. It was that black and white.
She took a sip of coffee and winced. Too strong. More grounds went into the pot than necessary. She’d best stop her woolgathering else she risked more than blistered taste buds.
The ding of the doorbell announced the arrival of a visitor. She set down her mug and rose. It was time to stow her gloomy thoughts and get on with the day. She could worry about Anson later.
In the hallway, she met a man holding a dusty, weather-beaten hat in front of him. His faded trousers and shirt were gray with dust. Even beneath the grime, he wasn’t anyone she recognized.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
His leathery face cratered, and he craned his neck to peer around her. “Is the doctor in?”
Anson had left earlier to call on Zeke Brown, a cattle farmer who lived thirty miles outside of town. The farmer had suffered a kick to his leg while tending a sick cow. It would be several hours before Anson returned.
“Dr. Locke is out at the moment. Is there anything I can do to help?”
The man fidgeted with his hat brim. “I was sent to collect the doctor. There’s been a cave-in up at the Shoehorn mine. Some of the miners are trapped. Others escaped but need medical attention.”
That meant patients who couldn’t wait hours for a doctor. “I am trained in providing basic medical care. I can go with you if you’d like. I’ll do what I can for the injured men until Dr. Locke can get there.”
“That would be perfect. Any help you can give my mates would be much appreciated.”
Well, that had been easy. No hemming or hawing. Maybe folks were finally accepting her.
She whirled for the exam room doorway. “Give me a moment to grab my bag and leave a note for Doctor Locke. Then, I’ll be right with you.”
