“Paisley, your father . . . he’s not acting right.”
She was gone in a flash, Cade quick on her heels.
“Does he need a doctor?” Gideon asked Andrew, who still kept to the far end of the room.
“I don’t think so.” Andrew’s worry hadn’t eased.
Gideon crossed to the doorway, purposefully making the short trip slowly so Andrew had ample time to prepare himself for his approach.
“What happened with Mr. Bell?” Gideon kept his voice low.
“He couldn’t remember the rules,” Andrew said, shoving his hands in his jacket pocket.
He and Mr. Bell played checkers every day. They had formed an unexpected but mutually beneficial friendship. Andrew’s mind had suffered in the war; Barney Bell’s was succumbing to dementia. They understood each other in ways no one else did, or likely could.
Gideon stepped from the parlor into the entryway. Andrew followed, eyes downcast, his worried expression filled with a lingering loneliness.
“I had to tell him my name four times today,” Andrew said. “He kept forgetting that he knew it.”
Gideon motioned for Andrew to sit on the lower steps of the staircase, then sat next to him. “The last few times I’ve had him in for an examination, he hasn’t remembered that we’ve met before. It will keep happening, I’m afraid.”
Andrew picked at the threadbare knees of his trousers. “When I left, he was sitting on the cot in one of the cells, crying about how he couldn’t find his dog. But he hasn’t got one.”
Gideon folded his hands in front of him, his elbows resting on his legs. “I think he did have a dog once, but he’s forgotten that he doesn’t any longer.”
“Do you—Do you think it scares him when he can’t remember things?”
Gideon gave it a moment’s thought. “It might a little. In time, he won’t realize he’s forgetting, and that will take the fearful part away.”
“When my mind starts hiccupping and I can’t get it to stop, it frightens me.” Andrew still hadn’t looked up. That was his way when he spoke of these things. “It’d be a fine thing not to be afraid of my own head.”
These were the moments when Gideon most wanted to put an arm around Andrew’s shoulders, or give him a reassuring pat on the back. But Andrew didn’t care to be touched. He didn’t like people being near enough for contact.
“Though your brain has moments when it becomes confused about what it’s meant to be doing, for the most part I’d say it gets along fine.” Gideon filled the words with sincerity. Andrew was worried for Mr. Bell not only because the man was his friend but also because he saw so much of himself in his friend’s struggles. “As Rupert Fletcher would say, you’re no blockhead.”
“Feels like it, though. I have a head that hardly does me any good.”
Gideon thought for a moment. “Your pa has a knee that aches him from time to time, but would you say his entire leg is worthless?”
“No,” Andrew answered.
“Having a bit of your brain that gives you trouble now and again doesn’t make your entire head worthless, either.” Gideon held his gaze. Andrew had made progress over the past months; Gideon wasn’t about to let all of that go to waste because of self-doubt and worry. “Even Mr. Bell, whose mind grows more ill all the time, is not worthless because of it. He never will be. When he reaches the point that he doesn’t remember any of us, or this town, or how to play checkers, he will still be important.”
“I’ll miss him, though,” Andrew said quietly. “He is a good man. I like him.”
“There are a great many people in this town who say the same about you, Andrew. That you are a good man, and that we like you.”
His eyes filled with a painful combination of hope and doubt. “I have tried to be a good deputy. I don’t want anyone thinking Cade’s a fool for hiring me on.”
“That decision was one of the best he’s ever made. You’ve always been one to help people, you’re good at your job, and everyone who knows you can’t help but like you.”
Andrew shrugged, a hint of a smile on his face. “You ain’t half bad, yourself, Doc.”
Gideon chuckled. “Off with you, Andrew, before I start puffing up with self-importance.”
Andrew rose and slipped out the front door, no doubt headed back to the jailhouse, but Miriam remained by the parlor entrance, watching Gideon with an unreadable expression on her face.
Gideon stayed on his step. “What was it you needed to ask me when you first came into the parlor? You were looking for something, I think.”
She didn’t take up the topic. “Did you mean what you said to Andrew? About his brain having some parts that didn’t work right, but that overall it was still valuable?”
Of all the things she might have asked, that was not one he would have guessed. “The brain is like most any other part of the body, really. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be good.”
If anything, her gaze grew more intense. “Then you don’t intend to ply him with every cure or treatment you can imagine in an attempt to make his mind ‘perfect’?”
“I know the limits of medical science, Miriam. Some things cannot be fixed.” He rubbed at his face, suddenly quite tired. “I address what I can. Beyond that, I try to help people live happy lives.”
“What about Mr. Bell?” She crossed to the stairs and leaned against the banister. “From what Andrew said, Mr. Bell’s mind seems far more deteriorated and unfixable than does his.”
Gideon opted for honesty. “His mind is utterly unfixable. As frustrating as that is, I have to be willing to acknowledge when there is nothing more I can do.”
Her attention remained fixed on him. Something about this topic was particularly important to her. But what?
“And you don’t mean to take more aggressive action?” she pressed. “Do something more drastic?”
His hackles rose. “Such as cutting into his brain? Digging around a bit?”
Miriam held her hands up in a show of innocence. “I didn’t ask in order to accuse you, but to further understand your character and your doctoring philosophy.”
“And what have you learned of my character and philosophy?” He was a little nervous to hear her answer. It had been a long time since anyone with a medical background had evaluated him.
She leaned on the banister once more. Long tendrils of curly red hair hung over her shoulder, drawing his eye. He’d always had something of a weakness for red hair. Red hair and blue eyes, and Miriam had both.
“You care about your patients,” she said, “and you see them as people rather than merely illnesses or injuries. That speaks well to your character.”
She was impressed that he treated his patients like people? What kind of doctors had she worked for that something so basic surprised her? “Anything else?”
“You are fond of handwashing—alarmingly so.” A small hint of humor touched her expression.
He wished her quiet humor would make an appearance more often. Perhaps in time she’d be comfortable enough for that.
Hawk stepped out of the parlor and into the entryway. “Miss Bricks?”
She turned toward him immediately.
“I need to head back to the jailhouse,” Hawk said. “But I wanted to tell you again what a pleasure it was to meet you.”
“And you.” Her response sounded perfectly sincere.
Hawk held his hat in his hands. The usually bold US marshal looked almost uncharacteristically meek. “I’d be honored if you’d allow me to walk you home after you finish up for the evening.”
“Home is actually the hotel.” She sounded nearly ashamed of the fact, though she’d refused the offer to live in Cade and Paisley’s home. While Gideon didn’t believe she was being deceptive like Paisley did, he found she was something of a mystery.
“I’d be honored to walk you there,�
�� Hawk repeated. “If you’ll permit it, of course.”
She gave a tiny, silent nod.
“Until this evening, then.” Hawk dipped his head, then popped his wide-brimmed hat atop it.
Miriam’s eyes met Gideon’s, and immediate embarrassment touched every feature of her face. She slipped quickly away in the direction of the kitchen.
A mystery, indeed.
Chapter 8
Mrs. Endecott stepped inside the parlor a little ahead of suppertime the next evening. Gideon struggled to summon a smile for her. He liked the preacher’s wife, but he’d passed a difficult twenty-four hours and was too exhausted to summon excitement at seeing another patient. Rupert’s surgery had been a gruesome and delicate undertaking. The concentration it required had drained him. The inevitable bouts of self-doubt that had followed meant he hadn’t slept well.
He wanted nothing more than to simply walk up to his bedchamber, drop on his bed, and sleep for days on end. But he was all this town had, and they needed him.
“Good evening,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve done something to my wrist,” she said. “It’s swollen and paining me.”
Simple enough. “Come have a seat. I’ll take a look at it.”
She watched him with concern as they crossed the room. “I’ve heard that woman is here.”
Gideon glanced around, half expecting to find a woman lurking in the corners.
“The one who refused to marry you,” Mrs. Endecott whispered.
Ah. “She is working as a nurse.” He patted the examination table. “We need a nurse in this town.” How often had he told people that the past three days?
Mrs. Endecott used the step stool to climb up. “But how miserable for you to have to see her day after day.”
He was, apparently, destined to be a martyr in the eyes of the town. How depressing. “She is proving herself to be a competent nurse,” he said.
Mrs. Endecott nodded. “So, you are willing to endure it for our sakes?”
“Something like that.”
With a sigh, she said, “You poor man.”
“And your poor wrist.” He could see it now, decidedly swollen and bruised. “What happened?”
“I am not entirely certain.”
That seemed unlikely, considering how bad it looked. “Have you taken a spill lately or twisted your hand lifting something heavy?”
“Not that I can recall.” Her expression turned contemplative. “Actually, I slipped on the stairs the other day, though I caught myself on the railing.”
“With this hand?” Gideon motioned to the swollen one.
“I think so.”
He nodded.
“Would you like me to write that down, Doctor?” Miriam’s sudden question caught him entirely off-guard.
Mrs. Endecott even startled a little.
Miriam stood nearby, too close to not have overheard their conversation if she’d been standing there long enough.
“How long have you been in the room?” he asked.
Her eyes darted to Mrs. Endecott, and then dropped to her own hands, clasped in front of her. “A little while,” she said quietly. “I heard someone come in and thought you might have a patient. I wished to be of help.”
“Dr. MacNamara has been looking after us for years without your help,” Mrs. Endecott said. Hers was not a criticism of Miriam so much as a defense of Gideon, though it amounted to the same thing.
“I haven’t the least doubt in his abilities.” Miriam looked to him. “Would you like me to make notes about this visit?”
He’d had her do precisely that with almost every patient who’d come by the past three days. One look at Mrs. Endecott’s pursed brow told him that was likely not a good idea this time.
“I will make notes myself afterward,” he said.
He was nearly certain he saw disappointment in her eyes, even a hint of hurt. But she tucked it away and simply nodded.
“I will see to supper, then.” She turned and walked from the room. Ever in control. Ever calm. Who was she beneath that veneer?
“She assists with your patients and cooks for you?” Mrs. Endecott watched Miriam’s exit with confusion. “If she is willing to do all of that, why would she dislike the idea of marrying you?”
“Perhaps because there is more to marriage than being a nurse and a cook.” Gideon carefully took hold of her injured hand, checking for breaks.
She winced. “Regardless, she could not hope to do better. You are quite remarkable.”
He offered her a smile. “I won’t argue with you on that score.”
“But then you certainly could do better—find someone who wants to marry you to begin with.”
“That would be a refreshing change.” He tied a knot in the corner of a triangle of cloth. “I want you to wrap your hand in a cool, wet cloth. The cold will help reduce the swelling. And while I don’t want you to entirely stop using it, you should let your wrist rest for a week or so.” He tied the two unknotted corners together, fashioning a sling, and slipped it over her head to hang around her neck. “Put your arm in so your hand is supported.”
She did as instructed.
“If your wrist does not feel better in a week, come back and see me.”
Mrs. Endecott briefly eyed the empty parlor door. Her voice lowered as she said, “I can come while she’s cooking, then she needn’t be involved.”
This was not going well. Though he, himself, was still not entirely comfortable with Miriam, he needed the town to be welcoming and accepting.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.
He walked Mrs. Endecott to the front door, waving to her as she left, then closed the door. He changed the sign from “Please Come Inside” to “Please Knock Loudly.” It wouldn’t stop patients from arriving, but it would allow him more time to smooth things over with Miriam. She was collected, yes, and hadn’t seemed upset, but Mrs. Endecott was only the most recent in a long string of townspeople coming by and expressing their disapproval of her.
It wasn’t Miriam’s fault the bureau had lied to her. It wasn’t her fault she’d disliked him so much on first sight that she’d run—literally—from the church. It wasn’t her fault the town would probably never forgive her for it. None of that was his fault, either, but he was a doctor. When something was wrong, he fixed it.
He entered the kitchen, unsure what he meant to say but hoping the words would come. Miriam sat at the worktable, sketching in her notebook.
He recognized the face she had drawn. “That’s Mrs. Wilhite.”
She looked up at him briefly. “I can’t get her smile right. It’s both happy and sad, but I can’t seem to portray that.”
He hadn’t noticed that before, but now that he thought on it, he knew Miriam was correct. “I wonder if she took my advice about the tatting.”
“I hope so.” Miriam continued drawing as she spoke. “I know my observation wasn’t welcome that first day, but I meant what I said about her not being overly sad. I don’t even think she is mostly sad.”
“I agree.” He sat beside her. “Unfortunately, the balance has tipped more toward sad of late. It breaks my heart to see it.”
“You care about your patients.” It was a statement, but with a touch of wonder.
“I’m a doctor.”
“Not all doctors care,” she said quietly.
First questions about his willingness to offer pain relief to patients in surgery, then questions about his philosophy on institutionalizing harmless people, now this observation. What kind of people had she worked for in the past that these were her feelings about doctors?
He set a hand on hers. “Do you want to talk about it? I’m a good listener.”
“I’m a good listener too,” she said. “But mostly because I’m a very poor . . . talker.�
�
It was oddly comforting to hold her hand, this woman he hardly knew. “You don’t seem inarticulate. Do you simply prefer not to talk?”
“I’ve generally found it best.” That was an unexpected answer. She didn’t offer any further insights.
“Have you drawn everyone in town?” he asked.
“I haven’t met everyone.”
She made no attempt to pull her hand from his. He was grateful for the connection. Despite people coming in and out of his house all day, he was lonely.
“I drew something you would appreciate,” she said.
“Did you?” Perhaps she’d drawn a portrait of him. Did he too have a smile that was contradictory? Some kind of oddity in his expression?
She slipped her hand free and flipped back a few pages. He tried to hide his disappointment at losing that simple touch. A man didn’t generally like looking pathetic.
Miriam found what she was looking for and held up the sketch for him to see.
He laughed out loud, and it felt wondrous. “You’ve drawn my washstand?”
His heart did a little flip at the hint of her smile he was afforded.
“You said it was the most important part of your practice. I thought that worth documenting.”
“It is a very good thing, then, that I didn’t say the outhouse was the most important part.”
She smiled at him, fully and genuinely. Laughter sparkled in her eyes. Hawk had the right of it: Miriam was beautiful.
Beyond that, she worked hard. She showed their patients kindness, despite not being shown it in return. She was forgiving and optimistic. Her conversation was enjoyable and intelligent.
Somehow, he’d accidentally picked a wife, sight unseen, with whom he could honestly get along, and whose company he suspected he could thoroughly enjoy. Unfortunately, he’d also picked one who didn’t actually want to marry him. Her rejection would likely sting less if he’d discovered they would have been ill-suited from the start.
“I’ll make supper,” he offered stiffly, stepping away while he collected himself. Had they actually married the day she’d arrived, feeling this tug toward her would be a welcome thing. But they hadn’t, and he wasn’t certain if forging a friendship would make things better or worse.
Healing Hearts (Proper Romance) Page 6
