Healing Hearts (Proper Romance)

by Sarah M. Eden

  Blackburn looked up at her. “Hello, Miriam.”

  Hello, Miriam?

  She took a step backward. Her breaths came shallow and quick. She didn’t say a word. Blackburn returned his attention to treating his patient.

  They knew each other, that was clear. Miriam was unhappy to see Blackburn. Blackburn seemed relatively unconcerned.

  She blinked a few times and turned woodenly toward Gideon. “What can—” A quick breath. “What can I do to help?” Her voice hardly rose above a strangled whisper.

  “Keep cooling the Staheli children. We might be able to keep them from reaching the critical point.” He unscrewed the lid of the fever powders and waved his father over. “Two glasses of water.”

  The room remained nearly silent as they attended to the children’s fevers, cooled limbs and heads. Gideon administered the silver nitrate when the time arrived. The Patterson children didn’t worsen. The Staheli children didn’t either.

  Reports from the other rooms were encouraging. Conditions were holding steady, though if one thing could be counted on with scarlet fever, it was that things could change quickly.

  “Blackburn, can you look after these children for a moment?”

  Blackburn nodded.

  Gideon rose. “Miriam, may I talk to you in the corridor?”

  He hadn’t expected her to hesitate. But she stayed where she was, eyes darting between Dr. Blackburn and the children. “I would rather stay with the children.”

  “Dr. Blackburn has agreed to look after them,” Gideon reminded her.

  Her chin tipped upward. Her gaze hardened. “Thus, I would rather stay with the children.”

  Blackburn looked at her, a patient sadness in his eyes. “Oh, Miriam. Do not try this tack again. When has it ever worked?”

  “I will not be intimidated by your falsehoods.”

  His expression didn’t change. “I have tried to help you make the best of your situation, but you keep making things worse for yourself. Heaping accusations upon me, growing paranoid, hiding behind lies.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t done any of those things.”

  Blackburn’s gaze darted to Gideon. “She hasn’t told you any lies?” he asked doubtfully.

  Gideon couldn’t honestly deny that she had.

  Blackburn nodded knowingly. “I’ve had to endure this almost daily for two years.”

  Two years? They had known each other that long?

  “You have endured?” Miriam tossed back. “No. I have—”

  “Please,” Blackburn interrupted, motioning at the children. “This is hardly the time or place for more of your accusations.”

  She stood rooted to the spot, watching Blackburn silently.

  Gideon needed to sort this out, but he also needed to let the children rest. “Please, Miriam. A moment in the corridor. Blackburn, keep an eye on the children.”

  “Of course,” Blackburn said, and returned to his efforts.

  Gideon stepped into the hallway, waiting. Miriam joined him after a drawn-out moment. He pulled the door closed.

  Her paralysis evaporated, giving way to tight pacing. “How did he find me? How did he know?”

  The question was clearly directed at herself, but he felt compelled to answer.

  “He said he was only passing through on his way to see a friend’s family member. He stayed to help with the epidemic.”

  She shook her head. “He hasn’t an ounce of compassion. The illness was an excuse.”

  “He didn’t know you were here when he heard about the fever.”

  “He knew,” she said, facing him. “He knew I was here. I know he did.”

  Lashing out. Growing paranoid. Blackburn had spoken of exactly that. Yet, it didn’t sound like Miriam.

  “I think you had best tell me how you know Dr. Blackburn,” Gideon said.

  “I told you I spent two years at an asylum.”

  He nodded; he remembered that very well.

  “It was Blackburn Asylum in Nebraska.”

  He motioned to the closed door beside them. “His asylum?”

  “Yes. And it was as horrible as I told you. More even.”

  The doctor he had been working with the past few hours did not match the monster she had described. How did he reconcile that? “If it was so terrible, why did you keep working there for so long?”

  Her brows drooped in misery. Her voice fell. “I didn’t work there.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She rubbed at her face. Took a deep breath. “Unexplained seizures in a woman is considered a sign of madness. Too many doctors believed that, and they convinced my parents to believe it. There have been moments when they have nearly convinced me of it.”

  The truth of what she was saying hit him in an instant. “You were a patient.”

  “I was an inmate,” she said through tight teeth. “We were all prisoners. I had nursing skills and knowledge, so Dr. Blackburn put me to work. I watched him torture people, Gideon. I watched him destroy his patients out of everything from frustration to curiosity.”

  He had watched Blackburn competently and compassionately care for the children these past hours. He couldn’t reconcile such drastically different images.

  “When I couldn’t endure it any longer, I escaped and ran,” she said. “I managed to get to St. Louis. I told the Western Women’s Bureau that I was looking for employment out West, preferably in a small, isolated town. I thought it less likely he would find me in someplace quiet.”

  “You didn’t tell me any of this.” He’d actually started to believe they had built a relationship of trust between them.

  “He will take me back there, Gideon,” she said. “I cannot go back there. I won’t.”

  He was utterly unprepared for all of this. The lies she had told him, it turned out, were but a drop of rain compared to the ocean of what she’d not admitted to.

  She looked at him. “You said yourself that a single symptom is not enough for a diagnosis of madness. Does anything about me these past two months, outside of my seizures, make you think I am mad?”

  His mind spun over every encounter, every conversation. He had, in his study of her condition, come across information about the suspected role of madness in seizures, but he had dismissed that possibility out of hand. One symptom is not enough for a diagnosis of madness. Nothing about her spoke of a failing or struggling mind. Nothing.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve worried about your health, your endurance. But I haven’t for a moment doubted your sanity.”

  She stood so still, he wasn’t even certain she was breathing. “Then, please, help me. He will take me back, and I know I will never be able to leave again.”

  “Perhaps if I spoke with Blackburn and explained why I’m certain your diagnosis was made in error.”

  She shook her head. “He cannot be reasoned with.”

  “I’ve spent hours with him today. He seems entirely reasonable.”

  “And I’ve lived two years in his prison, Gideon. I have seen him ply people with poisons. I have watched him callously end lives. And I have seen him turn amiable and friendly and pleasant when donors and important people came by. He can be whatever he needs to be in any given moment, but I am telling you, he is dangerous, and he has come here for me.”

  She had lied to him before. She’d still been lying to him by omission right up until the moment she saw Dr. Blackburn in the sickroom. He couldn’t entirely overlook that, yet neither could he doubt her sincerity. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable.

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

  “I told you more than I’ve told anyone else,” she said. “I told you about George and his apple. I told you I ran away from home. I told you I was at an asylum in Nebraska.”

  “You told me at,” he emphasized. “Not
in.”

  Her gaze dropped away. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to fear for your life? To be willing to run into the unknown and hide everything about yourself because it is the only chance you have of surviving?”

  “You truly believe you are in that much danger?”

  Her next breath shuddered. “I know I am.”

  The anguish in her face tugged at his heart. He wouldn’t abandon her. He wouldn’t turn his back on her.

  “I wish you had told me about this before Blackburn’s arrival forced you to. That is a breach of trust that I cannot overlook easily.”

  She nodded and sighed.

  “We have to tell Hawk, Cade, and Paisley. I don’t know the legalities here, but they will.”

  “You’re going to help me?” Both hope and doubt lay in her question.

  “I’m a doctor.” He set his hand on the door handle. “It’s what I do.” He pushed the door open and stepped inside the sickroom, his mind spinning, his heart heavy, and every inch of him exhausted.

  Chapter 29

  The highest of the fevers broke in the early evening hours. No other children showed signs of immediate worsening. Miriam slipped from the room where the Staheli, Canton, and Patterson children were resting and moved quickly downstairs to look in on Rupert.

  He smiled at her as she stepped inside. “Howdy, Miss Bricks,” he said weakly.

  Hearing his voice brought a wave of relief. He’d been at death’s door two days earlier, but he was alive. He was recovering.

  Miriam knelt on the floor beside his cot. “How are you feeling, Rupert?”

  “Tired.” He turned onto his side, looking at her. “I miss my ma.”

  “You could write her a letter,” Miriam suggested. “I’d bet Tansy or Dr. MacNamara’s parents would set it out on the porch the next time someone brings ice.”

  Rupert’s brow tugged in thought. “I don’t write good.”

  She took one of his hands in her good one. “She will love whatever you can do. You could write something. Draw something. If you aren’t feeling well enough, I will happily write your message for you.”

  “Would you write something for my ma?” Frank Clark asked from the bed nearby. “My sisters can’t write yet.” They were sleeping in the room as well.

  “Of course,” Miriam said. “And Miss Dunkle would help, I’m sure.”

  Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner? Nearly all the town’s children had been quarantined for more than a week, separated from their families. What a difference a single word of greeting and love could make. During her long years at Blackburn, she had ached for any indication that someone remembered her and loved her.

  “Think about what you would like to send to your parents,” she said. “I will be back in just a moment.”

  She moved to the bedroom door just as Mr. MacNamara stepped out of an adjacent room. “May I ask a favor?”

  “Of course, sweetheart.” He had begun calling her that during the past week in a tone she wished she had been able to hear from her own father. In that moment, nearly broken by the weight of worry—for the children, for the town, for herself—his fatherly fondness brought a tear to her eye. For a moment, she couldn’t speak.

  He set his hand lightly against her back and led her away from the door. “Oh, Miriam. Don’t cry. I know it’s been difficult, but the ill children are on the mend. There have been no new rashes or sore throats for two days. You’re nearing the end of it.”

  “I am nearing the end, yes.” She most certainly was. Dr. Blackburn was in this town, the place she’d begun to think of as home. He wouldn’t leave her here in peace.

  “How is your arm?” he asked. “Gideon was worried for you at breakfast. I hope you didn’t injure it more pulling it from the sling earlier.”

  “I likely did,” she admitted. “But it was, as they say, all hands on deck—even injured hands.”

  “Even fine, high-society hands.” Mr. MacNamara grinned. “I nearly had a stroke seeing my wife carry dirty linens around the house.”

  “What I have asked of her has fallen far outside her purview,” Miriam said. “I have been so grateful for her help.”

  Mr. MacNamara smiled. “It is little wonder Gideon treasures you so much, sweetheart.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, I do. And I am his father, so I know these things.”

  His teasing tone lightened her heart, something she had needed the past few days—years, really.

  “What was the favor you needed to ask?” he asked.

  They had veered from the topic. “I think the children would enjoy sending messages to their family members—little notes or drawings, things like that. Would you ask Gideon if he has any extra paper and pencils? And perhaps Miss Dunkle could help her charges craft their offerings? The notes can be left on the porch for one of the parents to collect.”

  “A fine idea,” he said. “And, with a bit of notice, the parents could prepare something to leave for their children as well. You leave it to me, Miriam. I’ll see to it.” He stepped toward the head of the stairs.

  “And when you see Gideon, would you tell him—” She thought better of it.

  “What would you like me to tell him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Go ahead,” he said gently.

  “Tell him that I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  His gaze was kind, but confused. Clearly Gideon hadn’t shared the newly revealed details of her situation. “I will give him the message.”

  He started down the steps. She returned to Rupert and the Clark children. They watched her arrival with hopeful gazes. She would not disappoint them.

  She carefully tore a page from her book and brought it to Frank Clark.

  “Thank you, Miss Bricks,” he said.

  She pulled one of her extra pencils from her apron pocket and gave it to him. “Write something on behalf of your sisters, as well. I’m certain your mother and father will appreciate that.”

  Rupert wasn’t sitting up when she reached his cot, but he was alert. The sight of his shaven head broke her heart. She sat beside his cot as she’d done many times over the past days.

  “I’m not good at writing,” he said. “I can only write my name.”

  She tore another sheet from her sketchbook and set it on the cot along with a pencil. “Draw a picture,” she said. “Then write your name. I promise your ma will love it.”

  “Can I draw a picture of you?” he asked.

  Sweet boy. “You can draw whatever you want.”

  He adjusted his position so he was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, with the sheet of paper in front of him. He popped the back of the pencil in his mouth, thinking.

  “Take your time,” she told him.

  He nodded but didn’t wait another minute before beginning his drawing.

  Miriam stood and walked to the bureau. She checked the chart of medication doses. The children only required gargling Epsom salts now. And only Rupert had needed fever powders in the last twelve hours. That was a good sign.

  “Miriam.” The voice sent ice through her veins. Dr. Blackburn.

  She didn’t turn around, but she knew he was in the doorway. She had become an expert over the past two years at hiding every emotion when he was near. Nothing motivated him more quickly than realizing he could make someone afraid or unhappy.

  When she turned around, head held high, her expression remained neutral. “Dr. Blackburn. Did you need something?”

  The corners of his mouth turned downward. He eyed her with annoyance. “What could I possibly want?” he asked dryly.

  “I have patients to see to,” she insisted.

  He eyed the boys a minute before returning his increasingly impatient gaze to her. “They are occupied and in no danger.
I believe they can survive without you for a few minutes.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t abandon them.”

  His eyes hardened. “You would rather alarm them?”

  She came a few steps closer, lowering her voice. “That’s not what I said.”

  “You know perfectly well that if I wish to speak to you, I will.” He reached out and snatched her arm, sling and all. “Why would you choose to distress them by subjecting them to a scene?”

  “That isn’t what—”

  “These children have been through enough,” he said. “Be considerate of them and stop objecting to something as simple as a brief, private conversation.”

  She knew it wouldn’t be anything nearly that simple and that he wouldn’t hesitate to distress the children if it served his ends.

  “In the corridor,” she said.

  He yanked her arm. Pain shot through her shoulder, but she refused to give him the slightest reaction.

  He released her arm once they were out of the room. She stepped away from him, keeping enough distance to stay out of reach. He laughed, shaking his head as if her desire for safety was ludicrous.

  “I told MacNamara to watch for signs of your paranoia. I didn’t realize it had reached these levels.”

  She shook her head. “I am more than justified—”

  “Being away from the asylum has clearly exacerbated your condition.” He eyed her more closely, sending shivers of apprehension over her. “You have probably had more of your fits.”

  “They are not ‘fits,’” she said in a low, tight voice.

  “You know irritability is one of your symptoms.” He was disturbingly good at sounding empathetic when he was anything but. “Once this epidemic has passed—which will be soon—I will see to it that you are returned where you are meant to be. Everything will be as it should. Everything.”

  The last word rang with a promise that Miriam couldn’t let herself contemplate.

  “A few more days,” he said, moving to the staircase. “I doubt there will be any objections to your departure.”

  “I am not alone this time,” she said. “There are people on my side now.”