by Betty Bolte
"But sir, where am I to go? Has the governor no regard for my fate?" Despite the heavy knitted wrap, she shivered.
George splayed his hands, palm up. "Your father's declarations and actions leave no doubt as to his political leanings, which of course means when he leaves town, as I understand he intends to do this very day, my job is clear. I shall begin the process to transfer legal ownership to the town for auction at a later time."
Samantha held out a hand as if she could halt the hated words from emerging from his mouth. If only she could ward off the dreadful reality. "But I am a patriotic woman. Why cannot I keep the house?"
He started shaking his head before she'd asked her question. "Impossible, simply impossible. Women are not legally competent to sign contracts."
"But sir..." What more could she say in her defense? The law was clear. Her shoulders drooped. "Is there no recourse?"
"No, my dear." He slowly shook his head and then ushered her to the door. Opening it, he paused. "I strongly recommend you find another place to live within the next few weeks. If can I assist you in any way, naturally, I am at your service."
Back on the street, both familiar and foreign as she contemplated her next steps, hot tears blinded her. Her faint hopes had been dashed against the rocks of the legal system like waves at high tide. A tear eased down each cheek, a reminder to make a plan, a path forward. Blinking the drops away, she squared her shoulders and started slowly toward home. At least she had time to decide what to take when she was forced from her home. After her parents fled, she'd be on her own. Her home was about to be snatched away. Panic glimmered in her soul as she contemplated the enormity of her predicament.
"Good day, Miss Samantha." Trent tipped his tricorne as he strolled up to pace beside her. "I cannot believe my good fortune. How are you on this fine afternoon?"
Could she not find peace anywhere in her life? Must he appear to vex her further? She stifled the urge to scream, aware the good people passing by might believe he'd come to accost her. Perhaps they wouldn't be far from the truth. She sighed as she turned to face him. "I'm afraid I'm not good company at the moment, Doctor."
"Anything amiss I can assist you with?" He settled his hat firmly in place and matched her quickened stride.
"It is none of your concern." She tugged her shawl tight about her shoulders, but it proved inadequate to protect her from the chill inside.
"Is it Benjamin?" He strolled casually alongside, intent on the street activity around them. Couples walked along the edge of the street, horse-drawn carriages leaving tracks down the center of the dirt road. "I'll admit that you're correct in one respect. We must work together, as he requested, to better his condition."
"We are doing so." Or at least she was, despite her misgivings of his abilities. Treating patients in her own way, in her own time, had proven the best approach in the past. Of course, circumstances would soon necessitate she work alone. Times did change and she tried to stay open to new possibilities.
"Indeed." He nodded as he continued down the street. "Yet I sense a reluctance on your part, perhaps a misgiving?"
"I prefer to provide my own counsel, if you will." Being alone, though, had taken on new meaning with the looming departure of her parents. Her dark blue skirts dragged the dusty street with each step. "However, I do not begrudge your assistance with Benjamin's case. It is proving more challenging than first anticipated."
"Agreed. Say, looks like we have company." Trent stopped, bending down to greet a medium-sized white dog with caramel colored splotches that had trotted up and halted before them.
"I wonder where it came from. Oh, it looks like it's a bit bloated, too. Maybe it has worms?" Samantha paused beside the pair, smiling at how friendly the young dog appeared. She offered it her hand to sniff and then patted its head. The soft fur slid easily through her fingers, and she rubbed its chin. "Whose is it? Do you know this dog?"
Trent shook his head, scouring the passersby for any one who may have missed the animal. "Appears to be a stray, so it could be worms inside."
"Let us continue. Surely someone will come looking for him." Samantha started down the street, aware of the late hour and afraid she'd miss bidding her parents farewell. For the last time. She choked on tears and swallowed them. She'd not cry in front of Trent.
Trent caught her up in two long strides. "Her, if I'm not mistaken."
"Her who?"
He indicated the dog walking beside them. "I believe she is a female Water Spaniel, a good hunting dog by all accounts."
"Shoo, now." Samantha waved a hand at the dog, but it smiled up at her, tongue lolling out one side of its mouth. "I don't need a dog."
Trent chuckled as they turned onto her street. "Looks like she disagrees with you on that score."
"We shall see." Samantha suddenly spotted her father lugging a box out to the waiting wagon parked in front of her home, two bays stamping impatiently in the harness. "Oh no." She lifted her skirts far enough to prevent tripping on them and then practically trotted down the street, Trent and the dog trailing after her.
The vehicle sat ready to depart, trunks and baskets piled in the flat bed behind the single seat. Her mother hurried out the front door, a hamper heavy in her hands. She handed the woven basket to her husband and then spotted Samantha as she closed the distance between them.
"Mother, you're leaving so soon?" Skidding to a halt, long skirts kicking up a cloud of dust around them, she hugged Cynthia as though she'd never see her again. As well might be the case.
"The time has come for us to fly before the wrath of the patriots is inflicted upon us." Her mother's mouth pressed into a straight line, tears in her eyes. "Do not hate us, my dear. We love you and wish you good fortune. But we must go. You do understand, don't you?"
"I shall miss you both more than words can describe. When will I see you again? How will I contact you?" Questions and concerns crowded her mind as her father finished snugging the load into place and came around the wagon.
Trent and the dog stopped beside her, the pup sitting down, her tongue still hanging out. He inclined his head to each of her parents, a question in his eyes. "Mr. McAlester, ma'am. What are you doing?"
"Leaving town for the final time." Aaron shook Trent's hand and then wrapped Samantha in a bear hug. "We'll send word as soon as we find a new place to settle. Do not worry, my dear. I trust you'll be fine after we've gone. You've always had good sense and are very capable." He regarded Trent for a breath. "Still, you'll need help. Watch over her for us, will you, young man?"
Trent nodded seriously, shaking Aaron's hand. His curious expression changed to one of happy determination. "Indeed, I will."
"Father, must you leave?" Samantha grasped her father's arm. "You've exhausted all other possible ways to avoid this irrevocable decision?"
Aaron shrugged and shook his head slowly. "These are amazing and confusing times in which we live, my dear. Amazing changes, therefore, will result as the world adjusts to the independence of the American colonies." He laid a hand on her cheek and studied her expression. "We'll miss you, but we'll always love you."
Samantha pressed her cheek against his hand, swallowing the sadness filling her throat, struggling to contain the fear mingled with despair in her chest.
Her father patted her cheek, a catch in his breath as he gave her a quick smile. "Time to go."
Samantha stepped back, stifling the gasp of pain at the imminent departure of the two people in all the world she loved beyond all else. Her head comprehended why they must board the wagon and depart town, but her heart rebelled at the need. A shout from behind her made her spin around and stare up the street she'd just traversed. A mob of men marched toward where her father prepared to abandon the town. A good sized pot rested in the hands of the man at the front of the crowd, another carrying an immense bag of feathers.
"Father, what is happening?" Samantha gaped at the mob as the men strode angrily closer with each passing second. "Why do they intend to tar
and feather you? What have you done?"
"Nothing more than any other loyalist, my dear. Cynthia, my darling, climb aboard. The time has arrived when we must away. Good-bye, Samantha." Aaron helped her weeping mother to step up into the front seat, the wagon rocking with each movement. Cynthia sat huddled on the seat, soft sobs drifting on the afternoon air. He hugged Samantha again, then went around the wagon to climb up and take the reins. Without looking back as the men shouted and broke into a run, he slapped the reins on the horses' backs, urging them into a brisk trot, and quickly disappeared down the street.
Samantha stood without moving until the wagon, with its precious cargo, turned the corner, intent on maintaining her composure in front of the man beside her. The mob cursed her father for several minutes after he'd left and they slowly dispersed. She glared at the men, refraining from chastising them with every ounce of self-control she possessed until they had left the street. Then, when the realization she'd never see her parents again lodged in the pit of her stomach, she started crying, wailing, then keening, and couldn't find a way to make herself stop. Gasping sobs wracked her shoulders, made it difficult to catch her breath, as she swayed in her grief and fear. What would become of her? What was she to do?
Trent enveloped her in his embrace, steely arms cradling her head against his coat which soon became soaked from her distress. His hand stroked her hair as she wailed. The dog whined, sidling to press against her skirts. Her only thought remained the solitary existence she faced as a result of the Americans winning the war for independence. She cried harder, gasping for air. She clung to Trent, grateful for his quiet strength and support as her world collapsed around her.
Chapter 6
The house echoed with each step Samantha took, pacing through rooms devoid of happy chatter. Dents evident in the oriental carpet in the parlor ached for the chairs and tables which once sat there. Each room reflected where some piece of furniture or decoration had been removed by her father, loaded into the wagon, and carted away. The empty spaces served as silent witness to the flight of her parents three days before. She paused at the door to what had been her father's office.
The dog who had adopted her despite Samantha's attempt to ignore it sat panting, content to remain at her side. After spending a day referring to the beast as "dog," she finally broke down and chose a name. A name that spoke to her Scottish heritage, a tie back to the proud and loyal ancestors her father had spoken of so warmly. No matter where she went, Thistle insisted on accompanying her. To the market, to the lawyer, to Benjamin's. The young dog remained at her side like a new appendage. Samantha reached down to run a hand over its curly haired head. Still, despite her protests, she had to admit the dog provided good company.
She perused the room, seeing its contents with a different perspective. So many books and maps left behind when her father fled the country. Shelves and one lone desk neatly held his collection, which had become hers as a result of his departure. Holding the lump in her throat at bay with an effort, she gripped the door frame with one hand. She'd cried enough over the past days to fill the urn by her bed. The memory of Trent's strong embrace supporting her as she cried made her cringe with mortification. She'd survived much worse without falling apart, so why had she done so then?
Loud rapping summoned her to the front door. With a long sigh, she headed toward the rapping. Thistle barked and raced ahead, her long curly hair dancing like a running mop. A rush of cold air chilled Samantha as she opened the door.
"Amy, what's the matter?" Samantha ushered her worried friend inside. "Is it Benjamin?"
"Oh, Samantha, you must do something for him." Amy wrung her hands. "He cannot continue in such a condition."
Thistle sniffed at Amy's black cloak and long burgundy skirts. Samantha waved the dog away, and Thistle returned to sit at her side. One thing for certain, the dog was smart and learned quickly.
"You've not located its owner?" Amy frowned at the animal, momentarily distracted from her pressing concern by the friendly face and lolling pink tongue. "I wonder if it ran away or if the owner might be dead?"
"I've wondered the same, but Thistle seems content to be with me and me with her. For now."
"You're content with the added responsibility of her care?" Amy shook her head. "With everything you're facing, I urge you to find someone to take the dog off your hands."
The house would stand empty and cold with only her rattling around within its walls to make any noise. No, better to have the dog to keep life in the homestead. "We're managing. Until the government steals my home from me. Then I do not know where I shall live."
Amy slowly shook her head. "I'm troubled on your behalf but have no means with which to help. Evelyn and Belinda along with the little one have taken the empty rooms at my house. Did your father not make any provisions for you?"
"He did." Samantha waved off the suggestion, wrinkling her nose at the idea of his partner choosing a husband for her. Bah. "None worth considering. But the time draws near when I shall be forced to move. I simply cannot bear the thought."
"In the event, you can always sleep on our couch if need be." Amy hugged Samantha, a brief embrace meant to bolster and comfort. "You're the strongest among us, my friend. We will do all we can for you."
Samantha folded her hands. "But tell me, what has brought you here with such urgency?"
"Ben's fever continues, though it's not increasing." Amy hugged herself, arms tight against the dark gray sash at her waist. "Mayhap Trent could do something? Please? You must help him."
Samantha clucked her tongue. "We are doing our best."
"I know, but he's no better." Amy stepped closer and gripped Samantha's arm, tears threatening. "As my friend, I'm begging you to find a solution. I can't bear to watch him die."
Neither could she. What more could she do, though? Benjamin's health and welfare occupied her thoughts to the point she'd put off dealing with her own situation. Without any certainty as to when her home would be snatched from her, she should have been making arrangements for a new living place, for deciding what she could carry with her and how she'd gain access to other medicinal sources. Instead, she'd spent her time combing through books and pamphlets with possible cures for his wound and fever. She scoured her commonplace book for any hints from the shamans, and finding the details of how Little Running Bear had broken fevers. The materials needed abounded this time of year. But would it work for Benjamin's case? The uncertainty held her back from suggesting the treatment again. She'd focused on him to the exclusion of her other patients. She had no more ideas save one on how to proceed. She'd promised to consult with him, and she definitely meant to keep her word. In spite of how edgy and off kilter she became in his presence. She'd endure his proximity if it would aid her friend.
"Very well, fetch Dr. Trent to see what more he can do. I'll meet you at Benjamin's rooms in an hour."
Amy nodded and gave her a brief hug before spinning around and hurrying out of the house. The door closed behind her with a thud. Samantha sighed and started back down the hall to restock necessary items in her bag even as she pondered whether she should venture back into Trent's path. Would he lord it over her about her crying fit? Her fists clutching his coat as though she'd drown without his support? Or perhaps, if she were fortunate, he'd forgotten about the incident immediately after escorting her and Thistle through her own front door.
For two days, she had paced through the rooms and the garden, grieving openly at the impending loss of all she held dear. The books would go with her, along with her personal belongings. But other cherished items, such as the familiar kitchen goods and the heavy furniture her father crafted with his own hands, would of necessity be left behind. Booty for the next owner.
Each afternoon, Emily had stopped by to update her on Benjamin's condition. For that brief interlude, Samantha contained her grief behind a rigid comportment put on for the occasion. Her friends would not understand the depth and cutting sharpness of the pain she still nu
rsed. How could they? Their fathers remained loyal to America and its ideals. Her father had abandoned those principles along with his daughter. Maybe he didn't mean to abandon her, but the bald fact remained that her parents had left her alone. She gulped back the rising emotion the memory evoked and then strode into the kitchen to continue her preparations.
An hour after Amy's urgent summons, Samantha and Thistle hurried into Benjamin's apartment, nearly running into Trent's broad chest. "Pardon me."
Trent grinned at her, eyes twinkling with repressed laughter. "Not at all. I did not expect to have you burst into the room, but I am pleased to see you."
She sucked in a breath, steeling herself against the awareness rushing through her. Best to keep to safe topics, to keep her emotions in check. "Have you discovered anything which would reduce our friend's temperature?"
"Perhaps." He inclined his head, and waggled his hand to indicate a level of uncertainty. "We'll know more tomorrow. Come, see for yourself." With a curious expression she could not decipher, he gently took her hand and led her into the patient's bedroom, Thistle padding behind her.
Let go. Please. Dumbly, Samantha trailed after him, her senses chaotic from the press of his fingers wrapped around her hand. She ignored the unwanted reaction, focusing instead on the tableau before her. Surely, Trent felt no such electric pulse where their skin met, where the pressure of his tapered fingers heated her blood. If he could ignore the physical response, then so could she.
Benjamin sat propped against the headboard, Amy seated on the bed holding his hand. Ashen with sunken eyes, he nodded at her as she drew closer. How awful to see him in such condition. He'd been bursting with robust strength mere weeks earlier when he literally saved her and Amy's lives. What did he receive in payment? A bullet to leave him ill and weak, mayhap on the threshold of death's door.
