by Betty Bolte
"I'm considering the long term over the short term." Trent sipped his coffee, buying a few minutes to formulate his arguments. "The cost of relocating the enterprise once established could prove beyond my means, and thus I'd be confined in a building too small for what I intend to create."
"You've made up your mind, then?" Robert studied him, eyes searching Trent's.
"As of this moment." Trent gripped the mug in both hands. His dream verged on disintegrating if he couldn't finance the purchase of a suitable property. Yet he wouldn't cause Samantha more grief. "The McAlester place is out of the question."
"Then, tell me more about the other place." Robert twirled the bottle before grabbing it up and taking a swig. "Would it suffice for a longer span?"
"From what George said, it's the perfect location." Trent contemplated the steam rising from the mug before gulping down more of the liquid. "But I cannot conceive of such a quantity of money let alone squeeze it from my bank account."
"Do you know whether the townspeople believe in your idea as strongly as you?" Robert fiddled with the bottle, slowly angling the mouth one way and then the other.
Trent nodded vigorously, hope igniting as his father continued to swivel the bottle, a sign he had an idea. "Every person I've mentioned it to has agreed we need a better place more representative of our fine city. George himself said he would help any way he could."
Robert settled the bottle squarely on the table and studied Trent for several long moments. "Then do like the theater does when it wants to cover the expense of presenting a play. Seek out subscribers."
Trent stilled as he considered his father's suggestion. "Share the cost of establishing the property and the equipment with the townspeople?"
His father inclined his head in agreement. "Let them put their money in to make the hospital happen."
"That's a brilliant idea, Father. I'll put together the papers this evening." He tapped his mug to his father's bottle, relief at having another way to pursue his idea flooding his chest. A way which didn't include further upset to Samantha. If his father's idea worked as he envisioned, then his other plans might well come to fruition after all.
Chapter 8
"What do you think, Thistle?" Samantha inspected the small marble statue of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Where had her father acquired it? So much of his business had been conducted without comment over her life she found herself confused as to what he actually did to earn his money. "Keep it or leave it for the new owners? Who needs her guidance more?"
Thistle thumped her fluffy tail on the floor, hope in her eyes, head on front paws.
"I agree." Samantha plunked the weighty item onto a shelf and turned to survey the remaining things in the room. "We're nearly finished going through my father's things. I suppose we should start on my mother's next."
She turned to Thistle and frowned. "I detest this. I shouldn't be forced from my home."
Thistle sat up in anticipation, her sides bowing outward. The idea to change the dog's meals had led to the ultimate realization Thistle was eating for more than merely herself. Samantha released a resigned sigh. She did not need the complications associated with being adopted by a determined dog. Samantha had finally conceded the point and fed her, and then allowed the beast into the house, into her life, into her heart. The long hair hanging from the dog's sides no longer concealed her condition. How long until her puppies arrived? Days? A week or two at most? For that matter, how many puppies?
Samantha let her gaze drift over her father's discarded possessions. So many memories associated with each book, each piece imported from a distant country, each sketch of a distant city. She gazed at a sketch of London's skyline, wondering how often her father studied it and wish he'd moved to the Motherland. When did he know he would have to leave America yet didn't share the knowledge with her? The whole situation made her wretched. He'd been forced to abandon everything which wouldn't fit in the wagon. They'd taken the essentials, leaving behind the luxuries. Tears pressed against her eyes. How could she give away his treasures? Her mother's heirlooms inherited from Samantha's grandparents?
The house served as a home for more than memories. It was a home for cherished possessions acquired with difficulty and dear expense over generations. She had no place to store them if the government succeeded in dispossessing her of her home. She couldn't reconcile the concept of losing everything despite her beloved country winning the war. Surely she could do something to prevent the disaster befalling her.
"I won't give up." Swiping a hand across wet eyes, she squared her shoulders. "Come, Thistle. We shall try again to salvage my home."
Thistle bounded to her feet, tail wagging, and followed Samantha down the hall. At the foyer, Samantha donned a long, dark gray cloak, tied on a matching bonnet with black lace edging, and then pulled on warm gloves before picking up her purse.
She closed the door behind them and paused on the front steps. The chill in the air confirmed Christmas would arrive in a mere twenty days and Twelfth Night in only one month. Winter had definitely arrived and brought icy blasts of wind to torment the town. Dark clouds hinted at snow, a rare occurrence. The few others who dared to face the cold, coats and cloaks held close, hurried past where Samantha stood with Thistle panting at her side. Samantha took a deep breath and pushed it out again. "Let's go, girl."
Striding down the street, the pair rushed along Queen, turned onto King, and soon arrived at the Manning residence. Samantha paused to catch her breath after their headlong pace. Hesitating, she let her gaze drift over the house and garden, bushes and plants bowed from the cold. Another blast of wind pushed her four steps toward the house. Taking Mother Nature's hint, she marched up to the door and rapped three times.
The door swung open a few minutes later to reveal Catherine's concerned grin. "Samantha, my dear, what brings you here on such a foul day? Is that your dog?"
Samantha glanced at the white and caramel spotted animal. "Her name is Thistle. She found me and refuses to leave my side." Samantha pulled her cloak around her as she shivered in the biting wind.
"Oh, my, forgive me." Catherine opened the door wider and motioned her inside. "Come in, come in."
Despite the chill racing through her, Samantha hesitated to step through the door. "Thistle, too?"
"Of course. It's too cold out for the poor thing."
"Thank you." Standing inside the warm house, Samantha shivered. Thistle settled at her feet, sitting primly. "Mrs. Manning, my apologies for coming unannounced. But I'm here to speak to your husband on an urgent matter, one that cannot wait."
Catherine sighed and shook her head. "He told me of your situation. I'm so sorry to hear about your displacement."
Samantha bristled at the thought the entire town may well know of and condone her predicament. "Is Mr. Manning at home? May I speak with him, please?"
"Of course, but..." Catherine searched Samantha's face for a long moment and then sighed again. "I fear your pleas will not change the outcome. But follow me. I'll take you to him."
Samantha followed the woman down the hall, Thistle padding beside her. Catherine paused to tap on the closed door to George's office.
"George, dear, Miss McAlester is here to speak with you."
"Come," a masculine voice called out.
"If you need me, I'll be in the parlor." Catherine opened the door and indicated for Samantha to go in. As the pair slipped into the room, Catherine excused herself. Thistle stayed close to Samantha's long skirts as she approached the mahogany desk and George's serious face.
"Miss Samantha, what may I do for you?" He rose to greet her and then waved her into a chair. "Would you care for some tea?"
"No, thank you." What could she say? She remained standing, kneading the soft cloth of her purse with both hands. "Mr. Manning, I've come to beg you to reconsider taking my home from me. My father built the house with his own hands, he planted the massive garden for my mother and I to use. I must have access to its contents
for my midwife practice. I've supported the patriot cause all through the war. Please, isn't there some legal means for me to retain ownership?"
George, who had also stayed on his feet, started shaking his head before she stopped speaking. "My girl, as I said before, the matter is closed. Indeed, the paper work is complete."
She frowned and clutched her purse. "Pardon me? What do you mean?"
"Why, simply put, you have one week to remove your possessions and your person from the house before the town assumes ownership." He picked up a document and looked over it before setting the sheet back on the desk. "As a matter of fact, someone has already inquired about purchasing the property. I anticipate a new owner for the place very soon."
One week? Shock and fear filled her. So it would happen. No matter what argument she could devise or plea she could compose, the house no longer belonged to her father. She had become, in effect, an intruder in her own house. She drew in a shaky breath. One miserable week. "Are you certain?"
He nodded, concern evident in his expression. "May I assist you in locating a family to stay with? Or in moving your things?"
"Thank you for the kind offer." She pushed words through stiff lips. How had this happened to her? How could her parents leave her in such a pickle? One thought echoed in her mind. Flee. Run. Escape. But to where? "I shall send word should I require such assistance."
"Very well." George walked around the desk and escorted her from the office. "Let me show you out."
As if she couldn't locate the front door on her own or, more likely, was not trusted to refrain from venting her anger and rage on the lovely furnishings they passed. Thistle padded close beside her, seeming to sense her mistress' distress. Samantha kept pace with George, her limp barely noticeable despite the ache caused by the cold weather. A reminder of happier days which became a nightmare. At least the more recent injury inflicted by the blackberry bush had not made her limp on her other leg. She'd take the good where she could find it.
After bidding the lawyer good day, she and Thistle stood on the street for several minutes while she tried to calm her racing heart, capture her chaotic thoughts, and ignore the primitive desire to howl her pain and grief like a lone wolf in the forest.
She needed a focus, a task, to determine a direction for her next steps. Something positive and hopeful. Searching her mind, she discarded several ideas before smiling. Benjamin. She'd visit him and make sure he was finally on the mend. She turned and hurried toward Bay Street and her patient. At least she still had her practice. The thought buoyed her steps. Nobody could take that away from her.
* * *
The wind howled, whipping her cloak about her ankles as Samantha scurried to Benjamin's with Thistle at her side. Reluctant happiness filled Samantha each time she looked at the dog. As a child, she'd begged her father for a pet, but he refused. The irony did not escape her that she found Thistle the same day her parents departed. She preferred to believe God or the universe sent Thistle to keep her company. She stroked the spaniel's head and then pushed through the door.
"Close the door before you let out the heat." Amy dried her hands on a towel and then dropped it on the table as she crossed the room to greet Samantha.
Samantha waited for Thistle to trot into the room before acting on her friend's request. "How is Benjamin? Please tell me his fever has broken. I need some good news."
"I'm afraid not. Trent is with him... Oh..." Amy clutched Samantha's hands, tears suddenly trailing down both cheeks. Anguish shone in her eyes. "I cannot tolerate seeing Ben in such distress and pain. I fear for his life. I beg of you, please do something. You must save him."
Samantha nodded, gripping her purse. "That's why I'm here. He has been fighting the inflammation for a very long time. Too long. Come here." She broke away from Amy's grip, dropped her purse on the table, and then hugged her friend while Amy sobbed against her shoulder.
Thoughts of Edward floated through her mind. His compassionate ways, incredible strength, and patriotic fervor combined to make him an amazing person. Watching her husband killed, the shot robbing him of his last breath, remained the most horrible memory of the battle at Cowpens. Even her own injury paled in contrast. The physical pain could not match the emotional distress losing her husband had inflicted upon her. Now, comforting Amy, Samantha found herself in the unique position to truly understand the fears and hopes ricocheting within her friend.
After the sobs became sniffles, Samantha eased Amy away from her and peered into watery eyes. "Let me go to him."
"Yes, of course, I'm sorry to detain you."
"No, do not be sorry." Samantha flashed a smile before sobering. "I'm here to help you both in any way I can."
"Thank you for everything you're doing for him." Amy pulled her lace handkerchief from her bodice as she sniffed and turned away. Dabbing at her tears, she moved to where she'd been brewing a pot of tea. She arranged the tray with the pot and cups while Samantha, shaking off an enervating sense of foreboding, strode into the bedroom to check on the patient.
Trent pivoted to nod in her direction when she entered the room. Benjamin lay on the bed, his right arm hanging over the side to permit blood to flow into the bowl below. A quick sweep of her gaze revealed his condition had not improved over the last few days. They'd tried most of the usual cures for his complaint. What were they doing wrong?
She joined Trent at the side of the bed, ignoring the buzzing under her skin at his proximity. Thistle took up her normal position, laying under the window, watching Samantha's every movement. "How is he?"
The young doctor shrugged. "No better, nor worse. I've given him something stronger along with the increased bleeding."
"Must you take so much of his blood?" She leaned closer to inspect the site of the scarification. The incisions appeared cleanly made and the blood flowed freely as desired. Yet the act worried her, given the diverse results the method yielded.
Trent nodded, applying pressure to encourage the flow. "It is the only way to bring balance back to the body's humors."
"Such a practice gives doctors a bad name." She flicked a glance at his face and then focused on their patient when her pulse raced by simply gazing on his gorgeous eyes. She drew in a calming breath and released it on a huff. The scent of him, the combination of his cologne with the leather of his boots and a tantalizing mint, did nothing to quell the reaction. "There must be a better way."
He snorted, then addressed her. "Your mother had a bad name, and she was no doctor."
Samantha straightened and propped her hands on both hips. Handsome or not, she'd defend her mother against his accusations. "She had her challenges, I admit, but she also helped many others. My aim has always been to improve on her success, or lack thereof, by studying with other more capable healers."
"Like the Cherokee?" His gaze bored into hers. "Or the Creeks? Is that who you consider better?"
She resented his tone. He had no idea of the generosity and experience of the Indian healers. "They've used the same methods for centuries, methods doctors have never heard of let alone employed. I follow their advice in order to be the best healer possible."
"I, too, wish to be the best doctor possible by studying with those who have stellar reputations for their physic." He grinned at her as he shrugged. "We do have something in common, after all."
Oh no, do not regard yourself in such a light. Samantha met his gaze without permitting a smile to emerge onto her lips. "I'm sure the only commonality is trying to heal this poor man's shoulder and restore him to health."
Trent glanced at Benjamin and then back to study Samantha. "If we work more closely together, we can achieve both aims."
"Indeed. Since you are averse to me employing the Cherokee way of breaking a fever, I thought I'd try a bread and milk poultice to draw out the heat." She peered at him, noting the smile beginning in his eyes and on his mouth, and then merriment in his gaze. A flutter in her stomach made her blink. She must attend to the matter at hand. "What do
you think?"
"Give me a moment." He pulled out a wad of lint and pressed it against the incisions to staunch the blood flowing into the pot. After a minute, he tossed the bloody mass into the crackling fire before straightening to answer her question. He regarded her for several moments before shaking his head. "I agree with you poultices are good for some injuries. I'll even admit you have impressive training, from what Benjamin has told me. With both in mind, what if we try using plain old rum mixed with honey to keep it open rather than using an ointment? Let the poison drain out on its own."
Try as she might the poultices and ointments had done nothing toward curing the wound. Perhaps Trent's idea would make the difference. "I've had some success with the combination in the past."
Trent reached to clasp her fingers in his, pressing his lips to the back of one hand. "Thank you, Miss Samantha, for deigning to trust my judgment."
Over the rush of her pulse in her ears she heard the gentle sarcasm hanging on each syllable. Fiddlesticks. Trent's endearing features and impressive strength couldn't undermine her composure. She wouldn't allow it. "You flatter yourself, Doctor Trent. Although I agree the rum salve can work, we need not make such a rash change immediately."
Thistle moved to press between them, pushing them apart. Samantha glanced down, pondering whether the dog knew more about Trent than she ever would have guessed. The dog remained standing between them until Trent dropped Samantha's hands.
"Ah, so you wish to wait still longer, give your impotent potions more time." He tilted his head with a wry smile, revealing intriguing dimples. "Well, I daresay you would not have done so for me."
"Indeed not. Your ideas do not deserve more time." She grinned up at him, enjoying the twinkle in his sapphire eyes. He'd pulled his sandy blond hair, usually left hanging loose and soft, into a queue. How disappointing. "Besides, it is not my place to swell your opinion of yourself further by lauding your talents."
