After the benediction they left the church and a small boy rushed up to them.
“Hello, Doc Fairbanks.”
Caleb tugged on the boy’s cap with a broad smile. “Hi, Jimmy.” He glanced at Molly. “Jimmy, I want you to meet my friend, Miss Hatfield.”
Molly smiled at the child. “Pleased to meet you, Jimmy.”
The boy grinned. He was a thin child with stick-like legs, his big blue eyes seeming almost too large for his gaunt face.
“Pleased to meet you too.” He then wandered off to join a group of older boys.
Caleb’s gaze followed Jimmy, his face grim.
“He’s the one, isn’t he?” she asked. “The patient that has you so worried.”
Caleb turned to her. “Yes, he is.”
“I’m glad you’re his doctor. You’ll do right by him. I know you will.”
A middle-aged woman cornered Caleb with a laundry list of medical complaints. The woman rattled on nonstop and Molly marveled at Caleb’s patience.
“And at night I get this pain right here.” The woman pointed to her right hip. “And in the morning . . .”
Bored with the woman’s complaints, Molly glanced around. Spotting the former slave Mr. Washington, she hurried to catch up with him. “Mr. Washington, may I speak with you?”
The black man worked his crutches around until he faced her. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“I wonder if you would be so kind as to write down the words to the hymn you sang in church a few weeks ago?”
Mr. Washington thought a moment. “You mean ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’?”
“Yes, that’s the one. You sang it beautifully.”
“Why, thank you, ma’am.” His crutches tucked beneath both armpits, he pulled a pencil and notepad from his pocket and started writing. He explained each phrase as he wrote. “Swing low meant come and get us. Sweet chariot was code for the Underground Railroad. Jordan was the Mississippi River and the angels referred to the workers who helped us escape.”
Molly was deeply moved. “It’s such a haunting tune.”
He grinned. “Are you a singer?”
“Yes,” she said with a slight hesitation.
He glanced up but kept writing. “Reverend Bland asked me to organize a choir. We could use more singers. Would you care to join us?”
She stared at him. A saloon girl in the church choir? She could well imagine what the congregation would have to say about that. “Oh no. I’m not that kind of singer.”
“What kind of singer are you?” he asked.
“I meant . . . I’m not trained,” she said, so as not to embarrass him. Had he known her background, he would never have asked her. “I’ve never had singing lessons.”
“And I never went to school but that don’t mean I can’t read and write.” Mr. Washington’s white teeth flashed against his ebony skin. “The Bible says to make a joyful noise unto the Lord. It don’t say nothing about singing lessons.” He tore a page from his notebook and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” She folded the paper and tucked it into her handbag.
“I hope you reconsider,” he said.
Before Molly could respond, quarreling voices cut through the low murmurs of churchgoers.
She turned just in time to see an older boy punch Jimmy in the arm. Jimmy retaliated with a spitball. The silver wad caught the sunlight as it whizzed through the air and hit an older man on the forehead.
The man grabbed Jimmy by the collar and cursed him out with a thorough tongue-lashing. He raised his cane and Molly bolted forward. Rushing in front of Jimmy, she protected him with her body.
“Don’t you dare hit him,” she stormed. “What is wrong with you?”
The man reared back in surprise and lowered his cane. He was a short man with no neck and a face full of pockmarks. “He spit at me!”
“It was an accident.”
“Yeah, well, he’s lucky I don’t flog his ears.”
“You’re the one who’s lucky, sir!” Her body shook with rage. “If you touch one hair on his head I’ll—” She was just getting warmed up when Caleb grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away.
She swung around to face him. “Why did you do that?”
For answer, he gave his head a slight nod to the right and left. Molly glanced around to find more than a dozen people staring at her, including Reverend Bland. Apparently no one had witnessed the start of the fight, but judging by the shocked expressions, she alone shouldered the blame for the end. She was used to people— especially church people—judging her unfavorably, but she felt bad for involving Caleb.
After making certain Jimmy was safe, she allowed Caleb to steer her toward his horseless carriage and away from the disapproving glares.
“I’m sorry,” she said, still shaking. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Your reputation—”
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care about my reputation—I’m concerned about you.”
“And I’m concerned about the boy,” she shot back. “He’s just a child. It was an accident.”
Caleb stood directly in front of her, his stern face shaded by the brim of his hat.
“It was an accident,” he said slowly. “Just like Donny’s carriage tipping over was an accident.”
She swallowed the gasp that rose to her mouth, the tightness in her chest making it hard to breathe. Of all the things he could have said, bringing up Donny’s accident was the worst. She had trusted him and now he was throwing that trust back in her face.
“Why are you bringing that up now?”
“Because you were a child yourself when it happened,” he said. “In fact, you were the same age as Jimmy is now.”
“Jimmy is eight?” It didn’t seem possible that she had ever been that young or that vulnerable. As Donny’s sister she always felt older than her years. “I—I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I think we should.”
She glared at him. “How can you compare Jimmy’s little misdeed to what happened to Donny?” She turned to climb into Bertha, but Caleb stopped her, his hand encircling her arm.
“You were eight. A child. You needed protection, not blame.”
Protection. The word nestled inside her, bringing a lump to her throat. No one had ever said such a thing to her. They stared at each other for several moments before he released her arm and stepped back.
He walked away to crank the car. She felt bad for arguing with him. He’d only tried to make her feel better, and it was obvious the sick boy weighed heavily on his mind. Moments later he took his place on the seat next to her. Hand on the steering column, he stared straight ahead.
She laid a hand on his arm. “You’re a good man.” The rumbling vehicle made her voice quiver—or was her trembling heart to blame? “And a good doctor.”
He covered her hand with his own and held her gaze. “You’re a fine woman, Molly Hatfield. A beautiful one. You’re good and kind and probably the most selfless person I’ve ever met. I just wish you could look in the mirror and see what I see.”
For a split second she caught a glimpse of the woman he described—and it shocked her. Shocked her so much that she pulled her hand away and closed her eyes.
She wanted to be that woman. She wanted to be good and kind and selfless, but she was none of those things. Sometimes she was angry and resentful. On one shameful occasion, she even wished her brother had never been born. Why couldn’t Caleb look at her and see her for who she really was? That would make it so much easier for both of them.
She opened her eyes to see Jimmy scramble into the back of his family’s wagon with his sisters.
Caleb watched him too. “There’s a chance he doesn’t have leukemia.”
Molly’s mouth dropped. “Oh, Caleb, that’s an answer to prayer.” His dark expression made her frown. “If not leukemia, then what?”
He met her gaze. “What you said in church got me thinking. He may have lead poisoning.”
“Lead . . .�
�� Her spirits plunged. “But how?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
She pressed her lips together. Their combined worry pushed away the tension between them, but not the physical awareness. His every move and gesture seemed significant in some way and she could hardly draw her gaze away from him. “Will he be all right?”
“It depends on how long it takes me to find the source of lead.”
She let the statement hang for a moment before she spoke. “And if you don’t find it?”
The question stretched between them like a bridge neither wanted to cross.
“I have to find it,” he said at last. He released the brake and Bertha rolled forward. “There’s no other choice.”
Eleanor Walker rode up to the ranch house, surprised to find her banker friend, Robert, waiting on the verandah. She tethered her horse to the hitching post and hurried to join him. As much as she
cherished their friendship, she hated the way her heart leaped whenever she saw him. She was too old for such nonsense. Today, as always, she covered her feelings with a brusque, no-nonsense manner.
“Don’t tell me it’s the first of the month already,” she said. Thanks to that unfortunate earthquake and fire of ’87, which forced her to rebuild, she owed her soul to his bank.
Robert pulled off his bowler and ran a hand over his head, as if his silver hair would be so brash as to become mussed. “Not according to my calendar,” he said with an amicable smile.
“So what brings you here in the heat of the day?” She opened the front door and called to Rosita. “Kindly bring my guest some lemonade.”
She closed the door and sat in a rocker. Robert sat opposite her, balancing his straw hat on his knee.
“I have good news for you, but I can’t take any of the credit.”
“I could use a little good news.” She pulled off her gloves and tossed them into an empty chair. The morning had seen nothing but problems, ranging from a broken windmill to having to put an injured steer out of its misery.
Rosita appeared and set a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on a small wicker table. “Thank you, Rosita.”
The girl afforded the banker a quick smile before hurrying away. Eleanor poured Robert a glass of lemonade. “So what is this good news?”
“Mr. Hampshire has decided to put his idea of forming a cattle company on hold, perhaps even permanently.”
Eleanor stopped pouring. “You can’t be serious.”
He leaned over to take the glass out of her hand and took a long sip before answering.
“I’m completely serious.”
She set the pitcher down and leaned back in her chair. “What made him finally see the light?”
He grinned. “Apparently he traveled to Cactus Patch on Saturday night and didn’t like what he saw. The saloons were closed and the town deserted. Just this morning he came into the bank and told me he’d changed his mind. He no longer had need for a loan.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Robert raised his right hand. “It’s true, every word. He said that a town unable to maintain its saloons is no place to do business.”
“He’s right,” Eleanor said. The saloons provided most of the revenue to run the town. Without them, Cactus Patch would soon become a ghost town. “Why were they closed?”
“That’s where it gets interesting,” Robert said, obviously enjoying himself. “It seems that the womenfolk are on some sort of temperance kick.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. Arguments in favor of temperance dated all the way back to the Puritans. With much of government revenue derived from liquor and saloon taxes, Eleanor didn’t see much hope of the temperance movement taking hold unless women got the right to vote. If the U.S. Brewers’ Association had its way, that was never going to happen, despite the efforts of the Anti-Saloon League.
“It sounds like my troubles are over,” Eleanor said. Or at least some of them.
“You can thank your new heiress.”
Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “Molly? What has she got to do with it?”
“Apparently she and Bessie Adams were in cahoots. I understand that Molly came up with some sort of plan and it worked. You do know that Miss Hatfield was once a dance hall girl.”
Eleanor gave a brusque nod. “I’m quite aware of Molly’s former profession.”
“This won’t sit right with you, but I’m afraid you will forever be in Miss Hatfield’s debt for ending your cattle problems, at least for the time being.”
“Not entirely,” she said. “There are still ranches I’m concerned about.” The other ranchers soon figured out that gold fever was a ploy and just that morning she found her fence cut again.
“Yes, but you won’t have to worry about a cattle company and the thousands of cattle Mr. Hampshire planned on stocking.”
“Rest assured, Molly has my complete gratitude.”
He set his glass on the tray with a chuckle, then rose and donned his hat. “I’m sorry to rush off like this, but I have to get back to town.”
She hated to see him go, but she would rather die than admit it. “So soon?”
“Sorry.”
She stood, wrapped her arm around his, and walked him to his horse and buggy. “You’re a good friend, Robert, and you’d make a great husband.”
He grinned. “That’s what I keep telling you, but you keep turning me down.”
“You know what I think, Robert? I think you should be grateful that I’m an old fool.”
“If you’re an old fool, what does that make me?”
She smiled up at him. “A dear old fool.”
That night Molly stared at herself in the mirror and, without her usual paint, hardly recognized the woman reflected back. Tonight her face was scrubbed clean and her wet hair hung down her back to her waist.
Nothing stood between her and the mirror except for voices of the past.
The loudest voice of all was her mother’s. “You wicked, wicked girl! Look what you’ve done to your brother. All because of you he’ll never walk again—ever!”
Other voices filled her head, childish voices of boys and girls who attended school with her. “Molly, dolly, near killed her brother. If you don’t watch out she’ll kill her mother.”
But there was another voice too, a new one. “If only you could look in the mirror and see what I see.”
She recalled the feel of Caleb’s mouth on hers, the approval in his eyes as he gazed at her, and a warm shiver rushed through her.
He once asked what she saw when she looked at a horse. Her answer was so different from his that at first she was shocked. But maybe people saw only what they wanted to see, were conditioned to see. For good or bad, Caleb saw things in her that no one else had ever seen.
He even saw her in the little boy Jimmy. “He’s eight. The same age you were at the time of Donny’s accident.”
The same age she was when she gave up the dreams she had for herself. She swiped at the tear that trickled down her cheek. He’s too young, God. Eight is much too young to die.
If she knew nothing else, she knew that much.
Donny sat up in bed still as a mouse, listening. Voices floated into his room from other parts of the house. Jose and his sister laughed, Rosita’s soft giggle almost as timid as her walk. Bo, the cook, yelled about somebody messing up his kitchen. Miss Walker’s firm, almost militant, footsteps pounded across the tile floor followed by the slamming of her office door.
Last night, while Miss Walker and the others slept, he’d wheeled his chair out of his room and into the parlor. For weeks he’d practiced easing himself out of bed and onto the floor like Doc Fairbanks had taught him. From there he’d belly-crawled to his chair and pulled himself up. He then wheeled himself from his room to the house’s main room, spinning himself around until he got dizzy. In his mind he was running and he could almost feel the wind in his hair.
One night he crashed into a table, knocking the parlor lamp on the flo
or. The broken lamp puzzled Rosita and Jose, but no one suspected him.
He was more careful after that. It wouldn’t do to let Molly know what he was capable of doing. He always dreamed of being independent, but that was before he knew that his sister had feelings for the doctor. Now fear of losing her consumed him.
Any guilt he might feel for standing between Molly and the doctor was quickly dismissed. Molly liked the ranch. Or at least she liked working with the horses and she was gradually learning about cattle. Donny made certain of that. Soon she’d get over her feelings for the doctor. He’d make certain of that too.
Meanwhile, he had to find ways of keeping them apart. Letting her go to church alone with the doctor had been a mistake and he wouldn’t let it happen again. It would only be for a couple more weeks. Once Molly signed Miss Walker’s papers forbidding her to marry, Donny could relax. Never again would he have to worry about a man stealing her away from him. Or putting him in an institution. He counted on it.
At long last the house settled down. Nonetheless, he waited until after nine before beginning the short but torturous journey from the bed to his chair.
Heaving himself into the seat, he waited a moment to catch his breath before pressing down on the wheels and rolling across the room. He opened the door and listened, surprised to hear low voices. He recognized Molly’s voice at once, but who was the other? Dr. Fairbanks!
Donny froze. What was the doctor doing here so late? And why hadn’t he heard Bertha? Sometimes the doctor parked a distance away so as not to disturb the animals or upset Miss Walker. Is that what he’d done tonight?
“Molly, you’ve got to tell Donny. He has the right to know.”
Donny stiffened, waiting for Molly’s reply, but either none came or Molly’s voice was too soft for him to hear.
Donny strained his ears, but it was no use. Molly and the doctor had stepped outside. Hands shaking, Donny closed the door to his room.
Molly was getting married. That’s what she didn’t want to tell him. She and the doctor were getting married! Even now they were probably talking about putting him away in one of those horrid institutions.
Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) Page 22
