Sage clapped her hands and crossed the room, impulsively wrapping Tarra in her arms.
“Thank you, dear sister,” she said, and she meant it. “These tonics mean so much to me, and it is urgent that I identify what I did wrong, or a proper correction.”
“You’re welcome. Besides, if you have any spare time, you could use it to dress for supper, maybe fix your hair. You look a fright. And we are having company.”
Tarra winked at Sage before she finally did close the door and head back toward the ranch house, passing through their mother’s herb garden on the way.
Sage reached up to touch her hair, which seemed to be going every which way. She felt a tingle of anticipation that Mr. Jackson would be joining them, but she really didn’t want her sisters needling her like they did about Dr. Folsom—she couldn’t imagine being interested in him. But as her thoughts lingered on Clint, she felt warm and safe—he believed in her. He appreciated her and for some reason thought she had what it took to make tonics that could help people. Maybe she should put a little extra effort into her appearance—well, her hair at least—as she really was looking forward to spending the evening with him.
She turned back to the book, committed to just spend a little while longer researching, then she would set to changing for supper. She only hoped that Tarra’s good-natured concern for propriety would hold until after the pot roast was done—and would rub off on Pepper as well.
Chapter 18
Clint was certain that he hadn’t had any pre-conceived notion of what a ranch on the western frontier would be like, and he was surprised that he was so impressed with what he saw as he crossed through the gates of Archer Ranch. The huge, iron sign that graced the gravel road was quite grand—and large—and certainly not like anything he’d seen in New York.
He followed the tree-lined road and looked up at the twisting leaves of cottonwood trees, their dappled shade shielding him from the afternoon sun. He stopped for a moment, taking in the horse corral at the far end of the property, a barn that sounded like it had quite a few animals in it—chickens, mostly, from the sound—and completed his turn and peered at a large, rambling white house with a roof of what looked like brick-colored tiles. The porch that surrounded it was wide, and looked as though it would offer good shade in the hot summer months that were rapidly approaching.
On his right was a smaller version of the large, white house, replete with an interesting herb garden surrounded by a wall made of the same substance as the house, it appeared. It seemed as though he’d seen something similar in the construction of churches, but it wasn’t something he saw often.
As he slowly passed the smaller building, a crash of what sounded like glass emanated from the open door, and a familiar woman’s voice caught his attention.
“Oh, no,” he heard Sage cry.
He hurriedly hopped down from his father’s horse and quickly patted his mane, wrapping the reins over a hitching post in the front of the building.
He hurried inside, stopping short and taking off his hat before he slowly poked his head inside the door.
“Sage?” he asked, his eyes adjusting to the absence of the bright sun outside.
He saw her figure across the small room and watched as she lifted her apron and mopped at a purple liquid that seeped across the bench with one hand as her other hand held up a leather bound journal, as far from the liquid as possible.
“Can I help you?” he asked after waiting a moment.
“Take this, please.”
Sage held out the journal in his direction without turning around, and he snatched it as quickly as he could, assuming by her actions that it was something of great value.
She completed her task, all the while mumbling under her breath.
“I don’t have any more. I need more saffron. I was so close—so close.”
Clint closed the book and tucked it under his arm for safekeeping.
“Shall I go and fetch her for you?” he asked.
Sage turned and saw him for the first time, her eyes blinking slowly as if she was coming out of a fog.
“What are you doing here?” she finally said after a few moments.
He stiffened and took a step back. He reached into his vest pocket for his pocket watch and verified that he was, in fact, on time as per the invitation for Sunday supper.
“I’m here for supper. It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”
He smiled as the realization spread across Sage’s face. She certainly must have been deep in her project to not realize what day it was—or what time. Or maybe it wasn’t something she was looking forward to as much as he had been.
She reached up and patted her hair, then wiped her hands on her apron.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I must have lost track of time.”
“I see that you are quite dedicated to your work, and I’m sorry if I startled you. Would you like me to go fetch your sister for you?”
Sage looked at him, clearly confused.
“My sister?”
“Saffron—you said you need Saffron. I can go—”
He stopped abruptly when she burst into laughter. It was a sound that he’d actually grown quite fond of in the short time he’d known her, and he felt his own smile spread.
“Oh, goodness. I don’t need Saffron. I mean, I don’t need my sister, Saffron. I need the spice saffron.”
She walked toward him and held her hand out, pointing to the journal he’d kept safe.
He handed it to her and followed her as she turned toward the bench, plopped the book down and gingerly opened it and flipped some pages. She stood back a moment and pointed to a passage, written in a very neat hand. It had a description of saffron and next to it was an equally neat drawing of the plant.
“My, that’s quite elaborate. And it says that it helps with coughs and difficulty breathing.”
“Yes, yes, it does.”
Sage began to pace in the small workshop.
“I didn’t use it in the previous tonics, either for you father or the miner, as it can cause side effects if not used with a responsive illness.”
“You wouldn’t just try it to see what happened?”
Sage stopped in her tracks and spun in his direction. He took another step back at the look of surprise on her face.
“No, certainly not.”
She stepped toward the journal once more, flipping to the beginning of the book. She lovingly smoothed the page and placed her hand on her heart before turning toward him once again.
“This is my mother’s journal. It holds descriptions of all the herbs that she used, the Indian knowledge that was shared with her. But with that knowledge is a fundamental principle, and I’m sure it will sound familiar to you.”
She pointed to a passage at the very beginning of the journal and he leaned in close to see it better. Smells of every type wafted over him and the smell of the herbs was quite heady. He could see why Sage would want to spend her time here.
As he read the passage, he understood in an instant her concerns, and had a better feeling for her heartfelt commitment to individuals in need.
“Do no harm,” he said quietly. “That’s in the Hippocratic oath, what we all swear to do as physicians.”
Her clear blue eyes misted a bit as she nodded slowly.
“Yes. In passing this knowledge from generation to generation, one must promise to use as light a touch as possible in the beginning, hopeful that small doses and tonics will ease pain and provide comfort, even possibly complete healing. So, in your father’s and the miner’s cases, I started with the lightest touch I could. And they were responding quite nicely for the first bit. I shouldn’t have needed more.”
“And then something changed,” Clint said as he walked down the line of dark brown tonic bottles and came to the glass jars that were neatly labeled with the type of herb inside.
“Exactly. And I still don’t know why.”
Clint came to the end of the bench that was covered in a purple liquid, the
one that Sage had spilled before he entered. He leaned over and sniffed at it, smiling at the familiar scent.
“Elderberries,” he said.
Sage smiled and nodded.
“For medicinal purposes? I don’t imagine these grow around here.” Clint pointed to a bottle on the shelf. “May I?”
“Of course,” Sage said. “That’s just the standard elderberry syrup that I put the herbs in. Sadie at the restaurant orders them for me, this and the bottles. It’s not really necessary, but it certainly makes the tonics more palatable.”
“Elderberry syrup has been around for ages,” Clint said. He pulled the round cork from the top of the bottle and sniffed. “I remember it from when I was a little boy.”
Sage wiped her hands again on her apron.
“Yes. But some people believe it’s just sugar water.”
Clint shook his head.
“I can’t imagine who would say that. It has well-known medicinal properties and would be a perfect delivery means for any additional substances.”
Sage was silent for a moment and he thought she may have wiped a tear from her eye, a sight that tugged at his heart.
“What is it, Sage?”
Anger rose in her defense as she shared what Dr. Folsom had said to her about her tonics. She explained that he’d locked his office and didn’t want to have anything to do with her tonics any longer, but would allow her to dispense them if she wanted.
“He couldn’t really mean that,” Clint said when she’d finished.
Sage turned back to the journal, gently closing it and tucking it away on a shelf above her head.
“He said it, and he meant it. I think I finally realized that he had no respect or confidence in my abilities, and that was a bit of a surprise. But after seeing both your father and the miner take a turn for the worse, I can certainly understand why he’d feel that way.”
The hurt in her voice cut him deeply. He’d seen her with the miner, and many times with his father, and the doctor certainly couldn’t have suspected her sincerity or concern.
As to the quality of her tonics—well, he wasn’t sure why but he didn’t believe that she’d done anything wrong, and that she was quite capable, if not gifted, in her calling. Her reputation was impeccable, and the times he’d been in the doctor’s office, it seemed to him that more people had come to get her tonics than to see the actual doctor. There had to be some other explanation—but for now, he wanted her to know that he had confidence in her ability and the most natural way he knew how was to take her in his arms, tell her how wonderful she was.
He brushed a stray hair from her cheek and wanted badly to give in to his instincts. Instead, he looked away from her earnest blue eyes toward the bottles of tonic.
“I believe in you, Sage. There has to be some explanation, and I promise you I will find it.”
Chapter 19
Her journal back in its safe spot and the workshop cleaned up for the night, Sage walked Clint up to the house for supper. He asked about the adobe construction of the ranch on the way, and she explained why the whole building was white. The bricks underneath the plaster would wash away in the heavy summer rains if they weren’t protected. She felt quite proud of the ranch house, and as they approached the porch, she had a memory of her mother and father sitting on the porch swing, sipping lemonade in the heat of the summer. The porch was so wide that they could all sit out and watch the lightning storms and never feel a drop.
She tucked away the memory and the dark wooden door swung open as they approached.
“We were wondering what happened to you, Sage, and when Mr. Jackson might arrive,” Tarra said, her eyes sparkling as she stepped back and gestured them in.
Sage took in a deep breath, narrowing her eyes at her sister as she preceded Clint into the foyer.
“Well, Sage, it appears you didn’t have time to dress for supper,” her father, Beau Archer, boomed as he stepped forward, his hand extended to Clint.
Introductions made, Sage excused herself and hustled to her room down the hall, hoping to freshen up and prevent the rest of her sisters commenting on her appearance. In front of the mirror, she gasped...what must Clint think of her? Not only was her hair in disarray, but she had streaks of purple—elderberry syrup—on her cheeks.
She reached to wipe off the streaks and paused for a moment, thinking of when he’d brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. She’d known his father for quite some time, and shouldn’t have been surprised that the young Mr. Jackson was also kind and supportive—but the memory of the gesture tingled on her cheek.
She brushed the thought aside and hastily changed into one of her best dresses, combing through her hair and reaching for her mother’s pearl earrings—her favorite.
When she entered the hallway and headed toward the dining room, she heard her father grilling Clint about his studies, his time in New York and about his thoughts of Tombstone.
“Well, not many people realize what a thriving town this has become in the past few years. The Earps are long gone, and after the shootout at the OK Corral, things have settled down.”
Clint stood when Sage entered the room, and all her sisters glanced in her direction as well. Her face flushed as she reached Clint—she wasn’t sure why, it was a simple supper—but she felt all eyes on her.
“Well, here’s Sage,” Tarra said and Sage’s stomach thudded to the ground. Surely, she’d impressed upon Tarra how much she’d wanted Clint to be comfortable.
She let out a sigh of relief when Tarra continued.
“We’re so concerned for your father, Mr. Jackson. I do hope that he is improving.”
Clint glanced at Sage and smiled a bit.
“I’m afraid I can’t say that. I really don’t know if the end is nigh, but I am savoring every moment I have with him.”
The room fell into an awkward silence until Pepper entered the room, braids flying.
“Maria says come to the table now or you’ll be having cold pot roast.”
Sage shook her head—her family certainly didn’t stand on ceremony. Clint held out his arm for her. She took a nervous glance at Tarra and noticed that her eyebrows were raised and her head cocked in her direction.
Choosing to ignore any glances from her family, Sage looped her arm through Clint’s and guided him toward the dining room.
Platters were passed and plates filled, and Sage was sinking into the friendly family banter when there was a knock on the door. She frowned and glanced at the foyer as Pepper rushed to open the door.
Sage’s ears perked up at two familiar voices—Mrs. Allen and Dr. Folsom.
Her father stood and strode to the door, extending his hand toward Mrs. Allen, who had become a fixture at their Sunday suppers.
“I’m so glad you could join us, my dear.” He leaned over and lightly brushed his lips on her hand, and Sage noticed that Pepper giggled and the other girls rose their eyebrows.
“Ah, I see you’ve brought the fine doctor with you,” Mr. Archer said loudly, glancing back into the dining room.
Sage’s stomach lurched once more—a record number of times in one day—and she pushed her chair back and stood. Whatever was Dr. Folsom doing here? He hadn’t been invited, to her knowledge.
“Hello, Mr. Archer. I’ve come to speak with Sage, if that’s possible,” the doctor said as Mr. Archer ushered them into the foyer and Maria scrambled to set two more places at the table.
“Oh, of course,” Sage’s father said. “But please join us for supper first. We’ve just sat down, and our group is complete now.”
Dr. Folsom and Mrs. Allen sat down and greeted those at the table. Sage choked down her pot roast as the conversation bounced from the potential strikes at the mine, the disagreements about the leadership of the town, the library fundraiser and everything, it seemed, about Tombstone. Clint seemed very interested in the conversation, asking pointed questions about how Tombstone was growing, and seemed particularly moved by her family’s gracious comments about h
is father, and how the funeral parlor had been such a blessing to the growing town.
The doctor helped himself to a third portion of Maria’s pot roast when the conversation turned once more to the prognosis of Clint’s father.
“I am not exactly certain what his prognosis is. He’s been taking Sage’s tonic, and the doctor here has been treating him, but I’m unsure what will transpire, I am sad to say.”
Dr. Folsom’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth as he looked form Sage to Clint and all eyes turned in his direction.
The doctor gathered himself and took his last bite of his third helping of pot roast, cleared his throat and pressed his napkin to his lips before scooting back from the table.
“Mr. Jackson, we did discuss this in my office a while ago. I’d be happy to discuss it again, but it does involve patient confidentiality which I’ve spoken with Sage about as well.”
He stood and bowed slightly toward Mr. Archer.
“Thank you for supper. I hadn’t intended to stay for that but it was delicious, Maria, as always.”
Mrs. Allen gazed at the doctor, one eyebrow cocked.
“You mustn’t run, Doctor. The girls will be singing shortly, and it’s the highlight of the evening.” She paused and drummed her fingers on the table as she held his gaze.
The doctor stood and frowned slightly.
“I’m sorry. I mustn’t stay. I have many patients to see, you see,” he said before turning to Sage.
“Sage, might I have a word? Outside, please.”
Sage noticed that her father had begun to glare at the doctor—and that Maria stood in the corner, her arms folded over her chest glaring at him, too.
Under the table, Clint’s warm hand covered hers with a slight squeeze. She didn’t understand the sinking feeling she felt in her stomach, but she had no trouble understanding that the sensation of Clint’s hand on hers made it lessen.
“I certainly understand that you must go, Dr. Folsom. Patients are very important. Our silly songs don’t compare.”
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