Healing Hearts (Easton Series #2)

by Murray, Anna

  Healing Hearts

  By

  Anna Murray

  Healing Hearts, Copyright 2011, by Renee Murray. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Chapter 1

  Wounded Colt, Montana Territory

  April 1869

  Was I shouting in my sleep again?

  Doctor Jed Rutherford had woken from his insistent nightmare, shaking and drowning in sweat, his heart pounding like artillery fire. The dark terror of the dream writhed in his belly: A confederate prisoner-of-war stepped over the deadline -- a boundary etched into the dirt to form a prison without bars. Jed's heart was lodged in his throat as he watched helplessly when the gray ran across, chasing the cap that had flown off his head. The mental lapse carried grave consequence. A shot pierced the camp air as a Union guard discharged his weapon, and there was nothing Jed could do for the screaming soldier. The man was sliding to hell on a broken back.

  Now clawing his way to a dry patch of crumpled sheet like a desperate man searching for shelter in a storm, Jed grunted and pulled one bronzed arm across a clammy brow while the other one trawled the nightstand for a grain of morphine. He needed the drug badly. Indeed, his sanity hung on the fact that it would soon be burning in his veins.

  As always after such an episode, Jed battled against the sweltering fear riding an undercurrent of anger, his sorry state made all the greater by recent events: A measles epidemic had ripped across the valley, not a week after his partner abandoned him. Jed was doctoring solo in this prairie-dog town shot into the depths of nowhere. Sickness and death surrounded him; his battlefront-frayed nerves were constant reminder of the years stolen from his life . . . never to be regained.

  These days Jed felt twice his age of thirty-one. Outwardly he appeared a young, handsome man, but the demons had tattered his spirit, and hidden disfigurement ebbed and flowed with the magma of loathing and self-revulsion.

  The weary doctor stared at the whitewashed ceiling and consoled himself with the certainty that the good citizens of Wounded Colt didn’t know, or even suspect, the truth: Their medicine man hadn’t come all the way back from the war. Memories ran short in the territories, and after all, he’d served as a surgeon, not a soldier, and thus his affliction couldn’t be the shellshock of the unwashed masses. Little did they realize, the horrors reserved for men of Jed’s noble station wore on like one endless battle: Unchecked bleeding from gaping wounds, amputations done without proper anesthesia, infections. The recent measles outbreak had rekindled a dark stalking dread, and the panic swept over him in rising waves, too much like the old past terrors when most men in his care succumbed to common diseases like dysentery, typhoid, diphtheria, and measles.

  Jed figured hell couldn’t be worse than the loss and deprivation he'd witnessed during those years. At Antietam the bodies lay so thick he could walk across the battlefield without touching the ground. Men ripped at their clothing to find their wounds, probing and praying it wasn’t a gut shot. Volunteer nurses held the suffering boys’ hands as they called out for their mamas. No matter how many times he told himself he wasn’t to blame, he couldn’t forget the suffering and his damned mortal limitations. None of it was his fault. Severe supply shortages had reduced Jed to desperate measures like covering wounds with corn leaf bandages, ripped from nearby stalks on the battlefield, until Clara Barton or the sanitation commission arrived with a creaking wagonload of medical supplies.

  After the war ended Jed’s nightmares had continued, running to limbs and bodies piled up like cordwood. Phantom blood ran deep enough to drown a man’s faith in humanity. It wasn't his fault, he told himself again.

  Jed shoved the opiate into his mouth and quickly downed it with one gulp of tepid water from the tin cup he kept at his bedside. As the drug began to take hold he felt relief. Memories were chased back to the edge of awareness.

  Jed's addiction had started innocently enough, with drinking, which was easy to cover because the Union surgeons controlled the whiskey supply, but Jed had faded into experimentation with ether, and then the opiates. Hell, he thought, most of the surgeons in the outfit ended up, at the least, heavy drinkers. The weakest among them desperately put rifles to their own chests. He wasn't to blame.

  Then, shortly after the war ended, Wounded Colt’s aging doctor requested help. At the time, Jed was at the Indiana Medical College, taking training recommended by his Minnesota friend, Mayo. “For you, this is a chance to make a new start,” his mentor had assured him. As there was nothing holding him back, Jed answered Doctor Chandler’s call and hauled his angry and irritable self to Montana territory.

  It was a journey he’d taken with few reservations, but on the rare days Jed was being honest he’d admit he’d broken one promise. Lord, Mariah was a treasure. Her gentle smile, soft laughter and loving words had waited for him to come home after Lee’s surrender. Even now he chastised himself, for his inability to overcome his bitterness enough to pen a proper letter to his betrothed. How could he explain to such innocence that his youthful dreams were an early casualty of the war, abandoned to cruel, harsh reality? No, he could not, and he could never be the husband she deserved. After all, a trail of broken hearts and betrayals followed the war, and she’d someday come to understand. Perhaps her brother, Carl, who had served on the front lines, would explain to her the infirmities of war.

  Jed’s parents were also baffled by his behavior, and they wrote as much in their letters, but he was never able to summon the courage to tell them: The boy they raised was dead. They’d surely fear the son he’d become.

  Jed had buried his feelings with his dead patients. He’d left his better self on a battlefield, and what remained was a broken man, living in the shadow of lingering depression.

  Jed lifted his head and gazed at the early morning sun streaks angling through the faded blue, wind-blown bedroom curtain.

  Birds twittered. Roosters crowed. A horse whinnied.

  When Jed listened to the sounds of prairie life he knew this post in Wounded Colt suited him. A frontier town overlooked a man’s debts -- especially a doctor’s vices. Wounded Colt needed him as much as he needed it. After all, the town wandered at the crossroads of two dangerous livelihoods: Mining and ranching. A doctor was a valued citizen, and not only did the prairie town hold the advantage of dismissing any indiscretions, but a professional man lacking a wife was accepted without question. Without a doubt, Wounded Colt had enticed Jed the way an oasis lured a thirsty traveller in the desert.

  In the year since he’d arrived, the practice had grown. At first Jed was frustrated with the quackery and outdated methods of his practice colleague, Chandler. Oh, he’d made progress in educating the man, but then the old doc decided to split the practice, giving Jed the more populous area around Wounded Colt, while Chandler moved to the other side of the valley. Chandler deemed it a practical decision. Separated, they could cover more territory, yet Jed couldn’t help but wonder if his own bouts of anxiety and irritability had pushed Chandler over the edge. The prickly old porcupine’s quills had spiked up more than once over Jed’s morphine habit.

  Chandler’s departure left Jed with a new problem: He could no longer rely on his partner to cover his backside when he had a fitful night or foggy lapses in concentration.

  Absorbed in contemplation betrayed by a furrow etched deep in his brow, Jed hauled himself up in the bed, pres
sing smooth, strong hands over his rumpled shirt and wool pants. Feeling the sting of shame creep into his stomach, he swung his weary limbs over the side, rose, and walked, wooden-legged, to his swivel chair at the writing desk. Jed hesitated only briefly before he gripped a pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and addressed a request to his colleague at Indiana Medical College.

  Dear Doctor Cole,

  I hope this letter finds you, your colleagues, and your students well. I am fine, but Wounded Colt grows quickly, and I have need of an assistant surgeon to commence work straight away. I can offer lodging and forty-five dollars a month. I respect your discretion in choosing a suitable candidate.

  Yours,

  Doctor Jedediah A. Rutherford

  Jed’s bloodshot eyes danced across the scrawl as he checked his spelling. Satisfied, he blotted and signed the letter, reached into a drawer, and pulled out an envelope. Then he loped over to his bed, leaned across it, and recovered his boots from the side near the window, where they’d fallen when his exhausted body hit the hay the previous evening. He sat and tugged them on and ran a hand over the stubble covering his jaw. He decided he’d shave when he got back from his errand.

  After a few moments Jed checked to make sure the ink was dry. Satisfied with his correspondence, he folded it into the envelope and walked down the stairs, past the bright examining room, and into the street.

  The doctor’s little clapboard house wore the dubious distinction of being the last on the edge of town. The location provided him privacy, and a healthy walk to the Main Street. Jed loved his quiet surgery and home; the place billowed with air whenever he opened the windows. This was vital, it was the key to good health. Jed’s patients recovered more quickly when exposed to clean, crisp breezes.

  On this spring day Jed’s long, purposeful stride ate up the dirt; his thick brown hair flew from his blue eyes and angular face as he made for Watkin’s General Store.

  His walk took him by the jail, and Roy Easton, the town sheriff, paced back and forth on the boardwalk. Jed quickened his step and saluted him stiffly.

  “Roy.”

  The sheriff touched his hat brim and squinted. He’d recognized Jed at a hundred paces; Roy Easton was one of the few tall men who could face Jed straight on. “Rutherford,” he snapped. “What good fortune brings your path across mine today?”

  “Posting a letter. I’m sending for a mail-order doc to join my practice.” He slowed his pace but kept walking.

  “You don’t say?” Easton grimaced. “About time you had assistance.”

  “We’re down to three with measles, but I don’t want to go it alone the next time. I’m on my way to check on Hunt’s brood after I stop at Watkins.” He smiled tightly.

  “Good luck.” The sheriff settled a hand on his wide gun belt.

  “Right. Give my best to your brother, Cal, and his wife, Sarah.” Jed called back as he strode further away and out of conversation distance. It paid to be cautious around Roy Easton. A former cowboy and the silent partner at the Mineral Creek ranch, Easton was the one man in town who likely knew of Jed’s weakness, and it was downright uncomfortable to dwell on the possibility. Easton hadn’t fought in the War Between the States, but as a lawman he’d been down the trail and back. There wasn’t much that escaped his notice. It was even possible he suspected what sparked the letter. Jed had come close to losing a patient, due to being tired and stretched like a deer hide at the tanning. He barely dodged botching the case; the man had hung on in spite of him arriving late to the blood-letting.

  Cold, hard reality crashed into Jed. He was on the path to oblivion, and it was his duty to deal straight on with his condition.

  As he neared Watkins, Jed shoved a hand into his duster pocket. He fingered a surgical knife he found inside, and pushing the store door open with his shoulder, he strode over the plank floor. The place was empty but for Watkins obsessively wiping a rag over the counter. He glanced up, noting the condition of Jed’s cambric shirt, and grunted.

  “Doc. Can I steer you to buying new shirts?” He continued his cleaning.

  Jed wagged his head back and forth. “I have a letter to send.”

  Earl Watkins dropped the cloth to the counter. “It’ll go out with the two-ten rider.”

  “Very good. Put it on my account. Thank you, Earl.”

  Jed pulled the envelope from his pocket and passed it across the counter. Earl took the letter, scanned the address lines, and placed it a wooden box behind him.

  Relief washed over Jed as he retreated back to the street. Help was on the way. Doctor Cole would send a good man.

  Chapter 2

  May is the month for journeys, thought Hannah Sutton. She’d traveled up the Missouri river by steamboat, and now she rode in a lurching supply wagon to her final destination.

  Under a starry sky, Hannah inhaled the damp night air and began to wonder if she’d truly accepted the job.

  She told herself she was thrilled . . .

  She peered at the shadows dancing across the desolate landscape and hesitated briefly in her self-consolation.

  She was grateful . . . she was needed here . . .

  Hannah shifted on the hard seat as she tried to find something uplifting about this new life. She’d managed to find something special about each day for most of her twenty-six years, but now loneliness and frustration were closing in. She quickly turned her thoughts to the sick and injured, who needed her skills, and her lips curved upward. Doctor Rutherford would gain her hands and what she could give of her heart – to the work, of course. Her efforts would surely be appreciated.

  Hannah’s inescapable destination had been forged in a long ago conflagration. Her carefree years were taken before she celebrated her ninth birthday, but her father had worked tirelessly to ensure her education. He said nothing could steal a body’s book smarts and training.

  Now events moved at a blinding speed. She’d quickly penned notes to friends and family, and when Hannah embarked on the arduous journey she focused forward. She was driven to bury the past ever deeper; these measures of her life music were marked accelerando.

  Smiling softly, she touched the letter in her pocket, and recalled how she’d made her decision when she’d seen Rutherford’s hand on the thin letter paper. She imagined a firm confidence beneath the simple, bold strokes; such sure-footed script came from a man who led others, one who was intelligent and direct and honest.

  “Wounded Colt!” The wiry driver croaked in a raspy voice Hannah associated with a tobacco habit. The wagon yawed and creaked as it turned onto the town’s main street.

  Her heart aflutter with anticipation, Hannah swayed against the rocking motion and gripped the sideboard. Leaning forward, she squinted, hoping to see her new colleague. Alas, crickets and frogs formed the lone welcoming committee, and all were jumping away from the grinding wagon wheels. She knew Doctor Rutherford would be waiting for her along the main street, so she composed herself, smoothed her hair. Hannah would have to make the introductory remarks, as he’d be expecting a man. She furrowed her brow, searching for the right words to say in that first awkward moment. It wouldn’t be easy, but then nothing in her life had been easy since the fire.

  She was confident of one thing: It wasn’t likely anyone would remember gangly eleven-year-old Amy Sutton. She’d grown to full womanhood. Her curly chestnut hair had calmed to gentle waves. Her cheeks were no longer rosy childhood plump; her skin was soft ivory, her lips full. She’d reclaimed her Christian name on the day she’d taken her seat at college, the day she dedicated her life to the service of alleviating physical suffering and caring for others in need.

  Hannah reminded herself of the advantages of accepting the job in Wounded Colt. She knew well the liberation ladies enjoyed in the territories. Plucky Montana women didn’t have the burden of petticoats or corsets, and she was excited by the prospect of such freedoms. In warm weather she could wear a lighter skirt, something soft that wouldn’t brush her legs. Although they weren’t sore anymore,
Hannah sometimes felt phantom pains, reminders of the scars of a lost childhood.

  Hannah took a deep breath and settled restless hands in her lap. Doctor Cole had approached her with this job offer because she was finishing her studies. She was ready for the next challenge. He told her he thought she’d find acceptance easier on the frontier. As one of less than a handful of women who’d been allowed into medical schools, Hannah had met with disbelief and distrust in her patients. Indeed, she’d sometimes felt these same sentiments from her own classmates. But this was Wounded Colt. She’d likely encounter minds as open as the sprawling range. She mustered her courage and determination to meet her new partner.

  The driver slowed the horses to a plodding amble. Main Street was quiet, except for gusts of laughter drifting from the town’s saloon.

  “Whoa Pops, whoa Sam.” The driver pulled on the reins, and they halted.

  A single man stepped forward from the shadows.

  “Evenin’, Charles.”

  “Howdy, Roy.”

  The new stranger was tall and young and Hannah saw the outline of a gun belt riding low on his hips. Her heart lurched at the sight, but she relaxed when she made out a glinting star on his wool vest. A tentative smile played across her lips.

  The lawman’s gaze fell upon the lone passenger. “Well, now. Here’s a nice surprise. Howdy, Miss.” He doffed his hat and grinned. Then he barked up at the driver. “Where’s Rutherford’s bone healer?”

  “I’m the doctor.” Hannah summoned a wider smile and extended her hand, while putting the other into her pocket, ready to produce Dr. Rutherford’s letter as proof.

  The stranger named “Roy” dropped his jaw. “I’ll be. You’re the mail order?”

  “Doctor. Not a bride.” She regretted the words as soon as they slipped from her mouth. Her cheeks blazed.

  He raised an amused eyebrow. “Hmmm. Welcome, Miss, er, Doctor.” He offered a hand to assist in her debark from the high step. Hannah lit on the ground, but she was yet unsteady on her feet, so she leaned against the sheriff’s side.