Trail of Longing (Hot on the Trail Book 3)

by Merry Farmer

  “I tell you what,” Dean said. “I promise that I will stay out of your business and let you carry on in any way you see fit.”

  Russ’s sly smile dropped to slack surprise. “Really?”

  “Yes. Come with me.”

  Without waiting to see if Russ would follow, knowing that he would, Dean turned and marched back across the line of wagons. Aiden’s fiddling turned upbeat and excited as Dean walked though their camp, Russ tailing him. As they marched through the parked wagons and the various families enjoying their evening’s rest, several sets of eyes followed them. They made a curious parade, especially with Aiden’s musical accompaniment. A few of the children got up and wandered after them as well, glad for a diversion from the monotony of the trail. Sensing something was about to happen, a few of the adults stood as well.

  As they crossed through the Boyles’ camp, Emma hopped up from her stool, and Mrs. Sutton called out, “Why Russ, how pleasant to see you. Did you come for Emma?”

  “Madam, I—” Russ started, but gave up as Dean marched on.

  Mrs. Sutton stood to follow, as did Emma. They kept going, all the way to one of the wagons near the back of the train. There, near a wagon whose cover was rolled up and tied on one side to reveal its contents, Dean stopped.

  “Here we are,” he said to Russ, though more than a dozen people had gathered behind him. “Russell Sandifer, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Colleen O’Grady.”

  The rest of the O’Gradys, sitting around their campfire, looked around as if surprised to find themselves so much the center of attention. Russ scanned their pale, freckled faces and bright red hair with reservation. But they were not who Dean had brought him to see. There was a rustling from the wagon, and an old, white-haired woman sat up with a painful wince.

  “Dr. Meyers,” she said with a brogue so thick Dean had to listen carefully to understand her. “How kind of you to visit me at such an hour.”

  Mrs. O’Grady’s son got up from the campfire and came around to the back of the wagon to lift her and bring her out to join the activity. The poor woman was old and frail, but still full of smiles. Her hands were knobbed with arthritis. Dean had enjoyed walking with her the other day. They’d made some progress together. The poultices he’d put together for her had given her some relief. But she had taken a bad turn the day before. Her feet had become so swollen and painful that she had her shoes off now. When her son helped her to sit on the bench he’d vacated, she sighed with agony.

  “How are you feeling today?” Dean asked, moving to kneel by her side. He caught Emma’s approving gaze out of the corner of his eye. It gave him confidence.

  “Oh, I’ve been a mite better in me days,” Mrs. O’Grady answered.

  “Good.” Dean smoothed his hand over hers, careful not to cause pain. “I’ve brought Dr. Sandifer here to take a look at your arthritic hands and feet to see if there’s anything more that can be done.”

  “That pizzle?” the old woman murmured.

  Dean fought not to smile as he stood. He gestured to Mrs. O’Grady, meeting Russ’s eyes. “Dr. Sandifer, if you would.”

  Russ stayed where he was. His smile had vanished. He eyed Mrs. O’Grady with sharp suspicion. At last, he cleared his throat and said, “A dose of Sandifer’s Special Serum will cheer her right up.”

  A few hums of approval sounded from the cluster of people who had come to watch, but not many.

  “Yes,” Dean said, “but what’s wrong with her? In your professional medical opinion.”

  He caught Emma’s eyes. There was a spark in them that told him she knew what he was doing. A soft flush painted her cheeks. Dean’s heart beat faster. He was doing this for her, to win her.

  “She’s… she’s old,” Russ said, backing a step farther from Mrs. O’Grady.

  “That I am,” Mrs. O’Grady laughed. “Me bones is old, me skin is old, and me mind is oldest of all.”

  “Come now, Russ, old friend,” Dean said. “You know as well as I that the only way to diagnose a patient properly is to complete a thorough examination. Come look at her hands and feet.”

  “Why… er….” Russ stumbled.

  “Is there some problem with you examining a sweet old woman in pain?” Emma asked, surprising Dean, surprising everyone. Dean’s heart soared.

  Russ glanced to Emma as though he had been backed into a corner. “No, no, not at all.” He tried to smile, but only managed to look vaguely sick.

  “Then please.” Dean found a low stool and moved it to Mrs. O’Grady’s side. “Sit here.”

  There was no way Russ could back out now, and they both knew it. Russ inched forward, alternately smiling at the people who watched him and glaring at Dean. He sat on the stool and stared at the hem of Mrs. O’Grady’s skirt as though a demon lurked behind it.

  “Go on,” Dean said. “It’s not a pretty sight, but a doctor of your caliber should think nothing at all of illness or injury. You should see the patient beyond the malady and treat them accordingly. Or do you not like the sight of less than perfect flesh?”

  Dean already knew the answer to his own question. He’d seen Russ nearly faint a dozen times or more at the sight of horrific wounds or malformations. Russ glanced at his audience, then gingerly lifted the hem of Mrs. O’Grady’s skirt.

  The poor woman’s feet were a mess of swollen joints and discolored skin. She had a cut across one of her toes that was refusing to heal and had festered slightly. Dean was keeping a close eye on it, cleaning it and doing his utmost to prevent more infection, but he knew as well as Mrs. O’Grady that her feet would never win a blue ribbon at the county fair. It didn’t help that the faint stench of decay lingered around them.

  Russ pulled back, making a choking sound. “Sandifer’s Special Serum,” he croaked, turning green. “That’s what I recommend.”

  “You recommended that to make me bolder,” Emma said quietly from the side. “Are you saying the same vile medicine that would make one person bolder would cure arthritic feet?”

  “Emma, hold your tongue,” her mother snapped.

  Russ stood fast, knocking over his stool. “I would expect a trick such as this from a mentally deficient coward like you,” he fired at Dean.

  Dean only smiled. He had expected this. Typical Russ—deflecting attention from his own shortcomings by concocting lies about someone else. “It’s not a trick.” He shrugged. “I’m merely asking you, one physician to another, what the best course of action for Mrs. O’Grady might be.”

  “And I’ve told you,” Russ insisted. He pivoted to face the people who had gathered around, putting on a tight smile. “Sandifer’s Special Serum will—”

  “What is your professional diagnosis of Mrs. O’Grady’s condition?” Dean interrupted, stepping to stand by Russ’s side, arms crossed. “What is her presentation and how would you interpret those symptoms?”

  “Er.” Russ hesitated. He started scratching his head, then jerked his hand away when he realized what he was doing. Dean smirked. He’d had the same tick in medical school when he was asked a question he couldn’t answer. “Arthritis,” he said at length.

  “Dr. Meyers has already stated that Mrs. O’Grady suffers from arthritis,” Emma spoke quietly. “Even I can tell that much.”

  “Emma, hold your tongue,” her mother hissed. “Let the doctor do his work.”

  “Ah, but I’m afraid that’s precisely my point,” Dean said. He uncrossed his arms and gestured to the people around them. “Dr. Sandifer is not doing any work. Not medicinal work, at least. He is nothing but a salesman.”

  “Why you—” Russ began. He balled his hands into fists and took a threatening step toward Dean.

  Dean held up his hands in defense and acquiescence. “There’s nothing wrong with being a salesman,” he said. “If people want to buy snake oil from you, I can’t stop them.”

  “Snake oil?” one of the bystanders echoed.

  “I wouldn’t take that demon stuff if I was on death’s door and angels poured it dow
n me gullet,” Mrs. O’Grady mumbled.

  Russ wasn’t finished. “I’ll have you know,” he puffed himself up, “that Sandifer’s Special Serum is manufactured by the finest alchemists in the land.”

  “Alchemy, is it?” Mrs. O’Grady exclaimed, then cackled like a hen.

  “A true physician doesn’t rely on alchemy to treat the sick and injured,” Dean explained to the crowd. “A true physician understands the laws of Nature and of Science. He observes and questions. He tests and treats. A true physician knows both his craft and the needs of his patients.” He finished his speech by turning to Russ. “Do you understand the needs of your patients?”

  “Of course I do,” Russ snapped. “I studied right alongside you, if you will remember. I attended the same lectures, took the same exams, and scored higher on them than you did.” His last comment was addressed in a booming voice to those watching. “This man standing before you, this doctor, scraped his way through medical school, riding on the accomplishments of others.”

  “I believe you are referring to yourself,” Dean commented, quiet enough to be subtle, but still loud enough to be heard.

  Russ pursed his lips and turned puce. “This man was dismissed from service to the Union army for rank cowardice.”

  There is was, the trump card Russ thought he held. Dean grinned… but all too soon the grin died on his lips. All around him, the men and women who had come to see the spectacle began whispering to each other. More than a few of them stared at him with shock and disappointment, shaking their heads.

  “He’s lying, of course,” Dean appealed to them.

  “I am not, sir.” Russ stood taller, rocking on the balls of his feet when he realized his attack was taking root. “You are all free to check army records yourself. Your good, kind Dr. Meyers was sacked from service in the army and imprisoned for gross cowardice. He attempted to desert the army and flee… in tears.” A few gasps sounded. “That’s right, in tears. A grown man.”

  Dean frowned, rage and old, unhealed shame spiraling up through his gut. “I served my country to the best of my ability. Conditions were severe. Men were dying all around and—”

  “And you couldn’t handle the pressure, so you deserted.” Russ smiled in triumph.

  “I am no coward,” Dean said, clenching his fists to keep his anger in check. Losing his temper wouldn’t do him any good. Losing his temper would be meeting Russ at his own level. It would be damaging, it would be ungentlemanly, it would be—

  “I am no coward, sir, but you are most certainly a charlatan and a fake.” He lost his battle to take the higher road spectacularly. “You have lied to all these people and you have lied to Emma since she first set eyes on you.”

  “Emma,” Russ said as though remembering she was there. He turned to her, a slow smile growing on his wolfish face. “Dear Emma.”

  Emma stood several paces away, between Dean and Russ. She paled and took a step back when Russ turned to her. Her glance shot desperately to Dean.

  “Tell them, my dear.” Russ advanced on them. “Tell all of these good people who the true physician is. Tell them who you would trust your life and your health to.”

  Mrs. Sutton stepped up to her daughter’s side. “Why, you, of course,” she said with an over-excited smile.

  “He asked for Emma’s answer, ma’am,” Dean said and added, “Begging your pardon.”

  “You can beg all you like, but the answer will still be the same,” Mrs. Sutton replied. “You were there with us one moment, then gone the next, off treating others when Emma still needed you. And causing such a scene. How are we to take your word over Russ’s?”

  Her question was like a knife in the back. His only hope lay with Emma. He turned to her, eyebrows raised.

  “I….” Emma opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She shut it and swallowed, glancing between Dean and Russ and her mother. Her eyes traveled on to the throng of people who now watched her, and she swayed as though faint. It took a visible effort for her to draw in a long breath and hold her shoulders square. “If Dr. Sandifer is as competent as he says he is,” she said, barely above a whisper, voice trembling, “shouldn’t he be able to diagnose and treat Mrs. O’Grady?”

  A grin twitched at the corner of Dean’s mouth. His heart swelled in his chest. Painful though it was for her to be the center of attention, Emma was on his side.

  “You will hold your tongue,” her mother scolded. “I’ll not have you engaging in this farce.”

  Emma shrunk in on herself, lowering her eyes, face pink.

  “Yes,” Russ picked up Mrs. Sutton’s words. “Yes, this is a farce. I refused to be accused of incompetence by a man who lost his nerve when it really counted. As far as I’m concerned, this show is over.” He added a “hmph” to the end of his speech, jerked his chin up, then marched through the throng of curious onlookers and up the wagon train.

  Dean was glad to see him go, but the whispers and strange looks he left in his wake—looks directed at him as much as at Russ—didn’t make him feel any easier.

  “Never would have pegged Meyers for a coward,” one man muttered to his friend as they headed off.

  “Dismissed by the army,” a trio of women clucked as they too returned to their families.

  “How could you go and ruin such fine chances like that, Emma?” Mrs. Sutton scolded her daughter. “You could be married to a doctor.”

  “Yes, mother, I could,” Emma answered, so softly that Dean wasn’t certain he’d heard her.

  He glanced in Emma’s direction, only to find her watching him with anxious eyes.

  “Well, I’ll not have you throwing your attentions away on the undeserving.” Mrs. Sutton grabbed Emma’s hand and tugged her into motion. “You and I are going to have a long talk about proper behavior and being seen to support the right side.”

  Dean stood where he was, arms crossed, mouth quirked in a grin, waiting to see Mrs. Sutton’s reaction when Emma freed herself and told her mother she was wrong. He waited.

  And waited.

  Emma put up no resistance at all. Her shoulders dropped and she let her mother lead her off without so much as a backward glance.

  For the first time since the confrontation had started, Dean felt as though he might just lose this battle. He knew that Emma agreed with him. He could see it in her eyes, in everything about her. Why hadn’t she put up any sort of fight?

  “That’s the most fun I’ve had since we left Ireland,” Mrs. O’Grady cackled behind him. “Great lot of sheep, that bunch. Don’t know the truth when it pokes them in the eye with a stick.”

  Dean turned back to her. With everything that had passed, he still wanted to take a look at her feet to be sure they were healing well.

  As he crouched in front of the old woman, she patted his head. “There, there, boy-o. That young one is far too pale and prissy for you. ’Sides, her mam’s got her wrapped up in knots. A man like you deserves more than that. A fine Irish lass, perhaps? We got plenty.”

  “There are extenuating circumstances,” Dean defended Emma, his jaw tight.

  The problem was, a part of him whispered, that Mrs. O’Grady might have a point.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I’ve never seen such a shameful spectacle in my life,” Emma’s mother murmured to herself as she dragged Emma up the line of wagons to rejoin the Boyles. “Challenging a distinguished man in public, drawing attention to poor Mrs. O’Grady, it’s so rude.”

  “Mother, even you have to see that Dr. Sandifer—”

  “Russ, Emma. He asked you to call him Russ.”

  “That he and Dean have an unpleasant history to resolve,” Emma finished. She could say so much more, but they were passing camp after camp of curious neighbors who had seen the altercation and had questions in their eyes. It had been bad enough being the center of such pointed attention during the confrontation. She didn’t think she could handle it a second time.

  Her mother humphed. “That may be, but they should not be airing th
eir differences in public.”

  She had a point. They reached the Boyles’ camp, and her mother let her go. She still had a head of steam, though, and sent Emma to work peeling potatoes for their supper. But as her mother stood over the cook-fire stirring the pot of stew Mrs. Boyle was making, she continued to mutter about manners and gentlemanly behavior.

  “What was that all about?” Katie whispered to Emma, sitting on the bench by her side.

  Emma sighed. “What it has been about since we joined this train.”

  “Ah.” Katie nodded with mock sagacity. “It’s a pissing contest, then.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I bet your man’s ‘treasure’ is five times the size of Sandifer’s. In fact, I bet Sandifer’s is the size of a wee baby carrot.”

  “Katie!” Emma exclaimed, scandalized. She couldn’t help but giggle, though. Katie bumped her arm and the two of them continued working. It was amazing how easy difficulties were to conquer when you had a friend by your side. Emma hadn’t had that feeling since well before Alice married.

  Her heart twisted in her chest at the thought of her sister. She wondered how Alice was getting along, if she still stared at the miles of open prairie, her thoughts hidden from everyone but herself. As trying as Emma’s journey was, Alice’s must be worse. More than anything, Emma hoped that Alice could heal from the wounds that no doctor could treat, the wounds left behind when her Harry died. Emma’s own situation may have been hopelessly muddled, but she hoped her sister could find love again someday. It would take a very special man to put together the pieces of Alice’s broken heart.

  “Psst,” Katie hissed, bumping an elbow into her arm and shaking her out of her thoughts. “Look.”

  Emma glanced up to where Katie was nodding. Dean walked on the other side of the wagons. Emma caught her breath. His shoulders were hunched and his face drawn in frustration. Seeing him so downcast was like being caught in quicksand.

  “Go to him,” Katie whispered beside her.

  “I can’t,” she whispered back. “There’s work to do, and Mother most certainly wouldn’t approve after what just happened.”