The Seeds of Change

by Lauraine Snelling

  22

  Still no patients.

  Adam rearranged the shining instruments in his case once more, then closed the cover. He glanced around his new office. The windows now let the sun shine clearly through the space, the examining table sat clean and ready for use, and he had even managed to restock the cabinet with medicines, bandages, and other supplies, thanks to Mr. Jorgensen.

  Yet no one had come for treatment. And it had been over a week. Either this was an exceptionally healthy town, or he had more mistrust to overcome than he had realized. Even his door-to-door visits had done no good.

  “U-uncle Adam?”

  He looked up to see his nephew descending the stairs from their rooms above. “Yes, Jesse?”

  “I g-got that window fixed.” Jesse tucked away his hammer and nails in the toolbox and slid it into the bottom of the cabinet. “Anything else you n-need?”

  “I think we’re pretty shipshape.” Adam laid a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Now if only the townspeople would realize we’re here.”

  “M-maybe they’re afraid because of what that lady said.”

  Adam frowned. “What lady?”

  Jesse looked a bit shamefaced. “Mrs. Jor-Jorgensen. I h-heard her when I was in the store. She d-didn’t see me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She was talking to some other ladies.” Jesse hesitated. “I didn’t hear everything, but she said s-something about how the children who traveled with us had all lost their parents. And that it was b-because you couldn’t save them, that you were n-no kind of doctor, just like the doctor they had before.”

  A rock settled in Adam’s gut. “When was this?”

  “A couple of days ago.” Jesse met his eyes, worry in his gaze. “I’m s-sorry if I shoulda told you.”

  Adam squeezed his shoulder. “None of this is your fault. But thanks for telling me.” He stepped to the window and stared out at the men and women hurrying back and forth on the bustling street. Most rushed right past his door. One mother glanced at his sign, then herded her children by with a shake of her head.

  So there was even more going on here than he knew. What do I do, Lord? Have a talk with Mrs. Jorgensen? If she’ll even listen to me. Or do I just wait for the truth to make itself known?

  “Th-that man looks hurt.” At his shoulder, Jesse pointed out the windowpane.

  “Where?” Adam peered closer. A man climbed down from a wagon across the dusty street and started across, cradling his hand, which was wrapped in a bloody rag. A sandy-haired boy of about ten stayed on the wagon seat, holding the reins.

  “You’re right.” Adam stepped to the door and flung it open. “Sir, do you need help?”

  “You must be the new doc.” The man stepped inside without hesitation and held up his hand with a wry grin. “Appears I’m in need of your services. Guess you saw me comin’.”

  “My nephew did. Please, have a seat.” Adam indicated the examining table and hurried to wash his hands. “What happened?”

  “Bit of a scythe accident while haying.” The man grimaced. “You’d think after being out in the hayfields since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I’d know better.”

  Adam dried his hands. “May I take a look, Mister . . . ?”

  “Oh, sure, sorry. Anthony Armstead.” Mr. Armstead unwrapped the red-stained rag.

  “And I’m Dr. Brownsville.” Adam examined the gash from the thumb webbing across the palm of the hand. Deep and still bleeding freely, but it didn’t appear to have severed any tendons, the best he could tell. “This’ll need stitching once I clean it. Jesse, fetch me a bowl of clean water and some bandages, would you?”

  Anthony Armstead sat back with apparent ease as Adam cleansed the wound and threaded his needle.

  “This will sting a bit, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve had worse.” Sure enough, Armstead barely flinched as Adam began to stitch the torn edges of his flesh closed. “I must say, I’m glad you were here today. We’ve needed a good doctor in this town.”

  “I’m afraid not many share your opinion. You’re my first patient.”

  “You don’t say.” Armstead drummed his other fingers on his thigh.

  “Unfortunately, it seems my landlady may be part of the problem.” He snipped off the thread, frustration rising in his chest again. “Apparently, she’s been saying some—well, let’s just say some twisted versions of the truth.”

  Armstead’s fingers stilled. “Mrs. Jorgensen?”

  “You know her?”

  “She’s my mother-in-law.”

  Adam looked up, remorse smiting him. He knew better than to speak of anyone like that, let alone to a patient. “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. I understand Mrs. Jorgensen recently lost a daughter under the previous physician’s care, which no doubt accounts for her mistrust.”

  “Sure does. But believe me, Doctor, you have my sympathies. Anyone unlucky enough to get on Lucretia’s wrong side—well, they won’t get out of it for a month of Sundays. I can tell already”—he held up his neatly bandaged hand—“that you’re the good kind of doc, the kind we sorely need around here. But if you knew what happened to poor Matilda, you’d understand a bit more why her ma’s carrying such a grudge.”

  “What did happen, exactly?”

  Armstead shook his head. “’Twas a terrible thing. Matilda and Elias, they lost a baby stillborn over a year ago and had high hopes for their second. Well, one night last March, Elias came knockin’ on our door, asked me to go for the doctor. Matilda was in labor and carryin’ on something awful. I went for Doc Edson—truth be told, I still regret it.” He met Adam’s gaze frankly. “But I didn’t know what else to do. My Rachel and I, we heard late the next morning that Edson tried to cut the baby out of her.”

  “My God.” Adam’s gut tightened. That procedure was dangerous in the best hands, and in incompetent ones—he could only imagine the result.

  Peter grimaced. “Well, both Matilda and her baby died. The doc left not long after. I guess he knew he risked being run out of town if he stayed much longer. Elias just couldn’t seem to take life out here anymore without his wife. He up and sold his homestead, then headed back east only a few weeks ago.”

  Adam stared. “Really? What did you say his name was?”

  “Skinner, Elias Skinner.”

  Skinner. Had that been the name Clark—Lark—mentioned as the former owner of the Nielsens’ new land? “His homestead wouldn’t be a couple of miles or so northeast of town, would it? With a soddy and a well on it?”

  “Sounds like it.” Anthony frowned. “Why?”

  “I believe I may know the people who bought it, that’s all.” Adam reined in his curiosity and wiped his hands. “Thank you for telling me this, Mr. Armstead. I am truly sorry for this tragedy in your family.”

  “Well, thanks for fixin’ me up today.” Armstead flexed his bandaged hand. “Feels better already. What do I owe you?”

  “Please, nothing for today. But if you get a chance to give a good testimony to anyone, I would appreciate it. Take care to keep the wound clean, especially if you change the dressing. I’d like to see you again in a week. Is there anyone who might take over your chores for a few days?”

  “Well, I’ve got three boys, including young Carl out there.” Anthony tipped his head toward the window, where they could see the youngster still sitting on the wagon seat, slapping flies and holding the horses calm. “But haying season is a hard time of year for a farmer to take his ease.”

  “Just do the best you can.” Adam saw his patient out the door, giving a friendly wave to the boy before he shut it. He blew out a breath before turning back to Jesse. “Well, between you and Mr. Armstead, it’s been an educational morning.”

  “What are you g-going to do?” His nephew shifted his feet.

  “I don’t quite know. Pray, for starters, I suppose.” Adam lifted the bowl of bloodstained water.

  “Uncle Adam? C-can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.
” He’d clean up, then see about their supper, as the sun was lowering. And maybe somewhere along the way, he’d get some insight as to what to do about this mess.

  “Miss Lark asked if I’d c-come to work for them. They need help haying the prairie grass and s-some other things. She said they’d p-pay me too.”

  “I see.” Adam stepped out the back door and tossed the water on the struggling daisies by the stoop, then stepped back in. “Do you want to?”

  His nephew hesitated, then nodded. “I don’t have m-much to do. S-sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself.” A vulnerability sheened his eyes.

  Adam set down the empty bowl, guilt pinching his chest. How long had it been since he’d really talked with his nephew, much less asked after his heart? The boy had been passed from relative to relative most of his life, his wishes seldom consulted. Adam and Elizabeth had vowed to do better than that. And here he was, caught up in his own problems, whether business or matters of the heart.

  He leaned back against the examining table. “If you want to do it, of course you should.”

  “But I thought . . . you m-might not want me to.”

  “Why not?”

  Jesse shrugged. “You aren’t too happy with the Nielsens lately.”

  Perceptive young man. Adam’s neck heated. “That needn’t enter into this. I’m sure they’ll be fair to you.” Even if they hadn’t been honest with him.

  “Maybe you should t-talk to her.”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Forsythia.”

  “I’d rather not speak of her.” The words came out harsher than he’d meant. “Now, go see what you can find in the store for supper. I’ve got to finish cleaning up this mess.” Minor though it was.

  The weight of guilt intensified after Jesse left, shoulders slumped. And that was Adam’s fault. Lord, what’s the matter with me? He pressed a fist to his forehead.

  His stomach suddenly rumbled for one of the Nielsens’ open-fire suppers they’d shared so often on the trail, the laughter and woodsmoke and sweet fellowship over bacon-flavored beans and corn bread. Without a kitchen in their rooms, he and Jesse had subsisted off ham and cheese and salt-rising bread from the store, albeit bought under Mrs. Jorgensen’s disapproving nose.

  He missed their friends. But he didn’t know how to fix this.

  Yes, you do, whispered a Voice he knew well.

  But did he have the courage?

  The bell’s pleasant jangle on the door of the Jorgensens’ store stirred memories in Forsythia’s heart as she stepped inside with Robbie. As did the mingled scent of crackers, pickles, leather, and new yard goods. She breathed deeply, suddenly aching for their family store back home, no doubt thriving under Anders and Josephine’s care.

  “Can I help you, Miss Nielsen?” Somber as usual, Mrs. Jorgensen looked up from behind the counter.

  “Good day. I was actually wondering if I could help you.” Forsythia stepped up to the counter and nodded at Robbie’s silent plea to examine the wooden tops and whistles in a barrel nearby. “Be careful.” She smiled at Mrs. Jorgensen. “I’ve been wondering whether you could use any help in the store. My sisters and I all have experience working in our father’s mercantile, and I’m looking for a way to earn a bit of extra income for us.”

  “Your father had a store, you say?”

  “Yes. It’s been a part of the family for as long as I can remember.”

  “Well, Mr. Jorgensen has mentioned wanting an extra hand behind the counter now and again. Sometimes he’s busy in the back and I’m busy in the kitchen, and there’s no one to mind the front. But I’ll have to speak to him.”

  “Of course. Thank you.” Forsythia offered another smile, never mind that they never seemed to gain a response. What an unhappy woman. “Also, I want to order some garden seeds. Do you have a catalog?”

  “Bit late in the season for that.” With a grunt, Mrs. Jorgensen slapped a catalog on the counter in front of her. “But we can order whatever you want to take a chance on.”

  “Thank you.” Forsythia perused the pages. Not corn or tomatoes or melons—there wasn’t time for those. But quick-growing beans would be good, and greens. Root vegetables, too, which they could harvest in the fall and store for winter. And pray for a late frost, not that root crops froze easily like corn or lettuce.

  “That one of the orphaned young’uns I heard about?”

  Forsythia looked up in surprise at Mrs. Jorgensen’s initiating conversation. Miracles did happen. “Yes. This is Robbie.” She reached for the little boy’s hand.

  “Sure a shame about his ma. That doc didn’t do her much good, did he?”

  “Dr. Brownsville did everything he could.” Forsythia swallowed and pulled Robbie closer. “As did I. Sadly, it wasn’t enough.”

  “Seems it never is.” Mrs. Jorgensen sniffed and turned away.

  So much bitterness. Forsythia smoothed her hand over Robbie’s hair. “I’m almost finished, dear one. Why don’t you pick out a stick of candy to take and share with Sofie?” There, that brought the light back to his brown eyes.

  When a throat cleared behind them, Forsythia turned. “Why, hello, Jesse.”

  “Hey, Miss F-Forsythia. Hey, Robbie.”

  “How are you? We miss seeing you, now that you live in town.”

  “We’re doing fine.” He shifted his feet. “You can tell Miss Larkspur that I’ll t-take the job like she said. Come out and h-help you all with the haying and whatever else you need.”

  “That’s wonderful. We’ll look forward to seeing you. Can you come tomorrow morning?”

  “Okay.” Jesse turned away, then looked back. “I think my uncle m-misses you.”

  Her mind stuttered to a stop. “What?”

  “He doesn’t t-talk about it, but I know.” With a little wave, Jesse sidled away toward the grocery section.

  Her head abuzz, Forsythia placed an order for seeds, hoping she’d picked the right ones, and guided Robbie out of the store after a promise from Mrs. Jorgensen that they’d be in touch about the job.

  Back out on the wooden sidewalk, Forsythia drew a steadying breath. Shadows of the buildings stretched long across the street, heralding suppertime, though the summer sun wouldn’t set for some hours.

  “Can we go home? I wanna give Sofie her candy.” Robbie held up his small paper sack.

  “Straightaway.” Forcing herself not to look at the building next to the store, lest she see Adam at the window, she led Robbie to Starbright, boosted him up, then climbed up behind him.

  As she clucked to the mare, Forsythia couldn’t resist one glance back at the doctor’s window. And there he was—only a silhouette of his broad shoulders and bearded face, but enough to set her heart pounding. A figure somehow imprinted deep on her heart before she knew how it had happened.

  And now what, Lord? She fought tears as she turned Starbright toward home. If we can’t even talk to each other, what’s to become of us?

  The next day, Jesse arrived at sunup. He joined them for breakfast, eating as if he hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in a week, which was most likely true. Once the sun had dried the dew, Lark, Jesse, Forsythia, and Del headed into the field of waving prairie grass armed with hats, gloves, and scythes. Lilac stayed near the soddy with the children, Mikael asleep on a blanket under the young cottonwood tree.

  “We’ll start here and make our way east,” Lark said, tipping back her hat. “We don’t have a mowing machine, but try to cut it in rows as much as you can. Sythia, don’t work too long. You’re not strong yet. You can trade with Lilac as soon as you get tired.”

  Forsythia nodded, but she wanted to help, at least a little. The July breeze, already warm for early in the morning, flapped her sunbonnet against her face.

  “All right, spread out and get cutting.” Lark sent them out like a general ordering her troops.

  Haying was new work to all of them, but soon Forsythia fell into a rhythm with her scythe, enjoying the pull of the muscles in her arms and the satisfy
ing sweep of the blade against the grass. The repetitive motion gave her time to think about Adam.

  When had he gone from being “the doctor” to Adam in her mind? Was it when they had tried to save Alice? No, but that had been the first thing to draw them together. Taking in the children, then? Or perhaps it wasn’t until she had fallen ill herself. She shook a grasshopper off her sleeve and paused to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Whenever, however, it happened, it had happened. Feelings had bloomed in her heart that she’d maybe no right to, not toward a so recently widowed man. And yet . . . from what Jesse had said, Adam cared for her too.

  The thought rushed heat to her cheeks and pattered her heart. To have found a good man to love again, to love her again . . . It was something she’d dreamed of since her sweetheart Aaron died in the war’s dreadfulness, yet hardly believed would happen. After all, there weren’t nearly enough young men left for all the women these days, and she’d already known love. Yet it had happened again . . . and almost as quickly as it began, it seemed this new love was gone. Snuffed out by hurt and a quarrel. She blinked back tears or sweat from her eyes—she wasn’t sure which.

  She didn’t realize how long she had worked until Del came up behind her.

  “Sythia.” Her sister touched her sleeve. “Lark says stop, you’d better go rest. Lilac has switchel for us, and then she’ll come take your place.”

  “All right.” Forsythia straightened, only now noticing her arms were shaking. She relinquished her scythe to Del and followed her sister back toward the house. Already the field showed their progress in the long swaths of grass lying in rows, though much still remained to cut.

  “How long will it need to dry?” Joining the group gathered in front of the soddy, Forsythia sank into a chair Lilac had pulled out from the house and accepted a tin cup of switchel. The cool mixture of water from the well, sugar, vinegar, and ginger poured sweet and spicy over her tongue, easing her stomach and cooling her head. “Mmm, good. Thank you.”

  “It should dry in two or three days, praying we get no rain.” Lark scanned the fields with a farmer’s eye. “Then we’ll need to stack it to shed rain and save it for the animals this winter. Once we have the barn up, we can store some in there.”