by Deeanne Gist
Not a hint of recognition crossed his features.
Her lips parted. She couldn’t believe it. Her hat must have shadowed her face after all. And she didn’t have an accent, or a catch in her voice, or a pair of cowpuncher boots. Even her pantalets had been ordinary. At least they had been that day. And if he glimpsed the pair she now wore, he definitely wouldn’t recognize them. The ones from Marshall Field’s were nothing like the ones he’d seen.
Maybe she’d continue wearing them after all.
Lifting a brow, she decided to keep up her offensive in an effort to distract him, if nothing else. “Then make way. I’m needed inside.”
He schooled his features, but not quickly enough. She saw the flash of disdain at her directness. A look she’d become all too familiar with. Good. Keep him focused on something else. Anything else.
Stepping aside, he reached for the door, but she wasn’t about to let him open it for her. Lurching forward, she grabbed the heavy handle, hauled the door open, and sailed through, leaving the door for him to either catch or get knocked in the head with.
He must have caught it, for a stream of sunshine still splashed across the foyer. She scanned the area, focusing in on a side door with a discreet sign that read BUREAU OF PUBLIC COMFORT. If the infirmary wasn’t in there, they’d at least know where to direct her.
She hurried inside, then leaned back against the door, holding it closed. Her breath came in spurts. Her skin flashed hot, then cold. Her pantalets settled against her legs.
Gradually, she began to take in her surroundings. The Exposition had been quite proud of its Bureaus of Comfort. They were located in all the large buildings, in many of the state buildings, and in select spots throughout the grounds.
She’d read they were to be used as retiring rooms, free of charge. Some supposedly had barbershops, bootblacks, parcel rooms, and lunch counters. Others had telegraph offices, messenger services, lavatories, and stands selling necessities.
This one, however, was more of a parlor where families could rest from the fatigue of sightseeing. An impressive collection of oil paintings dominated the room along with an ornamental fireplace, a lady’s writing desk, and a postal box. For the moment no one was taking advantage of those or of the forest-green sofas and balloon-back chairs scattered about in cozy formations.
Directly opposite her was a large wooden door. She could hear no voices coming through the wall and there was no placard to indicate if it was the clinic.
She did not, however, want to go back into that foyer and risk running into Mr. Scott. Thank goodness she hadn’t given him her name the other day. Glancing at her watch, she cringed. Almost thirty minutes late.
Pushing herself away from the door, she approached the unmarked one and knocked.
A striking young woman in a nurse’s gown immediately answered it. After she glanced at Billy’s uniform, two lovely dimples blossomed. “Well, hello. I’m Nurse Findley. I didn’t realize I was going to have some help. Please, come in.”
Billy stepped across the threshold. “Actually, I’m Dr. Billy Jack Tate. I’m here to replace the doctor who contracted typhoid, I believe.”
Miss Findley’s cheeks filled with color, setting off her large blue eyes and flaxen hair. “I’m so sorry, doctor. I thought, I mean . . .” Her voice trailed away.
Billy smiled. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t sure what to wear, so I decided on this. What do the other doctors usually wear?”
“Mostly skirts and shirtwaists. Dr. Ashford’s already left for the day, though.”
“Yes, I’m terribly late. The cable car took much longer than I expected. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. We’ve had a very quiet day.”
Billy glanced about her new home away from home. The small room, which was more like an office, led to yet another door. A simple flattop desk had been shoved against the wall to the left. Assorted vials and nursing instruments littered its surface and a cabinet above. In the corner sat a washstand complete with rags and piped-in water. A bar of Brag soap beside it gave off a clean, pleasant odor.
To the right, a grand curtain-top desk with a dozen pigeonholes and drawers drew her with magnetic force. Its upper shelf held Osler’s new Principles and Practice of Medicine, Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine, and Meigs’s Obstetrics. Running her fingers along the desktop, she pushed aside a stethoscope and fanned out Dr. Ashford’s notes, which appeared to have been written that morning.
The woman had treated a total of three patients. A young lady for faintness, another for hysterics, and an elderly gentlemen who simply needed a rest. Not much in the way of excitement, but Billy would enjoy it all the same.
“The surgery is right through here.” Nurse Findley opened the connecting door.
Entering, Billy inhaled the smell of carbolic acid, barely managing to keep from hugging herself and spinning like a bride in her first home. A long cot and invalid’s table sat in the center. Large glass cases lined the north and west walls.
Moving to the one closest to her, she opened one of its doors. An infinite variety of bandages made from gauze and oil silk lined several racks within its shelves. In the next, surgical instruments, cambric needles, syringes, timers, tongue blades, ear scoops, forceps, and every sort of thermometer.
She went from cabinet to cabinet, flinging open door after door. Anthropometric instruments. Enema equipment. Catgut ligatures. Bedpans. Plaster of paris. And knives.
This was what she’d wanted. What she’d dreamed of. A rolltop desk, a nurse for assistance, and an operating room. Except she wanted one all her own.
Propping her satchel on the cabinet, she began to rifle through it. “My diploma’s in here somewhere.”
When Billy slipped it out, Findley’s eyes widened.
“University of Michigan?” the nurse asked. “Why, you must have been the only woman there.”
“No, no. There were a scattering of women at UM, but only three of us were in their medical program.”
“I think we should hang it up.” Findley glanced about the room. “Right over there. We’ll take down the phrenology diagram and replace it with this. That way, the patients can see what a prestigious doctor we have in our clinic.”
Undeserved as it was, a flush of pleasure sped through Billy. She wasn’t prestigious. At least, not yet.
Covering her reaction, she lifted the lid of a large chest wedged into a corner. Flannel undergarments and an assortment of stockings had been stacked neatly inside. “What are these for?”
“Those are our hygienic clothes.” Findley straightened Billy’s diploma on the wall.
Billy looked again at the chest’s contents. She’d heard of hygienic clothing for children, but not for women. “Who are they for?”
Crossing the room, Findley reached inside the chest while Billy continued to hold the lid. “These ventilated corsets were designed by a Miss Franks of London and worn by British nurses, who then recommended them to their patients. But look at these.” She lifted a strange-looking shoe and held it aloft, much like the prince admiring Cinderella’s slipper. “They’re hygienic shoes.”
“I’ve never heard of hygienic shoes.”
“They’re brand-new. A Mrs. Fenwick invented them especially for the sickroom.”
Lowering the lid, Billy took the shoe and began to examine it.
Findley leaned in and pointed to each feature as she extolled its virtues. Steel springs over the instep to absorb each footfall. A rubber heel to make it soundless. A contour similar to an actual foot.
“Let me see your feet,” Findley said.
“What?”
“Your feet. Let me see the size of your feet.”
Lifting a corner of her gown, Billy placed a toe on the floor in front of her and swiveled her foot.
“Yes, yes. I think we might have a pair close to your size. Here, hold this again, will you?” Findley raised the lid.
Billy captured it in her grasp.
“I can’t wear any,�
� Findley continued. “On account of my feet being impossibly large. Got them from my father. Very unladylike, but they work marvelously well. Here we are.”
She produced another pair and they did, indeed, look close to the length of Billy’s foot.
“You must try them. Dr. Ashford wears a pair and says they’re just the smoothest things she’s ever seen.”
Unable to resist, Billy sat on a stool, released a buttonhook from her chatelaine, and began the laborious process of removing her boot. Then she strapped on one of the shoes, held her foot aloft, and admired Mrs. Fenwick’s ingenuity.
“How does it feel?” Findley asked.
“Perfect.” And sure enough, it did. Perhaps she was Cinderella after all—minus the prince, of course. But who needed him when you had shoes like this?
A bang and a loud shout from the parlor startled them both.
Findley hurried to see what the commotion was about. Billy sprang to her feet. The hygienic shoe was a different height than her boot, throwing her off balance. Nonetheless, she whisked up her discarded boot and the other hygienic shoe, then quickly hobbled to the rolltop desk to deposit them both.
“A little bit more slowly, sir.” Findley had left the door open, her voice calm, reassuring. “Take your time.”
“It’s one of the guards.” The man’s voice was out of breath, as if he’d been running.
Billy hurried to the parlor. A man in a blue uniform and cap propped himself up on bent knees, his back bowing with each deep breath.
“What’s happening?” Billy asked.
“This is our elevator man.” Findley crouched beside him, patting his back. “I’m not sure what’s wrong.”
“He’s collapsed,” the man said. “A guard collapsed in my elevator.”
Two different shoes or not, Billy didn’t waste another moment. “You make sure this man’s all right. I’ll go see about the guard.” She started out the door, then stopped. “Where’s the elevator?”
COLUMBIAN GUARD6
“Carlisle was ex-army, with a craw full of sand and fighting tallow. A year younger than Hunter’s twenty-six, he spoke three languages and had pummeled Hunter with questions about life as a Ranger.”
CHAPTER
7
What the devil was happening? In the course of his career, Hunter had been bitten by a rattler, thrown off a horse, and shot clean through, but he’d never experienced anything like the pain now searing through his gut and buckling his knees. Something had had his stomach in a noose ever since he’d arrived in this godforsaken city. And though the pain had come and gone and come again, he’d managed to overcome it up to now. Then, just like that, he’d been checking in on some lady doing a cooking demonstration and it had tightened to the point where he could no longer even stand. Somehow he’d managed to make it to the elevator. All he needed now was to get to the front door of the building.
Half-crouched, he stumbled, teetered to the right, and knocked two paintings off the wall in a bid to catch himself. Was God fixing to pull his picket pin? Right here? While he was guarding a bunch of feminine frippery?
Don’t You dare, he thought.
His reputation would be ruined. What would they put on his gravestone? Here lies Hunter Joseph Scott, a fellow capable of grinding the sights off a six-shooter with his teeth. He dropped unceremoniously dead in the Woman’s Building.
The Woman’s Building. He’d be hanged before he let that happen. Bile rushed up his throat. He pressed a fist to his mouth. His ears began to ring.
The sound of heavy, running footfalls galloped toward him. What had the elevator attendant done, called the fire brigade?
But instead, polished black boots and blue trousers with a familiar red stripe appeared in his vision. Eddie Carlisle. The guard who had the next shift.
Squatting down, Carlisle grabbed Hunter’s arm. “What the blazes happened?”
“Get me outta here.” He had to push the words through gritted teeth, for the bile still threatened.
“Were you stabbed? Shot? Shoved? Did you break something? Where does it hurt?”
“Stomach.”
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.” But when he tried to straighten, his legs again turned to jelly.
Carlisle caught him. “Okay, pal. I’m going to carry you. Don’t fight me, all right?”
You can’t. But even as Hunter thought it, Carlisle grabbed his wrist, slipped an arm between his legs, and hoisted Hunter’s torso across his shoulders. Carlisle stood, bearing all two-hundred-plus pounds of Hunter’s six-foot-two bulk.
Wheezing, Carlisle staggered for a second. “Die and be doomed. What’d you eat for breakfast? A grizzly?”
But Hunter wasn’t fooled. Carlisle was ex-army, with a craw full of sand and fighting tallow. A year younger than Hunter’s twenty-six, he spoke three languages and had pummeled Hunter with questions about life as a Ranger.
“This way,” a female voice whispered, dainty heels clipping along in front of them.
The floor rushed by in a blur. He held on to consciousness, refusing to close his eyes, not wanting to chance succumbing to the pain until he was across the threshold and on the gravel walkway.
But instead of emerging into sunshine, he was carried sideways through a doorway and into an apartment of some kind.
No, he thought. You’re going the wrong way. The front door. Go to the front door.
A cabinet with glass-fronted doors held multitudes of vials, jars, and boxed medicines. He groaned. The infirmary. Carlisle had taken him to the blasted infirmary.
“Get me out of here.” His voice held a raspy quality he wasn’t accustomed to.
Another door. A female voice. A flash of white.
Carlisle bent his knees, then did a thrust, tossing Hunter up and over. He landed with a thunk on a cot.
Oooph. Hunter grabbed a fistful of Carlisle’s jacket. “I don’t want to die . . . in an infirmary . . . in the Woman’s Building.”
Carlisle didn’t so much as flinch. “Then get up and walk out.”
Hunter tried to rise. Pain sliced across his gut.
Carlisle pushed him down with two fingers.
Why was Carlisle doing this? Doctors were the enemy. They tortured people. Killed them, even.
Still, Hunter didn’t say anything. He was a Ranger first, a Columbian Guard second. If he fell into the hands of the enemy, he wouldn’t do it with his eyes bulging out like a tromped-on toad.
He looked at his friend. “Go on. Save yourself.”
A touch of humor flashed across Carlisle’s face. “I’m going to go make the rounds. I’ll check on you after a while.”
I’ll be dead. But before he could voice the thought, the pain in his stomach spread up his back and wrapped around his chest. Much as he wanted to curl up, he didn’t move or make a sound.
A nurse with flaxen hair and large blue eyes took Carlisle’s place beside the bed and placed a cool hand against Hunter’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”
At least she wasn’t the one he’d stopped on the steps. He wouldn’t have wanted his insistence on safety to come back and bite him now.
Unscrewing a cylindrical case on her chatelaine, she removed a thermometer and shook down the mercury. “Open up.”
“Just call in the doc and let’s get this over with.”
“The doctor needs to know your temperature.”
“Knowing my temperature isn’t going to change a thing.” He was dying. He knew that, and he was ready to meet his Maker. He might be too incapacitated to do anything about his location, but he could sure do something about what occurred during his final moments on earth. And if it was the last thing he did, he was going to die with a little dignity.
The gas he’d been holding made a fierce, noisy, involuntary exit.
The nurse’s eyes widened.
His face went from feverish to scalding. “Get out.”
Her expression softened. “Now, there’s nothing to be ashamed—”
&
nbsp; “Out,” he barked.
She stumbled back. “You needn’t—”
“Out!”
Whirling about, she fled.
The minute the door closed behind her, he let the rest of it loose. He knew the doc wouldn’t mind. Those fellows had seen and smelled a lot worse.
The expulsion offered a tiny bit of relief. Not enough to sit up, but enough to turn his head. His cot stood higher than normal, with an invalid table on his left. A framed diploma on the wall caught his attention. It was from the University of Michigan. That was something, at least. The doc was trained. Didn’t make him trustworthy, but it offered a tiny measure of reassurance.
The name had been written in fancy script. Billy . . . He squinted. Billy Jack Tate.
The door opened. It was the hat-pin lady. A stethoscope curled about her neck like a winter scarf, a tiny megaphone-looking thing on one end, earpieces on the other. If the odor in the room affected her, she gave no indication of it.
“You frightened Nurse Findley.” She approached the cot, yet only the swish of her petticoats gave her away.
He looked at her hem. Was she barefoot? Why didn’t her boots make any noise?
“I won’t stand for that kind of behavior,” she said. “Not even from a Columbian Guard.”
Easy for her to say now that she had him flat on his back. “Go away.”
She removed a thermometer from her chatelaine and began to shake it. “What happened between the time you saw me outside and now?”
“I’ll tell the doc when I see him.”
“I am the doc. Now, open up.” She held the thermometer poised.
Pushing her wrist aside, he gave her an exasperated look. “His diploma’s right there on the wall. You tell Billy Jack to come in here and quit sending me his nurses.”
“I’m Billy Jack Tate. Now open up, and let’s get a read on your temperature.”
She couldn’t be serious. His stomach began to spasm. “Look, lady,” he breathed. “I’m not much longer for this world, so if you’ll just get the doc and let him say a few words, I’d be grateful.”
