by Deeanne Gist
She closed her eyes and forced Joe from her mind. It was over. Done. He didn’t love her. He loved his land. And as soon as he’d realized she wouldn’t help him gain it back, he’d cut her loose.
The horse’s hooves clipped at a rapid pace, jingling its harness and making the buggy sway. Way up in the distance, she could make out a team of oxen pulling a huge load of logs down Skid Road.
Joe’s oxen wouldn’t have to do that anymore. Not with his log chute.
Gritting her teeth at the direction of her thoughts, Anna turned to the doc. “Who’s broken a leg?”
“One. Judge Rountree’s oldest.”
Ah, yes. One, Two, Three, and Four. How could she have forgotten? She had to think a moment before the boy’s nickname came to her, then along with Sprout’s name came memories of his smile and freckles and scuffed knees.
She furrowed her brows, praying the break wasn’t a bad one. She’d seen many breaks, especially during the war, that left the unfortunate victim with a limp or worse.
Though the sun was out, the road was still muddy from rains earlier in the week. Doc said little as they drove past a smattering of houses and toward the center of town. A scruffy dog ran out into the street, barking and yipping at their wheels before abandoning his chase.
A few minutes later, Doc stopped the buggy in front of the ornate home Joe had brought her to that first day after her arrival. The Rountrees’ lot covered almost an entire block. Long windows with inside wooden blinds flanked the sides of the house. The front paneled door had tiny panes of glass on either side. And a bell for visitors to ring dangled from a post on the porch.
Doc jumped from the seat, grabbed his bag, and turned to offer her a hand.
“Go, go,” Anna said, shooing him. “I’ll secure the horse and meet you in the barn.”
He didn’t argue but ran off, his coattails flapping. She checked the brake, wrapped the reins on the dash rail, and hung on to the wing as her booted toe felt blindly for a foothold.
A few minutes later she hurried behind the house. The cries and whimpers coming from within the barn had her lifting her skirts and running the rest of the way with no regard for the puddles of mud on the path.
As she slipped inside, the smell of manure hit her like a wave from the ocean. Flies buzzed about her face, her ears, her hair. Just below a loft in the back, a half dozen people holding lanterns huddled around what she assumed was the boy.
But it was the tallest man that caught her attention. He’d looked up as soon as she entered. And the spurt of joy she felt at seeing Joe was quickly overshadowed by the concern on his face.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
She was here. He wanted to tell her. About his mail. About his land. About his love. But now wasn’t the time or place. Besides, he hadn’t had a chance to buy the fabric. He and the judge had just concluded their business when Two had burst into the room with news of Sprout’s accident.
Joe hoped the boy’s break wasn’t compound, not just for Sprout’s sake, but for Anna’s. He wasn’t sure what she was doing here, nor if she had the constitution for this sort of thing.
He wondered if she had somehow heard and come to assist. She might have been an excellent nurse for Joe, but that was quite a bit different than dealing with emergencies like this.
As it was, she showed no visible reaction to her initial sight of Sprout or the smells around her as she settled next to Maynard. The boy’s head lay cradled in his mother’s lap while she smoothed his brown hair and softly sang nursery rhymes Joe hadn’t heard in years. Anna gave the woman’s arm a comforting squeeze.
Mrs. Bretchtel, a well-padded woman from down the street, bustled in with a batch of clean towels. Her fourteen-year-old son, who’d yet to shed his baby fat, followed behind with a pot of hot water.
“Here’s the water, Doc,” he said. “The judge is pulling nails out of a one-by-four plank. Said he’d be right in.”
“Thank you, son.” Doc finished cutting Sprout’s pants up the seams and across the top of the leg, then peeled the soiled fabric off.
Sprout cried out. His shin had swollen to twice its normal size. Blood trickled from a jagged cut imbedded with bits of dirt and trouser.
Joe let out a sigh of relief. The break wasn’t compound—no bone protruded from the boy’s leg.
Doc withdrew a block of soap from his bag. “Come, Miss Ivey. We need to wash up.”
Joe had never seen a doctor with such a penchant for cleanliness, but everyone humored him. If the man wanted to wash every other minute, so be it. But why had he asked Anna to wash, as well?
She rose, and when Maynard began rolling up his sleeves, she did the same.
“You’ll find a small flask of chloroform in my bag,” he said, giving his hands and arms a vigorous scrub. “Pour a few drops onto a towel and hold it a couple of inches from One’s nose.”
Nodding, she washed and dried her hands, but left her sleeves up. Joe honed in on the bit of skin she’d exposed. White. Delicate. And, he’d be willing to bet, soft.
“Keep the chloroform off his face, though. He doesn’t need to be put out.”
Anna did as instructed, and the boy began to relax until May-nard felt along the injury.
“No!” Sprout jerked, causing more pain from his movement than from the exam.
“Shhhhh.” Mrs. Rountree shooed a fly from Sprout’s face, then continued to stroke him, tears slipping from her eyes.
“It huuuuurts!”
“I know, but you must try and hold still, darling.”
“Keep count of his pulse, Miss Ivey,” Maynard said. “It shouldn’t be abnormally fast, slow, or faint.”
Anna touched her fingers to his wrist.
Doc finished his examination, then glanced at the judge, who’d come in with a small wooden plank. “It’s not a severe break. It should heal in a few weeks. I’ll splint it, then you can move him inside, where he’ll be more comfortable.” He glanced about the circle of men, stopping when he got to Joe. “Do you think you can hold the chloroform for Miss Ivey?”
Nodding, Joe handed his lantern to the judge and squatted beside Anna. Unobtrusively, he squeezed her fingertips in the exchanging of the cloth. She glanced up, then immediately returned her attention to the boy.
Doc pulled a roll of bandage material and a shiny silver dish from his bag and handed them to Anna. “Pour some of that hot water in this bowl, add several ounces of laudanum, and soak the bandage in the mixture.”
Anna moved to do as instructed while Maynard began to clean the wound with some peroxide of hydrogen. Joe kept the chloroform close to Sprout’s nose. The fumes were strong and unpleasant.
The boy’s glazed eyes focused on him. “Wuz your name?”
Joe tried not to show any alarm at the question. Had the boy broken more than his leg in the fall?
“It’s Joe. You remember me now, don’t you?”
“I mean your real name.”
Frowning, Joe glanced up at Mrs. Rountree.
“I believe he means your full name,” she said.
“Joseph Roy Denton.”
The boy searched the sea of faces above him until he found his father’s. “That’s what I wanna be called. Joseph Roy.”
Joe’s breath left him as if he’d taken a swift blow to the stomach. The boy was choosing a name? Right now? And he was choosing Joe’s?
Anna held the splint against Sprout’s leg while Maynard wrapped it in the laudanum-soaked bandage. Tears spilled from the boy’s eyes, but he held back his cries.
“Well, I’m very pleased to meet you, Joseph Roy Rountree.” The judge’s voice sounded as if it had been through a meat grinder.
Joe couldn’t tell if it was because of the pain Sprout was in or because of the name his son had chosen. After a moment, the boy began to relax once again.
“I’m gonna go by Roy,” he said, his eyes heavy. “So’s we don’t get confused.”
Rountree nodded. “I think that’s a fine ide
a.”
Sprout turned his attention back to Joe. “I’m gonna be a lumberjack. Just like you.”
Joe smiled. “You’ll make a fine one, son. I’m sure of it.”
Sprout closed his eyes and Joe counted his pulse. Good and steady.
“That’s what I was doin’,” Sprout said, eyes still shut.
“Doing?” Joe asked, trying to keep the boy’s mind occupied.
“When I jumped off the loft.”
“Jumped? You didn’t fall?”
“ ’Course not. I was practicin’.”
Joe was having trouble following the conversation. “Practicing what?”
“Jumping off my springboard. Like you.”
Joe swallowed. The loft was a good fifteen feet from the ground.
Flies buzzed around the adhesive plaster Maynard had begun to mix.
“Well, Sprou—” Joe cleared his throat. “Roy, landing is just as important as the actual jump. It has to be learned. And nobody starts from the top. You have to practice a little closer to the ground first. A lot closer to the ground.”
Sprout opened his eyes. “Will you show me?”
He glanced at the boy’s mother. Though her expression was pained, she gave a slight nod.
He returned his attention to Sprout. “I sure will. When you get well, maybe you can come up and spend a few days with me.”
The boy’s pulse took a quick leap. “Can I, Mama?”
She gave a slight hesitation. “If Doc Maynard says you’re fit enough. And only if you don’t do any more jumping until Mr. Denton shows you how.”
His pulse settled back to normal. “Yes, Mama.”
Doc wiped his hands with a cloth, then began to pack his bag. “He should be much more comfortable now. Here’s some paregoric solution for the pain.”
Mrs. Rountree accepted the corked vial.
“A teaspoon every hour if he’s awake and needs it. If he gets a fever, send word to either me or Miss Ivey right away.” Maynard assisted Anna to her feet.
Miss Ivey? Why send word to Anna? Before Joe had an opportunity to ask or to even have a word with her, the doc escorted her to the door, the judge right behind them. She never once looked back.
Joe judged the height of the sun. He’d been waiting for Anna on the porch of the Occidental for much of the afternoon and she still wasn’t back. It hadn’t taken long for word to get out that she was Doc’s new nurse.
So he’d checked at the doc’s place. But Mrs. Maynard said she hadn’t seen the two of them since that morning and didn’t know where they’d gone after tending to Sprout—Roy—nor when to expect them back.
So he’d parked himself on this porch. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t lose his land. That he loved her. That he wanted her to marry him.
The wait had given him too much time to think, though. What if she said no?
He could make her return to his house and work off her debt, but he didn’t want to go back on his word. He could act like he was sick and needed a nurse, but he was through with plotting and scheming.
The safest course of action was to court her. Yet he’d only be able to get to town on Saturday nights and Sunday mornings. Which meant his competition would have her the rest of the week.
And he didn’t kid himself into thinking there’d be no competition. She was like fresh meat in a dog pound. The entire male population would be all over her.
Joe didn’t think she’d rush into anything, though. Especially if the doc kept her too busy for socializing. Still, the other men had a slight advantage.
He looked at the sun one last time and rose to his feet. Already he wouldn’t make it home until well after dark, but he couldn’t wait around any longer. He needed to go, and he needed to go now.
Should he leave her a note? But no, he wanted to be the one to tell her he hadn’t lost his land. He also wanted to ask for permission to court her. A man didn’t do a thing like that with a note.
Moving to the street, he stepped up next to his wagon bed and pulled a trunk toward him. He wished he could ask her to court him before she opened the trunk. But there was nothing for it. He had to go.
Hefting it on his shoulder, he carried it inside and left it with the clerk. Joe would be back, though. And this time, there’d be no hidden motives. This time, his intentions would be honorable and perfectly clear.
He’d packed her clothes in twinflowers. And not just any clothes. But her underclothes. Conflicting emotions jumbled together inside her. Surprise. Shock. Embarrassment. And something undeniably improper.
Running the tips of her fingers along the soft pink buds peeking out from the neckline of her shift and the waist of her drawers, Anna pictured his big, masculine hands handling the delicate unmentionables. Goose bumps shot up her arm.
The trunk had been such a surprise. But when she opened it, she’d expected to find her carpetbag inside, still packed. Never did she dream he’d take everything from it and transfer it to the case.
She brought her fingers to her nose, inhaling the fragile scent of the flower. Without dislodging the blooms, she lifted the white personals and placed them on the bed.
Turning back, she sucked in her breath. Yards of folded, gauzy cotton voile lay next to an equal amount of the finest white satin brocade she’d ever seen. Even completely alone in her hotel room, she could not stop the blush from creeping up her neck and face.
What on earth had he been thinking to buy such things for her? What had he told the proprietor? If anyone found out about this, her reputation would be in shreds.
But things were different here. She’d stayed in the home of an unmarried man for weeks and no one thought a thing about it. But, surely, buying an unmarried woman cloth for her underclothes was beyond the pale. Surely.
She lifted the brocade and brought it to her cheek. So silky. So rich. It was way too much fabric for a simple corset. Why, there was enough to make a whole gown. But she knew she never would. It’d look too much like a wedding gown.
She stilled. Had he known that? Had he given her the fabric with that in mind? No. Surely not.
Looking down, she saw something wrapped in brown paper peeking out from beneath the cotton voile. She let the brocade slither to her lap and reached for the package, then turned it over in her hands. He’d not written a note on this one.
Inside it held ribbon and lace and ties and thread and boning and cords and tiny, tiny pearl buttons. All white. All of the very best quality. All completely and totally inappropriate.
She sat on her heels staring. How could so many parts of her body respond to a man miles and miles away as if he’d just this very moment touched her?
Anna tried to picture him in the mercantile picking these items out. Had he simply told the proprietor he needed notions for a woman’s undergarments, or had he looked at the choice of ribbons, lace, and buttons himself, picking the ones he liked the best?
Either way, his actions were nothing short of scandalous. She would not, could not, accept these. But how on earth would she give them back? What would she say? She couldn’t stand in the lobby of the hotel and hand them over to him. Someone would see. She shook her head. The whole situation was impossible.
He’d dismissed her, replaced her, and deserted her, yet she knew he hadn’t purchased the fabric and notions until after he’d returned her to town. She’d cleaned every corner of his house. She’d have known if these items had been in it.
So that raised the question: Why would Joe buy her these items after he’d secured his land? For she’d heard of his good fortune the moment she’d returned to the hotel. A rush of joy on his behalf had whisked through her. She knew he must be ecstatic. She also knew he no longer had any reason to angle for a wife.
Her first reaction had been to offer up a prayer of thanksgiving—for him and for her, thanking the Lord that they hadn’t wed. What would Joe have thought if he’d married her, only to then discover all was for naught?
Now, she wasn’t so sure. Could it be
he was trying to state in his own roundabout way that the feelings he’d professed earlier were not, in fact, linked to his land? Or was she grasping at straws simply because she wished it were so?
Anna fingered the cotton. No question it was for the making of undergarments. This message was clear: He cared for her as a woman.
She fingered the brocade. This message was not so clear. Yet she couldn’t determine what possible use she’d have for so much white satin if not for a wedding gown. And if that were the case, then Joe didn’t care for her just as a woman, but also as a bride.
The more she thought about it, the more hopeful she became. The land was Joe’s and was a part of what made him who he was. Strong. Tough. Resilient. He cherished it just as he would cherish whatever woman he chose to spend his life with.
She nibbled on her lip. She couldn’t make a wedding gown. Not without confirmation of some kind. That would be too presumptuous by half. But she could make a petticoat, a shift, new drawers, and a corset. Still, she wouldn’t wear them. Not until she’d ascertained his intentions.
Smiling, she shook out the cotton. Either way, they’d be the prettiest undergarments a girl could ever own.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Ollie, the new cook, didn’t have the repertoire Anna had. He left the kitchen a mess of crusted food and splattered sauces. And his bad mood had no end.
By the close of each evening, Joe could hardly wait to have him out of the house. But when Ollie and the crew left, the hours before bedtime crawled interminably. Hours of silence and solitude and memories.
Settling into a chair by the fire, Joe picked up the frame Anna had made with her seashells and rubbed his thumb across a tiny white clamshell. Inside, the frame held a Scripture. He’d never seen her handwriting before. Her l’s and e’s were widely looped, as if they were lassos.
Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
