by Janet Dean
“Thank you, God. With your brother-in-law sitting on the committee, I felt reasonably sure of the outcome. Still, a couple of those members adhere to rules as if Moses himself brought them down from on high.”
Laughing, Mary gave her father a kiss. “I can always count on your support.”
She returned to the counter to wash, soak in hydrogen peroxide and then dry the equipment her father had used to deliver the Shriver baby. Her father kept his surgery and office immaculate, while his quarters lay in shambles. She tried to keep up with the cleaning, but he could destroy her efforts faster than her boys put together. When she finished, she stowed the instruments in his black leather case then set the bag in its customary spot on the table near the door, where he could grab it on the way to the next house call.
Mary turned to say something to her father. He’d nodded off in his chair. As she prepared to tiptoe out of the room, he roused and ran a hand over his chin. “Guess I’d better shave. Don’t want to scare my patients.”
In the backroom, she filled the ironstone bowl on the washstand with hot water from the teakettle, and then sat at the small drop-leaf table to watch her father shave. He lathered the brush and covered his cheeks and chin with soap. Since Sam’s death, she’d missed this masculine routine, a small thing, but small things often caught her unaware and left her reeling.
If her father didn’t slow down, she could lose him too. Yet, Henry Lawrence was as stubborn as a weed when it came to helping others. No point in beating a dead horse…for now.
She’d tell him about the peddler. Surely he’d share her concern. “You won’t believe what’s going on downtown, Daddy. Why, it’s enough to turn my stomach.”
“Let me guess.” He winked at her in the mirror. “Joe Carmichael organized a spitting contest on the square.” He scraped his face clean with his razor and rinsed the blade in the bowl.
Mary planted her hands on her hips. “I’m serious.”
“Your feathers do look a mite ruffled.” He patted his face dry with a towel. “So tell me, what’s wrong?”
“Some fraud is selling patent medicine. He’s making all kinds of claims. Says it’ll cure upset stomachs and headaches, a baby’s colic. People couldn’t buy it fast enough, even after I warned them the bottle probably held 90-proof.”
“My precious girl, you’ve got to stop trying to protect everybody, even from themselves.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Her father crossed to her, touched her arm, his hand freckled with age. “Yes, you do. You’ve always been a caring woman, but since you lost Sam, you’re on a mission to save the human race. Trouble is you’re not God. You don’t have the power to control this world, not even our little piece of it.”
Mary covered her father’s hand with her own. “I know that. But I worry about you.”
“Yes, and about the boys getting sick or hurt, about their schoolwork.” He gave her a weak grin. “Why, your worrying worries me, Mary Lynn. Remember the scripture that says we can’t add a day to our lives by worrying.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Forgive me, Lord, for not relying on You. Not trusting You. Give me the strength to change.
These past two years, widowed and raising her sons alone, and now Ben, hadn’t been easy, even with her brother-in-law pitching in with the heavier chores. The money she’d inherited from Sam’s father had made a huge difference, meant she might live her dream, but the added financial security hadn’t eased the constant knot in her shoulders. Hadn’t eased the loneliness. Hadn’t eased the empty space in her heart.
Not that Sam had filled it.
Trying to alleviate the tension of her thoughts, Mary tapped her father playfully on the arm. “Besides, the topic isn’t about me. It’s that traveling salesman. Don’t you find his claims upsetting?”
Her father sat beside her. “Most of those tonics and remedies are worthless, but until I give his a try, I can’t condemn it.”
Her father prided himself on being impartial, as if the past meant nothing. “Think about it, Daddy. How could just anyone concoct a remedy with real medicinal value?” She leaned toward him. “Can’t we do something to protect the town from a quack?”
Her father rubbed the back of his neck. “Does he have a permit?”
“Yes. He’s too cunning to be tripped up that easily.”
“Well, then there’s nothing to be done.”
As if on cue, they both rose. Her father put his arm around her shoulders and they walked into the surgery.
“Doesn’t it bother you that half the town owes you money and they’re squandering what they have on a worthless tonic? If you could collect, you’d have a nice little nest egg for retirement.”
His gaze roamed the room and then returned to her with a smile of satisfaction. “What I do here is important. I have no desire to retire.” Her father snorted. “Besides, I can’t leave this town with one less doctor.”
From the stubborn set of her father’s mouth, she could see her argument fell on deaf ears. “There’s got to be doctors from one of the Indianapolis medical schools who’d be interested in entering your practice.” She took his hand, bracing for his reaction. “I’m so sure of it that I put an advertisement in the Indianapolis News Journal. The ad should draw inquiries from graduates seeking an established practice.”
Her father’s mouth tightened, his displeasure at her actions unspoken but palpable.
Sudden tears stung Mary’s eyes. “I’m sorry you disapprove.”
He walked to the window and rolled up the blinds, letting in the morning sun. “You’ve already admitted there’s no money in doctoring here. That’s not going to draw many applicants. Besides, I’m doing exactly what I want to do. I know these people. Know their ailments, their struggles…their secrets.”
When they had troubles, the folks in this town turned to two people—their doctor and their pastor. She respected and admired her father and the preachers in town who had a knack for listening. Knew how to comfort, and knew how, when necessary, to admonish.
Henry Lawrence not only made a difference in people’s lives but he’d saved quite a few. He had a purpose she admired more than any other and wanted to follow. And once she was a doctor, she’d be dependent on no one.
Her father returned to her side and tweaked her cheek. “If you want to help and can find your way around that pigsty I call a kitchen, then please, darling daughter, make me some breakfast.”
Glad to be useful, Mary smiled. “It won’t take but a minute.”
He hugged her. “You’re like your mother. Susannah could make a feast out of an old shoe.”
Pleased by the comparison, Mary laughed. Even five years after her mother’s death, she missed Susannah Lawrence every day, wanted to be like her serene, unflappable mother. But failed. In her mother’s north-facing kitchen, the walls painted the hue of sunshine, Mary’s spirits lifted. Her mother always claimed she never had a gloomy day working here, but she’d surely be amazed by the condition of her workspace now.
Mary might not know how to fix the problems around her, but she knew what to do here. She donned one of her mother’s bibbed aprons and tackled the mess.
Once her advertisement brought in the ideal doctor to help in the practice, she could go to medical school, knowing someone young and capable would help her father oversee the health of his patients. That is, assuming she got accepted. No guarantee for anyone, especially a woman. Months had passed without word. At twenty-eight, would her age work against her?
She finished clearing a spot on the counter, washed it down and then poked around in the icebox, emerging with a slab of bacon and a bowl filled with eggs. Once she’d fed and helped her father with his patients, she’d complain to Sheriff Rogers about the dark-eyed stranger. Maybe he could find a way to retract the permit. Surely he didn’t want that swindler taking advantage of people’s worries.
Taking advantage of her.
Her hand stilled,
and a wave of disquiet lapped at her. The dark stranger had thrown her off balance with that outrageous wink…but only for a moment.
She wouldn’t let that happen again.
Chapter Two
Luke Jacobs snapped the padlock into place on the back of his enclosed wagon and gave it a yank. The last straggler had gone about his day, leaving Luke alone, that meddling woman who’d opposed him heavy on his mind. He’d run into do-gooders like her before.
True, Miss Nightingale happened to be more attractive than most, with glinting green eyes, chestnut hair and a stubborn jaw—shoving into something she knew nothing about. A royal pain who fought what he’d worked hard to achieve.
The remedy stashed inside this wagon had taken him months to formulate. He’d spent untold hours experimenting in a small lab in his house, using himself to test his product. He took pride in what he’d accomplished. The remedy contained good medicine, meant to help people, not to separate them from their money.
That sassy woman probably wanted to drive him back to New York herself. Well, he had no intention of going. Not yet. Not until he learned if the boy lived here.
A band tightened around Luke’s throat, remembering the guilt and shame of his misspent life. If only he could go back and relive all those wasted years—
His eyes stung. Sin brought consequences. He’d gotten off scot-free. Lucy had paid with her life.
His son might still be paying.
Without question, he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood. He had no experience at the job. No stable home. No hope of having one. But he couldn’t leave the boy’s survival to chance.
If only he’d find the boy here.
Amongst thousands of children, somehow his son’s guardianship paperwork had been lost. All Luke knew for certain was the child had ridden west on a train full of orphans. He’d followed the trail for weeks, first riding the train, then buying this wagon and moving from town to town, selling his medicine and searching for the boy. Every lead had come up empty, every clue pointing to another town until he’d landed here in Noblesville, Indiana.
Another town. One more out of dozens. Would this town hold Ben?
If not, he’d move on tomorrow, though the prospect pressed against his lungs. He was tired, bone tired.
But his comfort didn’t matter. Finding his boy did.
God, help me find my son.
“How’s business?”
Luke whirled to face the sheriff, a big man with a friendly face and keenly observant eyes. From his trek across the country, Luke had learned the importance of getting on the right foot with the local lawman. It appeared Rogers had decided to keep an eye on him. “Can’t complain, Sheriff.”
Rogers patted his midriff. “That remedy of yours is easing my touchy stomach.”
Luke smiled. “Glad to hear it.”
“I’ll want to stock up before you move on.”
“I’ll set some bottles aside.”
The sheriff thumped the side of his wagon. “You drove this clear from New York City?”
“I rode the train as far as eastern Ohio, bought the rig and then followed the route of the Erie line.”
The sheriff shoved his Stetson higher on his forehead. “Same route that brought them orphans last year.”
Luke’s pulse leapt. “Orphans?”
“Yep, I’ll never forget the sight of that train. Youngsters poking their heads out the windows, squeezing together on the platform. Why, some had crawled on top of the cars.”
“How many stayed?”
“Twenty-eight. Eleven of ’em live in town. The rest are scattered ’cross the countryside.”
Luke hoped one of the eleven was his son. If so, he’d likely come across the boy without having to make inquiries that would raise suspicion. Or force him into an action he didn’t want to take. “Finding them homes must’ve been lots of work. Did you have to do it?”
“Nope. Fell to a committee.”
Luke forced himself not to push for information. Fortunately, the sheriff was in a chatty mood.
“The committee did its best, but the guardian of two of those orphans physically abused ’em.” Sheriff Rogers shook his head. “Ed Drummond will spend the rest of his days in state prison.”
Luke’s blood ran cold. “Did the children survive?”
“Yep.” The sheriff smiled. “Emma and William Grounds got themselves a fine home now.”
A gentle breeze carried off the breath Luke had been holding. “Good to hear. Sounds like a brother and sister.”
“Yep.”
Which meant Luke’s son wasn’t one of the abused orphans. Thank God.
The sheriff gave him a long, hard look and then slapped Luke on the arm. “Don’t forget to save me them bottles.”
“Sure will.” Luke hadn’t missed Roger’s piercing stare. Had he unwittingly revealed too much interest in the orphans and raised the sheriff’s suspicions? “Say, can you suggest a place to stay while I’m in town?”
“The Becker House’s food is second to none. Classy accommodations, too.”
“Sounds expensive.”
The sheriff rubbed his chin, thinking. “Last I knew the room over the Whitehall Café was empty. Try there.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Whistling, Sheriff Rogers moseyed off, hopefully overlooking Luke’s concern about the orphans. Early on, Luke had learned asking too many questions made folks wary, even led them to ask some questions of their own. He’d have to be more careful.
Pocketing the key to the padlock, Luke headed for the Whitehall Café. Someone waved to him; it was probably one of the morning’s customers. Along the way, he passed prosperous brick buildings, gas streetlamps, paved avenues. Trees on the lawn of the impressive three-story courthouse had changed to hues of gold and orangey-red. A crispness to the air hinted at the approach of winter, but on such a sunny day, winter appeared a long way off.
Noblesville looked like a good place to pause. He’d had an arduous trip, exposing him to the elements—rain, cold, heat. It was hardly his existence back East. In most ways, he’d found the journey good, even pleasurable. The towns where he’d stopped in the past weeks may have blended in his mind, but he’d enjoyed seeing the middle part of the country, meeting everyday people living everyday lives.
Mostly he’d found hard-working, good people who understood what mattered. He’d been glad to give back, to offer them a medicine he believed in. And yet, always searching, seeking that one last piece of his family puzzle.
No matter what that aggravating female thought of his remedy, of him, she wouldn’t thwart his quest to find the boy.
He wasn’t here to ruin a child’s happiness, or get involved. Life had taught him to hold people at arm’s length. He’d learned the lesson well.
If Ben had a good home and was happy with a family, Luke could return to New York and his lab.
Yet he couldn’t help questioning how it would feel to leave his flesh and blood behind. To forsake his responsibility to Ben as his parents had to Joseph.
Could Luke leave and repeat the family history he despised?
Geraldine Whitehall was dying. Again.
Mary bit her tongue, searching deep for a measure of patience, then greeted the café owner with a smile. All afternoon, the office had a constant parade of patients. Hoping to leave when the Willowbys arrived, Mary sighed, resigned to the delay.
Geraldine leaned close, her eyes wide with fright, her face creased with worry. “I need to see Doc.”
“He’s with a patient.”
“I have this cough. It’s worse at night. I’m sure it’s consumption,” she said, her tone hoarse like the words scraped her throat raw on their way out.
Mary patted the woman’s hand. “Have a seat. I’ll get you in as soon as I can.”
The patient collapsed into a nearby chair. Within seconds she flipped through a magazine, stopping at an article. Even back at her desk, Mary could read the title, “Tumors of the Eye.” Soon Geraldine woul
d find enough symptoms to keep her tossing tonight with yet another worry. Awareness thudded in Mary’s stomach. She had no right to criticize.
Mary rose and eased the magazine out of the woman’s clutches. “How’s your daughter?”
“Oh, my poor, darling girl.” Tears welled in Geraldine’s eyes. “What will Fannie do without a mother to help plan her wedding?”
“Fannie’s engaged?”
“No, but she and James are madly in love. It can’t be long until he asks.”
Frances Drummond walked into the waiting room. Another woman saddled with a man who’d hurt her. Fortunately Ed would spend the rest of his life behind bars for the years of abuse he’d heaped on Frances. Not nearly long enough for murdering Frances’ mother last year and all but killing Frances and Addie too. The short time the children lived in the Drummond house had taken a toll on Emma and William. Thank God those orphans were out of Ed’s clutches—and thanks to Frances—in the loving hands of Addie and Charles. God had shown there was hope, even amongst all that pain.
Frances paid her bill, exchanging a few words with Mary, who struggled to keep her mind on the task with Geraldine hovering nearby, coughing into her handkerchief and then examining it, most likely looking for the telltale blood of consumption.
With Frances out the door, Mary led Mrs. Whitehall into the examining room. The woman shadowed Mary so closely she could feel Geraldine’s breath on her neck. At any moment, Mary expected to feel tracks on her back.
Her father greeted Geraldine, keeping his expression blank and emitting only the faintest groan. After his short night, Mary admired his self-control.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Whitehall?”
Mary ducked out the door and returned to her desk. Her father could handle this latest malady alone.
Within minutes, Geraldine returned, having regained the spark in her eyes and the spring to her step. “I’m not dying! Hay fever is giving me this cough. It’ll disappear with the first hard frost.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mary said, but wondered when the café owner would be back wearing a panicked expression, ticking off new symptoms on her fingers.
