Sweet Sanctuary

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  She reminded herself of a Bible verse she’d read the morning before she’d boarded the Union Pacific train. The verse had stated that nothing is impossible for the one who believes. Well, it was too important for Nicky’s safety for her not to believe. She would find Mrs. Fenwick. She was depending on God’s help—and an earthly assistant, Micah Hatcher.

  Two men walked past, their gazes roving openly from the toes of her sling-back pumps to the top of her freshly brushed hair. Their unabashed appraisals sent a tingle of trepidation down her spine. Be careful, her father had admonished, and it seemed good advice at the moment. She stood with her most confident bearing until the men had gone by, then slumped with relief. The sooner she found a taxi driver who could transport her to Micah’s clinic, the happier she would be.

  A boy rounded the corner. He appeared around fifteen years old and was rather scruffy in attire, but Lydia thought he had an honest face. “Excuse me!” She hailed the passing youngster with a wave of her hand.

  He came to an abrupt halt, then looked up and down the street as if seeking someone before his focus came back to her. “Yes, miss? You callin’ me?”

  Lydia nodded. “Could you tell me the best place to catch a cab?”

  The boy grinned. “You must be new in town, miss. You’re at the best place in Manhattan to catch a cab. Comin’ an’ goin’ all the time from the station. Just step up on the curb an’ watch. One’ll be by.”

  “Thank you.” Lydia retrieved a coin from her purse and held it out.

  The boy looked at the coin, his eyes wide. His hand began to reach for it, but then he shrugged, shoving his hand into his pocket instead. He gave her a broad grin. “Nah, miss, keep yer change. No charge for common sense.” And he galloped on down the sidewalk.

  Chuckling to herself, Lydia pinched her purse beneath her elbow, gripped the slip of paper in one hand, and grasped the handle of the suitcase with the other. She stepped up onto the curb. Just as the boy had claimed, within minutes a jitney screeched to a halt not twelve inches from her feet.

  The round-faced driver hollered through the open window. “Needin’ a ride, are ya?”

  “Yes, sir. I need to go to Queens, the corner of Armstrong and Twenty-seventh.”

  The man scratched his head. “That’s a far piece o’ drivin’, miss. Goin’ to cost ya a pretty penny.”

  “Whatever it costs is fine,” Lydia said, then added, “within reason. I won’t be taken advantage of.”

  The man broke into a grin, revealing a broken tooth in the front. He jammed his thumb toward the backseat. “Climb in, miss. I’ll git ya where ya want to go. An’ I’ll be fair an’ reasonable in my charge o’ the ride.”

  “Thank you.” Lydia opened the backseat door, swung in her case, then settled herself beside it. The moment her door closed, the driver pulled from the curb, blasting his horn to warn others of his approach. Fear rose in her belly at his aggressiveness. Lydia grabbed the seat and held on tight as he wove through the other traffic. Closing her eyes for just a moment, she whispered a quick prayer for safety. She wanted to get to Queens in one piece.

  To Queens—and Micah.

  The thought brought a rush of feeling that had nothing to do with fear. Micah would no doubt be surprised to see her, but she knew he wouldn’t turn down her request for help in locating Mrs. Fenwick. His affection for Nicky, and his knowledge of their dire situation, would make it impossible for him to refuse. Guilt pricked as she considered taking advantage of Micah’s kind heart, but she really had no choice. Nicky was too important to not use every advantage she could find.

  “Mr. Jensen, you did a fine job on your arm.” Micah shook his head.

  “Ja, was a stupid thing to do, I know.” The man grimaced as Micah forced the needle through his flesh. “I will be wiser than to put my arm through a window next time.”

  “Let’s not put anything through a window, okay? No arms, legs, heads . . .” Micah tried to make light of things. He knew he inflicted pain on his patient, but distraction was a good antidote to discomfort. “You know, my mama was in a quilting group when I was a boy. I used to stand by the frame and watch those needles go in and out, in and out, creating pretty patterns in the fabric. I just never figured I’d need the skill for myself. But look at this—I bet Ma would be proud of the stitch job I’m doing here.”

  The man’s face was white, but he managed a weak laugh. “Ja, I’m sure your mama would be proud. My own mama, she could make such tiny stitches. Fourteen to the inch, she would say. But I think I would rather you did not try so many on me.”

  The cowbell Micah had hung above the clinic door clanged, and a loud, wild wail filled the room. Both men jumped. Mr. Jensen said, “You better go see what is wrong.”

  Micah placed a wad of bandages on Mr. Jensen’s arm. “Keep that covered and hold still. I’ll be right back.” He moved from the curtained examination area to find a mother and child standing just inside the door, both crying loudly. The child had several scrapes on the side of her face. Her hair was matted with blood, and she clung tenaciously to her mother, making it impossible for Micah to examine her. The mother’s distraught wails did nothing to calm the child.

  Where was Stan? Micah couldn’t handle both patients unassisted. The cowbell clanged again, and Micah glanced up, expecting to see Stan rushing forward with an apology on his face. Instead, Lydia Eldredge, wearing a butter-yellow skirt and jacket and holding a suitcase, stepped through the door. He blinked rapidly, certain he was hallucinating, but the thud of her suitcase hitting the floor and the clack of her heels across the scuffed hardwood dispelled the theory.

  “What’s the problem here?” Lydia spoke with the lyrical yet determined tone Micah knew well. The howling of the distraught mother and child increased in volume. Micah had to raise his voice to be heard above the din.

  “I’m not sure. The mother won’t release the child to let me examine her.”

  “Let me try.” Lydia placed an arm around the mother’s back, patting her shoulder. She smiled in a warm, encouraging manner. “Ma’am, I want to help you. Are you hurt?”

  The mother shook her head so hard she nearly dislodged her scarf. “My baby. My baby, she is hurt.”

  Micah again reached for the child, but the woman snatched her back, and the child screamed in fear.

  Lydia resumed patting the mother’s shoulder. “Come sit over here with me and let me look at your baby. I will help her.” Lydia gently guided the woman to some chairs in the corner. Micah watched, dumbfounded, as Lydia took over. She settled the mother on one chair, sat down next to her, and eased the little girl from the mother’s lap onto her own. Lydia glanced up and met Micah’s gaze.

  She waved a hand of dismissal. “We’ll be fine. Go finish whatever you were doing.” She looked pointedly at his bloodstained hands. “I wouldn’t have let you touch my baby, either, with those awful hands. Clean up. By the time you come back, we’ll be ready for you.”

  Micah stood rooted in place for a moment, staring stupidly as Lydia turned her attention back to the mother and child and continued soothing both of them. The wails died down to mild, hiccupping sobs. He shook his head and returned to Mr. Jensen. While he finished stitching the man’s arm, he kept an ear tuned to the other side of the curtain. An occasional giggle carried over low-toned conversation. The stitching done, Micah carefully bandaged the arm and fished in his supply cupboard for some aspirin. He found it difficult to stay focused on the task at hand with Lydia on the other side of that curtain, whispering with the frightened mother and child.

  Micah assisted Mr. Jensen from the table, and the man gave him a knowing look.

  “That lady who is out there, she is a pretty one.”

  Micah straightened his spine. His ears went hot. “Well, yes, I suppose she is.”

  “She is your friend?”

  Micah considered the question. Then, somewhat uncertainly, he gave a nod. “Yes. She is my friend.”

  Mr. Jensen winked. “You are a lucky man
.”

  Micah frowned. That waited to be seen. Then he smoothed his forehead and handed the packet of aspirin to Mr. Jensen. “Take these when the pain is too much. You’ll need to keep the wound clean and dry. Come back each day for a new dressing. In a week, we’ll take those stitches out. In the meantime, no using that arm.”

  Mr. Jensen’s brows raised in alarm. “No using arm? No working? But I must to work. My family—”

  Micah stopped the man’s worried protests with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I will speak to your foreman and make sure he understands why you can’t be there this week. And when you come tomorrow, I’ll have a box of food for you to help your family through until you’re working again.”

  Mr. Jensen’s jaw clenched. Micah held his breath, waiting for the man to refuse his help, but then tears appeared in the man’s eyes. Brokenly, he said, “You are a good man, Dr. Hatcher. I thank you for your kindness.”

  Micah squeezed Jensen’s shoulder. “You take care of yourself. Watch out for windows.”

  The man managed a smile, and then he headed out, holding his wounded arm against his rib cage. Micah returned to Lydia and the other patient. Although the child’s cherubic face was tear-streaked and apprehensive, she sat quietly on Lydia’s lap.

  Micah squatted down next to Lydia’s chair, smiling at the little girl. He asked Lydia, “What have you determined to be the problem here?”

  Lydia stroked the child’s hair. “She fell from the stoop of her apartment. She has several scrapes and one minor cut above her ear. It bled a lot, as head wounds are prone to do, but I don’t think it requires stitches.”

  Micah checked. The child whimpered softly when he placed his hands on her head to part the grimy hair at the site of the cut, but Lydia soothed her, and the little girl remained still. Micah sagged in relief when he determined Lydia was right. He could hardly bear to think of pressing a needle into this little one’s scalp.

  Micah turned to the mother. “She’ll be fine. We’ll clean her up and put some bandages on her wounds. Come with me.” The mother stood and Micah reached for the little girl, but the child wrapped her dimpled arms around Lydia’s neck.

  Lydia stood. “I’ll bring her.”

  A strange pressure built in his chest. Lydia cradling a child was an arresting sight. He shook his head to clear it, then gestured to the curtain. “Back here.” He led the small parade to the examination area, where he saw to the child’s wounds. As soon as the mother and child departed, Micah turned to address the question he was sure Lydia was expecting.

  “What in the world are you—”

  The cowbell sounded, and Micah threw out his arms, his gaze raised heavenward. What now? But instead of a patient, Stan rushed in. Finally. Micah started to berate the man for his late arrival. Before Micah could speak, the man blurted, “Hey, Micah, I have a message for you. Some dockworker said to tell you there’s a package for you due in on the next Red Cross ship. Said it would be in around ten this evening.”

  9

  Micah’s sudden change in demeanor left Lydia feeling strangely unsettled. He seemed to blanch at hearing the message, then straightened and deliberately assumed a nonchalant pose. When he spoke, his voice was even and held no hint of anxiety, yet Lydia sensed he was hiding his true feelings.

  “Thank you, Stan. Now suppose you tell me where you’ve been. You’re more than an hour late.”

  Stan ducked his head and dug the toe of his boot against the wooden floor. “Aw, I’m sorry, Micah. I lost track of time. I was shooting billiards with some of the boys, and—”

  Micah waved a hand. “Never mind. I can guess.” He dropped the subject, but Lydia imagined it would be brought up again, when Micah no longer had an audience to overhear the conversation. Micah held out his hand in her direction. “Stan, let me introduce Miss Lydia Eldredge from Boston, Massachusetts. She arrived just in time to help with an emergency.”

  Lydia smiled and offered her hand.

  Stan took it and held it longer than was polite, grinning foolishly above the shaggy beard. “Well, hello, Miss Eldredge. I’m Stan—Stanley Forrester. Nice to make your acquaintance. What brings you to New York? I don’t imagine you came just to help Doc Hatcher here with his emergency.”

  Lydia forced a light laugh and withdrew her hand from Stan’s massive paw. She resisted the urge to wipe her palm on her skirt. “No, actually, I’m here on business.” She felt Micah’s querying look and had to fight to keep from turning to him and begging for his help. She didn’t want to say anything in front of a man about whom she knew nothing more than his name.

  “Business?” Stan’s bushy eyebrows rose. Lydia thought it looked as if he had as much hair growing across his forehead as he did on his chin. “Now, you’re much too pretty to be concerned about business. Since you’re new in town, maybe I could—”

  “Stan, Miss Eldredge has said she’s here on business.” Micah’s tone carried a hard edge. “To me, that intimates her social time is limited.”

  Stan took a step backward, still grinning. He held up both hands. “Okay, okay, Micah. Don’t get your dander up. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity, ya know?”

  He swung his gaze back to Lydia, and she experienced a sense of discomfiture as real as when the two men had ogled her outside the Pennsylvania Station.

  “Have a good time in New York, Miss Eldredge.” He winked. “But don’t expect too much attention from ol’ Doc Hatcher here—this boy is all work and no play.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure my time here will be well spent.”

  “Stan, I’d appreciate it if you would clean up, and then lock the clinic on your way out. I need to take Miss Eldredge to her lodgings.”

  Stan waved a hand, a smirk still creasing his face. “Sure. Okay, Micah.”

  Micah walked behind the curtain and emerged a moment later with a brown felt hat pulled low over his eyebrows and a brown jacket in place of the apron he’d been wearing earlier. He picked up Lydia’s suitcase with one hand, took hold of her elbow with the other, and ushered her out the door.

  Lydia knew that to anyone looking on, he would appear the perfect gentleman, but his fingers dug into her arm. He seemed to be simmering with controlled fury. She bit down on her lower lip—it hadn’t been her intention to make him angry. Perhaps she should have wired ahead that she was coming. But it was too late for that now, she told herself as she was forced to walk faster than she preferred to keep up with Micah’s longer stride. When her heel nearly caught in a crack of the sidewalk, she lost patience and jerked her arm loose.

  Micah swung around, her suitcase banging against his knee. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you mean, what’s wrong that brings me to New York or what’s wrong that I suddenly decided I didn’t care to have my arm pulled from its socket?” She rubbed her elbow where it felt as if his fingers had imprinted her flesh.

  At her outburst, Micah plunked the suitcase on the sidewalk and sat on it, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his face in his hands. She stood silently until he raised his chin, dragging his hands along his cheeks and creating temporary jowls with the movement. He sighed. “I’m sorry if my pace was too . . . brisk.”

  “Brisk? Micah, I felt as if we were running from the law!”

  A grin threatened—she saw the left corner of his lips twitch. It pleased her, but still she admonished lightly, “And you haven’t even asked after Nicky.”

  Micah’s head came up. “Is he okay?”

  The obvious concern in his expression nearly melted Lydia’s heart. She hastened to assure him. “Nicky was fine when I left. He sent me with a drawing which I’m to give to Micah-his-friend.” She smiled. “You left quite an impression on that little boy. He talks about you every day.”

  Micah’s eyes softened at that news, and he dropped his gaze to the sidewalk near his feet. When he stood, she noted the tenderness that had appeared at the mention of Nicky had slipped away. “Lydia, are you really here on business?”

  Ly
dia gave a quick nod. “Yes. Very important business. Micah, do you remember when you said—”

  Micah held up a hand. “I do want to hear about your reason for being here, but I have to be honest. I’ve got some important business of my own that needs immediate attention.” He glanced at his wristwatch, grimaced, and looked beyond her shoulder for a moment, a frown creasing his handsome face. Finally he looked at her again. “Do you have a hotel yet?”

  She shook her head. “No. I came straight to the clinic when I arrived.”

  “Well, I believe the apartment across from mine is empty right now. The older couple who lived there moved closer to their daughter’s workplace so they could watch her children while she’s at work. Let me see if the landlady would allow you to camp out there while you’re in town. It’s only a studio apartment, but it will be more spacious than a hotel room. Would that be all right with you?”

  Lydia tipped her head. “Do you think the landlady would be willing to do that?” Housing in Boston rarely lasted more than a few hours between tenants.

  “She might.” Micah smirked. “She thinks I’m cute.”

  Lydia frowned. “Micah, really.” An improper rush of jealousy followed.

  He shrugged, his lopsided grin causing her heart to turn over. “She’s also old enough to be my grandma. But I look out for her, so I think she’d do this for me. Come on.” He took her arm again, but much more gently. He also tempered his stride to match her shorter one. As they walked along, he glanced at her and offered a smile. A real smile. His Micah-smile. It warmed Lydia all the way to the open toes of her shoes.

  Heavenly Father, guard my heart, Lydia willed even as she returned Micah’s smile with a tremulous one of her own. I’m here to save my son, not give my heart away.

  To turn her attention elsewhere, she allowed her gaze to scan the area. She wrinkled her nose. Did nothing green grow in New York? A few sad flower boxes hung on apartment windows, but the poor plants growing there drooped and sagged as if blooming were too much effort. Happy squeals reached her ears and she looked upward, spotting a group of children playing on a rooftop. A rooftop? She thought of Nicky in such a location, and her heart nearly stopped. Never would she allow such a thing! But when one considered the traffic, perhaps a rooftop was safer than the streets. . . .