by Sara Dahmen
He stands and goes to peer at them, then gives me a halfway hopeful, and devilish, grin.
“I could try one to make sure.”
“Doctor Kinney!” I smile. “Wait for tomorrow.”
“Barely,” he chuckles. In a bout of lightness, he grabs me and does a quick two-step about the kitchen. I cannot decide what has made him so silly, the July heat, or the coming celebrations. His arm comes around my waist, his large hand grabbing my bandaged one carefully as he spins us around the table. I laugh at him, at his sudden freeness, and also with a bit of weepy relief. He stops us in front of the stove. At first, he does not release me, but holds me lightly, searching my eyes. I do not understand his intensity, but I am surprised to find I enjoyed our little jig, and the masculinity of his embrace.
“You’ll dance with Bern, I suppose,” he says, loosening his arms. “There was your practice, then.”
“If he asks me,” I shrug indifferently, and turn to the stove.
“I’m sure he will,” he mutters, before setting out the plates. His murmur strikes me as odd, almost possessive, but I dismiss it. The doctor may like my casual female companionship, but he is one of the most courteous men in Flats Junction. I have no reason to expect him to step outside the perimeters of propriety.
Stirring the soup, I notice the tin on the edge wears thin along the copper pot. I will make a stop at the smithy soon. I’ve not had a reason yet, and have not met either smith in town as they keep to themselves.
I think on my day. After lunch, he will be off to afternoon rounds while I circle the neighborhood to check in on some of the women to make sure all is set for tomorrow’s festivities. But first I must dash the floor with water. And go change my dress. It will certainly not do for me to go calling on the women in the ruined mess I’m wearing. I may have gotten used to harder labor and difficult chores, and now I don’t scream very loudly when I find a mouse in the house, but I won’t let rough living change some of my civilized niceties.
We eat in easy companionship. The soup has a meaty flavor thanks to the handful of beets and turnips. We discuss his cases and my upcoming jaunt around town to confirm the foodstuffs.
“Don’t approach Sadie Fawcett head on, you know. She knows what she is supposed to make this year. And when Kate asked for casseroles from Clara Henderssen, she bent Sadie’s nose, or so I was told when I was there checkin’ on Sadie’s youngest’s broken arm. Go about that one gently and use lots of praise, or you’ll have burnt puddings for the town.”
I file away the information.
“And please wear a bonnet. And take water when you visit.” He finishes up the meal with reminders. “No faintin’ in the heat.”
“Yes, Doctor,” I say, and move to take the dirty dishes to sit in the washbin with the knives. He gets his bag and hat. He’s so busy this week that he does not have as much time to spend with me in the kitchen. I miss our banters when I wash and he dries the crockery, but I say nothing as I know his work is far more important than my company. And truthfully, I am getting busy as well with the summer needs of the garden, and my own slowly mounting duties as his assistant, filing papers and delivering medicines.
He pauses in the doorway. “Mrs. Weber.”
I glance back at him.
He gives me a little smile. “Save me a dance tomorrow, will you?”
“Of course.” I am pleased he asks me. It is nice to know he wishes to spend some time with me socially.
Chapter 9
3 July 1881
I make my own rounds in the afternoon after pouring water over the floor and sweeping it out, leaving the planks to dry and changing into my yellow calico. Widow Hawks is not home, and I know I will admit to my mistake about the brown dress tonight. I don’t look forward to telling her my foolishness, but there’s going to be relief in being done with the mishap.
It is hot. The sweat trickles down my back and under my collar, and I wear my wide-brimmed hat against the sun. Sadie Fawcett responds well to my flattery, as the doctor predicted. She has that tongue for gossip, too, so my stay is long at her table before I can make an excuse to leave, knowing everyone will hear the story of my mess with the lye and my blistered hands.
Still, the break in the coolness of her kitchen gives me the strength to make the longer walk out to the Binkley farms. Alice Brinkley and her family will bring a roast cow, and I want to be sure they have no issues providing the main meat for the gathering, but I notice it is already on a spit when I stop in to see Alice. Nancy Ofsberger, the postman’s wife, will be cooking a huge batch of potatoes. Between all the other women in town, there will be a good spread.
I swing by the doctor’s to pick up the copperware to drop at the smith’s and stop at Kate’s general store on the way to the tin shop. She is finishing the decorations. Her porch will be where the awards are to be given for the winners of the races—both foot and horse.
“All set?” She glances up, a pin poking out of the corner of her mouth.
“I think so. And Bern has promised to set up trestle boards for the tables before the racing.”
“Your man is becoming quite a helper,” she teases me and I have enough understanding to blush.
“Well, do you need anything else today? Otherwise I’m off to drop off some copper for repairs.”
She eyes the pot under my arm. “You’re going to have Marie do your work?”
I raise my eyebrows. “I thought I’d have the tinner do it. Isn’t that Thaddeus Salomon?”
“He’s the blacksmith,” Kate smirks. “You’ll be wanting Marie. She does the copper and tin work around here.”
“Oh.” I hide my surprise and wonder why no one has mentioned that the tin shop is run by a woman. I’ve only heard talk of ‘the tinsmith’ or ‘the blacksmith.’ Is it because everyone has accepted a woman in that role, or because no one approves? “Well, do you want anything from them for the festivities while I’m there?”
“No.” She turns back to the bunting, but not before I see how uncomfortable she is suddenly. “The smiths don’t always come anyway, as neither of them likes a good dance, and Marie is not exactly a good cook. Still, if Thad’s father’s wife is there—Berit. See if she might bring some of her potato dumplings. She does the best in town.”
Kate’s dark hair has completely fallen out of the heavy bun she wears. It is a glossy black and picks up the ruddy light of the setting sun. I think she is the loveliest woman I have ever seen. I am always a little in awe of her, and I feel I must always be working towards her approval, to confirm I’m a proper woman worth her respect. It taints my aid for the celebration preparations with a sort of desperation.
She is busy though, and does not have time to chat with me long. I tell her I need to get back to make dinner.
“Jane!” she calls as I slowly walk back down the stairs. “What happened to your hands?”
“Lye. I’ll tell you later,” I say, and am glad neither Gilroy or Horeb are in the general today to bother me further. Likely I’ll get an earful soon enough, as they’ll hear the tale from Sadie.
“Well, thanks for your help.” She graces me with a full smile. “It was very nice to have a friend to do this with, this year.”
I smile back, and head north to the tin shop, filled with a small sense of triumph. As I go up Davies Avenue toward the north end of town, I hear my name.
“Mrs. Weber!”
Doctor Kinney is the only one in town who calls me so formally, so I turn and wait for him to join me. He carries his medical bag in one hand and a large sack of flour in the other—likely the payment from one of his patients today.
“Where are you goin’?”
“I know it’s late.” I show him the pot. “I was just going to drop this off at the smiths for repairs. Dinner will be easy and fast. It’s much too hot to cook.”
He searches my brow with a clinical eye. “You’ve been keepin’ cool enough, I hope?”
“I have. No fainting spells, honestly.”
&
nbsp; “Well, then, let me walk with you and we’ll make off for home together.”
We arrive at the smithy soon enough. It’s on the edge of town, where the skinny Flats Basin River—more a creek than an actual river—winds and trips. Thaddeus Salomon, a giant of a man, is pounding hard on a hunk of iron, building what looks to be part of a wheel. He is looming and intimidating even as he concentrates on his metal. His apprentice stands to the side, pumping the bellows at intervals, and one of the blacksmith’s own sons is nearby, watching with alert eyes.
“Don’t interrupt his rhythm,” Doctor Kinney murmurs to me. “And besides, you need to go through to the coppersmith.”
We pass by the ringing hammer into an adjoining room through a wide, double door. A strong woman bends over a broad wooden table filled with shimmering white tin and rose-gold copper scraps. She is not as old as I expect, and she has two young girls at a nearby table scribbling on tin with scribes. One looks to be actually forming work.
Her dark head straightens, and she looks at me over the counter briefly.
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
We wait as she carefully finishes a circular cut, the fat scissors shearing through the copper as if it was butter. I see her hands are terribly scarred along the back, crisscrossed with healed cuts on every finger.
“What can I do for you?” Her voice is neutral.
“I need this repaired, please.” I offer up the piece. She takes it from me, her dark eyes immediately drawn to the worn tin and spotty copper.
“Well, then,” she considers, twisting the crockery into the light. “I’ve a bit of a backlog. It’ll be several weeks.”
“I can manage. There’s no rush,” I tell her, feeling as though I must placate her. The shop suddenly feels strangely quiet, and it’s only after I hear the shift of boots on the dirt that I realize the blacksmith has stopped his banging and is standing on the threshold staring at us, his fists resting on wide hips.
Doctor Kinney nods at the man, but doesn’t offer his usual warm chatter, which immediately puts me on edge. The blacksmith barely nods back.
“Fine. I’ll send one of my children when it’s finished. Or stop in by the middle of August, I’d expect,” Marie decides, then moves the copper off the counter and starts to scratch into her ledger. The margins of the paper are covered in artistic doodles. She slams the cover shut and raises her eyebrows at us.
“No need to pay until the work is finished and satisfactory.”
It’s obvious we are dismissed without a single piece of gossip or small talk. I edge out, but the blacksmith hardly moves out of the way. Doctor Kinney ambles behind me, still calm, his own bulk as reassuring as my shadow.
“Thank you,” I say, looking up at the hulking smith.
He frowns. “Don’t be thanking me. It’s her what’s doing your repairs.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I hedge, uncertain if I should offer a second thanks to the woman smith, but Doctor Kinney is fairly pushing me out, and Marie isn’t looking at us, but at the blacksmith.
As we make our way back into the street, her voice echoes through the rooms. “Really, Tadeusz, after all these years?”
The man’s response is a muttering rumble, and I look up at Doctor Kinney. He keeps his eyes straight ahead. It’s only after we leave that I realize I forgot to ask for Berit Salomon to make potato dumplings as is her usual.
“What was all that about?” I ask frankly.
He swallows and glances down at me. He’s silent for so long, I wonder if he won’t answer. Have I have asked a personal question that is too sore?
“Remember how I’ve mentioned that I have only been here for seven years?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the day I arrived in Flats Junction, there was an Indian raid. The Crow were fightin’ Widow Hawks’ people, who were campin’ up the hill by the old buffalo jump as they do every year. It was before most of the Indians were required to stay on the reservations. And the Crow came into town and started creatin’ havoc, butcherin’ and shootin’ arrows just to make mischief, to cause bad blood between the whites and the Blackfoot Sioux. Before that, the people in Flats Junction generally didn’t mind the passin’ of the Sioux in the warm months. But ever since . . .”
“How does that . . . forgive me.” I pause. “It’s just they were so short with you. Us.”
He nods. “That’s on me. They don’t like me much. The first time Thad Salomon met me, I was in the middle of rescuin’ people from that raid, choppin’ off a leg or an arm if there was no savin’ it. He wasn’t too happy about that—some still begrudge me that particular day. And the Salomons didn’t trust old Doc Gunnarsen before me, so they don’t feel they need to give me a chance either.”
He shrugs as he finishes. “I can see their point, though I’m not pleased. I hope they’d call me if they felt it was an emergency.”
“How many years do you think it will take before people will trust you? All the people?”
“Ten? Twenty?” He gives a laugh as we reach his porch, but it’s a sad sort of laugh, and the vulnerability in it surprises me. “Maybe never. How long did it take you to trust a doc with Mr. Weber’s health?”
I walk into the coolness of his hallway, considering his question. As he takes off his hat and rubs a hand through his damp hair, I look him in the eye, choosing truth.
“Never. I didn’t trust any of the doctors. They all differed so much. That’s why I started to read up myself, as much as I could. Not that it mattered. Nothing saved him in the end.”
He looks at me keenly. “Do you miss him so very much?”
Pressing my mouth tight, I wonder whether to tell him how I miss Henry. I don’t, not in the way he means. I never loved him. I appreciated him, and I thought him kind. But how can I miss someone who never stirred me? Who was simply a means to an end?
He seems to realize I will not—or cannot—answer, and goes silently into his office. I move to the kitchen and slice up cold vegetables, a bit of cheese, and hearty bread, fumbling with the knife. We’ll have new bread today, for I’ve discovered a knack for baking.
I think on Kate as I try to push the afternoon’s uncomfortable encounters away. I wonder how she came about, as a single woman, to run the general store in town. Without a man to help her with funds, or around the shop, I am continually impressed with her hard work and ambition. She is something of a leader in this town, respected by the women from what I can tell, though she does hit them rather hard around the head with tactlessness sometimes. And the men all seem to give her a wide berth, as if she is not a woman to court, even with her exotic beauty. Did she put them all off, like I did before I married Henry? I will have to ask the doctor.
As I muse on this, he walks into the kitchen, whistling.
“You’re in a good mood,” I comment, thankful he’s moved on from the pensive way we ended the conversation earlier. He gives me a grin before glancing over at the pies. “And don’t even think about it. There had better be three whole pies here tomorrow when I come to fetch them.”
“You have my word,” he vows, and sets himself comfortably at the table, reaching for some hard cheese. “Though I want to be first in line to try them.”
“There will be other sweets, too, in case they are a flop,” I say. “And my chicken.”
“Sounds like it will be quite the day tomorrow,” he says, eyes glinting. I have a feeling the doctor likes a good party.
“Will you be partaking in the activities and all?” I ask.
“Just the dancin’ and the minglin’, I’m afraid. I’m not one for ridin’ my animals as fast as those cowboys. I am on hand for when anyone, horse or rider, gets hurt, though.”
We start to eat, and then I carefully ask, keeping my tone neutral, as I hope what I am about to ask is not gossip, but common knowledge.
“I have been wondering, and I keep forgetting to ask Kate . . . how is it she is running the general? It is unusual for a woman to go at it alone, isn’t
it?”
The doctor shrugs and grabs carrots from the platter. “Maybe. Many a widow has made it work in the town’s I’ve seen. Vermillion had three generals before this spring’s floods, and one was run by a woman alone as well. Kate hasn’t married, so she's had to learn a bit on her feet. But she was lucky. The old owner stayed around and helped her learn the books and orderin’ before he died.”
“He took her on, like an apprentice?” I ask, uncertain on how the social structure works here in unconventional situations. For instance, how did a woman become a tinsmith in Flats Junction?
He gives a little laugh. “Oh no! Kate bought the store out from under him. Harry was a good man, but his health failed shortly after I came to town.”
“Kate must have had a good inheritance.”
“Some, yes. Her father was livin’ at the time, and he helped her buy it. She wanted to be independent. She always was. A regular spitfire.” His voice goes tender as he talks about her, and he gets a small smile on his face that I do not often see.
It dawns on me that the doctor is soft on Kate. If that is so, I wonder if she knows.
“You’ve known her long?”
“Since I arrived in Flats Junction with my Aunt Bonnie. Yes.”
I test my newly formed theory. “You should dance with her tomorrow.”
His head comes up, the blue eyes guarded.
“What makes you say that? I doubt Kate has any wish to dance with anyone. She’s never been one for a spin.”
“Ask her,” I prompt, feeling a bit of a matchmaker. “She might say yes.” I think about how she calls him by his first name, and I smile a little, too. “I think she would, indeed.”
He leans back, a faraway look on his face. I wonder if he’s ever shown his affection toward her. He is Irish, and while I see his passion in his work, he does not seem overtly romantic.
“You think so, do you?” He smiles a little sheepishly when he catches me observing him. He covers quickly. “You’ll be sure to dance once around with me, then, won’t you, Mrs. Weber?”
