Handful Of Flowers

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  “It’s my place. I ought to.” He shook his head. “The army needs to hire her. In less than three minutes, she had seven grown men dusting down the ceiling.”

  The window screeched as Polly finally forced it open. “Do you think it’s funny that they cooperate, or are you amused because we’ll have sawdust all over by the end of the day?”

  “The former shows family spirit. I’m impressed. It’s the latter.” He bent down to take the draperies from Polly.

  Polly watched as he looked down before tossing the dusty bundle out of the room. When he turned around, she informed him, “The dirt is old. Sawdust is fresh.”

  He gave her a wary look. “I see.”

  Polly nodded sagely, but she couldn’t hide the laughter in her voice. “That’s what my uncle Paul told Aunt Delilah when they added onto their cabin.”

  Doc chortled. “That explains why he was the first one to start cleaning.”

  Kate tossed down her scrub brush. “I, for one, am going downstairs. This is a sight never to be missed—Chance men doing housework!”

  Laurel and Kate ran downstairs. Doc lifted a brow in silent query.

  “My first memories are of Daddy and my uncles doing housework.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Mother died soon after the birth of my sister.” Polly turned to the side and resumed work. “Aunt Miriam is the first woman I remember, and from all accounts, the. . .um. . .housekeeping the Chance men had been doing wasn’t exactly to standard.”

  “I see. So which of the girls is your sister?”

  Her hand halted. “Ginny Mae passed on from diphtheria when she was ten.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Hey, Doc!” someone shouted from down below.

  Doc gave her a look filled with compassion and apology, then turned and headed downstairs. “Yes?”

  A moment later, hearty guffaws filled the air. Polly could pick out Dr. Walcott’s laughter.

  ❧

  Food overflowed Eric’s desktop, and everyone sat on the floor with a full plate. “You folks can’t imagine how much I appreciate—”

  “Got anymore deviled eggs?” Polly’s father interrupted.

  “Yeah,” one of the boys said. “Caleb, pass ’em this way. I want one before they reach Uncle Dan, else I won’t get another.”

  Eric started anew. “Your help has—”

  “Someone toss me a roll, will ya?”

  “Here you go.” Kate pitched it across the room with stunning accuracy.

  “I’d like to—”

  “Don’t suppose you saw any salt in the kitchen, did you, dear?” Paul hitched a shoulder.

  Delilah shook her head. “Not a lick.” Everyone laughed at her choice of words.

  Originally, Eric didn’t think Daniel had interrupted him intentionally. With the second interruption, he figured it was simple youthful lack of manners. After the third interruption, he got the message loud and clear. He’d find some way to thank them, though. He opened his mouth.

  “So what color did you think about painting the surgery?” Polly gave him an oh-so-innocent look.

  “Green.” He bit into a carrot. A couple of quick chomps, and he swallowed; then he used the remainder of the carrot like a pointer. “I thought to place my desk back parallel to that wall.”

  “Do you still want your books upstairs?” Daniel asked.

  “Tomorrow I’ll purchase a bookcase and fill it. No use hauling the boxes for one night.”

  “Why don’t you use that big old cabinet over there for your books?” Kate tilted her head toward the piece one of the boys was using as a backrest.

  “I use that for my medications and instruments. The glass front protects them.”

  Lunch was over quickly. Polly and her aunt cleaned up as the other girls measured windows and doorways and chattered like a pair of magpies. While the sounds of hammers and saws filled the air, Eric went outside, dipped a brush in wood stain, and started working alongside Daniel.

  “Anybody know if the doctor’s around?”

  “Back here!”

  “Get going.” Daniel didn’t even bother to look up. “Somebody needs you.”

  Polly appeared in the kitchen doorway. She held a cake of soap and a towel.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Your calling comes first.” Pouring water into the sink, she added, “I—we understand.”

  Seven

  Weary, Eric opened the door to his new place and stopped cold. The smell of fresh paint hit him. For a moment, he had the odd sensation that he’d entered the wrong residence, but the moon cast a weak glow through the window and illuminated his desk.

  He blinked in disbelief. He’d forgotten about the Chance men offering to “help out.” They’d done far more than just erecting the walls. He stepped inside and lit a lantern.

  It didn’t take long to walk around the downstairs, but each step brought a small revelation. The walls were complete. Sanded smooth. All of the walls in his examination room had been painted a pale green that looked fresh and calming. Shelves lined one entire wall and the top portion of another.

  The old walls in his office were painted: one a buttery yellow, and the other a deeper green. The new walls were stained, and the wood grain gave a dignified feel to the place. Dark green curtains hung in the windows and also across rods in the open doorways. They’d been pulled to the center of the rods and knotted up in order not to brush against the fresh stain and paint.

  A glass-fronted, oak bookshelf he’d seen at the store now rested against a wall and contained his precious texts. They’d even been arranged almost in the exact order he would have put them. Polly must’ve done that. A pair of benches rested against a wall, and brass hooks gleamed in wait for patients’ coats and hats.

  The place looked. . .professional. It would have taken him weeks to accomplish this. Thanks to the industrious Chances, he’d be able to concentrate fully on his chosen profession right away.

  Though the smell of paint still permeated the room, the note he’d seen on the counter reminded him he hadn’t eaten in hours. Eric took the plate from the icebox and peeked at what lay beneath the napkin—a mammoth roast beef sandwich and a mound of potato salad. He opened the drawer where he’d plopped his silverware and discovered that a dish towel now lined the bottom and bore a few strategic folds that kept the knives, forks, and spoons separate. After snagging a fork and bumping the drawer shut with his hip, he sat at his desk to eat the supper.

  A note rested beneath a jar of flowers. No pumps at the store. Glad to put one in when it arrives. Eric leaned back and let that thought settle in his mind. Running water. He’d have the ability to wash things down quite easily and control contagion. Others thought of water as being life-giving because it quenched thirst; to Eric, boiled water meant lives would be saved because it prevented infection.

  “ ‘My God will supply all your needs. . .’ ” He quoted the scripture softly. Thank You, Lord, for supplying all of this.

  His grandparents had given him a beautiful leather treatment register when he’d begun to see patients. Not only did he keep a separate file on each family, but the treatment register allowed him a quick overview of the practice and finances. Skipping a page between his eastern clients and the new ones here in Reliable township made sense. Eric opened the register, took another bite, and wrote on the blank intersecting page, “Reliable, 1889.”

  Dipping his pen into the inkwell again, Eric planned what he’d chart about his first case here. Suddenly, the wonderful taste of roast beef turned to sawdust in his mouth.

  Facts. A patient chart contained the specific facts and no emotion. Just the patient information, diagnosis, treatment, and prognosis—but the cold, hard truths in last night’s and tonight’s cases knotted Eric’s guts. A physician wasn’t supposed to be emotionally involved. But how could a Christian man—any man—close his heart and soul to such travesty?

  He’d just spent hours treating a drunken father and son who s
hot at one another during an argument. The father didn’t survive; the son now lay bandaged on a cot over at the sheriff’s. When he sobered up, he’d have to grapple with what he’d done.

  Boiling his medical care down to a few brief, stark sentences, Eric penned the information, then waited for the ink to dry. His desk had a deep drawer in which he locked his patients’ records. Though everyone would be aware of tonight’s murder, last night’s travesty at the saloon was recorded in the same book. Eric carefully turned the brass key in the lock.

  Mounting the stairs, Eric noticed the rich glow and satiny feel of the just beeswaxed handrail. The room to his left had been painted the same buttery color as downstairs and filled with miscellaneous boxes and crates. As the lamp cast its light in his own room, Eric inhaled deeply.

  Deep green paint coated the walls, and insubstantial pale curtains fluttered by the open windows. His wardrobe, washstand, and bed each rested against different walls—all familiar items that made this feel like home. He’d tossed open the trunk lid downstairs to yank out a clean shirt to wear on his call. That trunk now lay at the foot of his bed.

  Though the turned-down bed looked inviting, Eric suffered a restless spirit. He took the lantern into the treatment room and lit a second lamp, then opened a box. Unpacking and setting everything in order might help.

  ❧

  “You have a shipment, Polly,” Mrs. White called as the bell at the mercantile door dinged.

  “Wonderful!”

  Eric turned at the sound of Polly Chance’s cheery voice. Every time he saw her, the woman had that same bright-eyed, everybody’s-best-friend look. The corners of her mouth tilted up naturally, but her lips stayed together. In the last few weeks, he’d seen her weigh her words before she spoke and hold confidences—both admirable traits. If only she weren’t so. . .misguided.

  “Mama made you some of her blueberry jam, Mrs. White.” Polly drew a jar from the basket she carried, set it on the counter, then added another. “And I brought you some tea. I reckoned you’d be running low on it.”

  Watching them, Eric presumed Polly was bartering. He’d seen the same thing done by every ranch woman in town.

  Mrs. White picked up the first jar and held it close to her bosom. “Oh, isn’t that just like Lovejoy. You Chances just spoil me.”

  “We love you. Will you be coming to the bee this week?”

  “I don’t know. . . .” Mrs. White looked around the mercantile, and her voice trembled. “Without Mr. White. . .”

  “We have that covered. You get your choice of a Chance and a MacPherson. Just tell me which ones, and they’ll come mind the place so you can get away.”

  Mrs. White sighed and wiped the edge of her eyes with the corner of her apron, making Eric wonder how long she’d been a widow. Though he’d planned to buy a stamp and send away for more medications to round out his pharmacy, he turned away and secretly pulled the list from the envelope. It might cost a bit more, but he decided to help out the widow by placing the order through her store.

  “As I said, you and your mother have a shipment. It’s from Salt Lick Holler.”

  “It must be from Hattie. My brothers have a box out in the wagon to ship to her.”

  Mrs. White laughed. “I can’t figure out how that happens. There’s no rhyme or reason to when you trade herbs, but whenever one sends a box, the other does, too!”

  “It makes perfect sense. You see, Widow Hendricks taught both Mama Lovejoy and Hattie Thales, so they both follow the same seasonal calendar and phases of the moon.”

  Eric crouched down to examine a tin of honey just to hide his reaction. The sheer ignorance of what this girl believed was enough to choke him.

  “So did you want to order another instrument from the Claflin Company back East with the funds in your account, or did you need something else?”

  Claflin? Eric nearly dropped the honey. This woman mail-ordered equipment from the premier medical company?

  “I believe I’ll wait on that. What I need is some cheesecloth so I can make more tea balls and infusions—and six yards of the bandaging cotton.”

  The bell over the door dinged again. A young man stuck his head into the shop. Unless Eric missed his guess, this was fifteen-year-old Calvin. Then again, all of the Chance boys looked alike. “Polly, get bullets.”

  “Okay. Do you need anything else, Cal?”

  “Nope.” He ducked back out.

  Eric felt a flare of satisfaction. He’d recognized the boy, after all.

  “Pardon him for being so unsociable,” Polly said. “He’s not been his best for the last few days.”

  Mrs. White nodded. “Ulysses MacPherson mentioned he’d tangled with a porcupine.”

  “I just can’t tell you how much we appreciate the way you keep the bandaging cloth wrapped up to keep it clean.”

  Eric’s brows rose. Polly Chance just changed the subject without confirming or denying anything about her cousin’s injury. She’d done it so tactfully, Mrs. White probably hadn’t even noticed it.

  “Six yards.” Mrs. White scurried off to the back room.

  Eric took the honey to the counter along with a cake of Pears’ Shaving Soap. When Mrs. White reappeared, he smiled. “I’d like some of that, too, please. Eight yards.”

  “Very well.” She took off the muslin outer wrap and started to measure. “One, two, three, four. . .” She stopped. “Oh, dear. Six for Polly and eight for the doctor—I don’t believe I have fourteen yards here.”

  Eric waited for Polly to demure. Surely she’d allow that a physician ought to have first call on all medical goods.

  She didn’t. Instead, she rested her basket on the counter. “How much do you have, Mrs. White?”

  Mrs. White continued to measure it out. “Seven yards, give or take a few inches. I’ll order more right away. It’ll be here in just two days. Polly did ask first. . . .”

  “Why don’t we share it?” Polly suggested. “Three and a half yards apiece.”

  Eric had already solved the issue mathematically: If Polly offered to take three yards and he took four, they’d each have half of what they requested. But that was inconsequential. A half yard wouldn’t make any difference. Then again, neither would three. “Just sell it all to Miss Chance. I’ll have you order me a full bolt so we don’t run into this difficulty again.”

  Mrs. White gaped at him, then stammered, “The factory usually sends thirty-yard half-bolts. Do you want sixty yards?”

  He shrugged. “Go ahead and order a half-bolt for me and another for the store. I don’t like to be without.”

  “Those special plasters you ordered came in.” Mrs. White gave him a conciliatory smile. “Maybe they’ll fill in, in the meantime.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Plasters?” Polly asked.

  “Oh, they’re astonishing,” Mrs. White declared. “Dr. Walcott sent off for them—they’re the latest thing.”

  Polly’s head tilted to the right. The action made the feather in her hat sway slightly. Under other circumstances, it would be a very charming sight. “What kind of plasters, Doctor? Onion? Mustard?”

  “No.” He watched Mrs. White fold the cotton. “A company back East makes individual bandages and wraps them separately. They contain healthful powders. I’m able to use them both wet and dry.”

  “Imagine!” Polly beamed at him. “Would you show me one?”

  Eric knew he’d run into these touchy situations. This woman wasn’t a peer, and if he treated her as one, he’d implicitly be endorsing her practice. On the other hand, if he failed to use these moments to open her eyes to modern medicine, he could scarcely blame her for her backward ways. If she used old techniques to treat someone when he might have educated her to practice something medically sound, ethically Eric bore the responsibility for that patient’s lack of recovery.

  Lord, what would You have me do?

  Eight

  “Of course the doctor will show you.” Mrs. White lifted a box from behind the
counter with a little flourish.

  “Johnson & Johnson,” Polly read on one of the wrappers. “How very clever of them to come up with such a product! It would be a waste just to open one for the sake of idle curiosity.”

  Eric swooped in on the opportunity. “Let’s put it on your cousin’s leg.” He snatched the box, took her by the arm, and escorted her out the door. “Where did he go?”

  “He’s supposed to buy chicken feed.” Of all things, Polly laughed. “I hope for his sake, he remembered to buy it in the yellow-and-blue-striped sacks. Aunt Daisy has plans for them.”

  “So you have chickens? I haven’t seen any of the Chances bring eggs to town.”

  “No small wonder. There are the ten adults, four girls, and fourteen boys, plus a few hands on the ranch!”

  “I didn’t realize there were that many of you.”

  “Might be because the church is holding Sunday school for the children. Between my aunts and uncles playing the piano, teaching Sunday school, and ushering, we don’t all sit or stay together. Are you from a large family?”

  “No.” He helped her cross the street. “I’m an only child.”

  “How sad!” She stopped. “Don’t your parents miss you terribly?”

  “My mother died in childbirth when I was five. My father sent me back East to my grandparents.”

  “How dreadful for you and for him.” She blinked. “Where is your father now?”

  “He’s no longer living.” Her stricken expression made him soften his voice. “Don’t pity me. My grandparents were exceptional people.”

  “But you have no one now!”

  “Which is why I was able to come back to California—I had no one to tie me down.” He supported her elbow as she stepped up onto the boardwalk. Now that they were out of earshot, he asked, “Have you had any more headaches?”

  “No. I get one or two a month.” She blushed but still looked him in the eye. “It was nice of you to check in on me.”

  “Not that I was able to do much. Feverfew’s the best treatment.” From his examination, he’d detected nothing abnormal—no evidence of disease or tumors—but other than feverfew and tincture of time, no remedy existed. “I’ve written back to Boston to see if a neurologist there has any suggestions.”