Emmy bowed her head, feeling as small as the time her aunt had caught her splashing in a puddle as a young girl.
“I think he’d say, ‘Job well done.’” James caught up to her side, his presence as solid and strong as the poplars taking leaf around them. “Thanks to Miss Nelson,” he said, “there are two new souls in the camp, for she just delivered twins, and breech at that.”
Aunt peered at him then rummaged for a moment and produced a set of spectacles, eyeing him as if he were an insect to be dissected. “And you are?”
Emmy stepped forward, filling the gap between the doctor and the carriage. “Aunt Rosamund, allow me to introduce Dr. Clark. Doctor, my aunt, Miss Rosamund Nelson.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Nelson.” He dipped his head in a bow, ever the charmer. “I’ve heard so many good things about you.”
“Have you?” She lowered her glasses and speared Emmy with a frown. “I wonder.”
Hooves pounded up the road, heading straight toward them. Jubal’s arms strained to keep the carriage horses under control.
A corporal on a bay reined in next to them. “Colonel’s looking for you, Dr. Clark. Says you’re to come at once.”
“Oh? Is someone hurt?”
“Nah. Nothing like that.” The corporal’s horse pawed the ground, scraping up gravel. “First mail of the season arrived upriver, and along with it, the new doc.”
James’s brows rose.
Emmy’s heart sank. She knew he’d be leaving sometime this spring, but were these halcyon days to end so soon?
James nodded then turned back to her and Aunt. “Forgive me, but I need bid you ladies adieu. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
He swung up behind the corporal, leaving Emmy to face her aunt alone. Her throat tightened, fearing the purpose for Rosamund’s visit. She swept an arm toward the fort’s front gate. “Will you come in for tea, Aunt?”
“I didn’t come for tea, child.” Grooves carved into the sides of Aunt’s mouth, forged by a magnificent scowl. “I came to take you home. Get in the carriage.”
James slid off the horse with a “thanks” to the corporal, feeling a little uneasy for leaving Emmy alone with her aunt. The woman could intimidate a battalion of dragoons. No wonder Emmy had learned to fend for herself.
A makeshift post office—nothing more than a table with a bag of letters dumped onto it—sat in front of the colonel’s quarters. For the first mail of the season, the usual protocol—and discipline—stretched as thin as the cook’s gruel. A swarm of soldiers buzzed around, some with stony faces as they read of bad news from home, others letting out whoops of happiness. The worst, though, were those walking away with a drag to their step from receiving no letters at all.
Bypassing the ruckus, James climbed the front stairs then halted when he heard his name called.
“Letter for you, Doctor. Looks all official-like.” A private who might better serve as a scarecrow held out a thick-papered document.
“Thanks, Private.” Grasping the letter, he retired to a corner of the front porch and leaned against the wall.
His name was scrawled across the front in black ink. Burgundy wax bled into a circle on the back, a single word embossed in the center—veritas. He sucked in a breath. Truth, indeed. He didn’t need to read the signature inside to know that Dr. Stafford was either opening the door for his advancement or slamming it shut in his face…but which did he really want?
He swallowed then broke the seal.
Greetings James,
Word of your stellar performance this past winter season at Fort Snelling has reached my ear. I trust by now that from your experience, you’ve learned there is more to medicine than textbooks. I know you weren’t happy about this arrangement initially, but I hope you’ve come to see the benefit and necessity. The position for director of surgical instruction is recently opened up. I can think of no better candidate than yourself. It will be a fight, but one I am sure we can win. Catch the next available steamship back to Boston, where we may begin your campaign strategy.
~ William Stafford, MD, MS
Stunned, James tucked the letter inside his waistcoat then ran both hands through his hair. Director? So soon? Could he really bypass being an instructor first? This was unheard of—but so was attaining the sponsorship of Dr. Stafford, one of the most influential men walking the hallowed halls of Harvard Medical. And if Stafford thought he had a chance, then, well…veritas. There was no doubt about it.
“Dr. Clark?” A major held open the front door. “Colonel Crooks is asking for you.”
He pushed away from the wall, shoving aside further speculation—for now, anyway.
“Pardon me, but you’re the doc?” A tall man, tawny-headed and with eyes bluer than cornflowers, stepped into his path.
James angled his head. Something about the fellow was familiar.
“I’m Dr. Clark,” he said.
The man reset his cap, likely fresh off the steamship and eager for some movement. “I just came from a meeting with the colonel. He said you’d know the layout of the encampment, having tended the inhabitants all winter, particularly who lived in what tent.”
“Ahh.” He nodded. “So you’re looking for someone.”
“I am.” His hand dropped, and a starved look haunted his blue gaze. “My wife and son.”
James took a step closer, studying the man. Like the combining of symptoms to diagnose an ailment, he added up the information and what his own eyes told him. “Let me guess…Makawee and little Jack?”
The fellow’s mouth dropped. “How did you know?”
James grinned. “Because except for the hair color, your son is a miniature of you.”
“How are they?” The fellow leaned toward him, as if by sheer proximity he might learn the answer.
“They are well, and you will find them very conveniently in the second tent to the right as you enter the camp.”
The fellow reached out and pumped his hand. “Thank you.”
Then he flew down the steps and sprinted across the parade ground before James could answer.
With a chuckle, he headed for the colonel’s office, imagining what a homecoming that would be.
The colonel stood near his desk, nodding at his entrance. “High time you show up, Doctor. I’ve other matters to attend.” He motioned James into the room. “Dr. Griffin, meet Dr. Clark. And Clark, meet Dr. Griffin.”
At the mention of his name, a short man pushed himself up from a chair and crossed the room. A few memories of hair tufted near his ears. His handshake matched with a wispy grip.
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” The man pumped his hand, or tried to, anyway. “Colonel Crooks has been telling me of the hardships you’ve endured this past winter.”
He schooled his face, trying hard not to smirk. This slight fellow wouldn’t last the summer. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, eh? I’m sure you’ll have an easier go of it, though.”
The colonel skirted his desk. “Dr. Clark, would you see that Dr. Griffin is familiar with the dispensary and ward before you leave? Oh, and there’s a bit of paperwork I’d like to have you take care of as well.”
Leave? His breath hitched at the colonel’s words. It was so final. So jarring. Like the slamming of a door in an empty house, the implications reverberated in his chest. His work here was done. Finished. It was time to leave the natives he’d come to admire—and the woman he’d come to love.
“Dr. Clark?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course.” He turned to Dr. Griffin and swept a hand toward the door. “Shall we?”
Griffin exited. He followed but stopped at the threshold at the colonel’s command.
“Oh, one more thing, Dr. Clark.”
“Sir?”
Crooks tapped a letter against one palm. “I’ve received word the Sioux are to be shipped out West, away from those with long memories and longer arms of vengeance. They’ll be under the management of Fort Randall—a garrison without a doctor. You’ve done
a fine job here. Lives were saved because of you. On my word, the position is yours, if you want it.”
Him? The one who barely survived a Minnesota winter? He let out a breath, long and low. “I shall think on it, Colonel.”
“I couldn’t ask for more. Dismissed.”
James strode out into the sunlight. How dare the day be so bright when dark and heavy decisions weighed on his shoulders? What to do? Hop a steamship east to his former dream of power and prestige—one that would eclipse any thought of love or family? Or mount up and ride farther west, to a land more rugged than the one he now claimed?
His steps stalled. So did his heart. How could Emmy possibly fit into any of this, especially with an aunt determined to drag her into society?
Well, Lord?
He stood waiting a long time, praying, ignoring the soldiers around him. Waiting for what? A lightning bolt to write an answer in the sky? Show me, God. Clearly.
And…nothing.
With a sigh, he lowered his gaze—then jerked his face back overhead. Two sparrows, flying in tandem, swooped gracefully toward the west.
Moving as one.
He smiled. It was a small answer, but answer enough. Thank You, God.
Setting his hat tight, he set off at a run, straight toward the dispensary.
Chapter Ten
Emmy sat on the edge of her bed, her trunk by her chamber door ready for Jubal to fetch. Her father’s medical bag lay in her lap. She ran a finger along the top, smearing tears into the worn leather. Once she moved to Aunt Rosamund’s fine Minneapolis home, this bag would be relegated to the attic. Aunt would never allow her to degrade herself by caring for the sick. No more tending to births or coughs or fevers. No more sweet friendship with Makawee and little Jack.
And no more working long days next to James, shadowing his every move, inhaling his scent of sandalwood and strength. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, stifling a sob.
She might as well box up her heart and store that in the rafters, too.
“What’s this?” James skirted the trunk as he entered the room, the pull of him drawing her to her feet.
Oh, how she’d love to run into his arms, rest her head against his chest, and forget about Aunt and the new life she didn’t want. Yet she stood there, as straight as one of the soldiers at attention.
His gaze slid from the empty nightstand, to the bare pegs on the wall, and finally rested on her. He cocked a brow. “Are you leaving?”
She shrugged, stalling for the right words. How to tell him that in mere minutes she’d be walking out that door forever? Her throat closed, and it took several swallows before she could manage a simple, “I am.”
“Oh? What a coincidence.” He grinned. “So am I.”
She grabbed handfuls of her skirt to keep from slapping the silly smile off his face. Did the man not care their friendship would be ending? That he’d never see her again? Had she been wrong about his feelings?
She drew in a sharp breath. “Evidently your meeting with the colonel went well.”
“Better than that.” He rocked onto his toes, the movement stoking her anger. “My dream is nearly within reach.”
Coldhearted, selfish man! She knotted the fabric tighter, choking the life from her skirt. Had the past six months meant nothing to him that he could ball up all their tender moments and cast them aside like a wadded bit of paper?
So be it. If he could let her go that easily, neither would she hold on. She splayed her fingers, letting her skirt drop.
“Well, then, Dr. Clark, I am happy for you. It’s good to know some of us get what we desire. You will no doubt rise quickly to the top at Harvard Medical.” She hurled the words like a porcelain teacup against a wall, wishing the impact would break his heart into as many piece as hers. How could she have been so wrong?
“But I—”
“Good-bye.” She swished past him. She didn’t need justifications or explanations. Her eyes filled, turning the room into a watery mess.
“Emmy!”
A tug on her shoulder pulled her back.
His breath came out in a huff. “You jump to conclusions faster than a raging bout of chicken pox, woman. Hear me out.”
She scowled at his hand on her arm, then up into his face. “What more is there to say? Aunt is waiting for me. I’m bound for Minneapolis, and you’re headed east.”
“What?” His brows shot skyward. “I never said I was going east. Quite the opposite, actually. I’m traveling west.”
His declaration rattled around like rocks in a can, making noise but no sense whatsoever. She stared into his eyes, yet no hint of meaning surfaced in those green pools.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Clearly.” He drew closer, entwining his fingers with hers. “Colonel Crooks received orders that the encampment is to be struck and moved to Dakota Territory. The fort there is in need of a doctor, and he’s offered me the position.”
“But…but that’s even more wild than here, and it’s a far cry from teaching at a medical institution. That’s not your dream.”
“You’re right. Not quite. But this is.” He slid to one knee. Slowly, he lifted one of her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss from one knuckle to the next then repeated the action with the other.
Her knees weakened. His warm breath caressed all the way up her arm. What on earth was he doing?
He lowered her hands and lifted his face. His eyes glowed—no, his whole face, from the cut of his square jaw up to his fine, strong brow.
“My dream, Miss Emmaline Nelson”—his voice deepened, laced with an urgency she’d never before heard—“is that you would not only be my assistant but my wife.”
The world stopped. Sound receded. All she could hear was her breath rushing in, rushing out. It took all her concentration to keep her lungs pumping. Had she heard correctly, or was she imagining things? Was this real?
He squeezed her hands. “What do you say?”
James stood on a cliff’s edge, holding his breath. One word from the woman in front of him and he’d fall into her arms—or plummet to his death. She blinked at him, yet said nothing. Not even a murmur. Oughtn’t a woman in love say something?
An ember of doubt flared in his gut. As a lad, on the cusp of adolescence, he’d mustered his courage to ask a girl to dance once. He’d often wished she’d snubbed him with a loud rejection, but she’d simply turned her back and walked away, leaving him standing alone, abandoned like an old shoe, pity shining in the eyes of the dancing master—and snickers assaulting him from the other boys attending the lessons. It was mortifying, humiliating.
And that same feeling seized his heart now.
Would Emmy do the same?
Slowly, he rose, his legs as weak as if the winter sickness revisited him. Emmy’s eyes did not follow the movement. Her gaze remained fixed on the hands he’d so recently kissed.
“Emmy?” He cupped her face, lifting it to his. This might be it, the last time he held her. The thought lodged bitter at the back of his throat.
He gulped for air, prayed for wisdom, but mostly memorized every freckle and curve on her face. If she declined…his heart skipped a beat. God, help me.
“I love you, Emmy, with everything that’s in me.” He choked then cleared his throat and tried again. “I know you dreamed of a home in Mendota, the one you shared with your father, but dreams can change, can’t they? Is it possible, in some small way, that I could be your new dream?”
Her eyes filled, shiny and luminous. A tremble quivered across her lower lip. Beneath his fingers, her skin warmed, flushing her cheeks like the first blush on a spring rose.
“Yes,” she whispered, barely discernable.
But it was enough.
Sweet mercy! It was enough.
He pulled her against him, and when her mouth touched his, a tremor shook him. Hard. She breathed out his name, again and again. Ahh, but he’d never tire of hearing her say it.
“Yes, yes, yes!”
She emphasized each word with a kiss, running her fingers up his back and twisting them into the hair at the nape of his neck. She leaned into him, hungry, searching—
“Emmaline Abigail Nelson!” Thunder boomed from the open door. “Get in the carriage. Now!”
He froze.
Emmy whirled. “Aunt! This isn’t what you think—”
“What I think is that it was a mistake to have allowed you to stay here in the first place.” Rosamund Nelson eyed him like a buck to be shot through the heart then gutted, leaving his innards to dry in the sun. “And you, sir, are responsible.”
With a light touch, he drew Emmy to his side, facing the dragon. In spite of the situation, he grinned. How could he not, when the woman he loved had just agreed to share her life with him? “You are one-hundred percent correct, Miss Nelson. I have been—and will continue to be—responsible for this woman, for she is soon to become Mrs. James Clark.”
Aunt Rosamund threw her hands wide, chasing after words as if she gathered an overturned crate of mice. “Well…I…Emmaline? Is this what you want? You would give up dinners, dances, society for the hard life of a doctor’s wife?”
She turned to him, and this time, there was no hesitation, just a brilliant smile. “Yes, Aunt. There is nothing I want more than to be the doctor’s wife. This doctor.”
“Well!” Aunt Rosamund sputtered. “I never!”
Tucking Emmy under his arm, James smiled over the top of her head at the woman. “Then I pray that God will bring to you a special someone. As long as you’re still breathing, there’s always hope.”
Hope, indeed. With Emmy nestled against him, it was time to start planning a new hope, a new direction, and together, a new dream.
A dream that would last a lifetime.
Michelle Griep’s been writing since she first discovered blank wall space and Crayolas. She resides in the frozen tundra of Minnesota, where she teaches history and writing classes for a local high school co-op. Historical romance is her usual haunt. Brentwood’s Ward is her latest release. Follow her escapades at www.michellegriep.com or www.writerofftheleash.blogspot.com
The Courageous Brides Collection Page 13
