“If I hire someone, their first and foremost chore would be to muck the stalls and pens.”
Orville’s lips thinned to a narrow white line. “You’re the boss. The boss has the say.”
“When I have all those patients you’re predicting, I’ll give the matter due consideration.”
“You don’t give yourself much credit, do you?”
“Animals can be treated in the field or in the owner’s barn. The very sick or those requiring surgery will be brought here, as will those requiring temporary boarding.”
Crossing his arms as if to hold in heat and scuffing the ball of his right boot on the concrete foundation, he muttered, “Winter’s nigh unto here. Gonna be cold.”
“True. Which is the reason the town council gave for building the barn—it saves me making extra house calls, and farmers can rest easy, knowing their sick beast is under constant watch. That, and the bad freeze that happened southwest and southeast of here in March this year. I heard animals drifted and froze. This way we’ll have somewhere to shelter them.”
Orville cast a glance toward the back corner as the wind let out a howl. “Barn’s big as any around here. Might be, you could convince me to live here. Mind the creatures at night, keep an eye on things.”
And I’d spend all my time keeping an eye on you. “I’m a vet, but I don’t count my chickens. Should the day arrive when I’m as busy as you predict, I’ll post the job.”
Orville’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Post it.”
“At your cousin’s mercantile.” Enoch clapped his hands and rubbed them to stir up some circulation in them. “You’re right about one thing—cold season’s coming on. Nice as it is, a barn’s always drafty. Let’s get on out of here.”
Orville dogged his every step until he’d locked the barn. Enoch headed toward the boardinghouse; Orville went toward the saloon.
The parlor light shone brightly through the swagged back curtains that framed Mercy as she sat crocheting.
Her head lifted at the sound of his footsteps on the boarding house steps. Her smile would have warmed his entire barn through the worst blizzard.
He motioned her to stay seated and let himself in. By the time he’d stepped foot inside, she’d popped up and scurried toward the kitchen. Lounging against the doorframe, Enoch said in a low tone, “Now, how did I know I’d find you in here?”
Mercy turned toward him with a cup of coffee and a plate. “Pumpkin pie.”
“You didn’t need to do this.” Sweet pea. He caught himself before he said it.
“I didn’t do anything at all.”
Enoch eased the cup from her hands and drank a big mouthful of the scalding brew. “Mmmm. Hits the spot.”
“Mr. Michaelson says it’s just above freezing again.” She set down the pie. “Let me top that off for— Oh my!” she said, looking down upon the empty cup.
“You do make a fine cup of coffee, ma’am. Perhaps you ought to join me and have one.”
He drank another cup while she went to the cupboard for a tray. She looked over her shoulder and laughed. “I suppose the tray is unnecessary now.”
“Guess again.” He grinned. “Good thing you have a boardinghouse-sized pot. There are going to be times when you wonder if you shouldn’t just pour directly from the pot to my mouth.”
“You’d have to sit on one of Heidi’s little chairs for that to work—I’d never reach otherwise. You’re far too tall.”
Enoch had never had a woman call him tall; he wasn’t. And he couldn’t help being disappointed in Mercy’s statement. Honesty had to bind them together; any such falsehood would make another easier . . . until the cracks would make their love crumble Pretending someone was something they weren’t invariably led to discontent.
“Let’s be candid, Mercy. I’m not tall at all. I’m only five eight.”
“That is tall! I’m only five feet. I barely come to your shoulder.”
“Other men . . .”
She put down the tray. “I don’t appreciate being compared to other women. I presume men don’t like being compared to other men. If this is your way of asking about Hamilton, he was touchy about his height, so I never knew precisely what it was. My eyes lined up with his nose.”
Enoch nodded and carried the tray into the parlor. Mercy set a single cup by one chair for herself, then the pie and two cups for him by the adjacent seat. “These teacups are ridiculous for you. I ought to get one of those large coffee mugs men seem to prefer.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she turned five shades of scarlet.
Enoch pretended not to notice her embarrassment. “I’d like you to do that. Those teacups look pretty in your dainty little hands, but I’m sure I’m going to drop it.”
“Despite its delicate appearance, china is surprisingly strong.”
“Much like you,” he murmured. Enoch knew she’d heard him. He wanted to praise everything about her. She was the most remarkable woman he’d ever encountered. He decided to see if the feelings ran even a fraction as deeply the other direction. “On the other hand, I’ve heard those big mugs don’t last long.”
“Anything lasts if handled with care. The sturdy shape of them would lend admirable stability. The larger size would extend a friendly welcome, don’t you think?”
He took the cup and brought it up to his mouth. Holding it a fraction of an inch below his lips, he looked into her fathomless brown eyes. “Knowing one was waiting sure would warm my heart.”
Thirteen
A few days later, Taylor heard noises within the house when she returned from visiting Millie over at the mercantile. She went through the door and peeked around the corner. Unable to see her office from the entryway, she thought about calling for help but decided it wouldn’t come. She could clear her throat, but then she’d give someone a clue as to who was there already.
This was getting to be a problem, and Taylor determined she’d have to face it head on. Each time her brother went out courting Mercy, it seemed someone invited themselves into the surgery. Now, while that sneak didn’t realize Taylor had come home, she could march in there and find out who it was.
Slowing her progress to muffle the sound of her sensible boots, Taylor reached the doorway of the surgery. “Mrs. O’Toole. Can I help you?”
The widow let out a yelp. “My goodness, I didn’t hear you come. Are you trying to scare the liver out of a poor woman?” With her skirt clear up to her thighs and her black stockings pulled down to her ankles, she couldn’t do much to hide her knees, which were skinned up much like a seven-year-old girl’s. A bottle of witch hazel and a cloud of cotton bolls were spread across a small treatment tray.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. If you need care, I’m happy to assist you, but I don’t expect anyone to be in my surgery when I’m not here.” Taylor hoped her message got through. Perhaps this was a simple, straightforward explanation for the disturbances. “Did you have an accident on your velocipede, ma’am?”
“Well, it did slip a little. The ground was just the tiniest bit icy. It froze during the night, you know. The ground did, not my velocipede.”
No evidence of a morning frost existed, but Taylor didn’t mention that fact. “I assumed you were referring to the ground. It’s quite a lovely velocipede.”
“Would you like to ride it?”
Taylor thought for a moment. If she was going to be honest, she’d say yes. But she’d be a fool to try it. It would cost her every last name on her patient list and doom her forever. “I do believe that’s probably an exercise I’d best leave alone. Since you’ve observed a morning frost, prudence would dictate that you store the velocipede away for the winter. Come springtime, you’ll be able to enjoy it again.” She picked up a cotton boll. “Let’s go ahead and take care of you.”
“I was just about done.”
Taylor went ahead and dabbed on a bit more witch hazel. “It looks as if you cleansed it quite nicely.” She wrapped some gauze around it, tied it in place. “I’m afraid your
stockings are badly shredded.”
Widow O’Toole sighed. “This was my last pair.” After she admitted it, she looked like she regretted saying so.
“What you tell me never goes any further.”
“I’d be mortified if anybody knew. You see, everyone already thinks I’m quite an oddity, going around on my bicycle.” The woman’s countenance went winsome. “It gives me such a sense of freedom, you see. They expect me to sedately stroll about in crow black all the time and do nothing more than my gardening. But that’s not enough.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is.” Up close, the lack of any silver or gray in the woman’s hair and her still-youthful hands caused Taylor to drastically revise her estimate of the widow’s age. Instead of edging somewhere around fifty, she was surprisingly a good decade younger!
“Seeing as they expect nothing more from me than that I garden or harangue them on the evils of their alcohol, it is only fair I should be permitted to enjoy my velocipede, don’t you think?”
Taylor thought of all of the times she’d been told what she should and shouldn’t do and how grateful she was her parents had supported her in the one thing she loved the most—that she’d been able to become a doctor. Yet acquaintances, so-called friends, and every single professor and student in the entire medical school told her what she’d chosen to do was wrong. She looked at the widow. “What you do should be between you and God.”
Widow O’Toole beamed. “I knew you had common sense. Indeed you do.” Limping slightly, she slipped out the back door. Just a moment later, the back door banged open.
Taylor didn’t bother to turn around. “Yes, Mrs. O’Toole?”
“I almost forgot to tell you. Orville Clark is up to something again.”
“And what would that be?” Taylor could have kicked herself for asking. She really shouldn’t have invited any kind of gossip.
“That rapscallion’s selling mail-order patent medicines.”
Taylor muffled a moan.
“Yes, of all the boneheaded things, it’s true. This isn’t mere speculation, mind you. I saw him going door to door with a box filled with a plethora of bottles. Knowing how I feel about demon rum and its devilish relatives, he wouldn’t dare come to my door.”
Many folks had mentioned a recent cold snap, and there’d been a storm, too. Such weather inevitably tested the lungs of both the young and the old, so Taylor had seen some patients for problems ranging from simple colds and catarrh to more serious lung problems and dispensed different kinds of medications for them depending on her diagnosis. Even then, tinctures of time and rest were most effective. Well, those and several pots of honey-and-lemon-laced tea.
“People want a quick, cheap cure.” And more to the point, they don’t want me as their physician. It’s another tactic to keep prospective patients away from me. They’re doing everything they can to see me fail.
“Patent medicines are evil,” the widow said. “Wicked, I tell you.”
“They can be dangerous.” Some of them could actually be quite harmful when paired with the medication she dispensed. Now she would have to make a point of asking each of her patients if they were taking any kind of a curative from anybody else. That would be awkward, at best. “Thank you for letting me know, Mrs. O’Toole.”
“Well, I thought you should know. And since we live next door and you’ve seen my knees, I believe you should call me Eunice.”
“I did need to know, Eunice. I appreciate that.”
Eunice beamed. “I was just doing my duty.” She waggled her forefinger in the air. “I won’t call you anything other than Doctor, so don’t ask me to. I’m so proud to know a woman physician, I’m going to relish calling you that every chance I get.” Eunice O’Toole turned around and limped out.
I should have asked her if she needed help getting her velocipede home. A smile flitted across Taylor’s features. She could just imagine what tongues would wag if anyone saw her walking down the street with the widow O’Toole’s velocipede.
On the heels of that thought, she looked around her office. Had it been her imagination that someone was making clandestine visits for devious reasons? If so, then she didn’t need to lock up. That would mean it was fine to leave the office open just in case of emergencies. People could come in and grab what was necessary, but did they know what was necessary? Most of these people seemed good-hearted and well-intentioned. But other than Velma, all of them confessed complete ignorance regarding medical issues. Well, if I’m out of town, Enoch’s in town and we both have keys. I’ll start locking the building when I’m gone. It’s just the smart thing to do. Taylor looked out the window and let out a rueful laugh. She’d gladly loan her key to Eunice O’Toole if she could secretly ride on that velocipede.
“Sure, I’ll board her. She’s a beaut.” Enoch ran his hands along the mare’s bulging side. “I noticed she’s waxing up. Shouldn’t be long.”
Todd Valmer nodded curtly. “I can’t watch after her. Not with me alone.”
“Mares rarely drop a foal with an audience. They wait hours till you leave them for a few minutes.”
“Yep. But wolves are bold this year. We’ve all set traps. The bad cold early this year killed off the weak elsewhere—the wolves are on the hunt here now.”
“I have Ozzie White and Lloyd Smith here before school each morning to muck the barn, and though they’ve proven to be reliable, I still stay put. It would only take a schoolboy being careless once to let something in or out.”
“Thanks. That puts my mind at rest.”
“The first foal is in good position.” Enoch made a mental note to point that out to the boys. Ozzie had a natural affinity for animals, and Lloyd hinted he wanted to pursue medicine. He had the aptitude, too. Enoch finished his examination and gave the mare an approving smack—just enough for her to feel appreciated but not enough to set her off. “That bodes well with twins.”
“You’d know about twins.”
Enoch laughed. “They’ll watch out for each other when those wolves come around.”
Studying his boots, Valmer said, “Watch out for yours. Wolves hunt in packs, and there’s a pack after her.”
A friendly warning? A threat? Enoch remained silent.
Valmer looked up. “I don’t take to the notion of a woman doctor. But I won’t set a trap or bear false witness. You can’t blame us for kicking against her going against the natural order of things. But, Doc Enoch, you’re good.” He nodded toward his mare. “And if she’s half as good as you, the town did okay in getting you both. Given time, she’ll prove herself.”
“Thanks for telling me. I am good; but she’s ten times better. She’s gifted.” If only enough men would recognize it in time.
“Let me see you raise your arm now.” Taylor stood in Mr. Toomel’s kitchen and watched as he raised his arm. “Yes, now can you rotate your arm around? Let me see how far you can do that. Don’t push it, just as far as you’re comfortable.” He was gritting his teeth. “Stop. Tomorrow you can do it a little bit more, but for now, I don’t want you to strain.”
The farmer stared out his window at the barren landscape. “I have too much to do around here. It’s not going to get done if I don’t do it.”
“I sat in church and heard all of those people volunteer to come do your chores for you. Do you think I didn’t know you had help?”
He got red under his light tan that hadn’t faded from the summer. “I still go out and check.”
“What man wouldn’t? This is your land, your livelihood. I’d expect you to.” Her comment helped him relax. She could see his other shoulder and the lines on his face ease. A strapping build helped him do all of the heavy labor on a farm. Nonetheless, it wasn’t safe for a man to try to do that much work alone. No wonder he’d had an accident.
Toomel flexed his fingers. “My grip’s no good.”
Taylor clasped her medical bag shut. “Have you been applying the compresses from the cold well water as I directed?”
&nbs
p; “I don’t have time for that nonsense.”
“That nonsense, Mr. Toomel, will take down the swelling. Just as it would treat a wrenched ankle, it removes the pressure surrounding the nerves responsible for your hand and arm. No doubt about it, the separated bones have stayed in place, but the ligaments aren’t stable enough. Within a week you’re going to be almost back to normal. But I still don’t want you lifting any weight.”
“What do you mean, lifting no weight? I have to—”
“Absolutely no lifting. The heaviest thing you’re allowed to pick up at this point in time is five pounds.”
“Nothing weighs five pounds around here. Nothing.”
“Then I guess you’ll lift nothing.”
His brows slammed together. “I can lift something with my other hand.”
“Yes, you can.”
“And I can help with—”
“No, you can’t.” She looked at him. “You got injured when you were in top form. The likelihood of sustaining severe, permanent damage to your shoulder and arm cannot be dismissed. Think very carefully, Mr. Toomel, about whether the cost of your pride now is worth being a pained cripple for the remainder of your life. Like it or not, that’s the cost.”
Grim resignation creased his features. “When can I start lifting weight again?”
“By the end of next week you’ll be doing nearly everything you once did. Beginning Thursday I want you to start lifting some weight each day. I’ll give you gradations. Let me write it down on this sheet of paper for you.” She wrote down progressive amounts of weight. “Now, I take it you don’t have any weights here on the farm.”
“Well . . .” He thought for a minute. “Not exactly. A bale of hay weighs a hundred pounds.”
“Excellent.” She wrote bale of hay next to the hundred pounds. “A gallon of milk weighs about eight pounds.” And so on, they went down the list and put something down for each of them. As they did, she’d add the day of the week beside it and how many times she wanted him to lift it with his healing limb.
That Certain Spark Page 13
