That Certain Spark

by Cathy Marie Hake

  Linette pointed at the odd weight on the traction and started laughing. “I think we should tell them Bethany’s ironing is doing just fine.”

  Feeding and medicating Bethany and combing the dried mud from her hair took a while. They’d just gotten back to the kitchen and Linette had pulled their bowls from the warmer when Taylor heard a commotion. She walked out onto the back porch and saw four men. One rushed up the steps. Blocking the door, she asked in a sharp tone, “Gentlemen, did you need something?”

  “We come for the girl.”

  “I’ll ask Linette to step out and speak with you.”

  “I’ll ask Linette to step out and speak “Not her. The little squirt.”

  “This conversation is over.” Stepping back, Taylor started to shut the door. It flew open.

  Nineteen

  The men pressed past Taylor and into the house. She grabbed hold of one man’s suspenders and pushed another man back. Linette shoved the table and managed to nail another against the wall, then yelled at the last, “Sam Jinks, don’t you go in there and upset my sister.”

  From the next room, Bethany’s high, sweet, slightly slurred voice reached them. “Hello, Mr. Jinks. Did you come to visit me? I’m getting all better. My ironing is going just fine.”

  Almost immediately, he backed out into the kitchen. One of the men who’d broken free from Taylor shoved him. “Hey, what are you doing, Jinks?”

  Jinks pushed him. “We’re not going in there and scarin’ that little girl witless.”

  Karl burst through the door. “You’re right, you’re not.” As he spoke, he moved to shield Taylor.

  She spoke to his broad back. “These gentlemen are leaving now.”

  “My lady and her guests are to be left in complete peace.” Karl’s voice rumbled like the threat of distant thunder. “If you have a problem, you come to me. Even if you’re sick or hurt, you come to me first. Got it?” The men grumbled and growled as they started to walk away. Blocking their exit by keeping a meaty hand on the doorframe, Karl asked in a quiet tone that vibrated with fury, “Want to explain what was going on here?”

  One of them pointed a finger at Hank Parson. “His boy’s got a gimpy leg. Never gonna be right because the last doc was a quack.” He jabbed his finger toward her. “Now this one’s using cloth strips, rope, and an iron. Last time we all gave Doc Wicky a bunch of chances. This time we tried to put a stop to it.”

  Jinks cranked his hand around and stabbed his finger into Karl’s chest. “You got in the way. When that little girl is all gimpy just like Hank’s boy, we’re all gonna hold you to blame.” The men started to push on out.

  Karl didn’t yield an inch. “You remember every time you see Bethany run and play on a perfectly sound leg that it was our skilled doctor who treated her.” He then permitted the men to go.

  Her quaking limbs still held her up, but Taylor couldn’t be sure how much longer. Part of her wanted to thank Karl for coming, because things could have turned even uglier. She’d been scared. She’d been scared a lot recently. There’d been times when she knew someone was watching her. This was the first time, though, that anyone had caused a physical confrontation.

  On the other hand, she couldn’t always depend on somebody to bail her out—even if he had expressed great confidence in her skill. She looked at him. “Didn’t I tell you once I didn’t need you to rescue me? And I am not your lady!”

  Karl stared right back. “I remember telling you somebody had to rescue you from yourself. You can’t cook worth a plugged nickel, so as long as Linette’s cooking and there’s something good on that stove, I thought I’d invite myself over.” With that, he walked in front of her, sat down, and finished eating her bowl of oatmeal.

  Fighting with her stank. Matching wits and debating was fun; bristling and wanting to shout until she absorbed some common sense held no charm at all. He hated it. And he hated brown sugar and butter on oatmeal. But he ate the whole bowl. Loathed it so much, he ate another bowlful. The whole time, he smiled at her—a grin so big his molars almost cracked. He kept his fist wrapped around that spoon so tight, it was amazing the spoon didn’t melt from the heat. If he dared to let go of it, he just might grab hold of her and rattle her until some sense got into her brain. He’d never touched a woman in anger. Never had, never would—but she had no idea how much danger she’d been in. Absolutely none at all. She didn’t think she needed to be rescued. She’d been absolutely unaware of the gravity of the situation. And why would she? A lady from proper Chicago society couldn’t be expected to grasp just how raw and undisciplined men could be.

  Those same men didn’t respect Linette. Even if she cried or complained or got hurt, she didn’t much matter to them. But if those men would have picked up little Bethany and carried her out of there, they would have lamed her for life. And why? Because they thought they knew better? Because they wanted to show they didn’t want a woman doctor? Stupid, stupid men. They didn’t understand the treasure they were rejecting—both as a professional and as an individual lady. Anyone who frightened or manhandled a woman deserved to be leveled. Anyone who so much as put a finger on his woman better be all prayed up.

  Karl kept smiling at Taylor. He was going to keep at it until she realized just how irritated he was. Funny thing was, she was smiling right back at him the same way. It took him a moment to realize she knew exactly what he was doing. Why had it taken him so long to figure that out? How long had she known what he was up to?

  She was real good at these games; he’d met his match. The realization invigorated him. She could kick and fuss and deny it all she wanted, but he’d staked his claim and knew deep in his heart she was the only one for him. Linette asked, “Would you like some more oatmeal?”

  Taylor poured a cup of coffee. “Do we have any more?”

  “I think I could scrape probably another tablespoon out of the pot.”

  Karl laughed. “I’ll eat it. Just give me the pot.” She put it on the table. He stuck his spoon in and proceeded to give one big, long scrape. Holding the spoon aloft, he shook his head. “Nah. Not even one bite.” Linette laughed; Taylor didn’t.

  The stubborn woman had a temper that wouldn’t quit. He knew she was biding her time, waiting until the next time she came to the livery to give him an earful. Well, that could go both ways. How many other situations had she been in that she hadn’t told him about?

  Karl swiped her coffee mug and emptied it in one gulp. “You might have some customers coming in, Doc.”

  “How is that?”

  “It seems that Widow O’Toole has taken it upon herself to get a shotgun.”

  Linette dropped the pot in the sink. It clanged loudly. She turned so fast that the water on her hands swung in a big diamond arc across the room.

  “What is Widow O’Toole doing with a shotgun?” Taylor sounded remarkably serene. “More important, is she a very good shot?”

  “She doesn’t have to be a good shot; she loaded it with buckshot. Anyway, word has it she thinks somebody’s been prowling around her place. Made me wonder if you’ve felt like anybody’s been here when you haven’t . . . if someone’s been watching you.”

  “No.”

  Casually turning the mug round and round, Karl let a few seconds stretch out. Her answer came just a shade too quick. “That surprises me. The widow told me she’d been here a couple times when you hadn’t been around. I would have thought you’d notice when things got used up or moved around.”

  “But she’d explained those to me, so I was aware of those things. Discounting those occasions, no. Nothing else.”

  He shrugged. “Okay.”

  The silence sat heavy between them. Taylor looked at him. “Orville.”

  “Orville’s been here?” I’ll throttle that weasel. . . .

  “No, Orville hasn’t been here. Orville Clark mail-ordered a bunch of snake oil cures. He’s been going around the neighborhood and—”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Taylor gave him a
jaundiced look. “You knew?”

  “The whole town knows about it.”

  “Yet you said nothing to me?”

  Exasperation got the better of him. “Why would you expect me to tell you? Why not someone else?” There. He got her on that one.

  “Why should anybody else tell me? After all, I spend significant time in your company because you insist on driving me around rather than letting me drive the buggy myself. They probably presume since you have a monopoly on my time, you’d tell me the news.”

  “Oh, for crying in a bucket. All right. Let me tell you something, Doc. Orville Clark got himself a box of snake oil cures, and he’s wandering around the neighborhood selling them. There. Are you happy now?”

  “No, I’m not happy to know it, and no, I’m not happy that you’re telling me, because you resent it. But worst of all, I’m not happy that you didn’t tell me long ago. It is imperative I know of anything that could potentially affect the well-being of my patients. A lot of those so-called cures have things in them that react chemically with my medications.”

  Vexatious woman. He gave her what she wanted and then she didn’t like it. He rose and set down the mug. “Okay, Doc. It’s like this. I just mentioned Orville’s so-called cures because Widow O’Toole thinks alcohol is the demons’ breath. If for some reason Orville lost the little tiny bit of sense he has and went knocking on her door to sell her any of that, she’d be liable to take out that shotgun of hers and plug him from here to Sunday.”

  A shiver ran straight up her ramrod spine, and her voice quavered a little. “Perhaps I ought to pay her a visit.”

  “Good, Doc. You do that.”

  Fire sparked in her eyes again. “You still should have told me sooner, Karl.”

  “Didn’t need to, Doc. You already knew.”

  She quirked a brow. “You didn’t know I knew.”

  He walked toward the door. He wanted to tell her, “You shouldn’t always depend on me.” But he wanted her to. She was making him daft. Savagely, he twisted the doorknob.

  She tapped him on the shoulder. “Aren’t you going to go see how Bethany is?”

  He shut the door, turned around, and went to see her. After a quick visit and a peck on the girl’s cheek, he straightened up. The little girl was very drowsy. He couldn’t resist. He dusted her cheek with the very edge of her pigtail. “You be a good girl.”

  “ ’Kay.”

  “I’ll be back later to see you.”

  “ ’Kay.”

  He headed toward the back door. “If you’re leaving here,” he instructed Taylor, “you make sure either Piet or I am with you, and we’ll let the other know so we can keep an eye on the place.”

  She nodded. He shut the door and walked away. She’d tell him what was bothering her soon enough. He wanted to go back in and find out, but he’d bide his time. If he went in right now, she wouldn’t tell him. She was just that stubborn. She was just that frustrating. That impossible, too. And he was in no mood to deal with her.

  He went back over to the forge. Regardless of how cold it was, Karl pushed all of the doors wide open so he could see out the door to the back of her place. Suddenly it struck him. Taylor didn’t scrap with me. She didn’t argue whatsoever about me going on all her visits or watching her place while she’s out.

  Normally, she would have fought, or if she were frightened, she would have stopped and thought about the offer before accepting it.

  The episode today was frightening, but there was more going on. She’s terrified. But of what? Or of whom?

  Twenty

  The tang of terror filled Enoch’s mouth. His wife looked up at him, her eyes huge with worry. Smiling to lend a reassurance he was far from feeling, he adjusted his coat he’d draped over her delicate shoulders. Mr. Richardson hadn’t wanted to leave town with Bethany laid up, so Enoch had offered to check out for him a bull located several hours away. He’d taken Mercy along for the ride, and they’d made a vacation of the two-day trip. “Are you warm enough now, sweet pea?”

  A full mile must have passed by the train’s window before she responded. “Yes, thank you.” Beneath his coat, her posture straightened, showing strength and gumption. A smile flitted across her features, as did a beguiling wash of pink. “Enoch.” She cast a shy look at the open doorway. Though they were alone in their Pullman compartment, the door to the narrow hallway traversing the train car was open.

  He lifted her left hand and kissed the back of her fingers, paying special attention to her wedding band. Pitching his voice low, he professed, “I’m proud you’re my wife.” He heard the small tearful gasp and turned her hand over, pressing a kiss to her palm. “You’ve blessed my life with love, and—”

  “Enoch.” Anguish tainted her voice.

  “Shhh.” He looked up at her and manufactured a scamp’s smile. “I’m trying to be romantic.”

  “You’ve been very romantic.”

  “Mmm. Good.” He winked. “Now where was I? Let me see. Right about here . . .” Dipping his head, he brushed his lips on the inside of her wrist. The pulse there fluttered. “Sweet pea, sweet pea, sweet pea,” he murmured in time with the thrum of his own heartbeat. He turned her hand over and kissed the back of it. “Sweet pea.” Kissed her fingers and wedding band. “Sweet pea.” And last, the tips of her fingers, looking deep into her eyes, willing her to see the love in his eyes, hear it in his voice, feel it in his touch.

  “Oh my.”

  He tucked her close to his side once again. For a few moments, he’d helped her push away the fear and enjoy being a woman—his woman. “We’ve a ways to go. Rest your head here and take a nap.” He didn’t give her an opportunity to demure. Instead, he slid his hand along the far side of her face and drew her head down. He had no answers for her, no honest reassurance. He’d do anything he could, though, to make this easier on her. Easier? Immediately revising that to be truthful, he corrected himself. Less hard.

  Overwhelmed, she snuggled up next to him.

  Short as the trip was, every minute had seemed to last an hour. Enoch knew he’d bought only a few minutes at best. Those moments counted, though. If you’re only going to give us a short time together, Lord, help me make every second count. You know my heart, though. I’ve waited for this woman, and if you’d grant me a long lifetime with her, I’d count it a great blessing. Bowing to your will . . .

  Mercy’s hand came up and rested over his heart. “Could we do something?”

  Anything. “What, darling?”

  “Let’s get off one stop early and sneak into Gooding.”

  “Sure.” Until this matter was settled, no one else needed to know anything. Even afterward, no one else needed to know. Never before had he been more thankful for Taylor’s unsurpassed medical talent and her incredible tact and discretion.

  “Especially with it being so late, we’d probably be able to ride horses through the woods and sneak over to see—”

  “Our sister,” he inserted, trying to keep her from having to say doctor.

  Mercy tilted her head up and gave him a startled look.

  “Just because Taylor’s my twin doesn’t mean she’s not your sister now.”

  Tears glossed Mercy’s remarkable eyes. “Yes, that’s right. I’d like to see our sister, and I don’t want to scare Heidi.”

  “Of course not.”

  He kissed her nose. “It could be nothing. Let’s not borrow any worries from tomorrow.” His soul told him his assertion was true; his medical mind jangled alarms.

  “I’ve performed several of these surgeries before.” Taylor set aside the tablet of paper with the quick sketches she’d drawn and looked directly into her sister-in-law’s fright-filled eyes. She needs my confidence and strength. So does Enoch. Resisting the temptation to downplay the gravity of the situation, Taylor curled her hand around Mercy’s and reached for Enoch’s. “The most important thing is, we’re going to go through this together, and God is with us. I trust Him to guide my hands during the operation a
nd to bring you through recovery.”

  “If it’s not just a cyst . . .” Mercy stared at her lap. “If you have to . . . well . . .”

  “I’ll do whatever is necessary to remove the threat to your life.” As a rule, cysts were smooth and regular in shape; cancerous tumors grew in irregular shapes with uneven edges. Her examination revealed a walnut-sized lump in Mercy’s breast—and the jagged outline presaged bad news. For that very reason, she wanted to discuss the worst possible surgical treatment. “As a new wife, this must be especially difficult.”

  Mercy’s hand clenched tighter. “It’s dreadful. I’ve ruined everything.”

  “You haven’t ruined anything. I’m thankful we caught this when it was small and that Taylor is so experienced. Think, Mercy—how God had His hand on this with those provisions and that you live now instead of back when surgery was barbaric.”

  “They didn’t have to do . . . that, though.”

  “Yes, they did mastectomies. That’s what the surgery is called, and it’s been done for a long time.” Taylor kept her voice matter-of-fact. “John Adams’ daughter had a mastectomy while fully awake, without anything to dull her pain. Her cancer had been noticeable for quite some time and she’d not gotten any treatment. By the time she sought surgery, the tumor had completely overtaken her breast—yet the mastectomy drew away enough malignancy that she lived another two years.

  “Your examination reveals something quite small in comparison to Nabby Adams’. Since it is movable and away from the chest wall, those are excellent signs for a full recovery; but if this is a cancerous tumor, I must remove the entire breast so none of the glandular tissue is left.” If she gave no realistic preparation with honest glimmers of hope or heaped-on pity, her sister-in-law was doomed. Taylor knew the importance of instilling the belief that she’d recover and lead a normal life—not just immediate recovery, but also for Mercy’s ultimate outcome. “After healing, women with this surgery wear some padding at the bosom and no one is the wiser that they’ve had the surgery at all.”