A Touch of Flame

by Jo Goodman

  “Hmm.”

  “The common sense trips me up now and again.”

  “Yes, I imagine it might . . . from time to time.” Ridley noticed that he did not seem to be at all offended that she agreed with him. That prompted her to confess. “I am known to be touchy—some would say thin-skinned—about having my accomplishments disregarded as if they were of no account. I’m afraid when I stepped off the train, I was in expectation of being treated as I often am—dismissively. I have been preparing to assert myself since I left Boston. Perhaps I overplayed my hand.”

  “Perhaps you did. And perhaps I should have folded sooner.” He leaned forward and returned the paperweight to its place on his desk. “I hear the water boiling, but I have to tell you, I’m hungry. When did you last eat?”

  “I had a ham sandwich and an apple on the train after Denver.”

  “So about twelve hours ago. That needs to be rectified.” He rose from his chair and went to the rear door, opening it just enough to poke his head and a shoulder through. “I’m going to take Dr. Woodhouse to dinner, then I’m going to walk her home. You all right here on your own until I get back?” Hitch indicated that he was. “You can come on out here and sit. Water’s hot for coffee.”

  Ridley had her coat on and her bag in hand by the time Ben pulled his jacket down from the peg. She did not ask where they were going until they stood on the boardwalk and she was unsure which way to turn.

  “The Butterworth,” he said. “For my money, the hotel has the best food. It’s also close to your house, and that’s a bonus this evening. I imagine you’re tired. Do you have a bed made up yet? Something you can fall into when you are home?”

  “I found the linen cupboard. Everything I need has been left behind for me. I’ll just wrap myself in a sheet and a quilt and fall into bed tonight.”

  “Probably a good idea.” Ben pointed out the apothecary shop as they passed. “Mickey Mangold owns the place. I’ll introduce you to him tomorrow, if you like. He and Doc were fast friends. As best as I could tell, an interest in medicine brought them together, but the Wednesday night poker game at the Butterworth was their glue.”

  “I don’t play poker.”

  He chuckled. “Neither did they.”

  Ridley required a moment to understand his meaning. “Were they really so bad?”

  “The worst, or the best, depending on how you look at it. They took to losing on purpose when folks who were down on their luck joined the game. Doc and Mickey could be depended upon to lose enough at the table to help someone out.”

  “Ah.”

  “Thought it was something you might need to know.”

  “It is, and he never mentioned it in any of his letters.”

  “That’s not surprising. Neither of them would ever admit to it.” His steps slowed and he pointed to the wide wraparound porch that was a distinctive feature of the Butterworth and a welcome mat to all visitors. “We’re here,” he said. “You’re still hungry, aren’t you?”

  “Starving.”

  “Come on, then. It’s not too late for us to get a hot meal.”

  She regarded him uncertainly. “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Ridley’s stomach was provoked into growling by a whiff of something her nose identified as hot apple pie. She placed a hand on her midriff and took the first step toward that heavenly scent.

  Chapter Seven

  “Hey, Sheriff.” It was the perpetually pink-cheeked, kindly-looking gentleman standing behind the registration desk who called to Ben first. His smile was welcoming but not aggressively eager. He laid an embossed leather bookmarker on the page he was reading and closed the book.

  “Hey, yourself, Mr. Butterworth. Do you have a table for us?”

  “Sure, I do, but you have to make the necessary introductions.” He looked to his right and left and then at the staircase. His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Ellie’s in the kitchen so this might be my only chance to know a thing before she does.”

  Ben grinned. “Then you will be pleased to make the acquaintance of Dr. E. Ridley Woodhouse.” While Mr. Butterworth’s jaw was still slack, Ben added, “You will recall, I think, that Doc Dunlop told us we could expect a new doctor and that she comes to us very well qualified.”

  When the hotel owner remained stupefied, Ridley took a step toward the desk and held out her hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Butterworth. Your hotel is certainly a grand establishment. It drew my eye when I passed it earlier on the way to my home. Sheriff Madison pointed it out to me, but that was hardly necessary since I was already an admirer.”

  If Butterworth had been standing in front of his lobby desk rather than behind it, Ben would have given him a nudge. The man who most folks agreed had never met a stranger was still faintly openmouthed and speechless. He seemed to be completely unaware that the doctor’s hand was still extended.

  Ben snapped his fingers with a mesmerist’s flair. “I’ll be darned,” he whispered when Butterworth’s entire body twitched and the man blinked owlishly.

  Butterworth shook the doctor’s hand with more enthusiasm than was warranted, perhaps to make up for his initial astonishment. “Excellent, Dr. Woodhouse. Simply excellent. You say that Ben escorted you past the hotel today?”

  “He did.”

  “And how is it possible I did not hear that you had arrived?”

  “I can’t explain it except to say he was eager to see me settled. He didn’t introduce me to a soul along the way, and I recall that a number of people waved to him or called out his name. Do you find that peculiar?”

  Before Butterworth answered, Ben interrupted by clearing his throat and looked pointedly at the man’s hand still swallowing Ridley’s. It was comical in a way. Ridley was too mannerly to extricate herself, and Butterworth was too anxious to correct a first impression to release her.

  It required a second throat clearing, this time behind his closed fist, for Butterworth to get the hint. He dropped her hand as though it had suddenly scalded him, which was also rather comical. When Ben suggested dinner at the hotel, he’d had no idea he would find any entertainment beyond the doctor’s company, but now, if Butterworth’s reaction was indicative of how folks would take to the new doc, then Ben thought easing E. Ridley Woodhouse’s transition had a silver lining.

  But what did the E stand for? There was a puzzle.

  Ben realized he must look amused because Ridley’s lips were bunched in a way that signaled disapproval. He wondered if he should be troubled being as familiar as he was with that expression. He hadn’t known her twenty-fours, and he’d caught hell from her for most of the ones that he had.

  “Pardon?” he asked politely, just as if she weren’t fixing him with eye daggers above the gold rim of her spectacles.

  “Mr. Butterworth was asking about someone in the jail.” She glanced at Butterworth. “Jeremiah Salt, was it?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. You still holding Jeremiah, Ben? Sure could help if you were to let him out. He was working on some new hinges for our oven door. The darn thing hasn’t closed right since Mrs. Vandergrift beat it with a hammer. Burned her bread, she said, and dared all of us to say different. She was swinging the hammer at the time so naturally we stayed quiet.”

  “Understandable.” Accustomed as Ben was to matters like this, he was able to respond solemnly. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw that Ridley was unable to mask her shock. He couldn’t say whether it was Mrs. Vandergrift’s attack on the oven door that shocked, or whether it was Mr. Butterworth’s request for Jeremiah Salt’s release that appalled. He was sure he’d hear about it when they sat down to eat. “He’s still there. I’m not releasing him tonight. Probably not tomorrow. You remember how he was at Doc’s farewell shindig?”

  “I do. Lasted two days, as I recall. Wasn’t sure you were going to be able to corral him,
but you’re still pretty good with a lasso. Shame it came to that, but truly, I feared for my business.” He turned to Ridley and explained. “Jeremiah wandered into the mercantile and knocked everything off the shelves and tables with a broom when Rodney Hennepin tried to show him the door. The sheriff here roped him like a steer and dragged him out.” Butterworth’s eyes darted back to Ben. “There was a time Jeremiah could hold his liquor so you’d hardly notice that he’d drunk the trough dry.”

  “Those days are past, I think, though he doesn’t usually make a spectacle of himself.”

  “Thank the Lord for that.”

  “Maybe,” said Ben. Offering no further explanation, he pointed to the restaurant. “We’re hungry, Mr. Butterworth, and from what I can smell, the oven door is working well enough to produce an apple pie.”

  Butterworth clapped his hands together. “It is. Oh, yes it is. This way. You can have your choice of tables. We were full up an hour ago, but the locals have mostly wandered off. We have the overnight guests and a few boarders enjoying a quieter dinner.”

  The dining room had four large round tables, each of them capable of seating up to six diners comfortably. There were five smaller square tables with four chairs each and still three more tables set for two. Ben had seen every one of the fifty seats filled on a Sunday morning after services. It wasn’t unusual for all of the rockers on the porch to be occupied as people waited for room at a table. As the only hotel in Frost Falls, the Butterworth had always had a successful trade with travelers, but it had gained popularity with the locals in recent years when the restaurant began to offer brunch every Sunday, not only once a month, and white linen tablecloths appeared on the tables with finer china and matching silverware. Now there were potted ferns at the entrance and a veritable jungle of greenery in the corner farthest from the kitchen door. The pots were given a quarter turn daily so the plants did not stray too far toward the windows on either side of them. The broad leaves were dusted and sprayed with a mist of water to keep them very nearly reflective of the sunlight during the day and the table lamps in the evening.

  Because the hotel bore his name, Mr. Butterworth was generally given credit for the improvements to the restaurant, but everyone who lived in Frost Falls or traveled through it frequently knew that Mr. Butterworth’s real genius had been hiring Ellie Madison.

  Ben was still standing behind Ridley’s chair, helping her to be seated, when the kitchen door opened and his mother rushed forward. She nimbly skirted the tables as well as the chairs that were not yet returned to their places, all the while drying her hands on her calico apron. By the time she reached Ben, which was no time at all, her hands were dry, the apron was pressed flat again, and the only thing she had to show for her excitement was the warm color flushing her cheeks.

  “Mother,” he said dryly. It was a temptation to step back in the event she meant to bowl him over, but he held his ground and for whatever reason that stayed her. “How did you know I was here?”

  She shrugged. “How do I know anything I know? It’s a gift.”

  “Uh-huh.” More likely she had been peeking out from the kitchen to look at the diners. He did not offer that as an explanation. He pointed to Ridley, who was still sitting but looking up his mother. “Mother, this is Dr. E. Ridley Woodhouse. Dr. Woodhouse, my mother, Ellie Madison.”

  Ridley began to rise, but Ellie quickly disabused her of that formality. “Entirely unnecessary,” she said, waving Ridley back down. “Did I hear him correctly? You’re Dr. Woodhouse?”

  “You did, and I am.”

  “Well, run me up a pole and call me a flag. Why, aren’t you a breath of fresh air? Folks will have something interesting to talk about for a change.” She eyed her son. “Did you know about this?”

  “This? You’ll have to be more specific.”

  Ellie Madison had marked her fiftieth birthday a few years back and stopped counting. She was a handsome woman, petite in stature, with auburn hair that time had faded but that was only recently beginning to reveal silver threads. Her diminutive figure was not to be underestimated in either her physical strength or in her strength of will. Ellie had both in abundance and had had occasion to prove it during her long tenure as housekeeper at the Twin Star Ranch. After more than twenty years, it had ended badly, although almost no one knew why, and so here she was, moved into town and managing the Butterworth in the same way she had been managing things all her life.

  “I should cuff you,” she said, setting her hands on her hips as though it were necessary to avoid assaulting him. “And don’t pretend that you would arrest me because you won’t.” Ellie pinned Ben’s ears back with sharp green cat’s eyes. “Did you know she was a woman?”

  Ben found enough room behind one of his pinned-back ears to give it a thoughtful scratch. “Now see, Ma, you’re not the first one to ask me that today, and it’s making me think people must believe I’m plum stupid. I knew right off she was a woman without her showing me any of her particulars.”

  Ellie pulled out the nearest chair, which happened to be at a right angle to Ridley’s. She sank down onto the seat and set folded hands on the edge of the table. “I really do want to cuff him,” she said in a conspiratorial fashion.

  “I understand.”

  Ben not only heard the doctor’s response, but heard the sincerity that underscored it. He could not recall that he’d ever had two women express such a heartfelt desire to do harm to his person—at the same time. And this was very different than two women fighting over him, which was not an unfamiliar experience but one that usually resulted in his blood being drawn when he tried to break it up. He supposed that, all things being equal, he preferred being cuffed.

  Ben chose the chair opposite his mother and sat. “If your meaning was to inquire whether or not I knew our new town doctor was a woman before she got here, the answer is no, I did not. Doc Dunlop never breathed a word about it.”

  Ridley nodded. “It’s true. I haven’t met anyone who hasn’t been taken aback.”

  “And how many people have you met exactly? I assure you we are all not small-minded.”

  Ridley thought about it a moment and then held up eight fingers. “You’re number nine. I was never properly introduced to the stationmaster so I am not counting him, and four of the nine were children. I’m not sure how to gauge their reaction.”

  At the mention of children, Ellie looked at Ben with one eyebrow raised quizzically.

  “The Salt young’uns. I took Dr. Woodhouse to see Lily.”

  Ellie nodded slowly. The eyebrow dropped but her forehead furrowed. “I heard Jeremiah was in jail. Mrs. Vandergrift’s beside herself. The oven door—”

  Ben put up a hand. “I know all about the oven door.”

  “I’m sorry. The news rattled me for a moment. It’s one thing to know he’s in jail, another thing to think on why that came about. No one’s ever said, at least not in my hearing.”

  “Anything that’s said is pure speculation, and that’s how it’s going to stay until Lily decides different.”

  Ellie nodded. She closed her eyes for a moment while she rubbed the bridge of her nose. “If he didn’t bust up something, how did he come to your attention? It seems like you could tell me that.”

  “Not a word about it leaves your lips. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.” She clamped her lips closed.

  “Hannah came and got me. It was the middle of the night. I was home, not at the office, but she knew what to do. She banged on the back door and threw pebbles at the window until she roused me and told me what was going on.”

  “Hannah? Little Hannah? Why not Clay?”

  “He couldn’t leave his mother. Lily was trapped in the bedroom with Jeremiah. Clay could hear but he couldn’t see and he couldn’t get in. I can only imagine that it must have been hell for him. He won’t talk about it, though, and that makes me think this wasn’
t the worst. I don’t know how it began except that drink was involved. Lily says it doesn’t take a reason, and she’s probably right.”

  “Those poor children . . . and Lily.” Ellie looked to the doctor. “What about Lily?”

  “I can’t really speak to that,” said Ridley. “She’s my patient.”

  Ellie stiffened slightly. “Doc would have told me.”

  “Mother.” Ben spoke sternly. “That is an outright lie and you know it. Doc never betrayed a confidence.” He looked over his mother’s militantly set features. “Good Lord. You don’t even pretend to be remorseful.”

  She sniffed. “That is because I do not countenance secretivity.”

  “Secretivity? I don’t think that’s a word.”

  “It must be because I just said it.”

  Ridley had been following this exchange with interest. Now she touched a hand to her mouth and hid a grin behind it.

  Ben suspected there was a grin but was unsure what provoked it. “Mother,” he said, going to the bottom of the well for patience, “is there dinner to be had here or should I take Dr. Woodhouse to Brickle’s or the Songbird?”

  “You would be just that mean, wouldn’t you?” Ellie pushed back from the table and stood. She darted away from the table, but not before she cuffed him at the back of his head. “And take off your hat. I raised you better than that.” She winked at the doctor. “I really did.”

  A whoosh of air escaped Ridley’s lungs as she sat back in her chair. She felt calm, relaxed, but not deflated. “I confess. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “What?” he asked, although he had a pretty good idea what she meant.

  “This is why people want to cuff you. You make us work so hard to ask even the simplest question.”

  “Do I? I hadn’t realized.”

  “I don’t believe you, but that is another conversation entirely. I meant I was not expecting to meet your mother this evening, and it was gratifying to see that she does not suffer fools.”