A Touch of Flame

by Jo Goodman

  Ridley was of the mind that their very existence was a scourge that scientific medicine should extinguish. The battle was hers alone.

  Ridley opened her stationery box, a gift from her parents after she announced she would be leaving home and hospital, and removed two sheets of cream-colored paper. She considered what she wanted to tell them before putting pen to paper. There was a need to strike a balance between fact and fiction. Too much of the former and her mother would be demanding that she return home, perhaps even sending her father to fetch her. Too much fiction, and her father would become suspicious, especially if he shared particulars with her godfather. Doc was the fly in the ointment because he knew the people of Frost Falls, their imperfections and prejudices, their conditions and criticisms. Her godfather must have known that in spite of the town needing a doctor, the good citizens of Frost Falls would be slow to embrace her as one. And equally slow to embrace her as one of them.

  Eight weeks had passed since she stepped off the train, and Ridley was faced with the inescapable fact that she was a fish out of water.

  It was disappointing that, by and large, it was her own gender that failed to support her. Swallowing her pride, she had asked Ellie where the women were seeking medical help and learned there was a doctor in neighboring Liberty Junction, a relatively short train ride away.

  Word had gotten around quickly that she had treated Buzz Winegarten’s gout and George Hotchkiss’s broken nose and disjointed shoulder. They had nothing but good things to say about her, but their testimonials were not enough to prompt others to seek her out. Only a few people knew that she had treated Lily Salt, and not one of them was speaking.

  There were curiosity seekers, of course, all of them men who arrived with a veritable catalog of complaints, some of them contradictory, just to test her acumen. She took it in stride and was often able to show them the door not long after they arrived. She diagnosed their condition as malingering, prescribed cod liver oil, which she knew they would never take and wouldn’t hurt them if they did, and accepted their money just as if she’d earned it.

  The sheriff directed patients from the outlying ranches her way. She also had occasion to visit them. She removed a potentially lethal piece of wooden shrapnel from a homesteader’s flank when he failed to hear his son’s fire-in-the-hole cry and damn near blew himself up along with the stump he was trying to remove. She treated a wrangler who had cornered a steer in a thick patch of poison ivy and not only had the telltale rash from head to toe, but had managed to breathe the oil into his lungs.

  When a woman visited her office, there was a child in tow, often more than one. No one arrived without having tried home remedies first. Ridley thought it was mostly a miracle that the children survived concoctions that had no curative powers and were more likely to cause alcohol poisoning in high doses. She did her best to educate, but she couldn’t insist that she knew best. Every mother had to make up her own mind about that.

  Ridley finished her letter with an anecdote about Hamilton Salt mastering his alphabet using matchsticks to form the letters. It was a successful endeavor until the fire. Fortunately the sheriff had been there to smother the flames, but then, it had also been his idea to use the matchsticks in the first place.

  She closed her missive by inquiring about her godfather’s health and asking her father to encourage Doc to write to her. Thus far, he had replied to none of her letters. She feared that his health was following the devastating course that she knew it could.

  Ridley addressed an envelope before she slipped the letter inside and sealed it. She pushed it to one side of her desk and sat back. She closed her eyes. She could hear Martha Rushton moving around in the kitchen and imagined the woman was blackening the stove or perhaps mopping the floor. The kitchen did not need a lot of attention because Ridley rarely used it. She boiled water there for coffee or tea as the mood struck her and made the occasional bowl of porridge. It was simply more convenient to take meals at the Butterworth and it hadn’t taken long before it was her habit.

  The widow Rushton wanted to be more helpful and had offered numerous times to prepare meals. Ridley accepted occasionally, and then only to ease Mrs. Rushton’s mind that she wasn’t being released from her employment. There was precedent for the widow’s suspicions. She was Ridley’s fourth housekeeper in two months, making the average length of stay two weeks. It was a misleading statistic because housekeepers one and three lasted mere days, while housekeeper two stayed a full eighteen before her parents, fearful of what she might see, changed their minds about her working for a doctor.

  Ridley had given serious thought to approaching Mary Cherry with a generous offer, but for all that Mrs. Cherry was competent and had done very well by Lily Salt, she was also sour and surly with Ridley at every turn. Ridley doubted that any amount of money was going to change that, so in the end she applied to the sheriff to advise her.

  Ben Madison had been good about not inserting himself into her life on a regular basis. She appreciated that. It made it easier for her to go to him when there was a need. They were friendly, if not friends, and if he hadn’t been her neighbor, they would not have crossed paths as often as they did. Their encounters were brief. She always inquired about his job, his hours, and sometimes about Lily Salt. He asked if she was having difficulties with the natives, if she needed anything, and whether or not she had heard from Doc. Apparently his letters were also unanswered.

  It troubled her some that her thoughts turned to him as often as they did. It was an unexpected distraction, one that was wholly unfamiliar to her but not as unwelcome as she wanted it to be. Ben Madison was a fine-looking man with his ambling walk, easy manner, and shock of red hair, which he mostly tried to hide. She never made it a point to run into him, but she did find herself wandering to the window at the front of the house and drawing back the curtain to see if he was coming or going down the street. Occasionally she’d see him passing her gate in the morning after he left his house, but if he ever looked in her direction, it happened when she wasn’t watching.

  When she needed help finding a new housekeeper, she went to Ben. He had consulted his mother, who in turn had recommended Martha Rushton. Because of the widow appellation, Ridley had expected a woman closer to her mother’s age than her own, but men died early for all kinds of reasons, and Mr. Rushton had left this earth two years prior when a scratch from a rusty nail went septic. The widow had subsequently had offers of marriage, and if there had been children, she might have accepted one of them, but as she explained to Ridley, she had a little money put aside and was not needy for herself.

  Ridley liked her plain speaking, liked the fact that she went about her work quietly, and did not gossip outside of the office. Gossip had been the downfall of housekeepers one and three as they both failed to keep patient confidences to themselves, and what they didn’t know, they filled in with speculation.

  “Martha!” Ridley called. Only a moment passed before Mrs. Rushton opened the door to the office. She was holding a blackened rag in one hand and smoothing the front of her smudged apron with the other. She was of an ample size, not heavy, only plump. She had a round face, a smooth complexion, and a hint of a double chin. Her cheeks were as rosy as polished apples, and when she smiled, her eyes were mere slits between her lashes. She wore her cinnamon-colored hair in a neat bun and covered the top of her head with a little white cap while she was cleaning.

  “Yes, Doctor?” she asked. “Will you be having lunch here this afternoon?”

  “Actually, I thought I would. There is some of that ham left from Sunday dinner, isn’t there?”

  “Four slices in the cold box.”

  “Then I’ll have a sandwich and some of that leftover bean soup, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. It’d be my pleasure.”

  Ridley held up a hand to stave off what was surely the widow’s palpable excitement. “I have a letter I want to
take to the station first. I thought you might want to tidy up in here while I’m gone.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes darted to the window behind Ridley. “You’re going out? In that?”

  Ridley turned and confronted the outdoor scene that had Mrs. Rushton concerned. It was snowing. Again. The ground was layered with twenty inches of snow in the open and four-foot drifts against the house. What was falling now would easily add another two inches in the next hour. The wind was calm, which Ridley knew by now to count as a blessing.

  “Did you have difficulty walking here this morning?”

  “No, but the snow wasn’t falling then. Maxwell says half a foot of new snow by morning.”

  “Hmm. Mr. Maxwell Wayne would do well to allow me to treat his rheumatism and stop predicting the weather.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  Ridley screwed her mouth to one side, chuckling. “I have to agree.” She pushed herself up from her desk. “I expect to return within the hour. If anyone comes to the surgery, you explain that.” The widow nodded, and Ridley did not miss the compassion in her dark eyes. “Someday, Mrs. Rushton, there will be patients crowding the surgery.”

  Tongue firmly in cheek, tone as dry as chalk, Mrs. Rushton said, “I wondered about your experiments. You’re planning to bring back the plague, then.”

  Ridley’s eyes brightened with humor. “My thought exactly.”

  Laughing quietly, the women parted ways.

  * * *

  • • •

  The lack of wind was deceiving. Ridley discovered that as soon as she stepped out of the house. She had arrived with outerwear that she believed would be suitable for the frigid winter climes of Colorado, and subsequently marveled at her ignorance after the first snowfall. Her fur-trimmed pelisse, appropriate for short walks in her Beacon Hill neighborhood, carriage rides to and from the hospital, and ice skating on the waterfront, was wholly inadequate for the icy temperatures that characterized winter in Frost Falls. When she learned that Frost Falls was named after its founder, not its weather, she was sure the lore had it wrong.

  Ridley was now dressed to manage the elements if not tame them. Her cloak, as recommended to her by the local dressmaker, was constructed of brushed navy wool. It closed with three glossy satin frogs and had a hood that could be pulled up over her head and lowered across her forehead. She wore heavy woolen socks over her stocking feet and a pair of boots with laces made especially to accommodate the presence of the thick socks. The tradespeople of Frost Falls might not require her services, but she certainly required theirs.

  Ducking her head against the cold, Ridley forged on. The boardwalk had a clear path because the business owners made certain there was room for those brave enough to venture out. She did notice that the path was steadily narrowing as more snow began to accumulate. Her breath was visible upon exhalation and the lenses of her spectacles were fogged over before she was halfway to her destination. She supposed that was what accounted for her running headlong into the only other pedestrian on the walk.

  “Hey!” Ben caught Ridley by the elbows and set her away from him, steadying her at the same time. He ducked, cocking his head, trying to get a better look at her face, the only part of which was visible being the frosty tip of her nose and a pair of indrawn lips. Ben slipped two gloved fingers under her chin and lifted. “You still have a pair of eyes behind those spectacles, don’t you?”

  She was tempted to stick out her tongue but was afraid it would freeze to her lips.

  “Here,” he said, taking the spectacles by the earpieces and gently removing them. He used one end of his scarf to wipe away the condensation and then held them up to look through them. “Well, they’re better than they were.” He drew her into the protective alcove of Hennepin’s mercantile and replaced them.

  Ridley looked at him through the lenses and then over the top of them. He looked very fine from either perspective. “Thank you. I’m off to the station to deliver a letter for mailing.”

  “Ah. Then by all means, ‘Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.’”

  Ridley thought that was an accurate description of what her father called her single-mindedness and her mother referred to as stubborn to a fault. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere in particular. Looking in on folks. Miss Renquest, eighty-four if she’s a day, doesn’t always have enough wood and she surely can’t step outside to bring in any. Thought I’d sit with her a spell.”

  She had always known that he was kind, but that he would seek out Miss Renquest to sit with her touched Ridley unexpectedly. “Mrs. Rushton is making lunch. It’s leftovers but I know there will be plenty. Will you join us? Sit a spell?”

  There was no hesitation. “I’d like that just fine.”

  She nodded once, satisfied. “Drop by after you visit Miss Renquest. We’ll keep the soup hot.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ben arrived at Ridley’s door carrying half an apple pie. “Dessert,” he said, stomping his snow-covered boots on the porch before he stepped inside. He handed Ridley the pie. It was wrapped in a large gingham napkin, and in spite of the temperature out of doors, warmth lingered in the fragrance. “Compliments of Miss Renquest.” He unwound his scarf and shrugged out of his coat. Small clumps of wet snow clung to the lamb’s wool collar.

  “You can hang your things there,” she said, pointing to the coat rack in one corner of the vestibule.

  Ben stuffed his gloves into a pocket of his coat and then hung the coat up along with his hat. He plunged his fingers through his thick thatch of hair to give it some order. “You sure this isn’t an imposition?”

  “Hardly. I invited you, remember?”

  He did; it was just that she had never done so before and he had made a powerful effort to keep distance between them. Some days the closest he got was when they were in their respective homes. Her surgery was hardly more than spitting distance from his kitchen, and if she was late going to bed, he sometimes saw her turn back the lamps. Ridley had never asked him to stay away or given him any indication that she noticed, but Ben believed he was doing right by her, supporting her independence in a way she could tolerate. If he was lucky, she’d never know about his spies.

  “I thought we’d have lunch in the dining room,” said Ridley. “It’s almost never used.”

  Nodding, Ben followed her. The table was already set with a pair of striped placemats and mismatched dishes. There were only two settings. “Mrs. Rushton isn’t joining us?” He craned his neck to see into the kitchen.

  “I encouraged her to go home. It was snowing harder when I got back than when I left, and I could tell she was worried about the walk back.”

  “Oh.”

  Ridley laughed. “Are you concerned about being alone with me, Sheriff?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should be. Other than exchanging a few words in passing, I haven’t been engaged in conversation for almost a week. I could easily talk your ear off if you only nod occasionally and pretend interest.”

  “That wouldn’t be much of a conversation, though, would it?”

  “Point taken. Please, sit down. I’ll bring in the soup. It’s only bean. I hope that is all right.”

  “Sounds good.” He called after her as she sailed into the kitchen. “I appreciate the invitation. My mother sent down some shepherd’s pie, but Hitch devoured it while I was at the livery settling a dispute between Sam Love and Hank Ketchum. Hank’s wife showed up at the office and said I had to go right away before her husband did something foolish.”

  Ridley reappeared carrying a tureen. She set it on an iron trivet and ladled soup into Ben’s bowl and then her own before she sat. “There’s tea brewing,” she said. “I thought we’d have it with our pie.” She spread her napkin across her lap. “So did you arrive on time to settle the dispute?”

  “I got there in time to kee
p Hank from taking a buggy whip to Sam, but as for their dispute, I’m no Solomon. It’ll have to wait until the judge comes around or they get someone they can agree on to mediate. Mediation isn’t likely. They don’t agree on the color of the sky at the moment. Sam claims Hank sold him a horse that he knew was going to come up lame and Hank says Sam’s a fool and that no one can know a thing like that.”

  “What do you think?”

  Ben paused in the act of lifting a spoonful of soup to his mouth. He raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh, no. I’m not saying. That’s not the kind of thing where I can safely take sides. Hank boards my horse and Sam cuts my hair. Best to keep my own counsel.”

  Ridley nodded, smiled, and began to eat. “I saw Lily Salt on Tuesday. She looks well.”

  He frowned. “I didn’t know you visited her.”

  “I didn’t. I saw her in the mercantile with Lizzie and Ham in tow. She was a bit harried but otherwise well.” Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “You look concerned. Is there a problem?”

  “No. No problem.” He thought she probably saw the effort he made to clear his face. He wished he could have done it smoothly and not raised her suspicions. “I think I mentioned before that I’d like to know if you pay a call on Lily Salt.”

  “You did. And it was my contention then and now that you have more important things to occupy your time.”

  “I never said I would try to talk you out of it.”

  “No, but you would want to accompany me, and that seems excessively interfering. It is also hardly part of your job.”

  “It’s part of the job if I say it is.”

  “Hmm.” She ignored him and drew another spoonful of soup.

  “Look. You are not Jeremiah Salt’s favorite person. It would be better if you didn’t poke the bear.”

  Ridley pointed to the trivet under the tureen. “Mr. Salt made that for me at my request. You might not have noticed, but he fashioned a W into the design. It was very clever of him. So, you see, I’ve already poked the bear. He and I have an understanding.”