A Touch of Flame

by Jo Goodman

  “If Mrs. Cherry is asking for me, there must be something concerning her. Did she tell you what it is?”

  “No, only that Mr. Salt is suspicious of her visits and she doesn’t dare risk Lily’s well-being by going again.”

  Ridley pushed her plate away. “Let me think on it,” she said. “I’m going to get towels, soap, and a washcloth. A hot bath is good for thinking.”

  Mrs. Rushton shook her head. “I’ll get everything for you.”

  Recalling that she’d left her bed unmade and that the whole of it smelled like sex, Ridley held up a hand. “No, I’ll do it. You put on another kettle so I can rinse my hair.” She left before the housekeeper could argue. Once she was in her room, she stripped the bed, shoved the sheets under it to be dealt with later, and made up the bed with fresh linens. She was halfway down the stairs when she realized she had none of the items she meant to get.

  Mrs. Rushton looked her over with a keen eye. “You’re flushed, Doctor, and I would have to say a little out of breath. Are you sure you’re well enough for a bath? Perhaps at the basin would be better. It’s been a slow recovery, I think. Maybe that’s not a fair assessment given that you’ve never been clear about what you’re recovering from.”

  “I told you it was a lung ailment.”

  “That’s not specific, and you told me that because you forgot you’d already said you’d sprained your back carrying the Fuller children out of their house. So what is it?”

  Ridley pushed a chair close to the tub and set the towels, washcloth, and soap on the seat. “Have you been thinking it’s consumption?” When the housekeeper said nothing, Ridley knew she had stumbled on the truth. “Oh, my dear Martha, I wish you had told me that was your fear. I wouldn’t have allowed you in the house if I thought you could acquire my illness. I would not have seen patients. It’s not tuberculosis.”

  Mrs. Rushton nodded. “I shouldn’t have allowed my imagination to get the better of me.” The housekeeper regarded her hopefully. “And you’re sure you’re feeling better?”

  Ridley thought about her activities last night and again this morning. She was glad she wasn’t one for blushing. “Much better,” she said, and looked the widow straight in the eye when she said it. “May I have some privacy?”

  Mrs. Rushton was immediately about her business. “Of course you may. Let me add a pail of cold water. You can’t put your toe in there yet. You’ll scald yourself.”

  Ridley waited. As soon as the housekeeper left to go about her other tasks, Ridley stepped out of her slippers, removed her robe, and pulled her nightgown over her head. She would have dived into the tub if such a thing were possible. Instead she stepped in, got accustomed to the heat, and carefully lowered herself. The space was small, but she was used now to bathing with her knees drawn toward her chest. Water was displaced by her entry so it rose high enough to lap at her breasts.

  In a tub like the one in the bathing room adjoining her dressing room at home, she would have been able to stretch, rest her head against a folded towel set against the lip, and have that thinking time she needed to address the problem of Lily Salt. She did not have that luxury now. The water would grow cold with a speed that always astonished her, and the length of the tub did not lend itself to relaxing.

  Ridley grabbed the soap and washcloth from the chair and began to apply both. Intent on her task, she didn’t hear anyone at the surgery entrance until Mrs. Rushton came hurrying through the kitchen, begging her pardon, and disappearing into the rear of the house.

  Ridley stopped what she was doing, cocked her head, and listened. The banging was insistent, reminiscent of Jeremiah Salt, and Ridley made an attempt to be heard over the top of it. “Don’t let anyone in until you know who it is.” The next thing she heard was Mrs. Rushton offering the visitor entrance, a seat in Ridley’s office, and a cup of tea.

  Mrs. Rushton reappeared, mouthed the name of their visitor, and set about making that promised cup of tea.

  Ridley called toward the office. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Mrs. Springer. Are you here for yourself or someone else?”

  “It’s James.”

  Ridley continued scrubbing. Amanda was the only one who called her husband James. He was Jim to everyone else. Ridley plunged her head underwater and then soaped her hair. “What’s happened to him?”

  “He’s lost his mind.”

  Ridley looked over at Mrs. Rushton, who shrugged helplessly. “How’s that, Mrs. Springer?”

  “He’s taken it into his head that he wants to tend bar at the Songbird. He says he doesn’t want to be a butcher any longer. He thinks he can find someone to manage the shop or sell it outright. That was my father’s business. I don’t want him to sell it.”

  Mrs. Rushton helped Ridley rinse her hair before she disappeared with the tea service. Ridley rose, towel dried her hair, and then fashioned a turban for it. She stepped out of the tub and moved closer to the stove while she dried off and dressed. She walked into her office while she was belting her robe. Ignoring Mrs. Springer’s astonished expression at her attire, Ridley sat behind her desk.

  “I’m not sure what it is you think I can do,” said Ridley, setting her folded hands on the desktop. “It seems to me that speaking with an attorney should be a consideration.”

  “Oh, indeed I shall, but there is also the matter of my husband becoming completely deranged. Can you imagine him behind the bar at the Songbird? I am the president of our temperance society, the leader of the Presbyterian Ladies Giving Circle, and a voice for reason in our community. He will make me a laughingstock.”

  As Ridley suspected, this was about all the ways Jim Springer’s decision was going to affect his wife. Ridley was not entirely unsympathetic. “I understand, but I am less clear about how I can help.”

  Amanda pointed to the diploma on the wall. “That says you’re a physician graduated from a reputable medical college. I’ve had my doubts, but I am willing to set them aside. Doc would have known what to do. Do you?”

  Did she? Ridley wondered. “When did your husband bring this to your attention?”

  Amanda considered the question as she raised her teacup to her lips. “I think the first time I heard him say that he wanted to do something else was when he realized Hitchcock had no interest in taking over the shop.”

  “So that would have been a year ago? Two?”

  “A year, I think. That sounds about right, but my son’s fascination with being a deputy will wane, and then he’ll be prepared to be reasonable.”

  “I see. You said the shop was your father’s?”

  “Yes. Father offered James work there when we were married. The plan was always that he would own it one day. My father wanted to be sure James could provide for me and our family.”

  “What work did your husband do before you were married?”

  “He was a wrangler for Harrison Hardy at the Double H.”

  Ridley nodded. She had been to the Double H before the weather turned. Mr. Hardy had lumbago. “He gave that up to have a family with you.”

  “He gave it up to court me. My father insisted. Father did not approve of Buzz Winegarten. He was my other suitor.”

  Ridley was fascinated in spite of herself. “And now your husband wants to work for Buzz?”

  “I told you, he’s lost his mind. There must be something in your medicine cabinet for what ails him. I put my quandary to our druggist, and Mickey said I should get a recommendation from you. I don’t put much store in some of the snake oil he sells, so here I am.” She set her empty teacup down with enough force to rattle the saucer. The look she gave Ridley was both expectant and challenging. “Well, Dr. Woodhouse, what are you going to do?”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Ridley walked into the sheriff’s office and could barely close the door quickly enough to suit her. There was no wind to speak of, no falling snow, the su
n was shining, and she could not recall that she had ever been quite so cold. She stood at the entrance, shivering inside her cloak, and looked around for evidence that someone was in the building. The coffeepot on the stove gave her hope.

  She pushed back her hood and lowered her scarf to her chin so she could speak. “Ben! Hitch! Anyone here?” She heard some movement in the rear where the cells were and was relieved when Hitch appeared holding a mop and bucket and came loping forward to greet her.

  “Hey, Doc. I was doing some housekeeping. Sheriff likes me to keep the place tidy.”

  Ridley’s eyes darted to the mop and bucket and then back to Hitch. A slim smile touched her lips. “So the job is not merely about arresting scoundrels.”

  “No, ma’am.” He set the bucket down and leaned the mop against the wall. “Sheriff expects me to make a decent pot of coffee, too. Would you like some?”

  “I would actually.” She went to stand next to him at the stove and warmed herself while he poured. She removed her gloves to wrap her hands around the mug he gave her. “Where is the sheriff?”

  “At the Fullers’ or Miss Renquest’s place. He wanted to stop by and see how they were faring. Here, let me take your cloak and scarf. You don’t want to stay bundled up in here. You’ll freeze when you go back out.”

  Ridley was grateful for the help. She did not want to give up her mug. It was a better hand warmer than any fur muff she had ever owned. “Thank you. Did you know the sheriff hired young Frankie to shovel his walk and mine?”

  “Didn’t know. I thought Clay Salt had that job.”

  “He used to, but his father took exception. Now it’s Frankie.”

  Hitch poured a cup of coffee for himself and invited Ridley to sit when she could tear herself away from the stove. “Sheriff’s always finding ways to look out for folks. It’s a shame about Clay.” He dropped into one of the chairs most often used by visitors and pointed to the chair behind the desk. When Ridley seated herself, he said, “I don’t figure him for being away much longer; of course, he can find the long way around to wherever he’s going.”

  “That’s all right, I came to see you.”

  Hitch started visibly. “You did?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She took her first sip of coffee. “This is better than decent.”

  “Thank you, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t take the long way around to say what needs to be said.”

  “Right. Well, your mother came to see me this morning.” Ridley watched Hitch lose all color in his face. “She’s fine,” she assured him. “I imagine you’re surprised because you know she doesn’t particularly favor me.”

  “On account of you being a doctor,” he said quickly.

  “I understand, but the fact that I am a doctor is the reason she came by. The truth is she’d have a better chance of getting what she wants by consulting a witch doctor. Oh, and a lawyer.”

  “Oh, Lord,” he said, closing his eyes and rubbing his brow. “She’s plum lost her mind.”

  “Look at me, Hitch.” She waited for him to recover before she went on. “She hasn’t lost her mind, but she is afraid. Do you know what your father told her he wants to do?”

  “Sure. He wants to tend bar at the Songbird. Only reason he’s a butcher is because he wanted to marry my mother and that’s what he had to do to get her. He was a wrangler at the Double H, but he hadn’t done that very long, and he always said it was no kind of sacrifice to take a job in town to be able to see his girl. That’s what he called her. His girl.”

  “And now he wants to do something else entirely,” said Ridley. “Do you think you will change your mind about taking over the shop?”

  “Change my—hell, no. She put that idea in your head, didn’t she?” He put out a hand. “Did I curse? I think I might have cursed. Begging your pardon. No, I’m not going to be a butcher. I worked in the shop after school when I was a kid. Had my fill of it then and Pa knew it. This job suits me. Besides, I just learned to make a decent pot of coffee.”

  Behind her mug, Ridley smiled. She lowered it to the desktop. “All right. You don’t have to convince me, but you do have to find a way to persuade your mother. Tell her what you’re doing now, what you’re learning. Maybe not so much about the housekeeping and the coffee, but you could tell her how you answer complaints and settle disputes and break up the occasional fight without getting yourself hurt. Show her you’re competent. The sheriff thinks you are or he wouldn’t keep you on. Your mother thinks you’re still a child who doesn’t know his own mind. Share things with her that will give her an opportunity to see you differently.”

  Hitch looked doubtful.

  Ridley said, “I know you think your mother is set in her ways, Hitch, but given the proper motivation, she’s capable of changing her thinking. She came to see me, didn’t she? You only have to remember that.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Ridley waited beside the butcher shop’s front window while James Springer took care of his customers. There were only two when she came in, but Mary Cherry entered shortly afterward. Ridley offered to let her go ahead.

  Mary’s thank-you was nearly inaudible. She kept her head down. After taking a few steps forward, she stopped, turned, and then set herself squarely in Ridley’s path to the counter. She thrust her sharp chin forward, and though the act spoke of defiance, the wobble spoke of distress.

  Ridley confronted Mary Cherry’s red-rimmed eyes and the profound sadness in their depths. She wanted to take the older woman’s hands in hers and offer comfort where before she had merely offered her place in line, but because she didn’t think the gesture would have been welcomed or even accepted as sincere, Ridley kept her hands at her sides.

  Mary’s voice quavered when she spoke. She kept her voice low, a mere whisper, so as not to be overheard. “He should have told me that he was gravely ill. Don’t you think he should have told me that?”

  “I do,” Ridley said gently.

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t think about anything else since Ben came around this morning. Doc’s dead. How can that be when I didn’t know he was sick?”

  “I am so sorry, Mrs. Cherry.” She saw Mary’s eyes narrow. Grief was replaced by accusation. Ridley wanted to take a step back but the window was behind her.

  “You knew. He told you.”

  Ridley did not deny it. “Yes. He was my godfather. You know that my father and he were friends of long standing, and I was coming to fill the position that had been his for a quarter of a century. So, yes, he told me.”

  Mary pressed a gloved fist against her mouth and swallowed a sob. She looked right and left to see if anyone noticed.

  “Let me help you,” said Ridley. “I’ll purchase whatever it is you need and you can leave. Do you have a list?” Ridley thought she might hear objections but none came, further proof that Mrs. Cherry was distraught. She took the paper that she was given and glanced at it. “I assume this is for you and your husband.”

  Mary nodded. “Mr. Springer takes home what’s needed there.”

  “All right. Go. I can manage this.” When Mary simply stood there, Ridley stepped away and opened the door for her. “Go on.” Once she was gone, Ridley could acknowledge that the encounter had gone better than she had expected. That had to have been Ben’s influence. He must have spent considerable time consoling Mary Cherry before he went about any of his other duties, probably before he had breakfast. For some reason that made her smile. He might not have sought the job, but he certainly took the responsibilities seriously.

  “How can I help you?”

  Ridley’s head came up when she realized Mr. Springer was speaking to her. She walked up to the counter. “I was woolgathering,” she told him.

  “That’s allowed.” He wiped his hands on his apron. “Was that Mary Cher
ry you were talking to?” When Ridley nodded, he asked, “Everything all right? I saw her leave. She doesn’t work for my wife on Thursdays. I don’t know why except that she never worked for Doc on Thursdays. I understand the Sabbath, but Thursdays? She’s peculiar but there always was a good heart there.”

  Ridley found an opening to speak when Jim Springer took a breath. “Everything’s fine. I have her list here.” She handed it over. “And I promised Mrs. Rushton that I would bring home a good soup bone. Ham or beef, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Got just the one for you,” he said, looking over Mary’s list. “This weather cries out for a hearty soup.”

  “Indeed.”

  Ridley had always thought Jim Springer had an amiable countenance. His easy smile kept his mouth turned up, and his eyes were bright and perpetually crinkled at the corners. His hair was receding, which gave him a high professorial brow. Sometimes he wore his spectacles pushed against his forehead, but right now they were settled where they were supposed to be across the bridge of his nose with his sandy-colored eyebrows puckered above the gold-plated rims. Before she lost him to his work or a customer entered the shop, Ridley launched into the real purpose of her visit, relating his wife’s visit to her office that morning and then her own visit to the sheriff’s office.

  When Ridley had finished, Jim whistled softly but he offered no reply. He set about filling Mary Cherry’s order. He wrapped the steaks and chops in brown paper, tied both parcels off with twine, and held up the soup bone for Ridley’s approval. At her nod, he wrapped and tied it. He pushed everything toward her and gave her the price.

  “Have I overstepped, Mr. Springer?” she asked, handing him the proper coins. “Are you not going to say anything?”

  He dropped the money in the till and closed the lid. “I think we can agree that it is my wife who overstepped; at least I hope we can. I have not lost my mind, Dr. Woodhouse. On the contrary, I believe I have come to my senses.”