A Western Romance: Benton Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 7) (Taking The High Road Series)

by Morris Fenris

  Most of the children had been examined, talked to, and released by now, leaving just a few with minor injuries to check on. Instead of rushing out of the hall, whooping and hollering at the prospect of freedom, they departed in an orderly line. No scuffling, no shoving. Both Mrs. Bellini and Jessamine had picked up the toddlers, he noticed with approval, cuddling and coddling before they could cry because the strange man had been poking at them.

  Two more boys, in their early teens, had been hurt: one with a twisted arm, the other with a black eye and discolored cheek; an older girl wore purple bruises around her throat, just above the white collar.

  All were considered accidents, according to the children themselves and Mrs. Bellini, in answer to the doctor’s casual questioning. Understandable, certainly, in a rough-and-tumble world of stable work and scullery chores. Even plausible.

  But Ben finished up his consultations and treatments with an increasingly heavy heart.

  “They finish their schooling here,” Jessamine, watching him pack up his medical bag, volunteered. “A fine education, I assure you, Doctor.”

  “Ahuh. Have t’ take your word for it, Miss Lassiter.” Snapping shut the catch, he turned to face her. “And puttin’ ’em out t’ work so young—how does that figure int’ future plans?”

  Stiffening at his tone, she drew back and replied somewhat defensively, “At the age of twelve, depending on their maturity and suitability, each child is installed with a prospective employer for an hour or two every day. We monitor their situation, individually, and make sure everything is as it should be.”

  “With the purpose bein’—?”

  “To learn a trade, Doctor Yancey. For their future. Or would you have these children go out into the world with book learning but no practical skills to earn their way?”

  Backing off, though still unconvinced, Ben smiled and held up both hands. “Peace, Miss Lassiter. Sorry, I didn’t mean t’ sound like a judge and jury as t’ your methods. You’re a very able second-in-command around here, ain’t you?”

  Mollified, she returned his smile. A dimple, he noticed now. One dimple, charmingly displayed.

  “I try to be. I owe Madonna a debt I can never repay, so I do what I can for her.”

  “Ahuh.” Leaning back against the table, he folded his arms over a nice wide chest and crossed one ankle upon the other. “You plan on spendin’ your life here, then, as she has?”

  A faint peony color rose over her cheekbones. “Uh. I don’t—well, how can I have any idea about that, when—?”

  “Doctor?” Mrs. Bellini, who had taken both tired toddlers to the nursery for a nap, was rushing back into the hall, a trifle breathless under her corset stays. “Doctor, one of my girls has just been taken ill. I wonder if you could—?”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Ben grabbed up his case in preparation. “Lead on, I’ll follow you.”

  Upstairs, rooms for the orphans had been set up in dormitory fashion, separated of course by gender. Several chambers arranged for the older ones, several more for the younger. Cheerful, clean, bright, smelling of fresh air and laundry soap and sunshine, each space held some eight or ten single beds, with plenty of furnishings: wardrobes, desks and chairs, cozy rag rugs, books or a few toys. Even a couple vases of fresh flowers from the garden.

  If only all such places could be so well cared for, reflected Ben, taking in the surroundings. As much for the spirit as for the body.

  “Here, Doctor.” Mrs. Bellini beckoned him toward the far wall. “This is Matilda—Mattie—Jamison. She was with us in the hall, but when she returned for the hair ribbon she’d left behind, she fainted. One of the other girls found her on the floor and came for me.”

  “Hello, again, Mattie,” said Ben with the ease of manner that comforted patients and families alike. “Sorry t’ hear you’re not doin’ so well. Mind if I take a look?”

  She was a thin, washed-out girl of about fifteen, lying flat on the bed with a coverlet spread across her knees. At the doctor’s approach, she opened her eyes with visible reluctance.

  “Things still spinnin’ around on you?” he asked sympathetically.

  A noisy swallow, and a slight grimace. “Kinda. And I feel—I feel awful—sick…”

  “Mrs. Bellini. Got a basin handy?”

  After she had bustled away, Ben continued speaking gently, soothing and calming, doing all the quick unobtrusive things a doctor does: pulse and heartbeat, temperature, gentle pressure around the diaphragm, and so on. The information he garnered provided no hint as to cause.

  With the director’s return, however, and the readiness of an enameled basin, Mattie decided to empty her unhappy stomach.

  Retching, apologizing, shedding tears only to retch some more, Mattie finally lay back against the pillow, exhausted and wrung out from every pore.

  Out in the hall, Mrs. Bellini used a few valuable minutes for consultation. “Not the cholera?” came the worried question from one who had had experience with that dread disease.

  “No, ma’am, not cholera,” Ben asserted resolutely. “I think it’s just a temporary indisposition, and you’ve probably dealt with that sorta thing as much as I have. For right now, keep Mattie cool, try t’ get some liquids in her when you can, and just let her rest as much as possible.”

  A glance back into the room relieved some of their concern, for the girl had slipped off into sleep as if nothing untoward had happened.

  Medical bag in hand, Ben laid an encouraging hand on the director’s forearm. “I’ll stop back over here again t’morrow, see how she’s doin’,” he promised. “But if you need me for any reason, just send word.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Gratitude rang in her voice and shone in her eyes. “I appreciate your help. As you may see, these children are all very dear to me.”

  A slow, intent look down, from the center part in her hair to the toes of her neatly shod feet. “Yes, Mrs. Bellini. I do see that. Shall I send Miss Lassiter up now?”

  “Oh, that would be helpful. Thank you again.”

  He found her, as he had hoped, busy with several of the younger children in the outdoor play area. His explanation, in a few concise sentences, of what had happened, caught her by surprise.

  “Oh, poor Mattie. Possibly something she ate, you think?”

  “Possibly,” said Ben in a noncommittal tone. He had a very good idea of what was going on, and anything she might have eaten had nothing to do with it.

  “Very well. I’ll go upstairs right away. Thank you, Doctor.” Her slim, cool hand slipped into his with the firm shake that he appreciated, and she was gone.

  Petronious welcomed him back to the carriage with a reproachful roll of the eyes and a hungry whicker. Time to leave this place behind. He was ready to shed harness and reins for a roll in some nice soft grass. Or, failing that, dirt.

  Hitched up and heading back to home base, Ben was lost in reverie. This, that, and the other thing racketed around through his brain: little odds and ends that didn’t seem to tie together yet somehow must. Questions. Mysteries. Maybe spending some free time on the front porch with Adam and Jake would help everything settle into place.

  IV

  Life in his new digs shook down into a comfortable routine. With that all-important first week under his belt, Ben stood ready and able for any emergency that might come along.

  He and Adam had completely unpacked the Conestoga, storing away their clothing and personal items, lining up books on an expansive shelf in the parlor, adding leftover gunny sacks of staples to those already neatly stocked in Mrs. Langley’s pantry; and Adam, during his rambles around town, had found a buyer for the big wagon. Someone who actually wanted to leave this pleasant place for greener pastures, farther west. Imagine that.

  Visits to his infirmary continued, as hoped for. Mrs. Halliwell had come by for a final soak and wrap of her injured arm, and Ben had called in at Bundy’s to check on his burn victims. As a testament to his competence, his caring, and his expertise, all were hea
ling nicely and doing well.

  During the course of his usual office hours, he had treated one young man for a cut on his arm, gained after chopping wood on his small farm; another for a bump on the head, acquired from a bar fight; another for a bunged-up knee, suffered in a fall off his horse.

  He had also made a couple of unexpected follow-up calls at the orphanage, to see how Mattie was faring.

  “Why, but—Doctor—” Madonna Bellini greeted him with confusion and astonishment. “You’re here?”

  “I am.” He was surprised by her surprise. “Toldja I’d be back, Mrs. Bellini. Surely you didn’t forget?”

  “Well, no. I just—I couldn’t be positive that—”

  Pressed for some sort of clarification, she confessed that the town’s former physician attended here on Sundays only, according to his contract, no matter what might have befallen its youthful residents in the meantime. Come hell or high water, he wasn’t taking care of any orphan kids that happened to get themselves into some kind of scrape at any other time, be it a broken leg or convulsions or a fall down the well.

  “Dr. Morton was quite—um—emphatic on that point,” said Mrs. Bellini almost tearfully. “So we got used to the idea that his charity extended just so far, and no farther.”

  Charity? Had his predecessor not been paid by the town (or, more realistically, Charles Holcomb) for his work at the orphanage, just as he himself was? Whatever the reason for such unprincipled, unchristian behavior, and despite his own experience with a world less kind than most inhabitants looked for it to be, Ben felt a jolt to his solar plexus.

  “And where is this Dr. Morton now?” he asked with no hint of his shock and anger.

  “Well—gone, of course. I don’t know where.” She spread her hands in the universal gesture of Beats me. “Gossip spread that he and Mr. Holcomb were involved in a terrible quarrel, and shortly after that Dr. Morton disappeared.”

  “Ahuh.” Ben mulled that over. Disappeared. Interesting. Not an auspicious sign for anyone who crossed the town’s leader. A sudden image of spiders and webs flitted through his brain, and Ben blinked to clear it away. “So. How’s our little Mattie this morning?”

  Mrs. Bellini’s expression brightened as she preceded him into the hallway. “She had a little spell earlier, but she seems fine, now. Tired, which is to be expected if she’s coming down with something; and paler than usual.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’ll just have a bit of a chat with her. Private-like, if you don’t mind, so she won’t be embarrassed.”

  “Certainly. I’ll just—um—” her voice trailed away as Ben clumped up the stairs where Mattie was, upon the director’s advice, resting, with a thin coverlet and a book to read.

  He emerged some time later, troubled in spirit, to bid good day to Mrs. Bellini.

  “Your able lieutenant—Miss Lassiter,” he paused to digress, “haven’t seen anything of her around. You keepin’ her busy, huh?”

  “Mondays are when we re-stock our supplies, Doctor. Jessamine and one of our older boys, Walter, have taken the wagon to Fields Mercantile. Was there something you wanted to discuss with her? I can pass on a message…”

  Ben was already shrugging back into his linen coat, preparatory to departure. “Naw. Thanks anyway. I’ll stop on back in a coupla days, Mrs. Bellini, check up on Mattie.”

  His confidential chat with the girl had yielded a disconcerting mixture of tears, pleas, and just plain closed-mouth stubbornness. She begged for time. Only a little time. And Ben, as her doctor, was forced to concede.

  Handyman Adam was living a life far more luxurious than he had ever expected. If his bedroom on the second floor of the doctor’s home didn’t provide as much privacy as had his little shack back in Indiana, he felt perfectly willing to sacrifice solitude for the spaciousness and conveniences of this modern house, complete with cook and laundress.

  “Man, I do appreciate not havin’ to park my bare backside on the splintered boards of a rusty ole outhouse,” he confided to Ben one morning over breakfast.

  Jake, having worn off some energy during an early walk, now lay snoring softly under the table. One of his favorite spots. Another was the center of Adam’s bed. He, too, was beginning to grow accustomed to the good life. Clearly, he liked it.

  Ben, chomping away on a slice of sourdough bread, rolled his eyes at the handyman’s comment. “Now, that’s an image I coulda done without seein’. So you’re sayin’ you’re getting’ spoiled by this indoor bathroom?”

  “Hell, yes, I am; and not ashamed t’ admit it, neither. Ain’t you?”

  “Ashamed?”

  Adam gave him a disgruntled look. “Spoiled, Doc. Spoiled.”

  A chuckle, while he reached for another spoonful of their housekeeper’s superlative jam. “Yeah, I am. You figure t’ be in hog heaven?”

  “Close enough. Ain’t cookin’ no meals, ain’t washin’ my own drawers, ain’t sweepin’ up no dirt. And when you got somebody smart as Mrs. Langley runnin’ things, it’s a damn good deal all around.”

  The chuckle morphed into a widespread grin. “You get her t’ crack a smile yet?”

  “Not yet. But I’m workin’ on it, and we’re close. Only give me time.”

  Only give me time. He’d just heard that phrase, in a whole different connotation, and with far different results. The thought pricked him with sadness. “Where is the lady, anyway?”

  “Hiked herself off t’ the general store. Guess she heard there was a load o’ fresh peaches s’posed t’ come in, and she wanted her name put down for a bushel.”

  “Ahuh. Fresh peaches sound mighty appealin’. Adam. You doin’ okay here, seriously? Got enough goin’ on, takin’ care of the hawses, whatever handyman jobs, and such?”

  Adam’s smile contained the sweetness of an angel. “Thank you for askin’, Doc. But I’m fine as frog’s hair. Best thing I coulda done, comin’ along west with you.”

  “Good t’ hear. Well.” Ben put down his napkin, pushed his chair away from the table, and rose, yawning, to his feet. All of which activity stirred the sleeping dog to life. “Reckon I better go take care of some business I been plannin’. Here, my friend.” A shove of his plate sideways. “Since I know you’re gonna be feedin’ that little pup anyways, you may as well give him these leftover pieces of ham. Better for his stomach than all those flapjacks drownin’ in syrup.”

  Of those who might be considered Whitfield’s dignitaries, Ben had already met and conversed with several. There was Charles Holcomb, the power behind the throne—depending on who occupied said position; Sheriff Daniel McGowan, seemingly a no-nonsense, upright sort of man, who followed through with stated goals; Mrs. Madonna Bellini, a caring and capable woman who served as director of the Whitfield Orphanage.

  That left a few others still to convene with.

  During their supper last week, Holcomb had invited Ben to the next town council meeting, in late September. A good opportunity then, the mogul felt, to be introduced to some of the local officials on their own home turf. Rub elbows with those making the rules.

  Ben planned to get a head start on that program.

  “Good mornin’,” he said cheerfully. Closing the glass-centered door behind him, he crossed the room to approach a massive oak desk by the far wall, and the man barricaded behind it. “I’m Ben Yancey, recently signed on here, as the town physician. Wonderin’ if I might have a few words with the mayor, perchance he’s around.”

  The secretary rose, reaching out for a brief handshake. “Welcome, Dr. Yancey. I’m Clarence Toussaint, Mayor Halliwell’s assistant. Please, have a seat, while I go check with him about appointments.”

  Left to his own devices for a few minutes, as Clarence, a tall, thin, sparrow-like man in his forties, knocked at the inner door to another office before slipping inside, Ben lounged back in a wooden armchair, crossed one ankle over the other thigh, and surveyed the room.

  Nice digs. Must be a fair amount of treasure in the town coffers, to provide for the sumptuo
us wood paneling, the thick wool carpet underfoot, the impressive collection of baroque framed paintings. Anything smacking of ostentation always aroused Ben’s suspicions of an ulterior motive, and this place certainly showed as ostentatious.

  “Dr. Yancey? Won’t you come in now?”

  Another ostentatious room, this inner sanctum of an office—with an unobtrusive door leading out, that had just softly clicked shut. Evidently a visitor, making himself scarce, who wished to remain unknown.

  “How do you do, Doctor?” The man standing near the far window turned, out of the sun and into the shadow. “I offer you a belated welcome to our fair city.”

  “Thank you, sir.” It was left for Ben to approach, to offer a friendly clasp.

  “I should have stopped over at your office long ago,” said the mayor. Indicating an off-to-the-side arrangement of chairs around the fireplace, more inviting than the formal setup put together with desk and bench, he preceded his guest. Or, rather, he walked slowly and stiffly, with a decided hobble.

  Spreading the hem of his linen coat about him, Ben settled onto the plump upholstery. Interesting. A club foot. Not quite the man he would have expected to see married to Fairlady Halliwell, but certainly stranger matches have been made. The mayor, a spare-framed man with receding reddish hair and wire-rimmed spectacles, seemed more suited for the retiring life of someone’s accountant than that of a glad-handing public official.

  “I appreciate your care of my wife,” Halliwell continued after a moment. “She had hurt her arm rather badly, but she praised what you had done for her—the soaking, and the immobilization.”

  “Ah, yes. The sprain. She said it had been caused by a fall off her horse?”

  The mayor nodded. “I do remember her telling me that. She landed on her side, and the injury was quite painful.”

  Horse, or doorframe, which was it that caused the accident? At least their use of a fall as an excuse was consistent.