Kansas Courtship

by Victoria Bylin

  “Excellent. I trust you had a good trip?”

  “The finest,” Mr. Crandall replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a wagon to unload.”

  The freighter, more concerned with his delivery than social graces, hopped off the seat without introducing her.

  The man in the vest propped an arm on the edge of the wagon and planted a boot on the wheel. His green eyes held a mix of mirth and intensity.

  Nora’s cheeks flushed pink.

  He smiled at her. “You’re new in town.”

  “I am.” She wanted to know this man, but she didn’t want to introduce herself to anyone—especially not as Dr. Nora Mitchell—until she met Mr. Garrison. She hoped to see this man again, but she needed to be on her way. She indicated the step down from the wagon. “If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Allow me.” With a roguish smile, he offered his hand.

  Nora saw a spark of fun in his eyes. The pale green reminded her of waving grass, but the rugged line of his jaw testified to his boldness. So did the strength of his hand when she gripped his fingers.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As she dropped to the street, the duster caught on her medical bag and she stumbled. He caught her waist with both hands, steadied her and stepped back. Rugged or not, he had the air of a gentleman.

  “Welcome to High Plains,” he said. “I’m—”

  “There you are!”

  They both turned to the mercantile where a petite blonde was coming through the door. Clad in a royal-blue gown with snow-white piping, the woman wore a porkpie hat that matched the one in Nora’s satchel. She couldn’t have been lovelier…or more feminine. In the duster and bonnet, Nora felt drab.

  Her gaze drifted back to the man. In his eyes she saw an aloofness that reminded her of her professors in college.

  “Hello, Abigail,” he said.

  “Oh—Oh no!” The blonde swayed on her feet. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her knees buckled in the start of a swoon. Nora rushed forward to catch her. So did the man. He reached her first and caught her in his arms. As he lowered her to the planking, Nora grabbed her medical bag and charged to her side, whipping off her bonnet when it impeded her vision.

  She checked the woman’s pulse and found it to be normal. She looked for perspiration and saw only a summer sheen. Next she glanced at the bodice of the blue dress. In New York she’d seen women faint because of too-tight corsets. Nora loathed fashion that harmed a woman’s health. She suspected this woman had submitted to such an indignity, but a quick run of her fingers along the woman’s rib cage revealed no such encumbrance.

  The blonde had swooned for no apparent reason…or had she? Nora looked at the man crouched next to her. His dark hair brushed the rim of his collarless shirt, a linen garment that clung to broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. Black boots, scuffed but made of fine leather, tightened on his calves as he crouched. Gone was the charming stranger. In his place was a man with a smirk, a look she associated with arrogant men…handsome men. Had the woman swooned to get his attention? It wouldn’t have surprised her.

  The blonde stirred, blinking as if she couldn’t focus until she found the man’s face.

  “Zeb?” she murmured. “Is that you?”

  Nora gasped. How many Zebs could there be in High Plains? Please, Lord. Don’t let this man be the one. Knowing she couldn’t hide from the truth, she lifted her chin. “Are you Mr. Zebulun Garrison?”

  His eyes traveled to her medical bag, and back. He frowned. “I am.”

  “I’m—”

  “You’re Dr. N. Mitchell,” he said coldly. “And you’re a liar.”

  “I am not!” She wanted to settle the matter now, but the blonde needed her attention. Nora turned to her patient. “I’m Dr. Nora Mitchell.”

  “Get away from me!” the woman declared.

  “I’m a doctor.”

  “You’re a woman,” she complained. “You can’t be a doctor.”

  “I’m fully trained, Miss—?”

  “Miss Johnson,” she said coldly. “Abigail Johnson.”

  Nora gripped the woman’s wrist, retook her pulse and detected no change. “Did you eat breakfast today?”

  “Of course.”

  Nora surmised the woman to be single. She wouldn’t ask about pregnancy directly, but it had to be considered. “Have you been ill, perhaps nauseous on occasion?”

  The blonde glared at her as she sat up. “That’s a rude question to ask. Zeb, would you help me? I want to go inside.”

  “Of course.” He sounded gentle, even sweet.

  Nora surmised they were close and wondered if they were courting. She also recalled the way he’d looked at her. Zebulun Garrison was either weak willed or a womanizer. Either way, she didn’t like him.

  As he stood, so did she. Their gazes slammed together at an angle, reminding her of his height. In addition to wide shoulders, he had a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. Her professional eye told her his nose had never been broken. Her female eyes noticed he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He was not middle-aged, portly or balding.

  His frank gaze reminded her of her own lackluster appearance, and she became acutely aware of what he was seeing…a woman with red hair in a dirty coat. She didn’t appreciate his critical stare, especially after the way his eyes had initially sparked with male interest. As dusty as a prairie dog, she stared back to remind him of his manners.

  His gaze narrowed with disgust. As he lowered his chin to speak, Abigail waved for attention. “Zeb?” she murmured.

  Looking irked, he gripped the blonde’s gloved fingers and lifted her, steadying her as she swayed. Abigail Johnson didn’t fool Nora for a minute. The woman had faked a swoon to gain Mr. Garrison’s attention. Judging by his demeanor, he knew this as well.

  After steadying the blonde, he turned back to Nora. His lips thinned to a line. “The interview’s over, Miss Mitchell. You’ll be leaving with the Crandalls.”

  “No, sir,” she answered. “I will not be leaving. You promised me an interview. I expect a chance to prove myself.”

  “You just did, Dr. N. Mitchell.”

  “I never said I was male. You assumed—”

  “You didn’t say you weren’t.”

  “When you sign a letter, do you tell people you’re a man?”

  “Of course not.”

  Nora fought to stay calm. “Do you sign your letters, ‘Zebulun Garrison, Member of the Human Race, Male’?”

  His stare could have boiled water.

  The blonde tugged on his sleeve. “Zeb, please! I want to go inside.”

  “Wait here,” he snapped at Nora.

  She hadn’t taken orders since medical college, not even from her father. She wanted the respect of her title, but she did not want a public scene when they discussed the terms of her employment. Neither did she want to have that talk wearing the duster, with dirt on her face.

  “I’ll be at the boardinghouse as we arranged,” she said to him. “I’ll expect you this afternoon. Is two o’clock acceptable?”

  He stared at her for five long seconds. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

  “I have as much nerve as you.”

  His mouth curved into a bitter smile. “I doubt that, Miss Mitchell. I’ll be at the boardinghouse at one o’clock. I have work to do.”

  He’d changed the time to make a point. She’d have to hurry to get ready, but she’d manage. “Fine,” she said.

  “Fine,” he replied.

  The blonde gave Nora a nasty look, then gripped Mr. Garrison’s arm and steered him into the mercantile. As they passed through the door, Mr. Crandall came out. “How ya doing, missy?”

  “Just fine,” she answered. “I thought I’d walk to the boardinghouse. Would you deliver my trunk when you’re done here?”

  “Sure thing, girl.” He held out his big hand. “It’s been a pleasure hauling ya.”

  Nora clasped it in both of hers. “The pleasure was mine. And remember, if you or the missus need a doctor, I�
��m here.”

  His gray eyes turned serious. “I will, miss. But I’m worried about ya. Mr. Garrison’s a mite bent out of shape. If you need a ride back to Saint Joseph, just holler. The wife and I leave in the morning.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so.” He shook his head. “That man doesn’t think much of females. Might be different if he had himself a wife like mine.”

  Nora had enjoyed the older couple, bickering and all. “You and Mrs. Crandall were very kind to me.”

  He tipped his hat. “Good day, miss. I’ll see to that trunk of yours.”

  As he turned to leave, Nora realized she needed directions. She called back to Mr. Crandall. “Would you point me to the boardinghouse?”

  “Go that way.” He jerked his thumb down the dusty street. “Turn right at the end and you’ll see it. Mrs. Jennings runs the place. She’s on the crabby side, but you’ll like her cook, Rebecca. She makes the best meals in Kansas.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gripping her medical bag, Nora paced down the street, avoiding the broken boardwalk as she took in buildings with boarded-up windows. Some of the structures were brand new. Others were a mix of wood weathered by time and fresh lumber. At the end of the street she saw a whitewashed church with glass windows and a perfect roof. A cross topped a bell tower and pointed at the sky. The sight of it gave Nora hope. She refused to be shaken by anything—not tornadoes and not Zebulun Garrison. Before she left New York, she’d prayed for God’s will to be done in her life. Surely the Lord wouldn’t let her down.

  As for Mr. Garrison, he’d met his match. When he arrived at the boardinghouse, she wouldn’t be wearing a duster. She’d look her best and be armed with her medical degree, a quick wit and her good intentions. She’d been asked to come for an interview, and she intended to hold him to his word. If he thought he could disrespect her, she’d be glad to set him straight.

  Chapter Two

  Zeb handed Abigail off to her mother, who ran the mercantile along with Abigail’s father, and left the store. Ever since he’d let it slip that he wanted a wife, he’d felt like a rabbit in a hunt. Abigail had been the most obvious, but he’d received supper invitations from half a dozen families with daughters, including Winnie Morrow and her mother. Either Winnie or Abigail would do for a wife. He just had to choose one over the other.

  As he crossed the street, he saw Mr. Crandall driving to the boardinghouse. In the wagon sat a trunk that had to belong to Dr. Nora Mitchell. A woman! Of all the fool things…If Doc Dempsey hadn’t died last week, Zeb wouldn’t even speak to her. As things stood, the town desperately needed a physician. At Doc’s funeral, Zeb had taken comfort in knowing Dr. Mitchell was on his way.

  Her way, he corrected himself.

  Stifling an oath, he headed for the livery to tell Pete Benjamin the news. Of all the people in High Plains, the blacksmith surely understood the need for a physician most personally. A year ago, Pete’s first wife, Sarah, had died in childbirth, and the baby had been lost with her. Dr. Dempsey, a gentleman in his eighties, had done his best, but his methods were old-fashioned at best and lethal at worst.

  At the funeral, the first in High Plains, Zeb had set his mind on finding a skilled physician. He’d received a dozen letters and had interviewed four men. He didn’t think the choices could get any worse, but he’d been wrong. No way would he hire a woman. Zeb dreaded giving the bad news to Pete. The livery owner had remarried and found happiness with Rebecca Gunderson, the boardinghouse cook. One of these days he’d be a father again.

  Pete knew the need for a good physician most personally, but Zeb had strong feelings, too. As long as he lived, he’d be haunted by the aftermath of the tornado. How many people had suffered because Doc Dempsey couldn’t keep up? Some had died instantly. Others had lingered for days with festering wounds. Doc had done his best, but he’d lacked the skill and stamina to treat all the injured. On that horrible day, Zeb had renewed his vow to find a skilled physician for High Plains.

  As he neared the livery, he gritted his teeth against a flare of temper. Not only had Dr. Mitchell lied about her gender, she’d left him with egg on his face. Just last week, he’d bragged to Will Logan that he’d found the perfect man for the job. Dr. Mitchell had impeccable credentials, including a letter of reference from Dr. Gunter Zeiss, a name Zeb recognized from his cavalier days in Boston. Dr. Zeiss, a famous German neurologist, had praised Dr. Mitchell as a skilled diagnostician and a brilliant clinician. He’d described his “colleague” as talented, dedicated and a true humanitarian.

  In Zeb’s opinion, Dr. Zeiss had more brains than common sense. No way could a woman handle the rigors of doctoring.

  As he neared the livery stable, he backhanded the sweat off his brow. The day, already warm, turned insufferable as he neared the forge. Heat spilled in waves off the brick table where Pete was pounding a glowing piece of iron. Between caring for horses and making everything from plow blades to door latches, the blacksmith was the busiest man in town.

  The men had known each other for years. Zeb saw no need for small talk as he peered into the gloom. “I’ve got bad news.”

  Pete kept hammering. “What happened?”

  “Dr. Mitchell arrived.”

  “You don’t sound happy about it.”

  “I’m not.”

  The blacksmith grunted. “Another dud?” He looked as glum as Zeb felt about the situation.

  “Remember when that letter arrived? You said nothing could be worse than the last fellow, and I said you were wrong. It could be worse.”

  “I asked how, and you said the new doctor could be a woman.”

  “That’s right.”

  Pete kept hammering. “Are you telling me—”

  “I sure am,” Zeb said with disgust. “Dr. N. Mitchell isn’t Norman or Ned. Her name’s Nora.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Pete murmured.

  “I’m sending her back. She can leave with the Crandalls.”

  Pete’s hammer pinged in a steady rhythm. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

  “It’s the only answer.” Zeb took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat off his neck.

  The blacksmith kept working. “With Doc’s passing, maybe you should give the woman a chance. You said yourself she’s qualified.”

  “I said he was qualified. This isn’t a job for a woman and you know it.”

  Pete held up the piece of metal, inspected it with a sharp eye then put it back in the fire. “Seems to me a female doctor’s better than no doctor at all.”

  Not in Zeb’s opinion. “You know as well as I do she won’t last. Either she’ll get fed up and go back to New York, or she’ll get married and quit the medicine business. No woman is cut out for that kind of work.”

  “I don’t know,” Pete said. “Rebecca’s talking about opening an inn. I’d be a fool to try and stop her.”

  “That’s different.” Zeb frowned at the object in Pete’s hand. “She’ll be cooking and cleaning like she always does. It’s woman’s work.”

  Pete huffed at him. “I wouldn’t say woman’s work with that tone if you want to keep enjoying my wife’s good cooking. Rebecca works as hard as I do.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Zeb drawled. “But it’s not the same as what you do.”

  “Maybe.” Pete sounded wry. “She’ll also be keeping the books, ordering supplies, hiring folks and bossing everyone around.”

  “So?”

  “Isn’t that what you do?” Pete argued. “Especially the ‘bossing’ part?”

  Zeb faked a scowl. “Are you picking a fight?”

  “No.” Pete’s voice lost its humor. “I’m asking you to give the lady doctor a chance. Aside from being female, how does she seem?”

  Beautiful. Kind. Brave.

  Before he’d seen the medical bag, he’d felt like a love-struck adolescent. Her blue eyes, wide and innocent, had a spark of daring he admired. When she’d lifted her lips in a smile, he’d though
t of kissing her and wondered if his search for a wife had come to an end. Then Abigail had faked another swoon and the woman had grabbed that heavy case.

  “Zeb?”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t answer the question.” Pete’s lips turned up. “What is she like?”

  “Normal, I guess.” Except for that hair. He’d never seen anything like it.

  Pete pulled the metal from the fire, inspected it and went back to hammering. “Normal is more than I can say for that last fellow.”

  Zeb had to agree. Not one of the four men he’d interviewed had met his standards. They’d nicknamed the last one “Dr. Gruesome” when he’d talked about exhuming graves for his “research.” No way could Zeb see him birthing babies.

  He could see Dr. Mitchell at a birthing, but did she have the grit to cut off a man’s leg? Of course not. Zeb had seen mill accidents in Bellville, including a mistake that had cut off Timmy Cooper’s hand. A woman wouldn’t have the stomach for such things. Most men didn’t, either. He didn’t, though he’d witnessed his share of injuries.

  Pete held up the piece of iron and looked again at the color. The orange had cooled to red, so he put aside the hammer, lifted a chisel and began to shape the edge of a hoe blade. His eyes twinkled with mischief.

  “So,” he said. “Just how normal does the lady doctor look? Is she pretty?”

  Zeb scowled. “She’s pretty enough, not that it matters to you. You’ve got Rebecca.”

  “And no woman’s lovelier,” Pete replied. “I was thinking about you.”

  “Don’t.”

  Pete chuckled. “The whole town’s in on it, you know.”

  Last month Zeb had let it slip to Pete he was considering marriage. Abigail’s mother, Matilda Johnson, had overheard and started pushing Abigail in his path. The Ladies Aid Society had started buzzing and Zeb had received six supper invitations in two days. The attention irked him. “I wish I’d kept my mouth shut,” he said to Pete.

  With his arms crossed over his chest, he told his friend about Abigail faking another swoon, how the lady doctor had jumped to her rescue and how Abigail had taken her down a peg.