Kansas Courtship

by Victoria Bylin

  The mill was going full bore, so he motioned Pete to follow him into the yard. “Let’s get out of here.”

  As they escaped the noise and dust, Zeb tried again to stretch his eye. If it would quit twitching, he could work on the drawings for the dam and trace box. High Plains had enjoyed a fairly wet summer, but the river dropped a little each day. Zeb had to plan for all kinds of weather. A drought would leave the mill helpless unless he upgraded the design.

  As they stepped into the sunlight, his eye twitched again.

  When they reached the wagon, Pete looked at him thoughtfully. “My grandmother had that happen.”

  “How’d she get it to stop?”

  “She didn’t.” The blacksmith wiped sawdust off his nose. “She dropped dead on the spot. The doc called it apoplexy.”

  “Great,” Zeb muttered.

  Pete kept a straight face, but his eyes twinkled. “You could ask Dr. Mitchell to look at it.”

  “No way,” he answered. “I’m not getting within fifty feet of her.”

  Pete shrugged. “I like her.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You don’t like anyone from back East,” he pointed out.

  “I’ve got cause.” His eye twitched again. “She’s filling Cassandra’s head with nonsense.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s nonsense.”

  Pete laughed out loud.

  “It’s not funny.” Zeb put his hands on his hips. “Cassandra wouldn’t tell me what the woman said, but they met and now she’s acting like the high-and-mighty Dr. Mitchell.” He still couldn’t believe his sister had winked at him. The thought made his eyelid twitch again. Maybe Cassandra had the same problem, but he didn’t think so.

  Pete rubbed at a clod of dirt on the wagon wheel. “Seems to me the Lord sent a fine woman to take care of this town.”

  Zeb had another opinion. “He sent a hoyden.” Dr. Nora Mitchell was bold and rude. He couldn’t call her tomboyish, but she had that air.

  Both men heard feminine laughter and looked toward the river. Zeb saw his sister, dressed in pink and white, coming up the path with Dr. Mitchell. Cassandra looked like strawberries and cream. Dr. Mitchell had on a coppery gown that reminded him of oak. Of all the trees he’d milled over the years, he liked oak the best. It was strong, beautiful and forgiving. Some woods were too brittle for a mechanical saw, but oak could take the pressure.

  Pete turned back to Zeb. “Looks like the hoyden’s headed this way.”

  To Zeb’s consternation, his eye twitched again. As he rubbed it with his knuckle, Cassandra and Dr. Mitchell reached Pete’s wagon. The blacksmith doffed his wide-brimmed hat. “It’s good to see you, Cassandra. Doc, how’s it going?”

  The redhead smiled. “Very well, thank you.”

  Pete looked at Zeb, daring him to greet the women. To keep his eye from going berserk, he squinted at them. “What brings you ladies here?” He addressed Cassandra, but he was more curious about Dr. Mitchell.

  His sister held up a Godey’s Lady’s Book. “Look what Dr. Nora gave me!”

  Just what Cassandra didn’t need, more fancy ideas about clothes. He didn’t care for the silly poetry, either. It reminded him of Frannie. Still squinting, he glared at Dr. Mitchell. She looked mildly pained and he wondered why.

  Pete interrupted. “Rebecca likes the recipes. Maybe she could borrow it next.”

  Dr. Mitchell looked pleased. “I’d be glad to share it. I’ve got older issues, too.”

  Cassandra looked at Zeb with a smirk. When had his little sister turned haughty? A few years ago, she’d been as sweet as a kitten. But then he’d taken her to Boston and she’d gotten prissy. Zeb had only himself to blame for her uppity ways. Annoyed, he frowned at her. “What brings you to the mill?”

  “Dr. Nora was coming to see you, so I showed her the way.” She turned to Pete. “Could you give me a ride back to town?”

  “Sure.”

  When the blacksmith offered his hand to help Cassandra into the wagon, Zeb realized his friend’s intention. He planned to leave him alone with Dr. Mitchell and his twitchy eye. With his luck, the eye would wink and she’d think he was playing her game. No way could he be alone with her. He needed his sister to stick around. “Cassandra, wait.”

  She looked over her shoulder with a gleam in her eye. She had revenge in mind for this morning’s spat. She knew he didn’t like Dr. Mitchell and was forcing him to put up with her.

  “What is it, Zeb?” she said too sweetly.

  He couldn’t ask her to stay. That would be cowardly. He settled for a thin excuse. “Are you going back to the school or heading home?”

  “First I’m having lunch with Percy.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then I’ll be home,” she added. “But later.”

  “Not too late,” Zeb ordered.

  Pete chuckled. “Don’t worry, Zeb. They’re lunching at the boardinghouse. Rebecca will keep an eye on them.”

  Cassandra flashed a grin. “And I want to read the Godey’s book tonight. Thank you again, Nora.”

  Dr. Mitchell gave a stiff smile. “You’re welcome.”

  Pete handed Cassandra up to the seat, climbed up next to her and snapped the reins. As the horses lumbered out of the yard, Zeb stared at his sister’s back. Only three years separated them in age—he was twenty-five, she was twenty-two—but he felt a lifetime older. Heartache did that to a man. So did hard work. He felt Dr. Mitchell’s gaze on his cheek. His eye didn’t twitch, but his tongue was ready to give her a lashing. First she’d given Cassandra advice and now the Godey’s book. How much could a man take?

  Being careful to squint, he faced her. “Tell me, Dr. Mitchell. What kind of advice are you giving my sister?”

  Her eyes—sky blue and sparkling—opened wide. “None really.”

  “Cassandra told me otherwise.”

  “She’s a confused girl, Mr. Garrison.” Dr. Mitchell looked troubled herself. “She heard something I said to Emmeline. I was speaking in regard to Bess, but your sister took it to heart.”

  “What did you say?”

  She squared her shoulders. “That a woman needs the courage of her convictions.”

  What did that mean? The courage to jilt a fiancé and go to Paris? The courage to go to medical college and cut up cadavers? Or did it mean the courage to come West and start a new life? The courage to stare down a thunderstorm after surviving a tornado? Zeb’s thoughts turned into a jumble. Wordless, he stared at her.

  Dr. Mitchell wrinkled her nose in remorse, the way she’d wrinkled it in Doc’s office. “I came today for a fresh start. I showed poor judgment at our last encounter.”

  “You hoodwinked me with that simpering-female act, so excuse me if I don’t believe you now.” He opened his eyes extra wide. Hopefully she’d take it as forceful, not an effort to control the tic.

  “I won’t apologize for staying, but—”

  His eye twitched anyway. Not just a tic either. He gave her a full, unplanned and unmistakable wink.

  Dr. Mitchell gasped. “You winked at me!”

  Zeb held in a oath. “I didn’t—”

  “I’m so sorry!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I know I started it. I should never have winked at you. It was brazen and rude.”

  Zeb liked her apology. He liked the high color of her cheeks and he liked having the upper hand. He also liked her honesty. Because of it, she deserved the truth. “I didn’t wink at you, Doc. My eye’s been twitching all morning.”

  “I see.” She regained her composure in an instant and lowered her hands. “I know the cause.”

  If she looked into his eyes, he’d have to look into hers. Zeb did not want to cross that line, but neither did he want to end up dead like Pete’s grandmother. He tried to sound casual. “So what is it? Apoplexy?”

  Her pretty face crinkled with laughter. The musical tones tripped over him and filled his heart with a lightness he hadn’t felt in a long time. The
pleasure of it warmed him like sunshine on a cold day, but then he realized he was laughing with Dr. Nora Mitchell.

  He pulled his mouth into a frown. “It’s not apoplexy, is it?”

  “That depends.” With an impersonal expression, she studied his eye from two feet away. Zeb looked at fresh-cut trees the same way and realized she was seeing a human eye, not necessarily his eye. He had to respect her objectivity. She was all doctor as she raised her chin. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you read a lot, Mr. Garrison?”

  “All the time.” He studied books on engineering, records for the mill.

  “And coffee.” She shifted her gaze from looking solely at his eye to reading his expression. “I suspect you drink it strong and in large quantities.”

  As much as Zeb wanted her to be wrong, she’d gotten his attention. “That’s right.”

  “What you have, Mr. Garrison, is a condition called blepharospasm. It’s caused by fatigue, some beverages and eyestrain. Adequate sleep should stop the twitching. I’d also recommend turning up the lamp when you read.”

  Old men needed extra light. The next thing he knew, she’d be telling him to get spectacles. “Thanks,” he said coldly. “I’ll do fine without it.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He wanted to annoy her. Instead, he saw joy in her eyes, and though she was trying to hide her elation, her lips tipped into a smile. She looked ready to dance and sing and wave a flag. He couldn’t stand it. “Why do you look so happy?”

  “You, Mr. Garrison, are my first patient in High Plains.”

  Of all the confounded ironies…Zeb wanted to be mad, but his eye felt better already, maybe because he’d smiled for the first time in a week. He thought of a few other “maybes,” like maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she stayed. The thought lingered until he kicked it into next week. Not only did he distrust this woman as a doctor, she reminded him of Frannie. Any fool could see she’d come to High Plains because she couldn’t find work anywhere else. If opportunity knocked, she’d be gone tomorrow.

  Never mind his twitching eye and that “maybe” in his head. He’d be wise to keep this woman—all women—at arm’s length. When it came to finding a wife, Abigail would be a far better choice because he’d never share his whole heart with her. Women, Zeb knew, were self-serving. He’d spent hours listening to Frannie prattle about her paintings, but when he’d talked about his work, she’d yawned. He had no respect for ambitious women.

  He glared at Dr. Mitchell. “So I’m your first patient. I guess the joke’s on me.”

  “I hope not,” she said. “I really do want to apologize for my conduct at the town hall.”

  She’d come to make peace, but Zeb didn’t want a truce. He wanted to find a doctor who didn’t wear a dress. He’d already sent a new advertisement to the Kansas Gazette with instructions to make the print extra large.

  Dr. Mitchell looked at him expectantly. Good manners called for him to apologize in return. Business was business, so he made his voice brusque. “Anything else, Dr. Mitchell?”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “What is it?”

  She looked at him from below the brim of her hat. “You owe me for the medical advice.”

  He had to hand it to her. The woman had guts. “I suppose I do.” Zeb reached into his pocket to extract a coin. Doc had charged six bits for advice. He figured Dr. Mitchell’s services were worth less, maybe two bits.

  As he withdrew the coin, she held up her hand to stop him. “I don’t want your money.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

  “A tour of the mill.”

  Zeb’s brows pulled together. Most women had no interest in shafts and pivots. “Are you serious?”

  She peered through the delivery door. “I like knowing how things work.”

  So did he.

  “Will you show me?” she asked again.

  He could turn a tree into lumber and wheat into flour, but as long as he lived, he’d never understand females. Caught by surprise, he shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  When she smiled her thanks, he knew why not. Dr. Nora Mitchell was one hundred percent female and he couldn’t forget it. Even with her hair tamed under a brown felt hat, she looked pretty today. He’d show her the mill and how it worked, but that’s all. No friendly talk. No walk along the river. No asking her to supper or letting her look at his eye again. To explain how the mill worked, he had to start with the river, the source of power for all the moving parts. He indicated the path to the waterfall with a jerk of his chin. “Let’s go.”

  When she passed him, he smelled lavender. To keep from inhaling more deeply, he held his breath and started counting to ten. When he reached seven, he took a test sniff. Space between them muted the fragrance, but it left a trail in the air. Following it, he noticed the medical bag dangling from her hand.

  “Here,” he said, indicating his office. “You can leave that thing here.”

  Expecting her to let go, he reached for the case.

  “Oh!” She looked up, but didn’t release the bag. Their eyes collided, then their shoulders bumped and the bag hit his knee. Irked, he stepped back. “Fine, take it. But it’s a hike to the waterfall.”

  “I’ll leave it,” she said hurriedly. “I’m not accustomed to…courtesy.”

  “I’m not accustomed to denying it,” he countered.

  “Here.” She offered him the bag. “I’d be glad to leave it.”

  As she loosened her fingers, Zeb took the full weight of the black case. He carried it into his office and put it at the foot of his desk, smelling lavender because Dr. Mitchell had followed him.

  “Is this your office?” she asked.

  He grunted. “Yep.”

  As he turned back to the door, he saw her surveying the room. He followed her gaze to the brick hearth with a potbellied stove, then around to the shelves stacked with books and ledgers and finally to the lone chair he kept for visitors. Her eyes came to rest on the desk he’d hauled from Boston. Tall with spindly legs, the standing desk lacked a stool because Zeb never sat down.

  Her brows knit together. “Don’t you sit down to work?”

  “I draw standing up.”

  “I see.”

  Zeb didn’t need words to read her expression, maybe because he shared the same thoughts. He never rested. He couldn’t until every building in High Plains, particularly the town hall, stood tall and proud. No wonder he had a tic in his eye. It twitched now, but Dr. Mitchell politely ignored it.

  Zeb motioned at the door. “Time’s a-wasting, Doc. Let’s go.”

  The sooner he showed her the mill, the sooner he could get back to standing at his desk.

  Chapter Eight

  Nora led the way up the trail until they passed the mill. When the path branched into a vee, she paused to let Mr. Garrison take the lead.

  “This way,” he said, veering to the river.

  His stride lengthened and she had to hurry to keep up. She’d been wise to leave her bag in his office. The weight would have slowed her down. She’d always be a physician, but for the moment she felt unburdened.

  Ignoring the stir of dust, she followed him around a bend and nearly plowed into his back. He’d stopped at an outcropping of rock that overlooked the High Plains River. Meadows stretched for miles, ending in the rolling hills she’d traveled with the Crandalls. Nora loved the openness and the vast sky. She missed her family in New York, but she didn’t miss the city. Inhaling deeply, she savored the fragrance of sunlight and grass.

  He gave her a sideways look. “Did that little walk tire you out?”

  “Not at all.” She smiled. “I’m enjoying the air.”

  He huffed in a way she didn’t understand, then pointed east to the rambling flow of the river. “You’re seeing the reason Will and I picked this spot.”

  Nora studied the pattern of the current. A leaf floated by, gathering speed as it rushed to the
waterfall. On the other side of the drop, she saw the waterwheel spinning in time with the flow.

  “Do you see what’s happening?” he asked.

  “The river’s pushing the wheel, and the wheel powers the mill.” Nora saw a problem. “What happens if the river runs low?”

  He turned and pointed upriver to a bulge in the bank where water pooled in a half moon. “When High Plains is back on its feet, I’ll dam up that spot to make a millpond.”

  For the next several minutes, he talked about water flow, gates, traces and types of waterwheels. Garrison Mill had an undershot, the quickest and easiest to build, but he had plans for an overshot design. Instead of the river pushing the bottom of the wheel, an overshot design relied on gravity. Water traveled down a trace box that spilled into slots on the wheel called buckets. Gravity pulled the wheel down and the buckets spilled back into the river, causing the wheel to spin.

  “Why the change?” Nora asked.

  “An overshot is less vulnerable to drought. Once the millpond is finished, I’ll have a constant source of water.”

  Nora recalled Cassandra’s warning about Zeb being boring. The girl couldn’t have been more wrong. He had a good mind and the ability to explain complex principles.

  Leaning closer to her, he pointed to the opposite bank of the river and the meadow stretching as far as she could see. “Look over there.”

  As she turned her head, he lowered his chin. Did he realize he’d moved closer to her? She smelled wood and water, grass and his freshly laundered shirt. The sun warmed the dark print of his vest, another paisley with swirls of silver and black. A sudden pounding in her chest matched the rush and spill of the waterfall.

  “What do you see?” he asked, challenging her.

  “I see grass.”

  “And?”

  He was testing her, but she didn’t mind. She enjoyed a match of wits. Pausing, she put herself in his shoes. What would a miller see? He’d see trees, except they’d all been cut down. The grass waved like an open hand. The green blades matched his eyes until the grass bent and the sun bleached the color, leaving a sheen of gold, the color of…“Wheat!” she cried. “I see wheat fields.”