Kansas Courtship

by Victoria Bylin

  “You’ve got a logical mind, Dr. Mitchell.”

  She enjoyed the praise, but she wished he’d called her Nora. With the sun warm on her face, she wanted to be a woman first, not Dr. Mitchell. Never shy, she tipped up her chin. “Please, call me Nora.”

  “Then I’m Zeb.” Looking bold and roguish, like the scoundrel Emmeline had called “good,” he stepped back and offered his hand.

  Clasping it, she noticed the strength of his fingers, how his shirt pulled back on his forearm to reveal a smattering of dark hair. There was nothing clinical about her sense of this man, nor was he looking at her with the hostility she’d come to expect. Their hands stayed locked for a blink too long…until his eye twitched and they each let go of the other, laughing at the irony.

  “Was that a wink?” she said playfully.

  Turning abruptly, he hooked his hands on his hips and looked downriver. Nora’s cheeks warmed with a blush. She hadn’t meant to be so bold, but she’d forgotten the tension between them. When he wanted, Zeb Garrison could be charming.

  “Let’s go.” He sounded gruff again. “I’ll show you the inside of the building.”

  “I’d like that.”

  As they walked back along the trail, he told her more about his plans for the future. If the tornado hadn’t struck, he’d have already replaced one of the saw frames with grinding stones. Nora thought of her own dreams that had been delayed. She’d put off marriage for the sake of medicine. Zeb had made a similar choice.

  As the building came into view, she tipped her face to his. “You’ve made sacrifices for High Plains. That’s admirable.”

  He kept his eyes on the mill. “I’ve done what’s necessary.”

  “You’ve been generous,” she added. “Mrs. Jennings told me how you helped with the children at the boardinghouse. I’ve gotten to know little Alex. He’s special.”

  “He’s a good kid.” His expression turned serious. “It’s too bad about his brother.”

  Nora had spent a lot of time with the boy. She knew his parents had died two years ago, and that Alex and his brother, Eli Henning, had been headed to Oregon when the tornado orphaned him a second time. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  Zeb hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”

  Nora wanted to push, but the peace between them hung like gossamer. She had to tread lightly. “I’ve been visiting families. Some of them still need houses.”

  “And wood’s gotten scarce.” He indicated a door on the backside of the mill. “The saws are going full tilt. Come and look.”

  Nora entered the building and paused. As her eyes adjusted to the poor light, she heard the clatter of gears as they transferred power from the river to saw blades mounted in wood frames. At each of the three stations, she saw a log on a carriage being guided by a team of two men. One of the crews included Clint Fuller, the cowboy she’d met at the Circle-L.

  Sawdust filled the air and she coughed. In medical college she’d treated millworkers for a condition called “white lung.” It came from dust in gristmills, but sawdust could be just as damaging. A log bucked against a saw. Clint shouted a warning, then manhandled it back into place. She pictured him losing a hand and felt sick. Even from the distance of several feet, she could see circles under his eyes. The cowboy looked exhausted and so did the other men.

  Nora thought of Zeb’s comment about the mill operating sixteen hours a day. These men—all of them—were on their last legs. Fatigue led to accidents. As much as she’d enjoyed putting down her medical case for a walk along the river with a handsome man, she couldn’t stop being a doctor. Someone had to tell Zeb Garrison his mill needed more windows and his workers needed rest.

  The clack and whoosh of the mill filled Zeb’s ears, but Dr. Mitchell—Nora now—still commanded his attention. Sawdust overpowered the scent of lavender, but the dim light brought out the ivory of her skin. For all her bold ways, she had a delicate chin and a bow-shaped mouth. Even more attractive to Zeb, she’d asked intelligent questions.

  She’d been a good listener, maybe the best he’d ever had. Unlike Cassandra who listened out of obligation, and Will who preferred talk of cattle, Nora had focused on the mill’s engineering. She’d also seen his vision of wheat fields, something not even Will had guessed.

  Zeb didn’t know what to think. One minute he’d been talking to Dr. Mitchell about water and gravity. The next, he’d been calling her Nora. The mill made sense to him. He could identify every sound and explain its cause. What he’d felt at the river made no sense at all. In the middle of his talk about waterwheels, he’d decided he liked the scent of lavender. He liked her.

  The thought turned in his mind like the wheel powering the mill. It spun in a circle, going nowhere but putting other thoughts into motion…thoughts of a wife, thoughts of children. If she’d been a farmer’s daughter instead of doctor, a woman from Missouri instead of New York, he’d have already asked her to supper.

  As things stood, he couldn’t cross that line just yet. He didn’t trust her judgment, but he was open to a civil conversation. How could he not be? She’d shown him respect. He owed her the same opportunity. As a first step, he’d give her a ride back to town and see what she had to say about finding a new office.

  He looked at her profile. Instead of wonderment, he saw worry. He’d planned to show her the lower level, where they’d be alone again, but he changed his mind. To be heard over the noise, he raised his voice. “Had enough?”

  She answered by heading for the door to the yard. As they stepped outside, the noise faded but didn’t stop. His face felt gritty and he wondered if hers did, too. He didn’t think she’d mind. Dr. Mitchell—Nora—had a thick skin.

  She squared her shoulders. “I realize I’m not an expert on mills, but I have to ask. Are you aware of the risk of lung disease?”

  He’d been expecting a question about the engineering, praise for the efficiency of his design. He’d even wondered if she’d hear the music he heard in the clack of the gears and the rasp of the saws. “What are you getting it?”

  “I know millwork is dangerous. It’s the nature of it, but there are things you can do for the sake of safety.”

  “Safety?”

  “Yes.” She spoke with force. “I’m sure you’ve heard of white lung disease. It’s rampant in millworkers. Inhaling sawdust is just as bad. It can cause lung irritation. And I don’t need to tell you that saws are sharp. A fatigued worker—”

  “Stop right there, Dr. Mitchell.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” he said angrily. “You have no right to judge. What do you know about mills anyway?”

  “I know—”

  “You know nothing.” He was mad enough to spit. “You said yourself that people need houses. The town hall’s only half finished. High Plains won’t forget the tornado until that building has four walls and a roof.”

  “Yes, but—” She bit her lip.

  Bitterness flooded through his veins. “You don’t know a thing about how I run this place. Safety? Do you think I don’t care? In Bellville I saw a man lose his arm. He nearly bled out on the floor.” He held up his hands. “I’ve got ten fingers. Most millers lose one or two. It’s part of the work.”

  Her expression shifted from concern to outrage. “I’m offering a professional opinion.”

  “You’re interfering.” He crossed his arms. “What else do you want to tell me? That dust is explosive? That someone should pour water on the blades to keep them from sparking? That if I don’t keep the gears greased, this whole place could go up in flames? Go ahead,” he taunted. “Tell me how to run a mill.”

  “I wouldn’t presume.” She bit off each word. “I’m addressing a potential risk. Accidents happen when men are fatigued. Clint looks positively ashen! You can’t work at this pace without risking serious injury.”

  “I know that.” He worried every minute that someone would get cut, that a log would bounce and crush a man’s leg. He worried about sparks and e
ven the dust, because as she’d said, millworkers got bad lungs. He didn’t want to be one of them, and he didn’t want his men to suffer, either. He cared, deeply. He also cared about the people of High Plains, the ones living in tents who’d freeze this winter if he didn’t supply wood for decent houses.

  Dr. Mitchell didn’t understand. Like Frannie, she saw the world through her own ambitious eyes. Zeb had heard enough. “Look, Doc. Here are the facts. If my men and I don’t work long hours, people are going to freeze. Winter’s not going to wait for High Plains to finish rebuilding.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Do you think I want to push this hard? Do you think I’m enjoying it? If you do, you’re wrong.” His voice had risen and not just from anger. For a few minutes he’d imagined this woman in his arms, his life. He’d enjoyed her intelligence and humor. But he’d been fooled. Deep down, she was a know-it-all female who wanted to tell him how to run his business.

  “I know you’re conscientious,” she said quietly. “I’m sincerely concerned. As a physician—”

  He cut her off with a guffaw. “As a physician, you should stick to hangnails. I don’t want you anywhere near my mill or my men. Or my sister,” he roared. “You’re filling her head with fancy ideas. I won’t stand for it.”

  Dr. Mitchell stepped forward and got right in his face. “I’m doing no such thing, Zeb.”

  The use of his name cut. He’d let her get too close. Who was she anyway? Frannie’s twin or someone else? He couldn’t see straight, and it didn’t help to have his eye twitch. She saw the wink, and pounced on it.

  Staring straight at him, she poked him in the chest. “Look what all of this work is doing to you! You, Mr. Garrison, need a nap! You should also lay off the coffee and give your men a day off before someone gets hurt.”

  “That’s my problem.”

  “It certainly is.” With her head high, she walked down the mill road.

  Zeb thought of his earlier plan to give her a ride. He’d been out of his mind to consider such a thing. Not only did she get on his nerves, she’d gotten under his skin and into his dreams. Oak trees needed to be cut down. Lavender water belonged in big cities. And a woman doctor did not belong in Kansas or at his mill.

  He had work to do, but he also had a head of steam and didn’t want his men to know the lady doctor had gotten to him. He went back to the cutting floor, told the foreman he’d be gone awhile and climbed on the bay he’d been riding when he first saw this land.

  Riding steadied him, so he aimed the gelding west along the river. As he passed the bend where he’d taken Nora, his thoughts drifted to the day of the tornado. He still wanted a legacy, children to carry on the Garrison name, and for that purpose he needed a wife. For a foolish moment he’d wondered if Nora Mitchell was that woman. As they’d stood by the river and looked at the mill, watching the harnessed power of the water and then hearing the music of it, he’d imagined her sharing his house. He’d noticed the smattering of freckles on her nose, the easy way she smiled. He’d appreciated her intelligence and her questions. And she’d seen wheat…vast fields of it. She’d seen his dream without him saying a word.

  She’d also proved herself to be bossy and uncompromising. He wanted a woman who’d bend her life to his…a woman like Abigail Johnson, a girl like Winnie Morrow.

  With the grass rippling, Zeb reined in the bay to a halt and studied the land. Without realizing it, he stopped in the place where the Carter family had been struck by the storm. He thought of Bess and the twins, the people who’d died, the ones who’d moved on and the ones like Emmeline who’d stayed and made a new life. A few weeks ago, she’d married Will in a quiet ceremony at the church. Zeb had never seen his friend happier and had renewed his plan to court either Winnie or Abigail.

  He still hadn’t decided which one, but the time had come to get off the fence. Looking at the lazy current of the river, he decided to ride into town. Either he’d visit the Morrows to pay Cassandra’s bill, or he’d stop by the mercantile and call on Abigail. Maybe both if the mood struck him. Either way, he was done thinking about Nora Mitchell.

  Chapter Nine

  Nora cut a path back to the river. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so angry. Stopping for breath, she looked at the waterfall spanning the current. She felt as if she’d crashed over it in a barrel. One minute she’d been enjoying Zeb’s attention. The next minute they’d been shouting at each other. She hadn’t meant to start an argument, but the truth couldn’t be ignored. He and his men were working too hard. As a physician, she had to speak her mind.

  “Oh, no,” she groaned.

  She’d left her medical bag in his office. She couldn’t bear the thought of going back to the mill, but she had to have her bag. Dreading the thought of seeing Zeb, she walked back. When she reached the yard, she didn’t see his horse and figured he’d gone for a ride. Hoping to avoid him, she knocked on the office door and waited. No answer. She knocked again, then went to the window and peered through the glass. When she saw only shadows at the standing desk, she decided to sneak in and out.

  “Dr. Mitchell?”

  She whirled and saw Clint holding his hat over his chest. Up close, he looked more exhausted than she’d supposed. Dark circles shadowed his gaunt cheeks, and his eyes were red-rimmed and watery, probably from the sawdust.

  “Mr. Fuller.” She tried to sound professional, but he’d caught her peeping into his boss’s office. She expected him to ask her why and waited.

  The cowboy wiped his brow with his sleeve. “I’ve been wondering…Can you cure a bad throat?”

  Another patient…And this one had come to her by choice. Thank You, Lord. Her hours of visiting had paid off. “I might. Do you mind if I take a look?” To do a proper examination, she needed an office. She had one…except it belonged to Zeb Garrison.

  “It hurts terribly,” Clint said. “When could you—”

  “Right now.” She refused to be shy about a patient’s needs. “We could use Mr. Garrison’s office. Is he here?”

  “He left about five minutes ago.”

  “Do you think he’ll be gone long?” she asked.

  Clint shrugged.

  Nora took the cowboy’s reticence in stride. Women told her everything she needed to know and more, but men grunted or said yes and no. She took the shrug to mean Zeb would be gone long enough for her to examine Clint’s throat. Feeling like a thief, she turned the knob and stepped into the office. She needed more light, so she pulled the side chair closer to the window. “Please, sit down.”

  Clint sat.

  Nora took a tongue depressor from her bag. “Open your mouth as wide as you can.”

  He followed the order and Nora peered at his throat. She saw inflammation but no pustules. She put her hand on his forehead to check for fever. It was evident but slight. Next she checked his neck for swelling of the glands. “How long have you been feeling poorly?”

  “About a week now.”

  When she asked how he’d been feeling overall, the cowboy admitted to working two jobs and skimping on sleep.

  She put the tongue depressor back in the bag and removed a folded paper. “This is willow-bark tea. Make it strong and drink it. You can also gargle with salt water, but what you really need, Mr. Fuller, is rest.”

  “Can’t do it, ma’am.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged.

  “If you don’t take care of yourself, a cold could turn into pneumonia and you won’t be able to work at all. A day of rest now will save you time later.”

  “I know, Doc. But I need the money.”

  Nora waited for more, but Clint headed for the door. At the last minute, he turned. “I saw you with Miss Cassandra.”

  Nora had suspected he liked the girl. Now she felt certain. To protect Clint’s pride, she hid a smile. “She walked with me to the mill.”

  “She’s not feeling poorly, is she?”

  “She’s just fine.”

  As the m
an went back to the cutting room, Nora considered the cowboy’s question. He clearly cared for Cassandra. If she went to Boston with Percival, would his heart be broken? Nora had never been in love, but she knew about disappointment. For a moment, she’d let herself wonder about a future with Zeb. Foolishness, she told herself. She pushed the chair back in place and picked up her bag. She had a mind to hunt down Zeb and tell him to send Clint home, but she doubted he’d listen. She’d already risked mayhem by using his office.

  As she walked back to town, Nora weighed her options. Only Percival seemed willing to help her find an office of her own. She didn’t like him, but she considered Cassandra a friend and they were probably in the middle of lunch at the boardinghouse. Nora wouldn’t interrupt, but she hoped to hear from Cassandra later this afternoon.

  Still frustrated, she passed the schoolhouse. In front of the mercantile she saw the bay gelding she’d noticed at the mill. Zeb Garrison, it seemed, had gone to call on Abigail. Fine, Nora thought. They suited each other. She didn’t care what he did or whom he saw. What had possessed her to drop her guard? To be Nora instead of Dr. Mitchell? Utter foolishness, she decided again.

  Except the choice hadn’t been impetuous. She’d asked Zeb to call her Nora because she liked him. In those moments by the river, she’d seen the man who’d built High Plains with love, sacrifice, and the best of intentions.

  Passing Dr. Dempsey’s office, Nora thought about the odd twists of the day. If she counted both Zeb and Clint Fuller, she’d seen two patients. She also had support from Cassandra, the Logans and the Benjamins. She’d made progress in winning the town’s acceptance, but she’d also sent the man who’d hired her into a rage.

  The future looked uneasy at best. Thanks to her father, she had money for the fare to New York. She’d promised him she’d keep it, that she wouldn’t use it for anything else for at least a year. She’d agreed at the time, but it was only now that she saw the wisdom of his request. When the one-month trial ended, she could very well be on a train back to New York.