He moved his mouth, but didn’t say anything more. His eyes darted around the room. His hands remained in his coat pockets.
After a moment, he nodded quickly and made his way from the room. The moment the door closed, she exhaled with both relief and anxious anticipation.
“This will work,” she told herself.
She had to believe it. Without a safe haven, she was as good as dead.
Chapter 4
Miriam spent a half hour the next morning attempting to tame her tresses. She tried a bun, a knot, the front pulled back with the back left loose, all of it tied with a ribbon. In the end, only a tight braid would keep it in submission. Curly hair, she’d learned quite young, was not for the faint of heart.
It was not the best day to be fighting with her hair. Starting a new job was always nerve-racking. New people. New schedules. This time “We were almost accidentally married” and “I have reasons for being here that I am not being forthright about” contributed significantly to her discomfort.
She reached the front porch of Dr. MacNamara’s house with only a minute to spare. His house was the largest she’d seen outside of New York. It stood three stories high, with a bay tower and a covered porch, the roof of which served as a balcony for the room above. Flowers grew along the short front walk. This was far more welcoming than the facade of Blackburn Asylum, which had resembled a prison on the outside. Inside, it had quite literally been one. No matter how awkward working with Dr. MacNamara might prove, it could not possibly be worse than her two years at the asylum had been.
She tightly held her sketchbook, kept securely closed by a thin strap of leather. New beginnings were always unsettling. Heaven knew she’d had too many “new beginnings” to count. But what choice did she have?
She climbed the steps to the front porch and crossed to the door. Her courage didn’t desert her. After a deep, reassuring breath, she knocked. The door opened.
“Right on time.” The doctor even seemed happy to see her.
She stepped across the threshold, unsure what to expect. The interior was no less impressive than the outside. The banister and wood paneling could, perhaps, use a polish, but taken as a whole, the entryway was very fine. She hadn’t expected anything like it in the wilds of the West.
“We’ll be in here.” Dr. MacNamara motioned her through a doorway to the left. “The parlor also acts as my medical office.”
A sofa and two armchairs flanked the nearby fireplace. A desk and examination table sat at the far side of the room, where the windows formed the rounded bay tower. A tall, glass cupboard and shelves held vials and jars and tins of powders and ointments. She would wager that the drawers of the lowboy held bandaging and medical implements.
It was a nice arrangement, with plenty of space for both of the room’s functions.
“There is a small room just past the staircase with a bed where patients can go for a little extra rest or recovery.” Dr. MacNamara next pointed at the ceiling. “The two upper floors are all bedchambers awaiting patients.”
“You have room enough for an epidemic,” she said.
He assumed a look of overdone pride. “That is the MacNamara medical method: over-prepare for when things go incredibly wrong.”
“‘When,’ not ‘if’?” That seemed an important differentiation.
His mouth twisted in thought. “‘When,’” he said after a minute. “I’m going to stick with ‘when.’”
There was enough humor in his tone to tug a tiny, fleeting smile to the surface, despite her continued nervousness. He smiled as well. It was an unexpected moment of lightness between them. It helped.
He waved her over to the doctoring side of the parlor. “The vials and powders and such are all labeled. In the bottom drawers of the desk are the patient files. Anyone I’ve ever seen or treated has a file with everything anyone might need to know about their medical history.”
He clearly kept meticulous records, and his workspace was tidy and organized. She would wager he was equally particular about medical matters. Dr. Blackburn had been the most fastidious doctor Miriam had ever known. The moment of connection she’d felt with Gideon disappeared. That he shared any characteristic with a man like Dr. Blackburn was reason for wariness.
“Over here is the washstand,” he said, “the most important part of the room.”
“The washstand is the most important?” She thought he was kidding, but a quick look at his expression told her otherwise.
“I would be ridiculed by most of my colleagues for my opinion on this, but I’ve extensively studied the writings of Semmelweis and Lister. They postulate a connection between the lack of cleanliness and a prevalence of disease and infection.” He tapped the spine of a book in the bookcase behind his desk. “Semmelweis’s proof isn’t entirely conclusive, even combined with Lister’s observations, but since the nearest hospital is days away, and I am the only help anyone in this area has, if there is any chance that washing my hands and instruments will help, I’ll do it.”
There was wisdom in that. “It couldn’t do any harm, at least.”
His sigh was one of relief. “I thought I’d have to spend the entire morning convincing you of that.”
“To wash my hands?” How uncooperative did he think she was going to be?
“People aren’t always receptive to new ideas,” he said. “Or even ‘different’ ones.”
“Believe me,” she answered, “I know.”
The front door squeaked, and footsteps approached. “Your patients walk in without warning?” She had never seen that before.
“One thing a small-town doctor gives up is any degree of privacy. Every moment of my day, and an exhausting number of my nights, belong to this town.”
She couldn’t tell if he happily made that sacrifice or if he was complaining. Dr. Blackburn at the asylum had never stopped complaining about his patients. Never.
Mrs. Wilhite stepped into the parlor. Miriam undertook a quick assessment. Though the woman didn’t move agilely, she didn’t seem to be truly struggling. Her coloring was pale, but not in a way that indicated illness. Miriam heard no labored breathing.
“Mrs. Wilhite.” Dr. MacNamara greeted her. “What brings you around?”
“I have a tickle in my throat.” Her voice didn’t seem affected, though. And her eyes continually darted to Miriam, a look of shock and distrust on her face.
“You seemed well yesterday.” Dr. MacNamara set to washing his hands straightaway. “When did your throat begin bothering you?”
“Last evening.” Mrs. Wilhite’s gaze settled on Miriam. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
A dozen different responses sprang immediately to Miriam’s mind. After yesterday afternoon, neither did I. Or If not for Dr. MacNamara’s odd matrimonial notions, there would be nothing unusual about my presence here. Or perhaps an abject apology, though what she would be begging pardon for, she wasn’t at all certain.
In the end, she only nodded.
Dr. MacNamara returned to his patient’s side, motioning for her to sit on the examination table. Once she was situated, he began feeling her neck. “Does swallowing hurt? Or speaking?”
“Swallowing, a little.”
He raised his examining lantern and checked her mouth. “Have you experienced any coughing? A blocked nose?”
She shook her head.
He set the back of his hand against her forehead. “You aren’t feverish.”
A lot could be learned about a doctor by watching him with his patients. Dr. MacNamara was forbearing, calm, and thorough.
“How have you been sleeping?” Dr. MacNamara asked Mrs. Wilhite.
“Not well. Even before the sore throat.” She sighed deeply. “I don’t know what is the matter with me. Perhaps I’m simply old.”
That might very well have been the difficulty. But extreme exhaustio
n in a woman was sometimes interpreted by the medical community as a sign of madness. Did Dr. MacNamara share that view? She truly hoped he wasn’t one to jump quickly to that conclusion.
He pulled up a stool and sat facing Mrs. Wilhite. “What enjoyable activities have you indulged in lately?”
“I have my ribbons.”
He shook his head. “That is your livelihood. I am speaking more of a hobby.”
Her brow furrowed. “I like tatting, though I haven’t made lace in ages.”
Dr. MacNamara nodded with approval. “I suggest you take it up again.”
“How will that help my throat?”
Miriam wondered the same thing.
He gave Mrs. Wilhite a look of such compassion that it momentarily stole Miriam’s breath. “I suspect you are feeling unwell because you are a little unhappy.”
Without warning, Mrs. Wilhite began tearing up. Miriam was immediately on alert. Excessive melancholy was also a reason some women were deemed mad. She had seen far too many women locked away at Blackburn who should never have been there. She’d learned not to trust that any member of her sex was entirely safe from that fate.
“Mrs. Wilhite does not seem overly unhappy to me,” Miriam interjected.
She immediately received looks of censure from them both. Apparently, she was meant to be a silent helper.
“Forgive me,” she said, though she wasn’t truly repentant. “I won’t interrupt again, Dr. MacNamara.”
“That would probably be best,” he answered. “And I have asked you to call me Gideon.”
“I will endeavor to do so from now on,” she said.
His attention returned to his patient. “Take up your tatting again, see if it lifts your spirits, even a little. If by week’s end you aren’t feeling better or, heaven forbid, are feeling worse, please come back and see m—us.”
Mrs. Wilhite’s horrified gaze—it truly was horrified—flew to Miriam at once. “She will still be here?”
Gideon smiled, but the gesture was noticeably strained. “That is the plan. We are in need of a qualified nurse in this town.”
“But she jilted you before all your friends and loved ones.”
If Miriam wasn’t already quite accustomed to hearing herself discussed as though she weren’t present, she might have felt self-conscious. She’d grown up with the experience, however. Her mother and father had often discussed her at length, within her hearing. She’d learned to listen without comment.
“If it does not bother me, it need not bother the town,” Gideon said.
“I know you too well to believe for a moment that this doesn’t bother you a great deal.” Mrs. Wilhite looked Miriam up and down, dignity rolling off the older woman in waves.
Gideon caught Miriam’s gaze. “I did warn you this would be awkward.”
“Yes, you did.”
By the time noon rolled around, Gideon’s use of “us” had proven itself to be terribly premature. Every person who came in the door treated Miriam as though she’d arrived in Savage Wells for the sole purpose of causing their beloved doctor misery. She seemed to have been deemed their mutual enemy, all because she hadn’t agreed to marry a stranger on a few seconds’ notice.
This was far more like her usual luck: quick judgment, followed by almost instant dismissal. Perhaps it was for the best, though. While she would have liked to have made friends in her new town, the degree to which Savage Wells invaded Dr. MacNamara’s privacy did not bode well.
She had far too many secrets.
Chapter 5
Gideon started his morning the way he always did, medical emergencies permitting: with music. Mother had insisted that all of her children learn to play an instrument. Gideon’s oldest brother, Ian, had chosen the violin. James, the middle son, had spent two years threatening to choose the bagpipes before finally settling on the clarinet. For reasons he still couldn’t pinpoint, Gideon had always been drawn to the cello. And, despite Mother’s insistence that men of refinement preferred classical pieces, he’d spent hours learning popular tunes. He could play both; he preferred the latter.
One thing Mother had been right about: music was soothing. He spent thirty minutes at it every morning. It calmed him and prepared him to face whatever chaos came his way. This morning, he’d been at it a full hour.
Miriam had said and done little the day before. She hadn’t had much opportunity, really. He’d seen a number of patients, and every last one of them had made their dislike of her clear. There’d been something gratifying in being defended so vehemently, and, though it was petty, a part of him had enjoyed it as well as felt a little vindicated that she’d been as humbled by their patients’ disapproval of her as he had been by her very public rejection of him. But clarity and the loud voice of his conscience had come with the sunrise.
He was not a vengeful person; he didn’t particularly want to become one. Hurting Miriam because she had, inadvertently, hurt him—his pride, at least—would do neither of them any good. From a professional standpoint, he needed to find a way to help the town accept her, or there’d be no point in her being there.
As he played through “My Old Kentucky Home,” he thought his way through a few strategies. Throwing a “We Didn’t Get Married” party would likely be overdoing things, as would requesting Mr. Endecott preach a sermon on loving thy neighbor even if that neighbor doesn’t love thy bachelor doctor. Bribery also seemed likely to fail; he had little to bribe anyone with.
He needed an actual plan.
The town would never be comfortable with her until he was. Comfort required familiarity. If they had been married, as he’d originally planned, he would have immediately begun working to know her better. There was no reason he shouldn’t move forward with that course of action, though on a less personal basis.
Making friends had always been a strength of his. Why not put that talent to use now when it mattered so much?
He would be friendly. He would ask about her family, her hometown, her education, her likes and dislikes, how likely she was to murder a jilted fiancé in a fit of rage. The crucial things.
That was his plan for the day. He only hoped it was a good one. He set his cello carefully back inside its case. There was no way of repairing the instrument so far from “civilization” if anything happened to it, so care was essential. Enough had gone wrong without adding that to his list.
The mantel clock in the parlor struck half past eight as he made his way down the stairs. He moved directly to the front door and pulled the “Please Knock Loudly” sign from the side window, replacing it with “Please Come Inside.” He then turned the bolt, unlocking the door. His established hours didn’t begin until nine o’clock, but the world of illness and injury was seldom predictable and almost never convenient.
A clanking from the kitchen pulled him that way rather than toward the parlor. The kitchen’s exterior door led into the side yard, but it was locked at night. The only people in town with a key were Paisley, who was in Laramie at the moment, and Cade. And, he realized quite suddenly, Miriam. He’d given her a key the day before.
But why was she there thirty minutes early? And why was she in the kitchen?
She was standing at the stove when he stepped inside. She looked up. “I hope you’re hungry.”
She was cooking him breakfast?
“I am absolutely certain I didn’t ask you to cook meals,” he said.
“You didn’t.” Did she always speak so softly? She didn’t seem bashful. She continued stirring whatever was in the pan. Eggs, if he didn’t miss his mark. “I simply thought it would be helpful.”
“What can I do?” he asked. “I am particularly good at making toast.”
“The charred crumbs on your mouth yesterday indicated otherwise.” The tiniest hint of amusement tugged at her lips. That was encouraging.
He took the bread knife out
of its drawer and pulled the loaf of bread over to the cutting board.
“You are very talented,” Miriam said.
“You haven’t even seen me slice the bread yet.”
“Not the cutting.” She shook her head. “The cello.”
He inwardly sighed. She had heard him play. Now even that part of his private life was to be invaded. It would have been if they had married, but this felt different. “I didn’t realize I had an audience.”
“I attended a great many symphonies growing up. I always enjoyed the sound of the cello.”
She’d had a life of some privilege, then. He ought to have suspected as much, considering her education and her very proper manner of speaking. “Not many people here know that I play the cello. I would prefer to keep it that way.”
“Why is that?”
Because it is too personal, the only thing that is entirely mine. Everything about him belonged to his neighbors and associates and even complete strangers throughout the territory. His wedding plans had been open to their scrutiny. His subsequent rejection would be discussed at length for weeks. Months. Probably even years. The town could claim his time, his efforts, his concern, his energy. But his music was his alone.
Miriam was not his wife; he wasn’t about to confess all of this to her. “It is an uncommon instrument this far west. The townspeople might find it odd.” That was a reason he could admit to. “It is like the wax seals my mother sent to me, or the bone china she sent, or the high-polished furniture I insisted she not send. All of it is out of place.”
“And you, as a doctor, need your patients to feel that you belong here, so they’ll trust you.” She’d grasped that quickly.
“They took their time deciding to accept me when I first arrived,” he said. “But they did, eventually.”
She scooped scrambled eggs onto a platter. “Perhaps they will warm up to me in time, as well.”
He hoped they would, but he could not be certain. Jests seemed more advisable in that moment than the blunt truth. “Provided you don’t do something truly shocking, like play the cello in public.”
Healing Hearts Page 3
