What Heals the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  Joshua’s hands gathered into fists, and he started pushing through the crowd toward the wagon, only to have his progress slowed by a hand on his arm. It was Robert, no doubt just as disgusted, and certainly as well aware that the potion would be useless at best, toxic at worst. But he was trying to keep Joshua from grabbing the thief standing on the wagon and shaking him until his teeth rattled. “Let go of me!”

  Robert grimaced. “I know, I know. But do you think these folks want their doctor to be a fellow who brawls in the street?”

  Joshua shrugged off Robert’s hand. “They should want their doctor to protect them from any son of a bitch trying to take their money for snake oil!”

  “Think, Josh. They’ll see you as trying to drive away the competition. It’s the same for me, or I’d go up there with you and help you take him apart.”

  The competition. Maybe the fellow would pull out a pulsometer and demonstrate it. . . . “I’ll go up there without you, then. Don’t try to stop me. I don’t want to fight you.”

  Robert heaved a dramatic sigh. “All right, I’ll come with you. We’ll bluff.”

  They squirmed and shoved their way to where the long-suffering horses stood. The pitchman saw their approach, and no doubt their expressions; he paused in his oratory and looked down with a smirk. “Now, who do I have the pleasure of meeting? I would wager —”

  Robert whispered to Joshua, “Give me a boost,” and approached the seat on which the pitchman stood. Joshua made a step of his hands; Robert grabbed hold of the wagon frame and hoisted himself up, landing within inches of the startled salesman. Joshua strained to hear, over the muttering and exclamations around him, what Robert was saying through gritted teeth in the scoundrel’s ear. “If you . . . switch over to whatever act . . . won’t break every last . . . Peddle . . . somewhere else . . . .”

  The pitchman’s face flickered back and forth between indignation and uncertainty. Joshua took hold of the bridle of the nearest horse and glowered.

  The pitchman spoke rapidly to Robert under his breath; Robert hesitated, then nodded. Abruptly, the pitchman turned back toward the crowd and proclaimed, “And now it’s time for Sadie and her banjo to play for you all — and after that, my Injun associate, Jumping Arrow, will risk his very life eating actual fire!”

  Robert climbed down and took Joshua’s arm again, pulling him away. “He’s going to pretend he only has a dozen bottles of the stuff to sell. And he’ll say that after the elixir cures them, they should make a point of having their esteemed physician check them over.”

  Joshua’s face hurt from scowling. He yawned to relax it. “But what do you get out of it?”

  Robert let go of his arm and clapped him on the back. “I get out of a fight that might leave me needing your services. And I do a friend a favor. He’s done a few for me.”

  Joshua took a deep breath and blew it out. “You’re a good man, Robert. Now let’s get to the saloon before I pound the man after all. I need a drink.”

  That evening, dragging himself up the stairs to his rooms, he found Robert’s earlier words returning to mind. “A friend.” Robert had called him a friend. And it was true enough, he supposed.

  Joshua opened his door, returned Major’s fond greeting, found the dog a good bone to chew on, and fell into his easy chair, his head in one hand, thinking about friends.

  He had, one way or another, lost so many. First when he headed off to war, leaving many of the boys he had known all his life, with no conception of how drastically the war would change him. Even if he had stayed in Philadelphia when peace came, those innocent friendships would never have survived. And then, one after another of those who went with him to fight were killed, or so maimed and broken as to be nigh unrecognizable; and the same fate overtook the new, more intense friendships, almost like the ties of brothers, he had formed with fellow soldiers. He had done his best — no, to be honest, something less than his best — to stay in touch with those who had survived, but in leaving for the West, he had forfeited the chance to maintain those friendships, or to build new ones with other veterans in Philadelphia based on their common experience.

  And now, without his noticing, Robert had become a friend. Could Joshua be a friend in return? Or had that capacity been blasted or drained out of him? Did he dare?

  * * * * *

  As he opened himself to socializing more with Robert, Joshua realized he had a potential difficulty to address. Joshua was not infrequently ready to relax with a beer, but for Robert, the frequency was somewhat greater. Rather than imbibe whenever he or Robert sought each other’s company, he started steering them toward the ice cream parlor. On this day, one of the warmer spring days so far, the thought of ice cream was welcome enough that the task was easy, though Robert did toss off one comment about how beer could be equally refreshing.

  Their conversation wandered among topics with no real direction, a mere backdrop to the pleasure of shared masculine company, until Joshua brought up a subject that had lately come to occupy his mind. “Have you any idea why Mrs. Blum dislikes Miss Brook? I have never known her to dislike anyone else. Though ‘dislike’ may be too strong a term for what I observed when I mentioned Miss Brook to her.”

  “The daughter out at the Brook place? Well, I might have heard a bit of gossip about it.” Robert paused to slurp melted ice cream off his plate. “According to Rebecca Wheeler, the two ladies got along well enough at first, until Mrs. Blum offered to make her a fancier dress. I suppose she might have been less than tactful about what Miss Brook was wearing at the time.”

  Joshua doubted that Miss Brook would take offense so easily. “And?”

  “I gather Miss Brook said no, she liked plain ones just fine. Mrs. Blum didn’t take it kindly, Miss Brook rejecting her offer like that.”

  It could be that Mrs. Blum had misconstrued Miss Brook’s straightforward manner as intending to give offense. Or there might have been a deeper misunderstanding between them. Miss Brook must have little in the way of spending money, and might have assumed Mrs. Blum’s dressmaking services to come rather steep. Though to do Mrs. Blum justice, she probably had not intended to charge much at all . . . .

  But Robert was gazing at him, bemused. “Where have you flown off to? Did I say something especially interesting? Or are you wishing we’d gone for that beer?”

  Joshua turned toward the window in case he was blushing. Once he could be sure of his countenance, he turned back and said, in what he hoped was a casual tone, “Just meditating on the human condition and how much trouble we make for ourselves over nothing much. Got room for any more ice cream before we both get back to work?”

  Chapter 6

  Mrs. Blum stopped by during Joshua’s office hours with some gingerbread, no pretense of needing medical attention, and a mission to interrogate him. “You had a good time with Rebecca, didn’t you? Such a lovely girl. And you must have enjoyed her cooking, everyone does, so much better than you’re used to! So when will you be seeing—” (“vill you be seeink”) — “her again?”

  Joshua tried without success to refuse the gingerbread, and did not do much better at deflecting the questions. As soon as his office hours were over, he fled next door and waited impatiently for Robert to finish serving a customer. As soon as the door shut behind the wife of the man who owned most of Cowbird Creek’s saloons, he burst out, “She won’t give up! What am I going to do?”

  Robert raised an eyebrow. “She? Do?”

  Joshua blew out his breath in frustration. “Mrs. Blum, of course! She’s determined to marry me off. As soon as she’s convinced I’m not interested in Rebecca Wheeler —”

  “Why not? She’s pretty and lively and a good cook. Which of those doesn’t suit you?”

  Joshua contemplated pulling his hair. Or maybe Robert’s. “Not you too! If you like Rebecca so much, court her with my blessing! But that won’t help me any. Mrs. Blum will find someone else to shove my way.” And so far, her ideas of what woman would suit him were somewhat wide
of the mark.

  Robert didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Tough break, Doc. Can’t you think of some way to distract her?”

  “Like what? All she seems to care about, besides dressmaking and feeding people, is —” The idea that struck him might not be genius, but it felt like it. “She cares about romance, and weddings. What if I take my turn at matchmaking? Find a nice solid gentleman to get her attention?”

  Robert’s grin grew even wider. “Matchmaking in self-defense! I like it.”

  “But you’ll have to help me. You’ve lived here far longer than I have. You know everyone for miles around. You can come up with good candidates.”

  Robert gave a modest shrug. “I might have a suggestion or two, once I give it some thought. How are you going to do this without her knowing what you’re up to?”

  Joshua imagined talking to Mrs. Blum with a hidden agenda on his mind. He could picture himself, tongue-tied, even blushing, damn it. “Maybe I don’t have to.”

  It might be best to startle her somehow, to jolt her out of her current way of thinking. So he stopped by the baker and bought a cherry pie, the very thought of the fruit carrying his imagination through spring to summer. When she opened her door to his knock, he thrust it toward her. “With my thanks for the gingerbread.”

  Her eyebrows shot upward. He added quickly, “I’m sure it won’t be as good as you’d make. But maybe it’ll be better than nothing.”

  She stepped back to let him in. “I’ll give you some, and you tell me. And you can tell me about you and Rebecca. Such a sweet girl!”

  He bided his time until she had cut a giant slice of pie for him and, at his urging, a smaller one for herself. When she had actually taken a bite, he waited until just after she swallowed — he didn’t want her to choke — and said, “I have a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition? That’s not like a proposal, I hope!” She laughed heartily, her large bosom bouncing with the movement.

  “Not . . . exactly.”

  That got her staring.

  “Mrs. Blum, I’m not going to court Rebecca Wheeler. But I’ll let you keep trying to find the right woman for me, just as long as you let me try to find the right man for you.”

  It was her turn to blush. But she waved her hand as if shoving away the idea, and said with something of a forced laugh, “Such an idea! Who would want an old lady like me?”

  Joshua put down his fork and leaned forward on his elbows. “Anyone who wants a woman with experience, a woman who knows something about life, who’s also a good cook, and smart, and funny, and has a heart as big as the prairie.”

  Mrs. Blum gazed at him like a favorite son. “Such a dear boy. And so earnest! I’ll have to find you a girl who likes earnest.”

  “I’m serious, Mrs. Blum.”

  “As for my heart, is that a good idea, a heart so big? Maybe it’s true, and no wonder I have palpitations.”

  “Stop changing the subject.” Though he would need to examine her again soon. Had she been short of breath when she opened the door?

  She gave him a long look. “I find you a bride, you stop trying to find me a husband.”

  “All right — if you really want me to stop. But I wager I’ll find your husband first. And then you stop trying to marry me off.”

  She laughed, a true laugh this time. “A wager! We shake hands on it.”

  Which they did. And then she picked up the remains of the pie and snorted at it. “Tonight I make you a better one.”

  * * * * *

  Robert had been busy replenishing his stock, even traveling to cities with pharmaceutical houses for the purpose. He had, to Joshua’s chagrin, given little thought to the matchmaking project. “But soon, I promise.”

  Soon? Soon, Mrs. Blum would have found the next prospect to send Joshua’s way. He had better get started on his own.

  Mr. Blum had been a shopkeeper. A prosperous one? Joshua wasn’t sure, though the quality of Mrs. Blum’s clothes and furnishing suggested it. He had better start at the top of the shopkeeper ladder. The owner of the general store was married with four children, but the man who owned the dry goods store had lost his wife to scarlet fever just before Joshua got to town.

  Though Mrs. Blum must know him already, if she bought her cloth and sewing supplies from him.

  Joshua made his way to Mrs. Blum’s house the next morning, stern expression and stethoscope at the ready, to check her heart. Her usual protests overcome, he was relieved to find her condition largely unchanged, allowing him to focus on his true mission. “You shop at Mr. Todd’s dry goods store, don’t you?”

  She sniffed. “That man! I tell him he should get better quality linen, and he tells me I don’t know what I’m talking about! Now I order in what I can, and go there when he’s out. His assistant, now there’s a nice girl. Hmmmm . . . .”

  Joshua would have to wait for Robert’s assistance, after all.

  Joshua and Robert took a table in the corner of the saloon, far from the player piano and the rowdy fellows singing around it. It should provide sufficient privacy for their plotting.

  Robert brought their drinks from the bar and sat down. “How about Thaddeus Spencer? The telegraph operator?”

  Joshua pondered what he knew about the man as he took another swig of beer and let the glass thud back on the table. Thaddeus was tall and skinny, stooped like a heron, with a long coat that flapped a little like wings. Mrs. Blum might enjoy fattening him up.

  Robert drained a shot of whiskey and went on. “He’s a widower, so there’s no question of him being a confirmed bachelor. And his wife was a battle-axe, so he probably isn’t still pining over her.”

  You never knew. Joshua had known some couples who did nothing but fight, and then when one died or went off to the war, the other fell apart as if the battle had kept them going. “Does he ever talk about her?”

  Robert looked to be consulting his memory. “Not often, I think. And generally with a shudder.”

  “So will you talk to him, ask him if he’s interested?”

  “Whoa, boy! This is your project. I’m just your expert consultant. You talk to him.”

  “But you’re the one recommending him.” Joshua fished a three-cent nickel piece out of his vest pocket. “We’ll flip to see who does the job.” He added, grudgingly: “Your call.”

  “All right, fraidy-cat. Heads, you talk to him; tails, I do.” He seized the coin and flipped it high, then snatched it out of the air and slammed it on the table. When he lifted his hand, the lady Liberty gleamed in the lamplight.

  Joshua cussed for a full half a minute. Robert laughed so hard he almost choked on his whiskey.

  Joshua ambled into the telegraph office two days later with Major at his heels, holding an order for medical supplies. “Afternoon, Thaddeus. Send this for me, would you? And here, have a hunk of cornbread.” He held out half a loaf. “My patient Mrs. Blum — you know, that nice widow lady — sent me home with it. Damn, but she’s a fine cook.”

  A week later, Joshua stopped by to listen to Mrs. Blum’s heart again. (No worse. But she was wheezing from time to time.)

  He let her tell him about her latest chat with the friendly assistant at the dry goods store, who had such a good eye for color, “and what a homemaker she would make!” When he could get a word in edgewise, he asked her straight out, “What about you and Thaddeus Spencer who runs the telegraph?”

  She shook her head solemnly. “So timid! If I said boo, he’d jump out of his boots. A man should be a man, not a mouse, don’t you think?” (“Doon’t you tink?”)

  He managed to get out without promising to call on the assistant. But he knew his reprieve would be a short one.

  Chapter 7

  The farmer stood in Joshua’s doorway twisting his hat. “It’s been more than two days, and the baby’s not come yet. She’s had three before, and no trouble. She didn’t want to send for you, said it’s women’s business, but . . . I finally told her I was coming to fetch you.”

&
nbsp; Joshua gulped down the cold coffee he always kept on hand. He would need all his wits about him this night. “You go on back to your wife and tell her I’m on my way.”

  Heading to the livery stable for his horse, Joshua ruminated on the ironies of his practice where babies were concerned. Some families, generally the wealthier ones or those determined to show how modern they were, would call him in when the woman’s mother and sisters or a midwife could handle things perfectly well. Others, like this farmer’s wife, resisted the idea past the point of reason, sending for him only when things had become desperate.

  He had delivered one dead baby. That had left him with a wholly different nightmare his brain could use to torture him. But so far, he hadn’t lost a mother.

  The coffee had cleared his head enough for him to notice his surroundings. He led Nellie-girl out into the balmy spring night and imagined the farmer saying, years from now, to a little boy or girl, “It was a fine night like this one when you come into the world . . . .”

  Nellie-girl hadn’t been out for three days, so she had energy to spare, frisking about and then cantering along at a good clip. They got to the farm only a few minutes after the farmer. An older woman waited in the yard as Joshua rode up, a shawl wrapped around her and her arms crossed tight on her chest. “My daughter’s upstairs. We’ve sent the young ‘uns to my sister’s. I think maybe the baby’s turned wrong way around.”