Читать книгу Cowboy Creek Christmas: Mistletoe Reunion - Cheryl St.John - Страница 11

Chapter One

Kansas, late October 1868

The bell over the door rang, and Marlys Boyd glanced up to see her scheduled patient arrive with a bright smile. “Good morning, Doctor Boyd!”

Pippa Kendricks removed her coat and hung it on the rack inside the door. After using the mat Marlys provided to wipe her wet boots, she took a pair of bright pink slippers from her bag and changed footwear.

“Good morning, Pippa. I have the water heated, and I’ll fill the tub.”

Pippa followed her toward one of the bathing rooms on the north side of the roomy office building. “You know I enjoy this room with the windows near the ceiling. It’s bright and cheerful.”

“I had those windows added after I purchased this place,” Marlys told her. The frosted glass had been etched with leaf and berry scrolls, and was one of the ever-practical lady doctor’s few splurges.

Pippa turned her back to Marlys for help with the hooks and buttons on her dress, then stepped behind the painted pine dressing screen. “There are so many exciting things happening of late. I’m actually glad winter came early, so Gideon and I can stay until spring. We would have been gone before all these rousing things happened. Truthfully, I’m going to miss everyone here.”

“We will miss you, as well. I read in an edition of the Philadelphia paper that President Johnson has declared a national day of thanksgiving, so you will be here for that.”

“Yes!” Pippa exclaimed. “In fact I was asked to be on the committee to organize a town celebration. I suppose because I know so many people. You should volunteer for the committee and get to know your neighbors.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not very good at things like that.”

“Nonsense. You’ve done a marvelous job organizing things here for your medical practice. You’d be an excellent addition to the committee.”

“But I’m still so new to town. Surely the committee is meant for more established townspeople.”

Pippa laughed. “Established? In Cowboy Creek? Why, the town is practically brand-new. There are always new townspeople. Like the new newspaper owner. Any day he’ll be putting out his very first edition,” Pippa told her as Marlys filled the tub and added oils and minerals. “I’ve already asked for an interview about the upcoming play at the Opera House. We’re doing The Streets of New York.” The petite redhead came from behind the screen, tying the sash of the flannel robe, and eyed Marlys. “Have you done any acting, Dr. Boyd?”

“No, I haven’t.” At the speculative look on the actress’s face, Marlys added, “And I have no interest in trying. My focus is on building my practice.”

Getting people to take her seriously as a lady doctor was difficult all on its own, but the situation only worsened when people discovered she did not practice traditional medicine, but instead took a homeopathic approach. She had hoped that establishing her practice out West would give her access to patients with the enterprising, pioneer spirit who might appreciate unconventional treatments. She’d been eager to learn more about the people of different cultures and ethnicities who had settled in this Kansas boom town.

Nearly two weeks after Marlys had opened her practice, Pippa had been the first resident of Cowboy Creek to inquire about her medical techniques, in reference to a skin rash. When Marlys suggested they try a few different herbs and oils, the flamboyant ginger-gold redhead had been elated. She’d been in a couple of times a week since, so Marlys had adjusted to the young woman’s dramatic speech and manner.

“So, the newspaper editor will give your play editorial support?”

“Yes, and he seemed quite pleased to have news for his first edition.”

In August Pippa had married Gideon Kendricks, the agent who sold stocks for the railroad. They were planning to travel west after the weather cleared in a few months.

Marlys needed all the advertisement she could get. The townspeople hadn’t exactly flocked to her practice. But if she could convince a few more residents like Pippa to give her a chance, she believed she could win them over, and word of mouth would spread.

“I’ll go see about an interview myself after we’ve finished here.” Marlys checked the temperature of the water in the porcelain tub and stirred one last time to assure the minerals were well dissolved. “Your bath is ready. Take your time and relax. You have towels on the stand there. I’ll let you know when you’ve soaked long enough, but should you need the water reheated, ring the bell.”

“Thank you, darling! You’ve saved me from a winter of dry skin and made me look dewy fresh. I will glow at my performance. I am singing your praises to the other ladies—lilting notes on a sweet high C.”

Marlys smiled and left the bathing room. She’d had two of those deep bathing tubs installed in comfortable private rooms, funded—along with the rest of her practice—by selling the jewelry and townhome she’d inherited from her mother. After working multiple jobs to pay for her degree from an unconventional school of medicine, selling her property had been her only option. Her father had supported her early desires to learn languages and world history, but had never approved of her medical studies. Immediately after she’d made the decision to become a doctor and not marry, he’d cut off all support.

As soon as Pippa’s session was over, Marlys emptied and cleaned the tub, hung the towels to dry, and dressed in her wool coat and fur-lined boots. She tugged her collar up around her neck and tied a scarf over her hair. Winters in the East had prepared her for cold, but not for the relentless wind that caught the hem of her skirt and whipped the end of her scarf across her face. She held it over her nose and trudged along Second Street.

She passed Dr. Fletcher’s office on the corner of Second and Eden, crossed the street and passed Sheriff Hanley’s office and jail to reach the newspaper. The previous owner had been sent to prison for crimes against the local business owners. While evading arrest, he had deliberately set fire to his own building. The quick response of the townspeople had saved the jail and the boarding house on either side, but the Herald had been gutted.

Shortly after her arrival, Marlys had learned that an Eastern journalist had bought the gutted building and renovated it so quickly her head had spun. She imagined a fresh young fellow eager to make a big name for himself in the quickly growing cattle town.

The exterior had been freshly painted, and the new door didn’t show any wear. On the other side of the enormous pane of glass, a bespectacled man was painting bold gold letters, scrupulously edged with black, spelling out Webster County Daily News. Beneath the name of the paper, the artist’s brush had scripted Owner & Managing Edito...and was midstroke on the r when he spotted her and quickly opened the door to usher her inside. A bell rang above the door as he opened and closed it. “It’s too cold to stand out there for longer than a minute,” he said. “Come inside and warm yourself by the stove.”

There was a new stove surrounded by wooden chairs in the corner of the front open area, a space obviously designed to welcome visitors and perhaps encourage local gossip. A blue-speckled enamel pot sat atop the stove, and pegs holding half a dozen tin cups lined the wall.

A four-foot-high wooden room divider with a half-door separated the back portion of the room, where desks had been haphazardly deposited and crates stood against one wall. Two enormous printing presses took up the space in the rear, and there were two doors leading to rooms beyond, one with the door open, the other closed.

“Coffee’s hot. I just made it.” The painter gestured to the stove and pushed his glasses up his nose.

“Are you the editor or a journalist?” she asked.

“Forgive my manners. I’m Pete Sackett. Just here to do this lettering. I’m sure the owner heard the bell, so he’ll be out in a moment.”

Marlys used the predicted moment to survey the impressive array of framed front pages along the interior wall of this area. The Progressive: LINCOLN ELECTED, New York Illustrated News: RICHMOND IS OURS!, Dallas Morning News: LEE SURRENDERS, The Daily Intelligencer: LINCOLN ASSASSINATED were a few headlines she had time to read before a greeting came from behind her.

“Welcome to the Webster County Daily News.”

At the instantly recognizable rich voice, her hands stilled on the scarf she’d been about to remove, and she turned.

* * *

At the sound of the bell, Sam Mason wiped ink from his fingers and stood, dropping the rag to the floor beside his journeyman. His knees cracked as he straightened, and the lanky young man grinned. They’d been cleaning type block since early that morning, arranging the blocks in orderly sequence in stained wood trays. “Your knees would protest, too, if you’d slept on the cold ground for months at a time while marching through Virginia. You were still on your mama’s knee by the fire, and a good thing for you.”

“I’m not that young—you’re exaggerating,” the younger man disagreed. “I was running my family farm on sweat and prayer. Where do these uppercase script letters go?” Israel asked.

“In that tray.” Sam pointed to the tray behind Israel. “Starting third row down and ending row seven in the middle.”

Israel nodded and loaded the first letter block. Sam’s uncanny memory for details astounded most people, but Israel was used to it. He’d apprenticed under Sam in the city and had been honored that Sam had asked him to accompany him on this new venture.

The appearance of the outer room gave Sam a jolt of pleasure every time he walked into it. The work area still smelled like new wood and plaster, but soon the combined smells of ink and paper would remind him of the history of years of journalistic endeavors and indicate a job well done.

A woman in a practical gray coat and red scarf stood facing away from him, perusing his collection of front pages. Pete was still painting letters and had just outlined the S for Samuel’s name. “Welcome to the Webster County Daily News.”

The woman pushed the scarf from her chestnut brown hair as she turned. The winter sun chose that moment to stream through the freshly cleaned and shined window, silhouetting her form and sparking glistening gold variations of color in her unfashionably short wavy hair, reaching only below her ears in casual disarray.

She wore no jewelry and hadn’t rouged her cheeks, but her skin glowed, and her beauty needed no ornamentation. Her gaze riveted on his face, intense, probing, familiar. He experienced a jolt of awareness akin to the nervous anticipation of an impending skirmish. Why he dredged up that feeling puzzled him for only seconds. She narrowed her gold-brown eyes. They recognized each other at the same time.

“Samuel?” she intoned.

Her voice was a confirmation. He’d never forgotten the lilting sound of it. Marlys. “Miss Boyd. Or—is it still Miss Boyd?”

“Yes.” His former fiancée’s astute gaze took in his shirt and trousers, the ink on his hands. “I had no idea it was you who had taken over the newspaper. I thought you’d long been settled in Philadelphia.”

“The war changed a lot of plans.” He determinedly collected himself. “May I take your coat? You’ll get too warm.”

She unbuttoned the garment and let it slide from her shoulders. She wore a pale blue blouse without ruffle or lace and a dark blue skirt. She was still as narrow and delicate-looking as the girl he remembered, but she’d blossomed into a lovely woman. He took the coat, sweetly perfumed with the scent of her hair, and hung it on a hook near the stove. His olfactory senses had not forgotten her, either. “Have a seat. There’s coffee.”

“I’m fine, thank you.” But she moved to perch on a chair, and her formal manner drove his discomfort up another notch.

The air crackled with more than the snap of the kindling in the stove. There were years between them, and he didn’t know her anymore. He had never truly known her.

She glanced behind him and back to meet his eyes. “Are you the editor?”

Perfunctory as always. “I am.”

“A piece on my new practice would help spread the word and let people know I’m ready for business.”

No small talk or girlish chatter. Her blunt and businesslike manner didn’t surprise him, nor did it offend him. Perhaps he knew her better than he thought. Sam tilted his head and went to gather paper and pencil before settling on a chair across from her. “I guess you’re the lady doctor who built on Second Street?”

“I am.”

“We lost touch quite a while ago,” he said, the first one to mention their previous relationship. “And we maintained no mutual acquaintances, so you’ll have to fill me in on your background, and we’ll make the piece interesting.”

“Will you interview me right now?”

He spread his fingers in question. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees.

“I recall you’re fluent in several languages. That’s an interesting fact. Four, is it?”

“Latin, French, German, Portuguese, passable Chinese, and I can communicate somewhat in Choctaw, Chickasee and Cherokee.”

“More than I thought.” He added a note on the paper. “And your education?” He kept his voice studiedly neutral as he mentioned the reason she’d called off their engagement.

“I attended the Philadelphia School of Eclectic Medicine.”

His pencil paused. He glanced up. “Did you learn conventional medicine there?”

“If by conventional you mean cutting, purging, administering harmful chemicals, and adding tar to drinking water, I did not.”

He sensed he’d opened a can of worms. “By harmful chemicals, you mean...?”

“Mercury, arsenic. Even in small doses they are harmful at their worst and placebos at best.”

The pieces he’d read about reformers and botanical physicians had not been favorable. The majority of the population looked upon them as quacks. “So you studied the teaching of...” He’d read the news from all major cities for years, and he had perfect recall. “Wooster Beach?”

“As well as John King and John Milton Scudder.”

He nodded. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that she’d followed their practices. She’d always had unconventional ideas and questioned everything.

“Eclectic medicine promotes botanical therapies with the belief that the body heals itself. I studied medicinal plants of European and American origin to learn remedies. I was encouraged to explore how medicine should work with nature to harness its intrinsic healing capabilities.”

Marlys was passionate about her studies, about her practice. He didn’t doubt for a moment she believed her methods could help people. She was as caring and compassionate as she was strong-willed and outspoken. She was also the same woman who had broken off an engagement with him, left him to explain to friends and his social circle, wounded his masculine pride and left a crater in his self-respect.

Sam kept his expression neutral. He was a journalist, and no matter their history, it was his job to report the news in an impartial manner. He offered up a silent prayer for guidance to handle this situation without emotion or prejudice. “Do you have any followers yet?”

When she didn’t reply immediately, he glanced up. She was eyeing him with a guarded expression. “Don’t you mean patients?”

“I do mean patients,” he answered firmly.

“Yes, I do.”

He held the pencil at the ready.

Any previous warmth had fled her gold-flecked eyes. “I sense your hesitation to shed a positive light on this subject.”

“It’s my job to report the news impartially, Miss Boyd.”

“If you can’t call me Marlys, it’s Dr. Boyd. I don’t expect you to endorse my practice. Your concern is not unfounded—you haven’t seen the effectiveness of this type of medical practice firsthand. A lot of people don’t understand the benefits, but education is power. I can educate them.”

“You’re not wrong. I am definitely interested in an article. Maybe more than one. It could give you a chance to share information. I’ll choose language carefully to inform readers without insulting Doc Fletcher’s practice.”

“That sounds fair. It’s not my intention to insult anyone. I’m more interested in education and advanced medicine.”

He asked her several more questions, and she supplied answers.

“What was your first impression of Cowboy Creek?” he asked.

She thought a moment. “The town is laid out efficiently. I had no problem finding my property or locating help to work on my building. The stores are more than adequate, and the boardinghouse is sufficient for my needs until my quarters are ready. I’ve spent all my time and energy on my office and supplies.”

“What about people? Have you made friends?”

She flushed a little, which made Sam frown. Had people been unkind to her? He could understand if the townsfolk preferred to continue going to Doc Fletcher rather than trying something new, but that was no excuse for rudeness. She seemed to be struggling for an answer, so he hastened to say, “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. You spoke of locations and not of the people. I was attempting to interest the readers who like to hear about their friendly town.”

Her posture relaxed, and she faced him. “A lot has happened since we were last...together,” she said. “You know me well enough to know I’m socially awkward. I’m no good at inconsequential chatter—which can make it hard for me to make friends in a new town.”

“You’re good with patients, I assume.”

“I try to be.” She stood. “And now, I really should go.” She took her coat from a hook, and he stepped to hold it as she slid her arms into the sleeves. Her shiny waves didn’t touch the collar. She turned and faced him. He didn’t back up, so only two feet separated them.

He never had the slightest idea what she was thinking behind those golden-flecked eyes, one of the things that had intrigued him from the first. He’d never been certain if she’d broken his heart or injured his pride.

“I read some of your articles during the war,” she said. “You were in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Maine?”

“And Virginia, too. I pretty much saw it all.”

“And your parents? How did they fare?”

“My father died shortly after I enlisted. Mother is well. She’s currently traveling abroad. And your father?”

She absorbed the information. “My father is alive.”

Her lack of further information spoke volumes. “He disapproved of your aspirations.”

“Along with everyone else.”

Did she mean him? “I suppose that was a strain on your relationship.”

“We no longer have a relationship.”

“I’m sorry.”

She turned to watch Pete edge the letters of Sam’s name with a neat gold line, giving him a moment to study her profile. She looked less girlish, of course, but even though she wore no jewelry and her hair lacked sophistication, she was as lovely as he remembered. She still fascinated him, but he’d learned the hard way she wasn’t carved out to be a wife. Even if she’d changed her mind about that—which he doubted—he’d know better than to trust her with his heart again.

Her gaze wavered, and she lifted her brows in curiosity, drawing his attention to the door where Hannah Johnson and a shivering August peered in. Pete stepped back to allow them entrance, and Sam’s eight-year-old son shuffled in ahead of their neighbor, Hannah, ushering in a gust of cold air.

“How was your day at school?” Sam said as they approached.

August glanced uncertainly at Marlys and then up at his father. “Fine. Mrs. Johnson made a pie for our supper. She let me help.”

Sam knelt and awkwardly touched August’s cold cheek. The child smelled like fresh air, chalk dust and flour. Things had been strained between them ever since he’d returned to his mother’s home at the end of the war. Thanks to his years in the Army, they’d spent too long apart—too many years he’d missed getting to know his son. He believed bringing August here where they could start a new life together would be the answer to bringing them closer. The boy had never known his mother, and his grandmother had been his caregiver until a few months ago. Sam’s mother deserved the opportunity to travel and see friends. And Sam needed time with his son to re-create and repair their relationship. But the relationship was slow to heal. August was reserved and withheld feelings and affection. Sam’s heart ached at the chasm of years and uncertainly between them.

“Dr. Boyd!” Hannah said, drawing his attention back to Marlys. “It’s nice to see you.”

Sam straightened. Hannah was a seamstress with her own dress shop, so it wasn’t unusual that Marlys would already have met her during her initial weeks in town.

“Mrs. Johnson,” Marlys acknowledged, but her attention was on August.

“Hannah, please.” The other woman glanced at Sam and handed him a covered pie. “My husband came home to be with the baby, and I thought a brisk walk would do me well, so I accompanied August.”

“Thank you. And thank you for getting him after school and keeping him for a time.”

“My pleasure,” she assured him. “I need to stop by the mercantile before heading home, so I’ll take my leave.” She nodded at Marlys and departed.

“August, this is Dr. Boyd,” Sam said. “Dr. Boyd, this is my son, August.”

August politely removed his wool stocking cap, and his dark hair stood up in disheveled curls. “How do, ma’am.”