Читать книгу The Surgeon - Kate Bridges, Kate Bridges - Страница 8

“Are they gone yet?” Sarah shrieked the question from behind John’s bedroom door.

John hollered back from the hallway, still agitated himself but wondering when she was going to come out of hiding. “The house is empty. It’s safe. They’re both gone.”

In the commotion ten minutes earlier, Sarah had dashed up the stairs and locked herself in his bedroom and Mrs. Fitzgibbon had huffed her way out the front door with her bucket, which had left her obnoxious nephew David alone with John to do the fancy footwork of explaining.

John heard a scraping on the floor, then Sarah asked another question. “Did you smash the camera?”

“I didn’t need to smash it. Besides, it’s private property and I can’t do that. But I confiscated the photographic material.”

“Did you smash that?”

“Yes.” In his mind, the embarrassing photograph was John’s property, no matter what David’s flimsy excuses were for taking it—journalistic instinct for a great shot, his aunt Polly’s request…. John rapped on the hard door. His knuckles stung. “Come out and let’s discuss this like two rational people.”

“There’s nothing rational about what Polly Fitzgibbon and her nephew witnessed.”

“I’ll admit they caught me off guard, too. But I’ll go to Polly and explain.”

“What will you say?”

He talked into the painted white wood. “That…that you were waking up and I was coming home from duty.”

“And what? You were helping me to get dressed?”

Leaning back, he pressed his shoulders into the cool plaster wall. “I could tell them the truth. That we were arguing—”

“Because you slashed off my corset?”

He combed his fingers through his hair in frustration. Sarah was right. The truth would sound worse.

Sarah’s voice got louder. “Polly’s probably telling the neighbors right now what she saw—or what she thinks she saw—and David is probably writing home to New York City about the great Canadian wild.”

“Polly won’t spread gossip,” John said weakly. God, he wished he believed it himself. “I asked her to keep it quiet.”

“Polly Fitzgibbon is not one of your men. She won’t be tried for treason or court-martialed if she tells people what she saw. And believe me, she won’t be able to keep this quiet.”

Sarah was right again. He knew that Polly Fitzgibbon had the biggest mouth in town; how he’d been so lucky to have her as a neighbor, he’d never fathom. “The police don’t court-martial each other.”

“Whatever.”

John heard more thudding and furniture moving beyond the door. “What are you doing in there?”

She ignored his question. “What’s your comeback about David?”

“I told him I’d have him arrested if he tried anything underhanded.” But what John didn’t tell her was that David took photographs for postcards and novelty buttons for distribution not only in New York City but across the country. A snapshot of John and a half-naked Sarah might have been amusing to any other person, but fortunately for him and Sarah, the picture had been destroyed.

The door opened suddenly, making him jump.

“You threatened David with arrest?” Smiling in deep approval, Sarah stepped into the hallway, fully clothed in a worn-out gingham dress. The collar couldn’t be higher, going right up her throat, finished with a floppy lace flounce and a dozen tiny buttons, and the skirt couldn’t be longer, sweeping her scuffed boots.

“Do you teach Sunday school in that thing?”

She patted the bun at the back of her head. How had she managed to capture all that beautiful curly hair into one tight bun? “It was given to me by my mother. As a matter of fact, it was my mother’s.”

He looked beyond her dress to the suitcases in her hands. Relief to see her finally packed and ready to leave settled on him. “There, you see. You’ll be on the train in no time, David’s photograph will be a bad memory and no one will even remember you were here.”

His comment made her turn her head abruptly toward him. Her mouth twisted open in a stab of disappointment. The shoulders beneath the dress fell with his insult.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that no one will remember you. That was a rude thing to say. I meant that no one will remember this incident.”

Well, that wasn’t entirely true, either. He’d remember. He’d remember coming home to a beautiful temptress, his down cover spilling about her naked shoulders, the light of battle in her heated gray eyes. He’d never had a better welcoming. An unexpected smile caught his lips, but he thought better of telling her about the image he was savoring.

She stalked down the stairs. The bags, which he’d retrieved for her last night dragged behind her, thudding along each tread.

He followed, with a queasy feeling. “You are heading to the train station, right?”

“I’m going to where I should have gone in the first place. To the boardinghouse.”

“Shouldn’t we be going to the train station? I stopped by and got a schedule on my way here this morning. There’s a train leaving this afternoon for Halifax, so there’s no sense paying for a room at the boardinghouse.”

She threw her bags onto the Windsor chair by the door, then shoved past him to look into his armoire. To him, her nose seemed to get straighter the higher up in the air she held it. “You came home this morning fully intending to get rid of me as quickly as possible.”

“That’s not true,” he said, stammering for an explanation, getting lost in the creamy skin of her cheeks and the finely arched brows. “I was…I was going to the bakery to get us cinnamon buns.”

“And then after you fed me your hot-cross buns, you were going to get rid of me.” She rummaged through his coats, his duster, one gentleman’s overcoat and an oilskin slicker.

He reached past her to show her that none of her clothes were left inside the armoire. As his tight shoulder brushed against her soft one, she reeled back as if he’d bitten her.

Hmm…He watched the tide of crimson flood her cheeks. There could be worse things than biting Sarah O’Neill.

“It’s not like I’m conspiring against you,” he continued. “I had nothing to do with your arrival, remember? I’m doing everything I can to get you back home and to fully rectify the situation.”

“Is that what I am now? ‘A situation’?”

He moaned. “You’re exhausting.” He’d never met a more argumentative woman. And he’d never been at more of a loss about how to remedy a difficult situation. Black-’n-White they called him? Well, things couldn’t be grayer to him when it came to dealing with Sarah O’Neill.

“I’m staying here,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m staying put. This is my home now.”

“Sarah, maybe you’re still not feeling well from yesterday.” His hands waved the air. “There’s no reason…there’s no person…this wasn’t my idea…you can’t stay here.”

She jammed her wide bonnet onto her head, then picked up her bags. As she stormed out the front door, she blasted him. “Don’t worry. I mean, Calgary is my home now, not your house!”

Grabbing his Stetson, he dashed behind her as she strode down the sunlit front porch. “Let’s both calm down. We’re adult enough to speak frankly about this.”

“Stop treating me like the doctor knows best.”

Hell. John’s temper rose another three notches. It’d been a long time since someone had argued with him like this, not since he’d been with his brothers and sisters back home, and they’d been gone for close to thirty years. John stumbled for a moment, hit by a pang of sorrow. He hadn’t thought about them in that light for a long while, but the memories were nice. The last time they were together at the Toronto fairgrounds, the four of them had argued about whose turn it was on the carousel and whose turn to sit out. That was the last day he’d seen them conscious.

He heard Sarah huffing beneath the weight of her luggage as she reached the bottom step.

Racing to catch up, he tore the bags out of her hands. “Let me help you with those.”

She yanked them back, nearly toppling over. “I’m afraid to let you help me. Every time you do, things get worse.”

“Why do your words always manage to knock the stuffing out of me?”

A dog barked in the Fitzgibbon yard. Sarah and John turned to look and saw Polly drawing the shades.

John shrank in his boots. He felt awful about what Polly had witnessed on the stair landing. As a single woman alone in Calgary, Sarah’s reputation was nothing to laugh about.

When he looked up the path two of his men, dressed in civilian clothes, were walking toward them. A wagonload of hay, pulled by oxen, creaked down the rutted street behind them. The cattle calls of the stockyards ten miles away echoed in the early morning mist.

Corporal Reid removed his broad brown felt hat and shifted his weight from one dirty black boot to the other. “Nice to see you again, ma’am.”

Sergeant O’Malley dipped his hand into the inside breast pocket of his wool jacket. When he removed a thick envelope, he passed it to Sarah.

“What’s this?” She squeezed the envelope between her fingers. The lace trim at her wrist bounced.

“We were comin’ to see the doc here, to have him pass this on to you. We had no idea that in our good fortune, we’d catch you here ourselves.”

“Yes, it is a very fortunate morning, isn’t it?” Her voice lacked the humor of her words. “It appears to be an envelope of money.” She frowned.

Mrs. Fitzgibbon, who’d managed to sneak outside without being heard, peered cautiously over the fence. John refused to be intimidated by her scowls.

“It’s the least we can do for you,” said the corporal. “It was Dr. Calloway’s idea. He thought the men should take up a collection, considering what we did to you.”

Mrs. Fitzgibbon sniffed, then went back into her house.

What must the old lady think now? Sarah clicked her tongue at Mrs. Fitzgibbon, then at him. “I don’t want your money.”

“Please take it, ma’am. And our apologies for treatin’ you…like you were a heifer for sale.”

Sarah shook her head. “I wish I could say thank-you for the apology and all’s well that ends well, but it isn’t, is it?”

The two men lowered their heads. “No, ma’am.”

Sarah colored beneath her bonnet. “I’d be most obliged if you’d return the letters I wrote.”

“Oh!” The sergeant dug into his pocket again and handed her several envelopes.

She counted them. “One, two, three, four.” She glanced at the sergeant.

He dug in and handed her one more.

“Five. Thank you.”

“Please take the money, ma’am. It’ll help you buy your return ticket, maybe a night or two in a fancy hotel, and it would sure make us feel better.”

“Well, if it’s to make you feel better—” She glared at the men with disapproval and it was the first time John had seen either of them blush with shame.

She tossed the envelopes into her satchel. “Thank you all for the most enjoyable eight days of nauseating travel. Good day.”

While she stalked away, deserting them in the street, the three men gaped after her. Recovering quickly, John shooed away the other two while he ran to catch up. How on earth could she manage alone in town, knowing no one?

“Sarah, will you please allow me to help you?”

She fumbled with her bags, half dragging one of them on the back of her leg, balancing her satchel beneath her elbow and yanking on her bonnet to keep it straight in the gentle blowing wind. Silently they marched down the block to Macleod Trail and its wide boardwalk. Passersby nodded hello to him, gazing quizzically at the odd combination of the woman carrying everything while the man accompanying her strode empty-handed.

“Sarah.”

“Ah, here’s one.”

She glanced up at the wood-burnished sign. Alice’s Boardinghouse. John knew the woman inside to be older than the hills, but there was no telling what the two of them together might accomplish.

Much to Sarah’s annoyance, he insisted on staying at the front desk while she registered for a room. The room wouldn’t be available for two hours, though, so Sarah agreed to leave her baggage while she went outdoors again to run an errand.

Until Sarah was settled and he knew she’d calmed down enough so that she wouldn’t do anything drastic, he couldn’t leave her. It was getting awfully close to his two hours being up. He figured he had another half hour before returning to the hospital ward.

“You know, David told me he’s a novelty writer.” John tried to break through the danged wall of silence she’d erected.

“What’s that?”

“He takes photos for postcards and novelty buttons, then writes captions beneath the photo, for amusement. That’s how he earns his living.”

“You mean, at this morning’s photo, he might have written something like, ‘Sarah gets her mounted man’?”

John laughed at her unexpected sense of humor. “How about, ‘Another Eastern tourist arrives on the plains’?”

“‘Another Mountie is brought to his knees.”’

“‘A mail-order bride responds to an ad.”’

She laughed at that one. You never knew what would strike the woman funny, and what wouldn’t. When she laughed, her entire face sparkled with warm spontaneity, her gray eyes glistened with flecks of blue and there wasn’t an inch of skin that didn’t glow with pleasure. The sound of her good humor rippled through him, gently arousing his senses.

They stopped at the corner to let a horse and rider pass. She followed the laughter of a group of children as they chased a mangy mutt around the water troughs.

Looking up at the buildings, they stood between Melodie’s Bath and Barber House and Rossman’s Mercantile.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Work.” She lifted her long skirts to descend the boardwalk and cross the road. “We passed a jeweler’s on our way to the boardinghouse. Didn’t you notice?”

“What do you call this one?” Standing inside the jewelry store, John leaned his bulky arms against the glass case.

Sarah laid her bonnet on the counter. “It’s a singing bird box. You wind it up and a toy bird sings to you.” She carefully lifted the gilded oval cover. A small bird with iridescent hummingbird feathers popped up, making her and John smile. “It’s Swiss, I believe.”

“That’s correct, madam,” said a female clerk, sidling up to the two of them. “It’s vintage, and over sixty years old.”

Sarah gently removed her hand from the box. “It’s beautiful.” She thought it strange that the clerk, who was about the same age, had called her madam and not miss.

“Good morning, John,” said the clerk then, in a much more casual tone, causing Sarah’s lashes to rise with suspicion. Not many people called him by his first name, Sarah had noticed. She had that privilege, but she’d almost married him.

“Mornin’, Clarissa.” John straightened, tall and lean, removing his Stetson but looking ill at ease.

“What brings you here?” Clarissa rubbed the waistline of her satin dress, fumbling with the pleats. She was pretty, with long brunette hair that she’d clasped at her temples with butterfly clips, and skin so white and smooth it looked like ice cream. When she swept her disapproving gaze over Sarah’s best housedress, Sarah felt dowdy in comparison.

He introduced the women. They nodded politely, but as he and Clarissa caught up with small talk, Sarah took her bonnet and stepped away to continue studying the merchandise. He’d already told her that Clarissa was the owner’s daughter and didn’t do the hiring. Sarah was waiting for Mr. or Mrs. Ashford to step out from behind the velvet drapes of the back room.

“It’s a pounding right above my heart,” Sarah heard Clarissa say. “Above my breastbone. Sometimes it’s uncontrollable. What do you think it is? Heart palpitations?”

“Perhaps you need an examination,” John replied, his dark features glued to the annoying woman.

Clarissa lowered her eyes coyly. “It would be in my best interest, I can’t deny it.”

“I’ll set up the appointment this morning. I’ll drop by Doc Waters’s office and tell him to expect you.”

Clarissa’s look of surprise was equaled by Sarah’s. “Old Dr. Waters?”

Trying to hide her amusement at Clarissa’s disappointment, Sarah ran her hand along a carriage clock. Fancy pillars showcased an exquisitely painted porcelain dial and side panels. She turned to see John and an embarrassed Clarissa standing two feet away.

“I like the shape of that clock,” said John. “It’s massive.”

“And see—” said Sarah, getting caught up with enthusiasm for the lovely items. “A lever in the base allows you to select silence, half strike and full strike.”

“Yes,” said Clarissa, rushing to take over the conversation. Was there some sort of bidding competition between the two women of which Sarah wasn’t aware? The woman needn’t feel threatened by Sarah, she had no hold over Dr. John Calloway. “The clock face has the name of the retailer,” Clarissa added. “Tiffany & Co., from New York. They’re very prestigious.”

“Never heard of them,” said John.

Clarissa smiled at him—a touch too readily, in Sarah’s opinion.

Sarah raised her eyebrows as she occupied herself with something else. John and his taste for women were none of her concern.

But how could her life turn so drastically from one day to the next? Yesterday at this time she was on a train headed to Calgary, imagining her life with a tender doctor on the prairies, imagining the possibly of bearing their children…She glanced away in humiliation.

She still had Keenan to hope for, the only person left of her family. Did he even go by the same name, or had he changed it to protect himself?

One thing at a time, she told herself. If she took one step at a time, it wouldn’t seem so overwhelming.

Staring into the glass counter, Sarah gasped. “What an unusual watch.”

“Which one?” asked John.

“The slender gold one. The ladies’ pendant watch.”

Clarissa squeezed behind the counter, brushing against John in the process. “Ah, yes. This came in this morning. I appraised and bought it myself, from a man I’m afraid wasn’t fully aware of its value. It’s truly a classic. Eighteen karat gold, from Geneva.”

Sarah frowned. “What a shame about the crown.”

“What?” said Clarissa, peering closer.

“What’s a crown?” asked John.

“The winder knob. It’s off-kilter. Let’s hope the movement inside isn’t beyond repair.”

Clarissa colored and scooped the watch from the case. “It wasn’t like this when I appraised it.”

“Hmm,” Sarah said softly. “Perhaps a switch was made when the seller got his money. It’s a common scam.”

“How do you know all this?” John whispered.

“My father was a clockmaker and owned a store for years in Halifax. He taught me.”

He’d also taught Keenan. Not only had their father taught them clockwork, but gunsmithing. Most folks couldn’t afford to own a Colt or a Smith and Wesson; town clockmakers often doubled as gunsmiths to make everyday guns for local folks. But gunsmithing was something Sarah had buried in her past, and fervently wished Keenan had, as well.

“That’s very impressive,” said a baritone voice behind them.

A friendly and handsome balding man smiled at them as they turned around. John introduced the dashing man as Mr. Ashford. Twenty minutes later, Sarah happily left the store as their newly hired clerk. Working here, she’d have to contend with Clarissa, but seeing that she had no romantic interest in the surgeon, Sarah didn’t foresee a problem.

She tucked the escaping strands of her hair beneath her bonnet. “Are you finished drooling over Clarissa?”

“I was not drooling.”

“Yes, you were. You were drooling all over each other. And I, for one, think you’d make a lovely couple.”

It was a strange sensation, watching him flirt with another woman when only yesterday he was her intended. Try as she might, the prickly feeling wouldn’t leave.

He shook his head. The sunlight caught his firm, black temples. “I’d never go within ten feet of Clarissa Ashford. Her former lover is doing serious jail time for larceny and theft. He used to own a sawmill in the Rockies, and she ran off with him when she couldn’t squeeze enough money out of his younger partner.”

“Oh my goodness.” Were these the kinds of people she had to contend with in Calgary? “What are her folks like?”

“They’re honest and hardworking, near as we can tell. You shouldn’t have trouble working there. There is one other jewelry shop you could try, but he just hired a new man.”

“This one’s fine. They told me I can start tomorrow.”

John came to a stop on the sunny boardwalk. The mist had lifted, leaving behind a blazing blue sky.

For the first time in twenty-four hours, her future didn’t look so bleak. Maybe she’d do well in this town. She’d found work and a place to stay, and she’d find her brother, too.

“You haven’t stopped for one minute since your arrival. Look how much you’ve accomplished today.” His smile was warm and true, and had a dazzling effect on her.

Her guard went up. She stepped away from him as shoppers squeezed by on the boardwalk. Sarah could still see through him. She’d found a place to live and a place of employment, so he was free of her. He was off the coals.

“Thanks for accompanying me. I’m sure your presence had something to do with Mr. Ashford hiring me. And now, I suppose you can rest your conscience.”

Now that she was here, she was going to make the best of her situation. Maybe she’d give herself a time limit to find Keenan. The money the Mounties had collected would go a little way toward paying her boardinghouse, but if she couldn’t make ends meet with her new job, she’d have to pack up and go somewhere cheaper.

She hadn’t worked at her father’s store for five years since she and her mother had sold it, and she wasn’t quite comfortable with everything at Ashford’s, but a little time and experience would polish her skills.

John insisted on following her right to the front desk.

“I can handle being on my own.”

“But I’d like to see you to safety.”

“Well, who do you think is going to walk me everyday to and from work? You won’t be around and it’ll be up to me anyway.”

“Stop arguing with everything I say.”

She groaned and kept walking. And groaned again as they entered the small doorway and encountered the two elderly women Sarah had met on the train. While Sarah had kept her personal business to herself for a thousand miles, she’d opened up to them halfway here, around Saskatoon. Sadly, it had been enough time to blab everything.

“Hello, Mrs. Lott, Mrs. Thomas,” said Sarah.

“Why, hello young lady,” said the thinner one, Mrs. Lott, with the kind wrinkled green eyes. “I see you’re here with your new groom-to-be.”

Sarah introduced them to John, who’d never met them. The sisters had obviously heard of him, though. Being the town’s only surgeon, it was understandable.

Sarah squirmed under the sisters’s scrutiny and John cleared his throat.

Mrs. Thomas, the one with the head of completely white hair, turned to John. The older women both looked tiny and frail standing next to his bronzed body. “Sarah told us on the train that she’d been corresponding with a lovely young man. Imagine our surprise when she told us it was you, Dr. Calloway. Have you set the date?”

Sarah swallowed hard and avoided looking at John. “There’s not going to be a wedding.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Lott, clutching at her throat. “Why?”

“There was a mix-up, it seems. Dr. Calloway wasn’t the…It wasn’t the doctor who…”

John stepped in, removing his hat. “It was a miscommunication is what it was. I’m helping Sarah to settle in. She just found employment at Ashford Jewelers. Won’t you congratulate her?”

The women gaily offered their best wishes, but Sarah knew she couldn’t avoid the questions forever.

“Perhaps you ladies might keep her in mind if you’re in the market for a lovely strand of pearls or a ring to adorn those pretty fingers.”

The older women giggled. They did look rather wealthy, judging by their fine clothes and necklaces. “Why, Dr. Calloway, we didn’t think you noticed such things.”

As the conversation mellowed, Mrs. Lott turned to Sarah. “Would you and the doctor care to join us for dinner? We could meet here, later, say around seven?”

Sarah craned her neck awkwardly up at John, wondering what he thought.

His response seemed smooth and well rehearsed. “I’m afraid I must decline.”

“But we insist,” said Mrs. Lott.

“Unfortunately, I’m needed in surgery.”

Mrs. Lott put her warm hands on top of Sarah’s. “But you’ll join us, won’t you, dear?”

“Certainly.” Sarah’s tension eased. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad living here. John’s standing beside her indicated his support and respect in this town, and unless the Mounties leaked the truth, no one needed to know that her arrival had been a hoax. Perhaps she could hold her head high. Perhaps the town would welcome her.

“And where might you ladies be off to, this fine morning?” John inquired as they passed in a cloud of perfume.

“Why, you might call it a family reunion. Our young nephew is here from New York City, and we’re off to visit our cousin, Mrs. Polly Fitzgibbon.”