Читать книгу Plum Creek Bride - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 11

Erika gave the goat’s lead a determined tug. “Come, Jasmine! Doctor say goat milk good for baby. We will be late for feeding!”

The goat lifted its head from a cluster of pink roses twining over a picket fence and stopped chewing. Two hard black eyes regarded her with curiosity for a full minute before Erika gave another sharp jerk on the rope. The animal trotted after her.

Jubilant, she marched along Chestnut Street with a spring to her step. She had bargained for the goat at the first farm she’d reached on the road out of town, trading the promise of a free consultation with Dr. Callender for the best milk goat of the bemused farmer’s herd. But getting the animal from the farmer’s field to the doctor’s backyard wasn’t so easy.

So far, Jasmine had devoured most of the wild iris blooms scattered along the road back to town, plus a large portion of a purple butterfly bush arching over a neighbor’s fence, and now the roses. Erika sighed. Just a few more blocks, and she could tether the headstrong animal to the plum tree behind Dr. Callender’s stable. With its preference for a diet of flowers, the milk should be extra rich and tasty!

Pleased, she tugged the animal around the corner onto Maple Street and tied it to the plum tree behind the whitewashed barn.

Jonathan lunged into the dusty black buggy, grabbed the reins and flicked them smartly over the mare’s broad back. “Of all the confounded, muddleheaded arrogance,” he muttered. “One of these days, so help me, I will throttle that quack Chilcoate within an inch of his life!”

Daisy leapt forward and trotted down Main Street. When the doctor forgot to signal his intention, the horse turned the corner by habit.

No, Jonathan amended, belatedly pulling on Daisy’s rein. He would not throttle the man. He’d let the fool hang himself with his own rope. Sooner or later it had to happen; one of his noxious elixirs would poison someone. Jonathan prayed nightly for the health of the unwitting townspeople of Plum Creek and carried an extra bottle of ipecac in his medical bag.

Underneath, he knew getting rid of the incompetent old man wasn’t going to change a thing. It was the mayor—that idiot banker, Brumbaugh—and the rest of his town council toadies who were bent on ignoring the situation until it would be too late. An hour ago he’d argued himself blue in the face, ended up shouting at the mayor and telling Rutherford Chilcoate to shut up unless he could speak intelligently or even comprehend the existence of bacteria.

What would it take to convince them he knew what he was talking about? They needed a new water system, one that bypassed contamination sources and had a reservoir and modern filtering equipment. Cholera had been rampant in eastern cities for the past decade; it was only a matter of time before it hit Plum Creek. A sixth sense told him it would be sooner rather than later, since the farms and small ranches upstream continued to let their animal waste matter seep into the town water supply. Summer would be hot. And long.

He flapped the mare’s reins. Unfortunately, new water systems cost money. He’d offered to finance the project himself if they’d just vote on it! Their lack of concern made him so mad he could eat thistles.

He jerked the reins unnecessarily. Daisy had already halted in front of his house. Jonathan raked one hand through his hair, rose to step out of the buggy and stopped short. What in God’s name had happened to the scarlet zinnias Tess had planted a month ago? Every single bloom in the carefully tended border had been nipped off at the crown.

He dropped the reins, bounded out of the buggy and strode up the walkway onto the veranda.

“Mrs. Benbow!” He surged through the front door and headed for the dining room.

The housekeeper poked her head out of the kitchen. “Sir? Why, whatever be the matter?”

“The zinnias! What happened to Tess’s zinnias?”

Mrs. Benbow looked blank. “What’s wrong with them?”

Jonathan strove to calm his breathing. “They’re gone, that’s what. No blooms, just stalks.”

The housekeeper’s eyes widened, then narrowed in comprehension. “Best ask Miss Scharf.”

“Miss Scharf?” He barked the name. “What does Miss Scharf have to do with the zinnias?”

“Well,” the old woman began, “it’s not exactly her, it’s probably.”

Jonathan pivoted and headed for the stairs before the housekeeper could finish her sentence. He went up two at a time and with the knuckle of his fisted hand gave a short, sharp rap on Erika’s closed door.

“Miss Scharf?”

No answer. He knocked again, then edged the door open.

The room was empty. The lacy coverlet had been neatly drawn up on the bed, the single window propped wide open. A fresh, sweet-scented breeze ruffled the lace curtains. Jonathan paused, his hand resting on the doorknob.

Something felt different. The room was serene. Straightforward. No perfume atomizers or jewel boxes or other fripperies adorned the chest of drawers, no petticoats or discarded wrappers were tossed carelessly across the chair or the narrow bed. The faint smell of lemon oil made him lift his nose and sniff the air. For a moment he forgot the anger that had propelled him up the stairs.

Something about the room slammed a fist into his solar plexus. It was neat, well-ordered, purposeful, like its occupant—the single-minded young woman Tess had engaged as a helper.

Tess had never returned a garment to her capacious wardrobe or polished a single piece of furniture in her short married life.

That was it! The room seemed strange because it was not like Tess. In the next instant an ache laced his heart into a knot of anguish.

She’s gone, you fool! Let her rest in peace.

His anger returned threefold. Someone had decimated the zinnia border Tess had wanted. Each morning for a week she had supervised the digging and planting undertaken by their neighbor, Theodore Zabersky. Each morning for a week Tess had smiled at Jonathan instead of complaining about the long hours he spent seeing patients or all-night ordeals delivering babies on remote farms throughout the county.

It had been a sweet time for the two of them; he damn well wasn’t going to let this reminder of it be destroyed!

He banged the door shut. “Miss Scharf?” He shouted her name louder than he’d intended. “Answer me!”

“Here,” a muffled voice sounded. “In library.”

Library? He didn’t have a library. She must mean the upstairs sitting room. It was the only room in the house besides his study where Tess had allowed his books. What in God’s name was an uneducated immigrant girl doing in there? He strode down the hallway and threw open the door.

Erika looked up from the desk—his desk, he noted with annoyance—and gave him a shy smile. The curve of her mouth faltered as he loomed over her.

“I—I hope you not mind,” she said with a slight stammer. “I find quiet place for study.” She indicated the notebook spread before her, flanked by a dictionary and a worn-looking textbook. “I pronounce new American words and write many times to remember.”

Reading upside down, he made out a row of carefully penciled words. Tureen. Another line began with unerring and ended with congratulate.

“Miss Scharf, what happened to the zinnia border?”

Her blue eyes widened. “Zinnia? What is zinnia, please?” She lifted her pencil, poised it over the notebook.

Jonathan clenched his jaw and counted to fifteen before he trusted himself to speak. “Zinnias, my dear young woman, are the flowers that grow along the front path. Or did. Come here and take a look!” He tramped over to the window.

When she joined him, he pulled aside the curtain and directed her gaze to the walkway below.

“Flowers gone,” she observed. She looked at him expectantly.

“I’ll say they’re gone. The question, Miss Scharf, is where have they gone? And why? In this household, you do not pick flowers without permission.”

“But I do not pick!” she protested. “Maybe Mrs. Ben—”

She halted, clapped one hand over her mouth for a moment. “Oh! It was Jasmine! The goat.”

“Goat!” Jonathan stared at her. “I don’t have a—”

But Erika was already heading for the doorway. “Must have got loose, maybe eat rope!”

She flew ahead of him down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. Mrs. Benbow, stirring soup at the stove, paused with her spoon in midair.

“Excuse us,” Jonathan panted as he strode past her.

Erika disappeared around the corner of the barn. By the time he caught up with her, she was yanking a small white goat with a frayed rope around its neck toward the plum tree. When she had secured the animal, she turned to face him.

“Goat bad for flowers, maybe. But is good for milk.”

“Where did that animal come from?” he demanded.

“From farmer. Mr. Peck. He give.”

“He gave it to you?” At her nod, he jammed his hands into his trouser pockets to keep from hitting something. “I don’t believe it. Cyrus Peck never gave away anything free in his life.”

“Not for free,” Erika protested. “For—how you say—ex…ex…for trade.”

Incredulous, Jonathan stared at her. “Trade for what?” he snapped.

‘Trade one goat for one doctor visit. We get milk for baby, he get leg fixed.”

“Leg fixed! There’s nothing wrong with Cyrus Peck’s leg that a little hard work wouldn’t remedy.” The anger he’d tamped down inside him leapt to life. Cold fury washed through his veins.

“Do you mean to tell me you took it upon yourself to bring a goat, a destructive, messy animal, onto my property? Let it eat my wife’s zinnia border? Let it—”

“I not let eat!” Erika’s eyes blazed the color of a hot summer sky. “Goat get loose, eat rope. Eat. zinnias,” she admitted. “I am sorry for flowers, but goat give good milk. I feed baby and not one crying. So is good,” she announced. She raised her chin in defiance.

Jonathan didn’t know whether to laugh or swear. Rage and amusement battled his brain to a standstill. Part of him wanted to strangle the young woman who stood before him.

She twisted her blue work skirt in both hands, then suddenly straightened her spine and drew herself up to her full height. The top of her head just reached his chin.

“Milk more important than flowers,” she said in a determined voice. She tipped her head up and gave him a level look. “As papa, you want good for baby. As doctor, you say not cow’s milk but goat milk good for her, so I get goat. I want good for baby, too!”

“Then keep the damn thing tied up!”

“Ja, I will,” she said quietly. “Will also fix flowers.”

“Everything has been topsy-turvy since you set foot in the door,” Jonathan grumbled. “I ought to send you back to New York or Hamburg or wherever it is you came from.”

Erika lifted her chin and surveyed him with steady blue eyes. “I stay in America. I stay here in Plum Creek, America, to help. I stay for baby. And,” she finished, her voice trembling, “for me.”

Try as he might, Jonathan could think of nothing to say. God in heaven, he was cursed. Tess was dead, leaving an infant he couldn’t bear to touch or even look at because it reminded him so much of her. Mayor Brumbaugh was stumbling blindly toward disaster, and now Cyrus Peck would descend on him with another tirade about his “bad leg.” This time he’d give the crotchety old farmer some fifty-dollar advice: Work an hour a day and mind his own business!

On top of this, he had Miss Erika Scharf to contend with. A more determined, maddening young woman he had never encountered. What god had he offended that such furies pursued him?

More to the point, what should he do about them?

About her.

He contemplated the crown of honey-colored braids wound on top of her head. He would be civil, he decided. He would swallow his anger and accept the goat. It was a good-hearted deed, after all. And she was right about the milk.

He would overlook the incident this time. Let her stay. But one more disaster—just one more unsettling event in his already unraveling world—and that would be that.

Baby or no baby, he would send Erika Scharf on her way.