Читать книгу Kansas Courtship - Victoria Bylin - Страница 14

Zeb saw Dr. Mitchell coming straight at him and felt the uncomfortable urge to run away. He enjoyed a good fight as much as any man, but he didn’t want to argue with her. A few moments ago, Will had taken him to task.

You showed her Doc’s place? Are you stupid?

No, just hopping mad. She’d tricked him by using her initial, then she’d had the audacity to be poised and pretty about it. Why couldn’t she have had warts on her chin…warts with hairs growing out of them? Warts so ugly he wouldn’t keep smelling lavender and recalling her hand on his arm and the kindness in her blue eyes.

He’d argued with Will for two minutes and ended up feeling like an oaf.

We need a doctor, Zeb. I don’t care if he—she—whatever—is wearing skirts. I’ve got a family now. So does Pete.

Where am I supposed to put her? She can’t work in my parlor!

So find someplace else. We help each other in High Plains. Have you forgotten that? It’s called Christian charity.

Will was right. The town needed Dr. Mitchell until he could find a replacement. And whether he liked it or not, he owed her amends for his surliness.

Tom Briggs, his foreman, called down from the scaffolding. “More lumber tomorrow, boss?”

“Plan on it.”

“Good.” Tom’s hammer pinged on a nail. “We’re about out.”

The demand for lumber kept Garrison Mill running from dawn to dusk and Zeb looking at ledgers well past midnight. Folks chipped in what money they could spare, but Zeb cheerfully absorbed most of the costs. He could afford it and others couldn’t. With good weather and a little luck, the town hall would be finished and High Plains would celebrate a full recovery with a summer jubilee. If he had to work like a mule to make it happen, so be it. He didn’t have time to eat or sleep, much less deal with Dr. Mitchell, but she was coming at him like a summer storm.

“Mr. Garrison!” she called. “I need a word with you.”

He did not want to have this conversation in front of a work crew, but he couldn’t avoid her without looking cowardly. “Get back to work,” he said to the man. The hammering resumed, but in a slower cadence.

As she hurried in his direction, he heard the rustle of her skirts and the scuff of her shoes, sounds that should have been drowned out by hammering, but Tom and the other man had stopped working. Zeb felt their eyes on his back, turned to glare at them and realized he’d been wrong. The men weren’t looking at him. They were gawking at Dr. Mitchell.

Briggs, a married man, went back to work. The other fellow looked like a starving man at Sunday supper.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Thank you for speaking with me.” Panting for breath, she put her hand on her chest in an Abigail-like gesture.

He hadn’t judged her as prone to vapors. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I came to thank you for setting me straight.”

Zeb liked this kind of talk. “About what?”

“What it’s really like in High Plains. How hard my life would be here.” She bit her lip, then blinked as if fighting tears. Her eyes had a shine and he wondered if he’d made her cry. He hoped not, but the sheen revealed a simple fact. If Doc’s office could drive her to tears, she didn’t belong in High Plains.

He crossed his arms over his vest. “It’s tough here. That’s a fact.”

“It’s such a warm day! Too hot for a woman to be hurrying, don’t you think?” She took a hankie from her pocket and dabbed at her forehead. “I thought I could hire someone to fix the roof, but the hole’s too big.”

“I know.”

“I went upstairs to check for myself. There were birds everywhere.” She indicated the smudges on her skirt. “I ruined my best frock!”

Well, what do you know? Dr. Mitchell had just proven him right about women. Knowing she wouldn’t stay longer than necessary, he could afford to be magnanimous. “I’ll pay for the laundering.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’m not worried about the dress.”

“Then what is it?”

The simpering female vanished in a blink. “I came to tell you that you’re a fool, Mr. Garrison. I am not the shallow woman you’ve assumed me to be. Being who you are—a town leader, someone who’s responsible and intelligent—you know High Plains needs a doctor. You should be helping me, not running me out of town! It’s reckless. It’s selfish. It’s—”

“Stop it, Doc.” Belatedly, he saw through her act. The woman was playing him. “You’ve made your point.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Garrison.”

“I do.”

“You owe me an apology.” She stood tall, her head high and her eyes burning with outrage.

Zeb said nothing.

After twenty seconds, she gave up. “Don’t think you’ve won. At the very least, I deserve courtesy. As for your respect, I intend to earn it. When the time comes for you to eat crow, I’ll expect that apology.”

“You won’t get it.”

“It’s not for my benefit,” she said. “It’s for yours. I’m assuming you do have a conscience?”

Zeb had a conscience, all right. It prickled every time someone in High Plains caught a cold. It twitched when he thought of his men working double shifts and ignoring their own families. It burned like fire when he thought of the tornado and how it had stripped High Plains bare. He’d picked this spot to settle. The death and destruction were on his hands. So was rebuilding. How dare this woman judge him? “You don’t belong here, Doc. Go back to New York.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

“Absolutely not! I care about people. I care about this town.”

“You think I don’t? I saw people die in the tornado, Miss Mitchell. What happens if you kill someone with your incompetence?”

“I’m not incompetent! I’m a highly trained physician.”

“You’re a woman!”

When the hammering stopped for the second time, Zeb realized he’d shouted at her. By tomorrow, the whole town would know he’d done battle with Dr. Mitchell. No way could he let her win.

She must have felt the same way, because she spoke in a voice loud enough for the work crew to hear. “You’re very observant, Mr. Garrison. I am, in fact, female. I’m also a doctor, and I will not leave High Plains.”

Zeb dropped his voice to a hush. “You’ll break your word, Dr. Mitchell. Mark my words.”

“Not a chance.”

Like Frannie, she made promises too easily. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

When she stepped closer, he smelled her fancy lavender soap, reminding him of Frannie. Women were all alike—two-faced Jezebels with heady ambitions and flapping tongues.

Dr. Mitchell took another step, crowding him because he refused to budge as she lectured him. “You, Mr. Garrison, have misjudged me. I don’t care about smudges on a dress. I don’t mind scrubbing floors. But I will not be disrespected.”

Zeb knew the feeling. The need for respect had driven him to build a mill instead of working for wages. Her breathing deepened and slowed as she fought for control. When she clenched her jaw, he imagined her counting to ten. The trick wouldn’t work. Zeb knew, because he used it himself.

He flashed a grin. “Cat got your tongue, Doc?”

She raked his face with those fiery blue eyes. “You need to know what happened after you left.”

“I don’t care.” He’d lied. He cared about everything in High Plains.

The redhead kept yammering at him. “You should care, Mr. Garrison. A girl came into the building. Bess Carter.”

“She can’t speak.”

“That’s right.” Dr. Mitchell spoke in a rush. “I’m a grown woman. I’m accustomed to adolescent pranks from silly little boys—”

“Wait just a minute!”

“No, sir.” She clipped the words. “I will not wait. That building should be boarded up. What if the roof had collapsed on her? You endangered a child today, a girl who couldn’t call for help. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He was, but he’d never admit it. “Anything else, Dr. Mitchell?”

“Yes,” she said. “With or without your help, I intend to find a place to practice.”

“Good luck.” He smirked at her.

“I won’t quit,” she repeated.

Zeb stared at her with a mix of disbelief and envy. Where had that faith come from? Didn’t she know life took dangerous turns? He flung up his hand to indicate the framework of the town hall. “Are you blind, Doc? A tornado blew this town to pieces. There’s not an inch of space that’s not being used except my parlor.”

“I don’t need your parlor,” she countered.

“Good, because you can’t have it.”

She stood ramrod straight. Zeb had a good six inches on her, but he felt no advantage. This woman had courage, the kind that made a small dog chase a bigger one. Of all the aggravating things, she reminded him of someone he used to know…not Frannie, but a young man who’d called on the foremost millwright in America.

I want to be your apprentice, Mr. Gridley.

So do a lot of men, Mr. Garrison. Why should I pick you?

Because I want it, sir.

Zeb had been full of faith that day, faith in God and faith in his dreams. Gridley had seen that confidence and taken him under his wing. A month later, the man arranged a dinner party to introduce his protégé to his upper-crust friends. Zeb had escorted Cassandra, but that night he’d fallen in love with Frannie.

Hammering pulled him back to the present. High Plains needed a doctor, not a debutante from New York. He couldn’t stand the sight of Dr. Mitchell and her red hair. As for her skills, he’d trust her to paint sore throats but nothing else.

She waved her hand to get his attention. “Mr. Garrison? Did you hear me?”

He’d been caught off guard and didn’t like it. “What?”

“I said, when I have a parlor of my own, I expect you to apologize.”

“Sure,” he said, mocking her. “Why not?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He’d never been more sure in his life. “You don’t have a prayer of finding an office, Dr. Mitchell. No one here wants a lady doctor.” Except Pete and Rebecca, Cassandra and Emmeline and Will and anyone with kids.

“I’ll have to change their minds, won’t I?” With a dip of her chin, she headed back to the street.

Her skirts swayed with lady-like grace, but Zeb saw past the poise. He’d just kicked a hornet’s nest. He felt the sting of it now. Even more confusing, instead of running away from the hornet named Nora Mitchell, he wanted to chase after her. He wanted to see the sparks in her blue eyes and the waves of her red hair. That desire couldn’t be tolerated.

“Dr. Mitchell!” he called.

She stopped and turned. “Yes, Mr. Garrison?”

“The Crandalls leave tomorrow. If you’re smart, you’ll go with them.”

She turned fully, giving him a good look at the high-and-mighty dress and the feather that had tickled his nose. “I assure you, sir, the Crandalls will be leaving without me. You may not like my gender. You might not trust my abilities. But I’m a good doctor. I also have a conscience. The people in this town need me.”

Yes, they do.

Pride sealed his lips, but he didn’t turn away. Neither did she. They glared at each other until she gave a ladylike dip of her chin, followed by a smile and a sly wink.

Completely disarmed, Zeb couldn’t think of a thing to say. The redheaded doctor had thrown down the gauntlet. They’d gone to war and he wanted to win. He also imagined kissing that smirk right off her pretty face. He had no right to such a thought, but he couldn’t help it. Dr. Mitchell had gotten to him. For that reason alone, she needed to go back to New York.

Nora kept her chin high as she crossed the street, but her insides were churning. Winking at Zeb Garrison bordered on shameless. What had she been thinking? Even more frightening, what was he thinking? The wink had been a trick she’d learned from male students who’d harassed her. Whenever a man made that presumptuous gesture, she felt flustered. She doubted a wink would fluster Zebulun Garrison, but she hoped so.

“Oh, dear,” she mumbled as she avoided the broken boardwalk. What if he misread the wink as flirting? They’d been alone in Dr. Dempsey’s office when she touched his arm. She’d acted out of concern, but she’d felt something stronger, a connection that made her notice his green eyes, the stubble on his jaw. Winking at Zeb Garrison had been a mistake. Either she’d insulted her new boss, or he’d take it as a brazen invitation. At the thought of seeing him again, she stifled a groan. In a town the size of High Plains, their paths would cross no matter how hard she tried to avoid him.

Eager to escape the prickle of his gaze on her back, she rounded the corner and headed for the boardinghouse. There she climbed the steps, walked into the foyer and smelled fresh bread. The aroma reminded her of her empty stomach, so she went to the kitchen where she saw a tall blonde, presumably Rebecca, stirring a pot of soup. She hoped the cook would be pleasant. Even more than food, Nora needed a friend.

She tapped on the door frame. “Hi, are you Rebecca?”

Recognition lit the woman’s eyes. “You must be Dr. Mitchell!”

Judging by her accent, the cook had recently come from Scandinavia. “That’s right,” Nora replied.

Rebecca indicated a small table by a window overlooking a meadow. “Please, sit down. Mrs. Jennings told me to expect you.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not,” the cook replied. “I’m eager to speak with you. Pete, my husband, was just here. There’s already talk about you and plenty of it!”

Nora forced a smile. “I’m afraid Mr. Garrison wasn’t expecting a woman.”

“That’s the truth!”

Unsure of the cook’s opinion, Nora measured her words. “I’m a good doctor. I may be female, but—”

“Glory! You don’t have to explain to me. My grandmother was a healer in Norway.” The cook pointed at the chair. “Sit. You must be hungry.”

“Starved is more like it,” Nora admitted.

“We’ll eat together, and I’ll tell you about High Plains.”

As the cook ladled soup into bowls and sliced bread, she told Nora how the town had been founded on Christmas Day almost two years ago. Will Logan and Zeb Garrison, boyhood friends, had come West to pursue their dreams. They’d picked the spot on the High Plains River and contracted with the New England Emigrant Aid Society for funding. When spring arrived, dozens of folks from Bellville, their hometown near Boston, followed the men to the Kansas Territory.

“My Pete is a blacksmith,” Rebecca explained. “Will and Zeb especially wanted him to come West.” In between spoonfuls of soup, Rebecca told Nora how Pete’s first wife had died in childbirth. When the cook finished the story, she looked at Nora with a gleam in her eyes. “I don’t care what people think, Dr. Mitchell. Pete and I want you here. You won’t have an easy time. I know, because I didn’t either. More than once, I’ve been called a dirty immigrant.”

Nora’s family had sailed with the Pilgrims, but she and Rebecca had something in common. “We’re both outsiders, aren’t we?”

“Very much.” Rebecca fetched the teakettle and refilled their cups. “That’s why I want to talk to you about the Ladies Aid Society. Matilda Johnson is president. She and her husband own the mercantile.”

“I already met Abigail.”

Rebecca sat down. “She and her mother are very much alike, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do.”

The cook’s brows hitched into a scowl. “I’m not fond of Mrs. Johnson and she’s not fond of me.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”

“Pete and I were alone in a cellar during the tornado. She accused me of immoral behavior and spread rumors. I couldn’t walk down the street without getting ugly looks.”

Nora knew the feeling. “I got plenty of stares in medical college.”

“But we survived, didn’t we?” A smile lit up Rebecca’s face. “Pete married me to stop the talk. We didn’t know it, but God had plans for us. What Mrs. Johnson meant for harm turned into the greatest blessing of my life.”

Envy stabbed through Nora. She loved being a doctor, but she wanted a husband and children of her own. “Pete sounds like a good man.”

“He is.” Pride rang in her voice. “Most of the folks here are decent, but a few cause trouble.”

“Like Mrs. Johnson?”

“I’m afraid so.” Rebecca’s eyes glinted with anger. “She’s telling folks you asked Abigail an indecent question.”

“Illness is indecent,” Nora countered. When a woman fainted, all possibilities—even indelicate ones—had to be considered.

Rebecca’s eyes twinkled. “I know why Abigail swooned. She’s set her cap for Zeb, that’s why.”

“I thought so,” Nora said casually.

The blonde studied Nora from across the table. Both women stirred their tea until their lips tipped up in unison. When Rebecca gave in to a grin, so did Nora. The cook spoke first. “Are we thinking the same thing?”