Courting the Doctor's Daughter (4 page)

“Don’t worry, Rosie. I have no intention of getting involved with Miss Nightingale. Or any woman.”

He gave his horse one last pat and then headed for the Whitehall Café, his temporary home. Mrs. Whitehall loved to talk and knew everyone in town. Perhaps she’d offer up additional information that would lead him to his son.

If not, he wouldn’t stop there. Nothing would keep him from Ben.

Nothing and no one.

Mary picked up Ben from the Foleys’, gathering him close. He grinned up at her, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. “I’m too big to hug,” he said then belied his words by squeezing her so hard he squeaked with the effort.

“What did you do today?”

“I played with the baby kittens. Pastor Foley named a kitty Simon Peter like Jesus’s dis…disapple.”

“Disciple.” She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “That’s a wonderful name.”

“So is Ben.”

“Yes, Ben is a very special name.”

For a very special child. A child who’d endured more than his share of upheaval. Could the sheriff have misread ordinary interest in the children for more? Mary worried her lower lip. But if his instincts were right, she wouldn’t let that no-good peddler rip apart her carefully constructed, orderly life.

Nor would she let him near this boy.

Michael, his green eyes so like her own, his lanky ten-year-old body outgrowing his clothes faster than she could order them from the
Sears, Roebuck Catalog
, tromped in from school, forcing her mind off Luke Jacobs and his intentions.

Philip, his hazel eyes shining with mischief, followed on his brother’s heels. He grabbed Ben and tickled his belly. “We’re going to pick flowers, Ben. Wanna help?”

“Yes!”

That morning she and the boys had planned their monthly trek to the cemetery. “Before you do, how about some cookies and milk?” All three boys slid onto the kitchen
chairs. “Wash your hands first.” They scrambled down, racing toward the sink, jostling for first in line, reminding Mary of playful puppies. If only she had their energy.

Back at the table, they gobbled her molasses cookies and slugged down the milk.

Swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Michael removed his milk mustache. “I recited the preamble to the Declaration of Independence,” he said. “I got it the first time.”

Mary smiled at her older son. “I’m proud of you. All that practicing helped.”

“I cleaned the erasers,” Philip said, then reported the highlights of his school day, none of which had anything to do with his lessons. Philip would rather play than study.

Ben listened, wide-eyed, hanging on to every word. “I wanna go to school.”

Philip drained his glass. “You aren’t old enough.”

Ben puffed out his chest. “I’m four!”

“You have to be six. That’s two more years.”

The little boy’s face fell.

Always the peacemaker, Philip jumped from his chair and put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “But you get to play with the preacher’s kittens while we’re in school. That’s lots more fun.”

All smiles now, Ben finished the last bite of his cookie while Michael, always aware of what needed to be done, cleared the glasses from the table.

Mary dug under the sink, retrieved two canning jars and filled them with water. “Michael, get the shears. Cut the flowers for Ben and Philip.”

She set the containers on the back porch. The boys hurried past on the way to her garden. Within minutes, they ambled back clutching asters in their now grubby hands, and stuck the stems into the jars.

The boys enjoyed tending their father’s and grandmother’s plots. Mary encouraged their efforts, hoping the activity would help them remember Susannah and Sam. Not that she wanted her boys to dwell on the past. She’d tried to show them that even after losing a loved one, life went on. Doubt nagged at her, tightening the muscles in her neck. Had she always lived that example?

They set off with Ben in the wagon, two flower-filled fruit jars wrapped in a burlap bag hugged to his chest. The water sloshed over the top, dampening Ben’s shirt. His giggle told her he didn’t mind.

When they reached Crownland Cemetery, Michael and Philip each carried a jar with Ben tagging along behind. They put their offerings on the graves. Then they gathered the dried, crackling leaves blown against the headstones, their solemn faces eager to help, and stuffed them into the burlap sack to dump on the compost pile at home.

Finished with the task, Michael and Ben leaned against the trunk of a tree, studying the clouds overhead. Philip ambled over to where Mary knelt pulling the tall grass away from her mother’s headstone, his mouth drooping.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Could you…” He studied his hands. “Find us a new dad?”

Mary’s heart plunged. She enfolded her son in her arms. “I know you miss your dad, but we’ll be fine, Philip. Just fine.”

He sighed, then pulled away and plodded to his brothers. His words lingered in Mary’s mind, gnawing at her peace. Philip wanted a dad, but she knew a bad choice was far worse than living alone.

Eleven years ago on this very day in October she’d married Sam. The raven-haired stranger who’d come into her father’s office one sultry afternoon in August, his
thumb split open from an accident at a factory in town. It’d been his first day on the job. “A dumb accident,” he’d said, but then with a smile that captivated her, added, “A lucky one.” She’d asked why he called his gaping wound requiring six stitches lucky and he’d said, “If I hadn’t torn up my thumb, I might never have met the prettiest filly in these parts.”

Samuel Graves had been a smooth-talking, charming man. She’d fallen for him on the spot. They married in a matter of weeks, long before she had any idea of her husband’s terrible past. And of his compulsion.

Sighing, her thoughts turned to Luke Jacobs. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase him from her mind. Maybe a dip in White River would cleanse that man from her system.

Regardless, she would not make the mistake of giving her heart to another handsome, persuasive man.

M
ary stepped into the backroom of Addie’s millinery shop and the monthly gathering of the Snip and Sew quilters. Five pair of inquisitive eyes lifted from basting the Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt to the frame and focused on her. Mary loved these ladies and they loved her, so why did she feel like a rabbit caught in the sights of a cocked rifle?

Her sister-in-law smiled. “Glad you could make it this afternoon.”

Addie’s baby girl slumbered in a cradle a few feet away, her little mouth making sucking motions as she slept. Mary placed a kiss on the top of her niece’s fuzzy blond head. “Lily gets more adorable every time I see her.”

“I can’t keep her awake during the day. But in the middle of the night, she’s all smiles and coos. Fortunately for me, Charles can’t resist walking the floor with her until she falls asleep.”

Sally Bender poked Mary’s arm. “What kept you? Still trying to chase that handsome peddler out of town?”

Had everyone heard about her encounter with that reprobate? “I wish. How could you call that troublemaker handsome?”

“What woman wouldn’t notice, right, Sally?” Martha Cummings pulled a length of thread from her mouth, her eyes twinkling with amusement. At Martha’s feet, her youngest sat on a blanket gnawing on a bell-shaped rattle. “I may be happily married for ten years, and have five children eight and under, but I can appreciate a fine-looking man.”

A flash of dark eyes, muscled forearms and a dimpled cheek sparked in her memory. Averting her face, Mary opened her sewing box and took out her needle, avoiding the question, but her stomach tumbled. She
had
noticed and didn’t like it at all.

Raising her head, she met Martha’s stare.

“By the look on your face, Mary, I’d say you’ve noticed too.”

Once again the women turned toward her, their expressions full of speculation. Heat climbed Mary’s neck, but she forced a calm, indifferent tone. “His looks are unimportant. He’s pilfering hard-earned money out of our neighbors’ pockets.”

Martha poked the damp end of the thread through the eye of her needle. “Are you sure you’re right about that? I bought a bottle myself, and the sheriff’s wife claims that tonic eased his sour stomach after only one dose.”

With all this talk about the peddler and his remedy, Mary barely kept her hand steady to thread her needle. “The sheriff’s probably getting relief from the peppermint I smelled in that bottle.”

“Peppermint never helped the sheriff before. No reason it should now,” Martha said.

Successful at last, Mary knotted the end of her thread. “I’ve read about people believing in something so much the concoction works—for a while.”

Sally guffawed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Whether his potion works or not, you’re wasting your
energy, Mary, trying to run that peddler out of town. Men don’t have any inkling when they’re not wanted.”

How could he not? Hadn’t Mary made her feelings abundantly clear?

Fannie Whitehall moaned. “More like, men don’t have any inkling when they’re
wanted
.”

Sally patted the young woman’s shoulder. “Having trouble hog-tying that young reporter, Fannie dear?”

“James still hasn’t proposed. I’ll be old and gray before I’m married.” Fannie heaved another heavy sigh.

Sally skimmed a palm over her grizzled head. “I’m thankful Leviticus and Proverbs have a more positive view of getting old and gray.”

Laura Lawson’s silver-streaked hair sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the shop window. “I prefer salt over pepper, don’t you, Sally?”

“Yep, every one of these silver hairs represents a lot of living,” Sally said. “I’m right proud of ’em.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks. Sally, Laura, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean getting old and gray is bad. It’s just I’m tired of waiting to start my life.”

Fannie frequently had to make amends for speaking before thinking, but the girl had a good heart and everyone quickly forgave her.

“Time rushes by, Fannie,” Laura said. “Best not waste a minute longing for the future, instead of enjoying the here and now.”

Mary gulped. How much time did she spend fretting about what
could
happen, instead of enjoying the hugs of her sons, who grew as fast as weeds in an untended vegetable garden?

“Besides, James is young. Boys don’t become men until they’re at least twenty-five,” Sally grumbled, then brightened. “Say, Fannie, with three grown sons, none of them
married, I’d be beholden if you took one of them off my hands. I could use help skinning and dressing the game they kill. Why, you could move in with us—”

Eyes wide with horror, Fannie gasped.

Sally laughed. “I’m only teasing. Truth be told, my boys have lost their bragging rights as marksmen.”

“Your sons are…very nice, but I love James.” Fannie’s face glowed, verifying her statement. “I don’t want to wait forever to be his wife.”

An aching loneliness gnawed in Mary’s belly. Two years had passed since she’d lost Sam. Years before his death, more years than she cared to think about, she’d spent her evenings alone. To have someone to talk to, to share a sunset with, the small things she’d expected to share with a husband and never had, left a huge void that children, no matter how much she loved them, could not fill.

Still, she couldn’t imagine caring for another man. Sam’s death had hurt too much. Living with him had hurt even more. She’d never risk a second marriage.

The image of Luke Jacobs flitted through her mind. A hot day. Him on her porch, holding a glass of cold tea with a smile and an invitation to sit awhile. A shared kiss—

Her pulse leapt.

How could she even think of that man? The answer rattled through her mind. Luke Jacobs possessed charm, a way about him that wrapped her around his every word—just like Sam.

But Sam’s charm had covered a deep pain from a childhood of abuse, leading him to swig patent medicines. Later when he gave up the pretense, it led him into saloons to forget. She and the boys and endless years of prayer hadn’t been enough to keep Sam home.

Best to remember frosting can cover a bitter cake.

“Mary?” Addie said. “You look like you’re off somewhere. Is everything okay?”

A pair of dark, piercing eyes reappeared in Mary’s mind. With all the strength she possessed, she forced her thoughts away from Luke Jacobs and back to Addie’s question. “Fine. Fine. Say, how are William and Emma doing in school?”

“William is at the head of his class. I can’t say the same for Emma.” Addie rolled her eyes heavenward. “Charles says not to worry. She’ll charm her way through life.”

Sally snipped a thread. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Mary saw plenty wrong with charm. “Emma may not be a leading student, but she’s already designing hats. Mark my words, Addie, one day you’ll turn the shop over to her capable hands.”

“Whatever path they take,” Laura said. “We’re all grateful to you, Adelaide, for saving those orphans from a life of terror.”

The group quieted, each face growing somber, remembering how Addie’s suspicions had led to Ed Drummond’s arrest for not only beating Frances half to death but for murdering Frances’s mother. Ed had planned to kill Addie and hide the act by starting a fire. Charles not only saved her life, but he won her heart. Now Charles, Addie and their children lived happily ever after. A storybook ending Mary couldn’t imagine.

Laura inched her needle along a gingham petal, adding a white edge to the pink and white design. “I saw Frances at the grocery. Now that she’s healed up and that awful man she’s married to is in jail for life, she looks ten years younger.”

“Ed Drummond should’ve hung,” Martha said. “How could a man go to church as regular as a ticking clock yet kill his mother-in-law and beat on his family? I can’t believe how he had us all fooled.”

Tears stung the back of Mary’s eyes. In his childhood, Sam had lived with abuse—Charles too. This town had suffered more than its share of violence. People’s lives had been changed, some for the better, but for others, life would never be the same. “Do you ever wonder…why God allows evil to touch good people?”

Laura reached over and squeezed Mary’s hand. “That’s a hard one, dear. One of those things we may never understand in this life.”

Mary forced a smile, but worry churned in her gut. Laura’s pat answer didn’t solve a thing. She’d learned in the blink of an eye that life could end. If only she could know what lay ahead so she could keep misfortune at bay. But only God knew, and He wasn’t telling.

Then again, she didn’t need God to tell her that peddler was up to no good.

With the office closed while her father made rounds in the county, Mary and Ben visited the Willowbys then stopped in at the post office to retrieve the mail.

With a jab of her index finger, the postmistress shoved her reading glasses up her thin nose. “Morning, Mary. Morning, Ben.”

“Hello, Mrs. Hawkins.”

The postmistress shoved three envelopes across the counter. “Can’t say I’ve seen these return addresses before.”

Mary merely smiled and thanked the postmistress, giving no hint of what she hoped the envelopes contained. Once outside, she sat Ben on the bench. Dropping down beside him, she tore open the flaps. Her pulse leapt. Each envelope held a request for a job interview. Finally, her father would get the help he needed.

She’d hoped for another letter—

Right now she’d give thanks for these answers to prayer.

The three applicants promised to arrive on consecutive Saturdays, the day she’d specified for interviews. Perfect. Within three-weeks’ time, her father could interview the candidates and handpick his replacement, then ease the young doctor into the practice until he’d earned the town’s trust. But in her heart, Mary knew the hardest citizen to convince would be Henry Lawrence.

“Come along, Ben. We need to get home.” Mary tucked the letters into her purse, then took Ben’s hand and scanned the street, looking for her nemesis.

Logan Street swarmed with buggies and wagons. A horse tied to a nearby hitching post nickered and stomped a hoof. The door of the Whitehall Café opened and closed as satisfied diners came and went, patting full stomachs and chewing on toothpicks. She didn’t see Luke Jacobs, which eased the tension between her shoulder blades.

Ben tugged at her hand, pulling her toward Hudson’s General Store window. “Wait, Mary. I wanna see.”

The Willowbys had spoiled Ben. Every time he passed a shop, he wanted a new toy or book. Usually Mary didn’t give in to his demands, but she’d let him look.

They stood in front, the sun glinting off the top of the glass, reflecting slivers of gold. Her gaze traveled to Ben’s reflection. That small, timid boy who’d arrived on the orphan train had become a taller, healthier child with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes and an air of happiness about him that no one could resist.

Ben scanned the display, and Mary marveled at how he’d taken his new life in stride, become part of the town, part of their family. Part of her heart.

Her throat clogged with emotion, and she wrapped a hand around his shoulders, drawing him close. Ben didn’t know they shared a connection, but Mary understood what
it meant to be unwanted then welcomed into a family. With all her being, she prayed the road ahead would be smoother for Ben than the one left behind.

“Oh, Mary!” Ben pointed toward something. “That big ball’s my favorite colors: red and yellow. And it has stars, bright blue stars.” Ben tugged her hand. “Can I have it? I could bounce it clear to the sky!” He clapped his hands and glanced up, hope shining in his eyes.
“Please?”

Listening to Ben’s clever reasoning made Mary smile. “You have a ball. Now let’s get home for lunch, sweetheart.”

Ben’s chin lolled toward his chest. “I don’t want lunch. I want to go into the store.”

Her stomach growled. She tousled his curly hair then took his hand. “Well, I’m hungry, and by the time we get home, you will be too.”

“My tummy doesn’t want food. My tummy wants the big ball.”

Mary laughed. “We don’t eat toys, Ben. But after lunch, you can play with the ball you have. Before you know it, Michael and Philip will be home from school.”

A huge smile took over Ben’s face. “Michael and Philip want you to get the ball for me.”

Biting back a smile, Mary started up the street, but Ben lagged behind for one last look.

“Why, hello again, Florence Nightingale.”

Mary’s head snapped up, and she stared into the dark, mesmerizing eyes of Luke Jacobs. Remembering the sheriff’s words, her heart raced faster than a thoroughbred at the county fair.

Then his stare slid to Ben and stayed.

Ben giggled. “That’s not her name. Her name is Mary Graves.”

“Mary Graves.” Her name rolled off Luke’s tongue. “Is this boy your…son?”

Why would he ask such a question? Unless—

Unable to continue the thought, Mary’s heart jumped into her throat and wedged there, closing off her speech. Still gripping Ben’s hand, she took a step, but the peddler blocked her way, looming over her. “Let me pass,” she said.

But he didn’t move aside. If anything, he looked more determined. Warning bells clanged in Mary’s head.

“Yoo-hoo! Mary!”

Mary whirled toward Carrie Foley, eager for the interruption, for anything that’d take the focus off Ben.

Carrie reached them and chucked a gloved hand under Ben’s chin. “Hello, dearest.”

The little boy beamed at the woman who cared for him while Mary worked at the office.

Carrie turned to Luke Jacobs. “Aren’t you the man peddling that remedy?”

Luke tipped an imaginary hat, all smiles. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“The sign on your wagon boasts your tonic will cure headaches and stomachaches. Does it work?” She waggled a finger at him. “Now, before you answer, I’ll have you know I’m a pastor’s wife.”

“Yes, my remedy works.” He chuckled. “Even for pastor’s wives.”

Mary shifted her eyes heavenward. As if the rogue didn’t grasp Carrie’s meaning.

“Did you hear that, Mary? You ought to get a bottle for your headaches.”