Kansas Courtship (10 page)

“I’d like to see it,” she said. “What’s the price?”

The lawyer named a total beyond her means, then offered to arrange a mortgage if she could manage a down payment. The amount he suggested was slightly less than the amount she
had in her trunk for train fare back to New York. If she accepted the offer, she’d have a house and a small nest egg. She considered renegotiating her salary from Mr. Garrison—it presently included room and board—but decided against it. The few dollars he’d have paid Mrs. Jennings for the remainder of the month wasn’t worth the risk of having him interfere with the purchase of a house. Later she’d worry about making payments. For now, the Lord had met her needs.

“I’ll get my hat and we can go,” she said to Percy. If the house would serve as a home and clinic, she’d buy it.

T
wo days had passed since his quarrel with Dr. Mitchell, and Zeb hadn’t heard a word from her
or
about her. He’d tried to put her out of his mind, but when his men coughed from the dust, he thought of her and got angry. When his eye twitched, he recalled laughing with her and felt something else.

This morning, standing at the base of the waterfall as he did every morning, he tried to gauge the river’s flow, but he couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand. The rush of the falls reminded him of
her.
He couldn’t call her Dr. Mitchell anymore, but neither did he want her to be Nora. The name rolled too easily from his lips. He liked the hush of it, the soft tones that begged to be whispered.

“You idiot,” he said out loud. “Not only is she a doctor, she’s just like Frannie.”

Standing tall, Zeb glared at the boulder he used to gauge the depth of the river. The volume was decreasing with the summer weather, but he couldn’t bring himself to hope for a storm. The thought of another tornado made his belly churn. A town—and a man—could take only so many disasters.

He knew how it felt to love and lose a woman. He’d given Frannie everything—his dreams, his hopes. He’d gone over a cliff for her and had fallen hard. While standing upriver with Dr. Mitchell, he’d wondered if…maybe…but then she’d bossed him and he’d gotten mad. Had she been unreasonable? No. Had she been puffed up? Not until he’d goaded her.

As the water splashed over the rocks, his mind echoed with snippets of their quarrel. She’d been right about everything, particularly the effects of fatigue. When he’d returned from town, he’d send Clint back to the Circle-L to nurse his cold. He thought of men he’d known in Bellville, older ones who struggled to climb hills because they couldn’t breathe right. If more windows would clear the air, he’d put them in.

Zeb cared deeply about his men. He worried about everyone in High Plains. So did Dr. Mitchell. He owed her an apology, but hated the thought of making it. He couldn’t risk dropping his guard. He’d ask her to supper and he’d start to care about her. Even if they could reconcile their differences about her career, he couldn’t trust her to stay. Someday she’d get fed up and go back to New York, leaving him just as Frannie had.

A smart man wouldn’t take that chance. He’d court a woman like Abigail. A merchant’s daughter, she understood business, and that’s how Zeb viewed marriage. After the spat with Nora—Dr. Mitchell, he reminded himself—he’d gone to the mercantile. Abigail had served him biscuits and jam. They’d talked about rebuilding the town hall, and he’d agreed to join the jubilee planning committee. Abigail made life easy, but he had to wonder if the calm would last.

“Zeb!”

He looked at the mill and saw one of his men calling down from a window. “Down here!” he shouted back.

“Reverend Preston’s here.”

“I’ll be right up.” Zeb didn’t care for church, but he didn’t mind the reverend. In addition to pastoring High Plains Christian Church, the man worked as a carpenter. Before the tornado, he’d put the finishing touches on Zeb’s house, including cornices, cabinets and a wall of bookshelves. They’d had some interesting talks, but Zeb hadn’t changed his mind about God. The Almighty was either cruel or uncaring. Either way, Zeb had no time for religion.

With the sun bright and the river glistening, he hiked back to the mill. He found the reverend dressed in work clothes, looking at the logs the Thompson brothers had delivered yesterday. Rebuilding High Plains had used all the local trees and then some. With each delivery, the Thompsons had to backtrack farther east for good timber. This load of oak, strong and sturdy, had come a long way.

“Good morning.” Zeb held out his hand.

The reverend, a tall man in his thirties, pumped it twice. “How are you doing, Zeb?”

“Same as usual.”

Preston looked at him a little too long. It was a habit he had, one Zeb found annoying. “What can I do for you?”

The reverend got down to business. “How much for twenty boards of oak? Each an inch thick?”

Zeb named a fair price.

“I’ll take it.”

The wood still needed to be cut. “When do you want it?”

“As soon as you can do it,” he answered. “I’m building shelves for the lady doctor you hired.”

Zeb didn’t know what to think. Had Nora changed her mind about Doc Dempsey’s place? He couldn’t stand the thought. Surely she wasn’t that desperate. He wanted to ask Reverend Preston for details, but he didn’t want to show interest in Nora’s
activities. If anyone would have the goods on Dr. Mitchell, it was Matilda Johnson. Zeb wouldn’t have to say a thing. She’d start gabbing the minute she saw him.

He finished his business with Reverend Preston, then went to his office and lifted his hat from a hook. He had to deliver lumber to the town hall, so a stop at the mercantile made sense. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he called to his men.

Zeb headed for the yard where he tied down the load, climbed onto the seat and snapped the reins. As the horses lumbered away from the mill, he thought of the oak waiting to be cut. Such fine wood didn’t belong in Doc Dempsey’s office. Neither did a woman like Nora Mitchell. As he steered down Main Street, he studied the progress made on the town hall. The building had four walls, a plywood roof and the framework for a cupola that would hold a bell. The wood in his wagon would be used for siding. Doors, windows and two coats of white paint would finish the job.

When he reached the building, he reined the wagon to a halt. Briggs called a greeting, then lifted the first of the planks. Zeb usually lent a hand, but today he sauntered across the street to Doc’s old place. When he jiggled the doorknob, it didn’t turn. Still curious, he peered between the boards covering the window.

Nothing had changed since the day he’d shown the office to Dr. Mitchell, a sign she didn’t plan to move in. Relieved but still curious, he crossed back to the town hall where he saw Briggs talking to one of the men. As Zeb approached, they gave him their full attention.

“How’s it going?” he said to Tom.

“We’re making progress.”

“Will it be done before the jubilee?” Zeb had promised the town a big to-do. He intended to keep his word.

“Should be,” the foreman replied. “If you keep the wood coming, we’ll keep building.”

“Don’t worry.” Zeb spoke with confidence, but his mind echoed with Nora’s caution about fatigue. With each day, the river became more sluggish. He needed a millpond and a dam, traces and gates. Instead, he had to hope for a good rain, one that didn’t spawn a tornado. If the river didn’t go dry, and his men didn’t peter out, the building would be done just in time for the jubilee. Zeb counted a lot of ifs, but he’d do his best. He always did.

Except he hadn’t done his best when it came to providing a place for Dr. Mitchell. Where had she gone? He considered going to the boardinghouse and asking her directly, but that meant eating humble pie. Instead, he crossed the street to the mercantile. Matilda Johnson accosted him before he passed the pickle barrel.

“Zeb, I’m glad you’re here. We have a
terrible
problem.”

“What happened?”

“It’s that lady doctor. It’s indecent, I tell you. It can’t be tolerated.”

Zeb didn’t like her tone at all. “What’s indecent?”

“Her living arrangement, that’s what!”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Where’s she living?”

“Not at the boardinghouse! Not where Mrs. Jennings can keep an eye on her.”

“I don’t know what happened. Is she moving into Doc’s old place?”

“Hardly!” Matilda came around the counter. With her ample bosom and wide skirts, she nearly knocked him over on her way to the window. “There.” She jabbed her finger at the Roysden place. “She bought that house. She’s living there
alone.
”

“What happened to Brice?” he asked.

“He left two days ago.” Mrs. Johnson shuddered. “The instant I saw that woman, I knew she’d be a problem. Females do
not
belong in medicine. It’s unseemly. She’s a hoyden!”

Zeb had used that word himself with Pete, but it didn’t fit Nora at all. He couldn’t deny her sensitive ways and good character. Yes, they’d had a quarrel. But she’d taken responsibility and apologized. He needed to do the same, but the thought irked him.

He peered at the Roysden place from over Mrs. Johnson’s shoulder. Someone had put up yellow curtains. “I have concerns about Dr. Mitchell, but her morals aren’t among them.”

“They should be.”

He flashed to the gossip about Rebecca and Pete. Zeb had been furious then and he was irked now. He had no patience for gossip
or
lies. “She’s a decent woman, Mrs. Johnson. Leave it at that.”

She arched a brow. “How do
you
know?”

We spoke and she looked into my eyes. I stood close and felt her shyness.
He didn’t want to say any of those things to the town gossip, so he stuck to business. “She had good references.”

Matilda Johnson huffed. “Letters can be forged.”

“I have my doubts,” Zeb replied. “But you don’t need to worry about Dr. Mitchell’s character. I don’t like the fact she’s female, but she cares about people.” Did she deserve a chance to prove herself? He’d taken her advice and his eye hadn’t twitched in two days. Zeb didn’t want to go down that road, but the thought grabbed him and wouldn’t let go.

The woman glared at him. “The Ladies Aid Society wants you to get rid of her.”

Zeb couldn’t think of anything in High Plains more tedious than the Ladies Aid Society. He’d have preferred another tornado to dealing with a herd of hotheaded gossips. In the guise of community service, the Ladies Aid Society bossed the whole town, with Matilda leading the charge. Zeb had heard enough.

“Look here, Mrs. Johnson—”

“Zeb!” He turned and saw Abigail coming from the back room. “Did Mother tell you what that awful new doctor did?”

That did it. He couldn’t stand here and listen to Nora being unfairly judged. “She’s not awful, Abigail. I’m not happy she’s female—”
Liar. He liked her womanly side just fine.
“—but she’s not a bad person.”

Abigail pouted. “I don’t like her. She interferes.”

Zeb agreed, but didn’t say so.

Mrs. Johnson steered them back to the counter. “As long as Zeb’s here, Abigail, why don’t you bring him one of those cinnamon buns you made.”

Abigail beamed. “Of course.”

Zeb held up his hand to stop her. “Thanks, but I can’t stay.”

Before either woman could protest, he strode out of the mercantile. He had another call to make, this one on Dr. Mitchell.

A
s he strode toward Dr. Mitchell’s new house, Zeb considered what had just happened. He’d taken Nora’s side against the Johnsons. There would be a price to pay if he snubbed the store owners, especially after showing interest in Abigail, but which of them would pay it? Nora had bought a house, a sign she intended to stay in High Plains. Zeb held the purse strings for the salary they’d negotiated, but he couldn’t force her to leave. Her presence would make finding a male doctor more difficult. What if she refused to leave?

He hated the idea.

He liked the idea…a lot.

He’d gone crazy and it was Nora Mitchell’s fault. He paced up the road to the Roysden place. Brice and Annie Roysden had been among the first to arrive in High Plains. Zeb had cut the lumber for their home and helped to build it. The house had five rooms, including two bedrooms on a second floor. Annie Roysden had been nervous since the tornado and had gone back East. The couple had had quite a row and Brice had stayed, though it seemed he’d gotten lonely and had changed his mind.

Zeb thumped across the porch and rapped on the door. No one answered, but he heard humming from an open window. He rapped again, more forcefully. The door opened before he could lower his fist. Instead of Nora, he saw Carolina Samuels. A widow in her fifties, she’d been Doc Dempsey’s nurse.

“Good morning, Zeb.” She spoke in the even tone of a woman who couldn’t be surprised.

“Good morning, Carolina.” He removed his hat. “Is Dr. Mitchell in?”

“She’s with Alex.”

Zeb’s brow knotted. If something had happened to the boy, Mrs. Jennings should have informed him. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He has the measles.”

Zeb put the pieces together. Alex had fallen ill. Instead of telling
him,
Mrs. Jennings had asked Nora for help. Irked, he fisted the brim of his hat. “May I see her, please?”

“That depends,” the nurse answered. “Have you had the measles?”

“I had them as a boy.”

“Good,” she said, smiling. “Come on in.”

As Carolina widened the door, he stepped into the parlor. Brice had apparently sold the furniture with the house, but his wife had taken the womanly whatnot when she’d left. Today Zeb saw a wooden bench, two hard chairs, a divan by the hearth and a secretary pushed against the wall. He also saw an oil painting depicting a fancy town house surrounded by a lush flower garden that no doubt included lavender. Memories of Frannie flew like the shingles in the storm. He recalled watching her paint. He thought of the week he’d spent at Cape Cod with her family and how her brushes had caressed the easel when he’d wanted her fingers laced with his. He recalled the
day she’d jilted him…The sky had been clear and bright, the sun warm on his face.

As he glowered at the painting, his stomach knotted. Dr. Mitchell, it seemed, had a taste for art like a true city lady. Would she last in High Plains? He doubted it. One good storm and she’d run back to New York. He
had
to find another doctor for High Plains, a
male
doctor who wouldn’t cut and run.

With his jaw tight, he looked at the entry to the dining room. A navy blue curtain hung in the doorway. Behind it he heard Nora speaking in soothing tones, then the fussy whimper of a feverish child.

Carolina indicated a chair. “Sit down, Zeb. Dr. Nora will be with you soon.”

“Thank you.”

She left the parlor, but he didn’t sit. Instead, he paced around the room. One minute his temper flared. The next he thought of the oak waiting to be cut and felt a longing for shelves of his own…shelves in the room of a son who’d share his name, a daughter who’d call him Papa. To his consternation, his mind conjured up a picture of a toddler with red hair.

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself. He wanted nothing to do with a woman who practiced medicine
and
liked oil paintings.

The curtain fluttered and he turned. In the doorway stood the shy woman who’d arrived in High Plains in a duster and floppy bonnet, except instead of a canvas coat, she was wearing a calico dress. It didn’t have a single flounce, not a shred of lace. A row of wooden buttons ran from her neck to the vee of the bodice. Her red hair hadn’t changed color, but she’d tamed it into a braid and looped it around her head. As the light struck the plaits, he thought of the swirls in a piece of oak. This woman had stood with him at the river. She’d seen the potential for wheat fields and understood his dream. She’d listened
while he’d prattled on about the mill. He’d liked her, in spite of himself.

As the curtain fell back in place, she stepped deeper into the parlor. “Good morning, Mr. Garrison.”

Two days ago he’d been Zeb and she’d been Nora. That’s how he thought of her, but the moment called for formality. “Dr. Mitchell.”

“Has your eye improved?”

He scowled. “I’m not here as a patient and you know it.”

She raised her brows. “Then why are you here?”

“I heard you bought this house.” He indicated the wall with the painting. “I wanted to know what you’re up to.”

“I’m not
up
to anything,” she said. “I needed an office. Percy kindly found—”

“Percy?” Since when was she on a first-name basis with that Boston sycophant?

Nora indicated a chair. “Please, sit down. I’ll explain.”

“I don’t want to sit.” He sounded childish, but he didn’t care. “I want to know why you bought a house. We agreed on a one-month trial.”

“Not exactly,” she answered. “We agreed you’d
pay
me for one month. I never promised to leave.”

She had a point. He turned his back and looked out the window. The mercantile lay to the east. His own house sat on a rise a quarter-mile to the west. Dr. Nora had plopped down in the center of his life.

Her voice drifted across the room. “I’d be glad to explain. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?”

No way did he want to sit and make small talk. Irked yet again, he faced her. “I don’t want tea. I want answers.”

Poised and patient, she smoothed her skirts and sat. She looked weary…as weary as he felt himself. An unwanted
concern softened his stance, but he refused to sit. Sitting would make them equals.

She folded her hands in her lap. “It started with Alex. When he came down with measles, he had to leave the boardinghouse. Percy had the deed for this house and sold it to me. With Mrs. Jennings’s permission, I brought Alex here.”

“She should have told me,” he said irritably.

“Why?”

“I’m paying her to look after him, that’s why.” If he’d known Alex was ill, he’d have taken him to his house and asked Cassandra to watch him. Or he’d have hired Carolina himself. Since he’d decided to get married, he’d thought about adopting the boy.

“I can’t speak for Mrs. Jennings,” Nora replied. “But I was there when he took ill. He needed a doctor and she asked me.”

Zeb didn’t like the implication at all. If Mrs. Jennings trusted Dr. Mitchell, so would others. If she succeeded with Alex, her reputation would improve and he’d never get rid of her. On the other hand, he didn’t want Alex to suffer. “How’s the boy doing?”

“He’ll be fine.”

Zeb’s next words nearly choked him, but they had to be said. “I’ll pay you for your services.”

“No.” She held up her hand, palm out to stop him. “This isn’t about money. I’ve enjoyed having him.”

Zeb didn’t like feeling beholden to this woman. Neither did he like the motherly glow in her eyes. If he paid for Alex’s medical care, she wouldn’t have a claim to the boy. On the other hand, he saw an advantage to
not
paying her. “May I ask you a question, Dr. Mitchell?”

“Of course.”

“Your salary runs out in a month. If you’re not going to take money for your services, how do you plan on supporting yourself?”

“I’ll accept payment from anyone I treat,” she said. “Just not for orphans.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Mr. Garrison?”

Zeb liked a good fight, but mostly he wanted her to leave High Plains the instant he found a replacement. Matilda Johnson had handed him a weapon this afternoon. He decided to use it. “You should pack your things now, Dr. Mitchell. You don’t have a prayer of winning this town’s respect.”

“I disagree.”

“There’s talk about you.” He sounded grave, even threatening.

“There’s
gossip,
” she said, correcting him. “And it’s unwarranted. As you can see, I’ve hired Carolina Samuels. She’s an excellent nurse and she lives here. At no time will I be alone with a male patient. Does that satisfy you?”

“I’m not the one who’s talking.”

“But you’re
listening.
” She arched her brows. “Perhaps to Mrs. Johnson?”

Zeb stayed silent.

“She dislikes me,” Nora said quietly. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m accustomed to criticism. The Ladies Aid Society has already delivered a letter of concern. It’s insulting, but it’s just paper. I care about just one thing and that’s this town. The people of High Plains deserve a competent physician.”

“I can’t argue with your logic, Doc. What I question is your competence.”

“You didn’t question it when you hired me. As I recall, you described my credentials as—”

“I know what I said.”

“—as impeccable
and
impressive.”

“That was before I met you.”

“You met me on paper,” she insisted. “We exchanged two letters.”

“And not once did you mention your gender.”

“Of course not.” The woman had the gall to look bored. “It’s irrelevant, but we’ve had this talk before, haven’t we?”

Zeb had heard enough of her superior tone. “May I be blunt?”

“Of course.”

“If you’re such a good doctor, what are you doing in a little town in Kansas? Why aren’t you treating rich folks in New York City?”

He expected the question to raise her hackles. Instead, she answered with a tinge of apathy, as if she answered the question every day. “You’re not the only person who’s prejudiced against women. No one would hire me.”

“I can see why.”

She pushed to her feet. “You see their prejudice. You don’t see
me
at all, and you don’t have the knowledge to judge my skills.”

She had a point, but he saw another angle. “I know this town. No one’s going to respect you.”

“I’ll have to change their minds.”

He chuffed. “You can’t. You’re female.”

She indicated books stacked on the floor, waiting for the oak shelves. “I’ve read those books. I’ve studied long hours—”

“A waste of time.”

“You’re wrong.” She raised her hand to her chest in a pledge of sorts. “My younger brother died of asthma. I couldn’t save Ben, but I can help others.”

Zeb snorted with doubt. “Is that a fact?”

“Yes!”

“Tell me, Dr. Mitchell. Who made
you
God?”

“No one,” she said. “But I believe in Him. That’s why I’m here, and why I’m not leaving.”

“That God you worship,” he said mildly. “He sent a tornado to High Plains. He let Pete’s first wife die. Back in Bellville, I saw a man lose his hand when a log bucked against the saw. I’ve—” He almost said he’d loved a woman who’d cut out his heart, but he didn’t want to share that information.

Her eyes softened. “You’ve been hurt, too.”

“Who hasn’t?”

He felt as if his skin had turned into glass, and she could see his broken heart. Her eyes misted with a sympathy he didn’t want and an understanding he feared. They’d met just days ago, yet she knew his innermost thoughts.

“Zeb?” She’d used his given name. Did she want a truce or to remind him of the connection they’d shared at the river?

He kept his voice neutral. “What is it?”

“About Boston…I know you’ve been hurt. I’m sorry.”

His neck hairs prickled. Had Cassandra blabbed to her about Frannie? Nora had made friends with Rebecca and Emmeline. Had they told her he was looking for a wife? The thought made him bitter. He didn’t want Nora Mitchell nosing into his heart. He hardened his gaze. “What are you talking about?”

She wrinkled her nose, a sure sign she’d said more than she intended. “Nothing, really.”

“Spit it out.”

“I’m talking too much.”

She waved her hand as if to fan the air. Instead, it fanned his temper. Dr. Mitchell didn’t know when to be quiet. She had
that
in common with Frannie. And Abigail. Cassandra, too. Tonight, when he saw his sister, he’d have a few choice words regarding her loose tongue. Right now, he had to deal with Dr. Mitchell. He needed a weapon, something that would send her packing to New York. He pointed at the painting. “See that picture?”

“Of course.” Her eyes looked misty.

“That’s where you belong, Doc. In a town house in New York with a husband and six kids. With some fool man who’ll keep you in your place.”

Her cheeks turned redder than her hair. “Stop right there.”

“Women don’t belong in medicine.” His voice rose to a shout. “You should get married and have babies.”

“Get out!”

He felt powerful and he liked it. He also knew he’d been meaner to this woman than he’d been to anyone in his life. Why? It hit him…The anger at Frannie had been simmering for two years. Nora Mitchell had turned up the heat and it had reached a full boil. All the words he’d never said to Frannie had swelled into the ugly beast inside him now. He’d turned into a horrible person, a mean person.

Apologize.

His conscience nearly knocked him off his feet. Yet his pride made him walk out the door before she threw something at him. The two parts of his personality were at war. Was Nora the victim or was he? Zeb didn’t know, but he felt certain of one thing. The war between them had taken a sharp turn, and it wasn’t in his favor. Later he’d decide if he owed her an apology. Right now he needed to pound some nails. Churned up and frustrated, he headed to the town hall where he’d be among men. For today, he’d all the female foolishness he could stand.