Kansas Courtship (2 page)

His frank gaze reminded her of her own lackluster appearance, and she became acutely aware of what he was seeing…a woman with red hair in a dirty coat. She didn’t appreciate his critical stare, especially after the way his eyes had initially sparked with male interest. As dusty as a prairie dog, she stared back to remind him of his manners.

His gaze narrowed with disgust. As he lowered his chin to speak, Abigail waved for attention. “Zeb?” she murmured.

Looking irked, he gripped the blonde’s gloved fingers and lifted her, steadying her as she swayed. Abigail Johnson didn’t
fool Nora for a minute. The woman had faked a swoon to gain Mr. Garrison’s attention. Judging by his demeanor, he knew this as well.

After steadying the blonde, he turned back to Nora. His lips thinned to a line. “The interview’s over, Miss Mitchell. You’ll be leaving with the Crandalls.”

“No, sir,” she answered. “I will
not
be leaving. You promised me an interview. I expect a chance to prove myself.”

“You just did, Dr.
N.
Mitchell.”

“I never said I was male. You assumed—”

“You didn’t say you weren’t.”

“When you sign a letter, do
you
tell people you’re a man?”

“Of course not.”

Nora fought to stay calm. “Do you sign your letters, ‘Zebulun Garrison, Member of the Human Race, Male’?”

His stare could have boiled water.

The blonde tugged on his sleeve. “Zeb, please! I want to go inside.”

“Wait here,” he snapped at Nora.

She hadn’t taken orders since medical college, not even from her father. She wanted the respect of her title, but she did
not
want a public scene when they discussed the terms of her employment. Neither did she want to have that talk wearing the duster, with dirt on her face.

“I’ll be at the boardinghouse as we arranged,” she said to him. “I’ll expect you this afternoon. Is two o’clock acceptable?”

He stared at her for five long seconds. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“I have as much
nerve
as you.”

His mouth curved into a bitter smile. “I doubt that,
Miss
Mitchell. I’ll be at the boardinghouse at one o’clock. I have work to do.”

He’d changed the time to make a point. She’d have to hurry to get ready, but she’d manage. “Fine,” she said.

“Fine,” he replied.

The blonde gave Nora a nasty look, then gripped Mr. Garrison’s arm and steered him into the mercantile. As they passed through the door, Mr. Crandall came out. “How ya doing, missy?”

“Just fine,” she answered. “I thought I’d walk to the boardinghouse. Would you deliver my trunk when you’re done here?”

“Sure thing, girl.” He held out his big hand. “It’s been a pleasure hauling ya.”

Nora clasped it in both of hers. “The pleasure was mine. And remember, if you or the missus need a doctor, I’m here.”

His gray eyes turned serious. “I will, miss. But I’m worried about ya. Mr. Garrison’s a mite bent out of shape. If you need a ride back to Saint Joseph, just holler. The wife and I leave in the morning.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I hope so.” He shook his head. “That man doesn’t think much of females. Might be different if he had himself a wife like mine.”

Nora had enjoyed the older couple, bickering and all. “You and Mrs. Crandall were very kind to me.”

He tipped his hat. “Good day, miss. I’ll see to that trunk of yours.”

As he turned to leave, Nora realized she needed directions. She called back to Mr. Crandall. “Would you point me to the boardinghouse?”

“Go that way.” He jerked his thumb down the dusty street. “Turn right at the end and you’ll see it. Mrs. Jennings runs the place. She’s on the crabby side, but you’ll like her cook, Rebecca. She makes the best meals in Kansas.”

“Thank you.”

Gripping her medical bag, Nora paced down the street, avoiding the broken boardwalk as she took in buildings with boarded-up windows. Some of the structures were brand new. Others were a mix of wood weathered by time and fresh lumber. At the end of the street she saw a whitewashed church with glass windows and a perfect roof. A cross topped a bell tower and pointed at the sky. The sight of it gave Nora hope. She refused to be shaken by anything—not tornadoes and not Zebulun Garrison. Before she left New York, she’d prayed for God’s will to be done in her life. Surely the Lord wouldn’t let her down.

As for Mr. Garrison, he’d met his match. When he arrived at the boardinghouse, she wouldn’t be wearing a duster. She’d look her best and be armed with her medical degree, a quick wit and her good intentions. She’d been asked to come for an interview, and she intended to hold him to his word. If he thought he could disrespect her, she’d be glad to set him straight.

Z
eb handed Abigail off to her mother, who ran the mercantile along with Abigail’s father, and left the store. Ever since he’d let it slip that he wanted a wife, he’d felt like a rabbit in a hunt. Abigail had been the most obvious, but he’d received supper invitations from half a dozen families with daughters, including Winnie Morrow and her mother. Either Winnie or Abigail would do for a wife. He just had to choose one over the other.

As he crossed the street, he saw Mr. Crandall driving to the boardinghouse. In the wagon sat a trunk that had to belong to Dr. Nora Mitchell. A woman! Of all the fool things…If Doc Dempsey hadn’t died last week, Zeb wouldn’t even speak to her. As things stood, the town desperately needed a physician. At Doc’s funeral, Zeb had taken comfort in knowing Dr. Mitchell was on his way.

Her
way, he corrected himself.

Stifling an oath, he headed for the livery to tell Pete Benjamin the news. Of all the people in High Plains, the blacksmith surely understood the need for a physician most personally. A year ago, Pete’s first wife, Sarah, had died in childbirth,
and the baby had been lost with her. Dr. Dempsey, a gentleman in his eighties, had done his best, but his methods were old-fashioned at best and lethal at worst.

At the funeral, the first in High Plains, Zeb had set his mind on finding a skilled physician. He’d received a dozen letters and had interviewed four men. He didn’t think the choices could get any worse, but he’d been wrong. No way would he hire a woman. Zeb dreaded giving the bad news to Pete. The livery owner had remarried and found happiness with Rebecca Gunderson, the boardinghouse cook. One of these days he’d be a father again.

Pete knew the need for a good physician most personally, but Zeb had strong feelings, too. As long as he lived, he’d be haunted by the aftermath of the tornado. How many people had suffered because Doc Dempsey couldn’t keep up? Some had died instantly. Others had lingered for days with festering wounds. Doc had done his best, but he’d lacked the skill and stamina to treat all the injured. On that horrible day, Zeb had renewed his vow to find a skilled physician for High Plains.

As he neared the livery, he gritted his teeth against a flare of temper. Not only had Dr. Mitchell lied about her gender, she’d left him with egg on his face. Just last week, he’d bragged to Will Logan that he’d found the perfect man for the job. Dr. Mitchell had impeccable credentials, including a letter of reference from Dr. Gunter Zeiss, a name Zeb recognized from his cavalier days in Boston. Dr. Zeiss, a famous German neurologist, had praised Dr. Mitchell as a skilled diagnostician and a brilliant clinician. He’d described his “colleague” as talented, dedicated and a true humanitarian.

In Zeb’s opinion, Dr. Zeiss had more brains than common sense. No way could a woman handle the rigors of doctoring.

As he neared the livery stable, he backhanded the sweat off his brow. The day, already warm, turned insufferable as he
neared the forge. Heat spilled in waves off the brick table where Pete was pounding a glowing piece of iron. Between caring for horses and making everything from plow blades to door latches, the blacksmith was the busiest man in town.

The men had known each other for years. Zeb saw no need for small talk as he peered into the gloom. “I’ve got bad news.”

Pete kept hammering. “What happened?”

“Dr. Mitchell arrived.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I’m not.”

The blacksmith grunted. “Another dud?” He looked as glum as Zeb felt about the situation.

“Remember when that letter arrived? You said nothing could be worse than the last fellow, and I said you were wrong. It
could
be worse.”

“I asked how, and you said the new doctor could be a woman.”

“That’s right.”

Pete kept hammering. “Are you telling me—”

“I sure am,” Zeb said with disgust. “Dr. N. Mitchell isn’t Norman or Ned. Her name’s Nora.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Pete murmured.

“I’m sending her back. She can leave with the Crandalls.”

Pete’s hammer pinged in a steady rhythm. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s the only answer.” Zeb took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat off his neck.

The blacksmith kept working. “With Doc’s passing, maybe you should give the woman a chance. You said yourself she’s qualified.”

“I said
he
was qualified. This isn’t a job for a woman and you know it.”

Pete held up the piece of metal, inspected it with a sharp eye
then put it back in the fire. “Seems to me a female doctor’s better than no doctor at all.”

Not in Zeb’s opinion. “You know as well as I do she won’t last. Either she’ll get fed up and go back to New York, or she’ll get married and quit the medicine business. No woman is cut out for that kind of work.”

“I don’t know,” Pete said. “Rebecca’s talking about opening an inn. I’d be a fool to try and stop her.”

“That’s different.” Zeb frowned at the object in Pete’s hand. “She’ll be cooking and cleaning like she always does. It’s woman’s work.”

Pete huffed at him. “I wouldn’t say
woman’s work
with that tone if you want to keep enjoying my wife’s good cooking. Rebecca works as hard as I do.”

“I’m sure she does,” Zeb drawled. “But it’s not the same as what you do.”

“Maybe.” Pete sounded wry. “She’ll also be keeping the books, ordering supplies, hiring folks and bossing everyone around.”

“So?”

“Isn’t that what
you
do?” Pete argued. “Especially the ‘bossing’ part?”

Zeb faked a scowl. “Are you picking a fight?”

“No.” Pete’s voice lost its humor. “I’m asking you to give the lady doctor a chance. Aside from being female, how does she seem?”

Beautiful. Kind. Brave.

Before he’d seen the medical bag, he’d felt like a love-struck adolescent. Her blue eyes, wide and innocent, had a spark of daring he admired. When she’d lifted her lips in a smile, he’d thought of kissing her and wondered if his search for a wife had come to an end. Then Abigail had faked another swoon and the woman had grabbed that heavy case.

“Zeb?”

“What?”

“You didn’t answer the question.” Pete’s lips turned up. “What is she like?”

“Normal, I guess.” Except for that hair. He’d never seen anything like it.

Pete pulled the metal from the fire, inspected it and went back to hammering. “
Normal
is more than I can say for that last fellow.”

Zeb had to agree. Not one of the four men he’d interviewed had met his standards. They’d nicknamed the last one “Dr. Gruesome” when he’d talked about exhuming graves for his “research.” No way could Zeb see him birthing babies.

He could see Dr. Mitchell at a birthing, but did she have the grit to cut off a man’s leg? Of course not. Zeb had seen mill accidents in Bellville, including a mistake that had cut off Timmy Cooper’s hand. A woman wouldn’t have the stomach for such things. Most men didn’t, either.
He
didn’t, though he’d witnessed his share of injuries.

Pete held up the piece of iron and looked again at the color. The orange had cooled to red, so he put aside the hammer, lifted a chisel and began to shape the edge of a hoe blade. His eyes twinkled with mischief.

“So,” he said. “Just how
normal
does the lady doctor look? Is she pretty?”

Zeb scowled. “She’s pretty enough, not that it matters to you. You’ve got Rebecca.”

“And no woman’s lovelier,” Pete replied. “I was thinking about you.”

“Don’t.”

Pete chuckled. “The whole town’s in on it, you know.”

Last month Zeb had let it slip to Pete he was
considering
marriage. Abigail’s mother, Matilda Johnson, had overheard and started pushing Abigail in his path. The Ladies Aid Society had started buzzing and Zeb had received six supper invitations in two days. The attention irked him. “I wish I’d kept my mouth shut,” he said to Pete.

With his arms crossed over his chest, he told his friend about Abigail faking another swoon, how the lady doctor had jumped to her rescue and how Abigail had taken her down a peg.

Pete’s brows snapped together. “I don’t like the Johnsons. I never will.”

“I don’t blame you.” Zeb knew the history. After the tornado, Mrs. Johnson had accused Pete and Rebecca of immoral behavior in the storm cellar where they’d taken shelter together. She’d said hateful things about Rebecca until Pete proposed marriage to stop the talk. Still grieving Sarah and their child, the blacksmith had taken the high road when he’d done nothing wrong. Zeb admired his friend’s integrity and wanted to match it by providing a real doctor. Unfortunately, the only doctor within a hundred miles was female.

The blacksmith looked Zeb in the eye. “If the lady doctor stood up to Abigail, she’s got my vote for staying.”

“I don’t know, Pete.”

“What’s the harm in giving her a chance?”

Zeb shook his head. “What if she kills someone with her incompetence?”

“She just might be a good doctor,” Pete replied. “Besides, Doc did that already.”

Zeb looked beyond Pete through the open door and flashed back to the day of the tornado. Doc did his best, but people had died because he couldn’t move fast enough. Zeb’s gaze narrowed to the backside of Dr. Dempsey’s former office. The tornado had damaged the roof, so Doc had used a closet at the
church as an infirmary. Zeb had a place for the new physician, but his plan wouldn’t work with a female.

“You got any ideas?” he said to Pete.

“Hire her for a month,” the blacksmith replied. “See how she does.”

The idea had merit. Zeb could place another ad in the
Kansas Gazette.
While he waited for replies, the lady doctor could treat sore throats and hangnails. “It would buy time,” he said. But where could he
put
her for that time? No, his first instinct was right—the best solution would be for her to leave in the morning with the Crandalls.

“Who knows?” Pete replied. “She might work out just fine.”

Zeb doubted it. Thanks to Frannie, he knew all about women like Dr. Nora Mitchell. She was ambitious. She’d do anything—even twist the truth—to get her way.

With sweat beading his brow, he recalled the day Frannie left him standing on the church steps, engagement ring in hand. Plain and simple, she’d jilted him for her career. Losing the love of his life had changed him the way Pete’s pounding had shaped the hoe. Like the iron, Zeb’s heart had been red-hot and pliable. He’d have done anything for Frannie. After being jilted, his heart had cooled to black.

So had his soul. In Zeb’s opinion, the Almighty was either lazy or cruel. Zeb had no love for a God who ignored tornadoes and let children be snatched away. He feared Him, though. Who wouldn’t?

He wondered what Dr. Mitchell would say about such matters, then decided he didn’t care. Aside from telling Pete about the lady doctor, he had other business with the blacksmith. With the need for lumber, Zeb was running the mill eighteen hours a day. Long hours meant more stress on men and equipment, but he had no choice. A half-dozen buildings
needed major repairs before winter, and he’d vowed to finish the town hall in time for a summer jubilee. He had a month to go and needed the sawmill at full power. But with the long hours, there were equipment breakdowns at least twice a week.

“A blade lost a few teeth yesterday,” he said to Pete. “Can you fix it?”

“Bring it tomorrow.”

Pete inspected the hoe, set it down and whipped off his heavy gloves. “How’s the town hall coming along?”

“It’s framed,” Zeb answered. “I’ve got a crew working on the roof.”

The men slipped into an easy conversation about wood and welding, things they understood. Women weren’t on that list. Zeb opened his pocket watch, a gift he treasured from Mr. Gridley, and saw he had two minutes to get to the boardinghouse. “I’ve got to go see that lady doctor.”

The blacksmith put his gloves back on. “Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

Zeb doubted it, but for his friend’s sake he’d give her a chance. For
her
sake, he intended to spell out what she’d be facing. Once she saw the tornado damage, particularly Doc’s old office, she’d be crazy to stay in High Plains.

Considering she’d been crazy to become a doctor, the thought gave him no comfort.

With her medical bag in hand, Nora knocked on the front door of the boardinghouse. No answer. She knocked again, more boldly this time.

A middle-aged woman with a tight bun flung it open. “What is it, miss?”

“I’m Dr. Mitchell. I believe you have a room for me?”

“You’re not Dr. Mitchell,” she said. “You’re a woman.”

“I’m both.” Nora tried to disarm her with a smile, but she had no expectations. In her experience, older women were as resistant to a female doctor as men, even more so.

The woman appeared honestly confused. “Does Zeb know about this?”

“Yes.” Nora spoke through tight lips. “You must be Mrs. Jennings.”

“That’s right.” She buried her hands in her apron. “The room I’ve got is plain at best. You’re not going to like it, miss.”

“All I need is a bed and a dresser.” Nora had had fine things in New York. She’d enjoyed them, but she didn’t need high-class furniture to be comfortable. She indicated the duster. “I’m meeting Mr. Garrison, and I’m eager to freshen up. Could you show me to my room?”

The woman hesitated, then heaved a sigh. “I guess. You’ll need to sleep somewhere.”

Nora followed her into the entry hall. To the left she saw a parlor with an upholstered divan, side chairs and tables decorated with lace doilies. The room could have been in a Boston town house except for the smell of Kansas dust.

Mrs. Jennings indicated a row of hooks by the door. “Put your duster there.”

Nora set down her medical bag, slipped out of the filthy garment and hung it up. Later she’d shake out the dust. Satisfied, she picked up her medical bag and followed the landlady up the stairs.

Mrs. Jennings ran her hand along the railing. “I’ve got to warn you, miss. This town’s not expecting a lady doctor.”