Kansas Courtship (3 page)

“I understand.”

“Zeb must have had a fit when he saw you.” The woman looked over her shoulder, as if she still couldn’t believe her eyes. “I don’t know if you heard, but Dr. Dempsey died last week.”

The doctor’s passing meant High Plains needed her more than ever, but Nora’s heart sank. One thing she’d discovered—male doctors didn’t like or trust her, but they never compromised their patients. Dr. Dempsey would have helped her, even if he’d had to hold his nose while doing it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“He was a fine man.” The woman’s voice softened. “If you ask me, he worked himself to death after the tornado.”

“It must have been awful.” Nora thought of the missing twins. How many people had been injured? How many lives had been lost? And the damage to homes and businesses…Repairs had been going on for weeks, yet she’d been staggered by the extent of the work still required.

“At least the church is still standing,” Mrs. Jennings said. “It didn’t get a scratch. I can’t say the same about the town hall. There wasn’t a speck left except the foundation.”

At the top of the stairs, the woman turned down a long hall. Nora saw four doors on each side of the corridor and a single row of wall sconces. A window at the end of the hall shot a beam of light to the carpet. Dust motes floated like fireflies.

Mrs. Jennings opened the second door on the right. “Here’s your room, miss.”

“Please,” Nora said, sounding friendly. “Call me Dr. Nora.”

Mrs. Jennings looked over her shoulder and frowned. “That doesn’t seem right.”

Nora knew she was objecting to the title and not the use of her first name, but she deliberately misunderstood to make a point. If she didn’t ask for respect, she’d never get it. “Nora’s my name, but if you’d prefer to call me Dr. Mitchell, that’s fine, too.”

“Whatever you want, miss.”

Nora held in a sigh. If Zeb Garrison and Mrs. Jennings
were typical of the folks in High Plains, she had a long road ahead of her.

Mrs. Jennings unlocked the door. As Nora stepped inside, she saw a narrow bed, a rough-hewn wardrobe and a vanity with a metal pitcher and washbowl. A red-and-blue quilt decorated the bed, and a window let in fresh air. The room struck her as plain, functional and the loveliest place she’d ever lived because it belonged to her alone.

She set the medical bag on the floor, then smiled at Mrs. Jennings. “This is perfect.”

The landlady huffed. “It is what it is. With the storm, I’ve got guests in every nook and cranny. Six families are living up here, along with an orphan boy from the wagon train. Don’t expect too much quiet.”

“I won’t.” Nora loved children, especially boys who couldn’t hold still.

Mrs. Jennings looked grim. “You’re going to have a hard time, miss.”

“How so?”

“The Ladies Aid Society has certain ideas, especially Matilda Johnson at the mercantile.”

“I met Abigail—”

“Matilda is her mother.” Mrs. Jennings tsked her tongue. “Matilda thinks High Plains should be the next Chicago. She won’t like having a lady doctor.”

“I’ll have to change her mind.”

“It’d be easier to stop another storm.”

Nora said nothing, but her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten in hours. Mrs. Jennings acknowledged the growling with a nod. “Supper’s not until six, but you can ask Rebecca for a bite to eat.”

Nora recalled Mr. Crandall’s praise. “She’s the cook, isn’t she?”

“That’s right. Head to the kitchen and she’ll fix you something.”

“I will. But first I have a meeting with Mr. Garrison. If we could use the parlor—”

“That’s what it’s for.” Mrs. Jennings looked her up and down, taking in the green dress with its fancy sleeves. Nora had worn her best gown to impress Mr. Garrison with her professionalism. Under Mrs. Jennings’s scrutiny, she worried that it made her look snooty.

Nora indicated the skirt with a sweep of her hand. “I’m dressed for a job interview.”

“You’re a pretty thing,” said the landlady. “What do you need a job for?”

I love my work. It’s who I am.
Nora wouldn’t change Mrs. Jennings’s attitude with an argument, so she bit her tongue.

The woman’s face softened into a smile. “Judging by your looks, you won’t be a ‘miss’ for long. Just so you know, I’ve got rules. Supper’s at six. No muddy boots past the entry. And no gentleman callers after eight o’clock. There will be no improper behavior under
my
roof.”

“Certainly not,” Nora agreed, though she had little experience with men and courtship. Growing up, she’d been intent on becoming a doctor. She’d attended social events at her mother’s urging, but she’d never mastered the art of flirting. As her father said, she was too outspoken, too bold. Even too smart. Maybe, but she still wanted a husband. Not just any man, but the man God made just for her, assuming He intended to bestow such a gift.

As Mrs. Jennings turned to leave, two boys ran down the hall. One of them had golden-brown hair and reminded Nora of her brother. She guessed him to be eight years old.

Mrs. Jennings called after them. “Alex! Jonah! Stop it! You’ll bother Miss Mitchell!”

“Oh, no!” Nora protested. “I love children.”

“Good, because with the families, I’ve got ten of ’em here.” She crossed her arms over her bosom. “Zeb’s a good man. He gave me a dairy cow so all these children can have milk.”

“Mr. Garrison did that?”

“He sure did.”

Surely a man who took care of orphans wouldn’t leave High Plains without a doctor. Nora regretted Dr. Dempsey’s death, but his passing helped her position with Mr. Garrison. The town had a need, and she could fill it.

Heavy steps broke into her thoughts. She looked at the doorway and saw Mr. Crandall with her trunk on his wide shoulder. Grunting, he set it at the foot of the bed. “There you go, missy.”

Nora appreciated his friendly tone. “Thank you, Mr. Crandall.”

Mrs. Jennings gave the room a final glance, then put her hands on her hips. “If you need something, ask.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“That’s it, Miss Nora.”

She’d hadn’t been called “Doctor,” but she counted “Miss Nora” as progress. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Jennings followed Mr. Crandall out of the room and closed the door. Alone for the first time in weeks, Nora opened her trunk and unpacked. She hung up her clothes, then filled the basin and washed her face thoroughly with her mother’s lavender soap. The scent took her back to New York and what she’d left behind.

She loved her father and he loved her, but he’d spoken stern words the day she’d left.
This is your last chance, Nora. If you come home, I’ll expect you to put aside that medical nonsense and marry Albert Bowers.

Her father’s business partner was thoughtful, hardworking
and generous. He was also fifty-nine years old and as modern as a powdered wig. She didn’t love him and never would. She
had
to succeed in High Plains. That meant impressing Zebulun Garrison with her abilities. As she washed her face, she prayed God would soften the mill owner’s heart, and that she’d find favor in the eyes of the town.

“Be with me, Lord,” she said out loud. “I belong here. I
know
it. Amen.”

Strengthened, she hung the flour-sack towel on the windowsill to dry. The opening had no glass, only two shutters spread wide to let in the light. To the right she saw the backs of the buildings on Main Street. Below her, she saw Mr. Crandall driving his empty wagon to the livery stable. As he rattled past her window, he tipped his hat to a man coming out of a low building with a new roof.

Squinting against the sun, Nora recognized Zeb Garrison and his flashy vest. The man acknowledged Mr. Crandall with a stern wave, then removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve, not stopping for a moment. From the vantage point of the window, she saw the crown of his head. No bald spot there…just thick hair that needed trimming. Everything about this man, even his hair, was bold, strong and defiant.

A smile played across her lips. She had the same traits. She also had an unshakable faith in God. As long as she stuck to her principles, she’d be safe from prejudice and cruel words. She’d treat Mr. Garrison the way she wanted to be treated. The Bible said to do unto others as you would have it done to you. That’s what she’d do now.

When Mr. Garrison threw stones, she’d duck.

When he criticized her, she’d smile.

When he mocked her, she’d turn the other cheek.

Nora knew all about loving her enemies. She also knew
some enemies were more challenging than others. Mr. Garrison, she feared, would be the most challenging of all. With a prayer on her lips, she lifted the porkpie hat from her medical bag, pinned it in place and went to meet him in the parlor.

Z
eb caught a whiff of lavender. He hated lavender. It reminded him of Frannie.

He’d been staring out the parlor window, thinking about all the work he had to do, when the scent reached his nose. Turning, he saw Dr. Mitchell in the doorway. Instead of the duster that made her look like a farm girl, she wore a green dress with fancy sleeves and a hat with a silly feather. He dipped his chin. “Good afternoon,
Dr.
Mitchell.”

“Good afternoon,
Mr.
Garrison.” Striding forward, she offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, again.”

“Once was enough for me.”

She kept her hand extended. “I’m hoping we can start fresh.”

Zeb smirked. “You can’t unring a bell, Dr. Mitchell.”

“No,” she countered. “But you can ring it again if it strikes the wrong note.”

She stood with her hand loose and ready, wearing a look that dared him to be civil. The moment called for formal manners, the ones he’d learned in Boston, except Zeb didn’t want to be civil. He wanted to fan the air to get rid of her feminine scent. He answered her by indicating a chair. “Please, sit down.”

Without a hint of defeat, she lowered her hand and sat on the sofa. Zeb dropped into a chair across from her, draped a boot over his knee and steepled his fingers. Her chin went up a notch. His went down.

If she wanted an interview, he’d give her one. “Tell me, Dr. Mitchell. Why do you want to practice medicine in High Plains?”

She smiled, but Zeb refused to be disarmed. Never mind her red hair and a dress that showed off her curves. She was female and not fit to practice medicine. She also smelled like Frannie. The scent brought back a rush of memories that gave him a headache.

Dr. Mitchell laced her gloved fingers in her lap. “Thank you for using my title. Most people—”

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then that’s what I’ll call you.”

He expected her to bristle at his tone. Instead, her eyes met his with a patience beyond her years. “Shall we skip the pleasantries and get down to business?”

“Absolutely.”

“In the past year, I’ve applied for fourteen positions and been turned down fourteen times because of my gender. I’ve come to High Plains for a chance to prove myself. Will you give it to me, Mr. Garrison?”

Coming from a woman, the directness surprised him. “Why should I?”

“Because Dr. Dempsey is deceased, and I have the skills to replace him.”

Again, she’d been blunt. Zeb liked her style, but nothing could change her unsuitability. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, being female caused problems—including one he was about to introduce.

“Suppose I give you this chance.” He tapped his index fingers together. “What will you do for an office?”

“I’ll use Dr. Dempsey’s.”

“I don’t think so, Miss—Dr. Mitchell.”

“Why not?”

“Doc’s office was damaged in the tornado. After the storm he used a room in the church.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “A room at the church would do nicely.”

“It wasn’t exactly a room,” Zeb said dryly. “It was more of a closet. Besides, a family took it over the day Doc died. We’re that short of space.”

“I see.” Her eyes dimmed, but nothing else betrayed her surprise. “You must have had plans for the new physician. Whatever you arranged will be fine.”

“I don’t think so, Dr. Mitchell.” Zeb didn’t bother to hide a smirk. “I had planned to invite the new doctor to use part of my house for his practice. The offer was to include room and board in my home.”

Zeb expected a gasp at the news, maybe hysterics or a fluttering hankie. Dr. Mitchell said nothing for a solid minute, then she stood up. “We obviously need an alternative. I’d like to see Dr. Dempsey’s office.”

Zeb stayed seated. “Forget it. I wouldn’t let a dog live there.”

“I’m not a helpless pet,” she countered. “I’m a capable woman who can adapt to harsh conditions. If the building has four walls and a roof, I’ll manage.”

“It has four walls,” he said, pushing to his feet, “but I can’t promise you a roof.”

Doubt flickered across her face. He’d won a small victory, but he didn’t feel good about it. Zeb knew the pain of a dying dream. That’s what he saw on the lady doctor’s face.

In spite of worry in her eyes, she squared her shoulders. “I’d like to see it for myself.”

“We’ll go now, but I warn you. It’s been damaged.”

When she stepped into the entry hall, he passed her with the intention of holding the door. If she’d been a man, he wouldn’t have bothered. Dr. Mitchell didn’t want to admit it, but her gender mattered. Zeb didn’t view women as less intelligent than men. His mother had been as sharp as a whipsaw. Cassandra could play him like a fiddle. As for Frannie, she’d owned his every thought. He’d have died for her, but she’d gone to Paris alone to prove a point.

Zeb wondered if Dr. Mitchell was one of those self-righteous women crowing about equality. What did equal mean anyway? Men and women were different. Any fool could see that…especially a fool looking at Dr. Mitchell in her green dress.

As she passed through the door, the feather on her hat swished by his nose. He found himself taking long strides to keep up with her, watching as she looked across the road to the church. With the sun high and bright, the siding glistened white and the windows turned to silver.

“It’s a lovely church,” she said. “It’s a miracle it survived.”

“Blind luck is more like it.”

She tipped her face up to his. “You don’t believe in miracles, Mr. Garrison?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” she countered. “Not exactly.”

He wanted to know what she meant, but refused to ask. If the survival of the church counted as a miracle, what would she call the tragedy of the missing children? Zeb called it cruel. He’d prayed as a boy, but he didn’t believe in God like Will did. Will’s faith gave him confidence in bleak times, even joy. Zeb had no such foundation.

The dust stirred as they approached Doc’s office. Zeb stopped in front of it, pausing to let her take in the boarded-up windows and chinks in the siding from flying debris. The roof had a hole the size of a wagon, but he expected the walls to hold. The door, half off its hinges, hung like a broken arm.

He indicated the entrance with his chin. “There it is.”

“My goodness.” Her voice wobbled.

Good, he thought. Maybe she’d leave with the Crandalls. Leaving
him
back where he’d started with his doctor search. What would he do if someone broke an arm? And Bess Carter…the girl hadn’t said a word since the storm. Zeb recalled the tornado and how Will had rescued Emmeline Carter and her family, including her fifteen-year-old sister who’d been struck mute after losing the twins. No one knew why Bess couldn’t talk, and Doc Dempsey hadn’t been able to help her.

“May I go inside?” Dr. Mitchell asked.

“Be my guest.” Zeb shoved the door wide and waited for her to pass. Along with lavender, he smelled rot from the building. The fan of light revealed stains on the floor from rain coming through the window, and no one had swept up the broken apothecary jars. The shards, a mix of green, brown and gold, caught the light and glittered like fallen leaves.

Dr. Mitchell surveyed every corner with a keen eye. “It’s a mess.”

“That’s a fact.”

She looked at the empty shelves, then peered into the back rooms. “I don’t see anything that can’t be fixed with a mop and a scrub bucket.”

“You haven’t seen the roof.”

She looked up the stairs. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Suit yourself, but I’ve wasted enough time for today. I won’t hire you.”

Zeb felt bad, but the townspeople would have to understand. No way could he have a female doctor working in his parlor. As for finding another place, he’d already tried and found nothing suitable. He shook his head. “Give up, Miss Mitchell. This isn’t going to work.”

Her eyes filled with cool disdain. “It’s Dr. Mitchell, and I never give up.”

“There’s always a first time.”

“This isn’t it,” she replied. “I have an offer for you. Will you listen?”

“Sure.”

“Hire me for one month. I’ll find an office, but I expect the town to pay for it. As far as room and board, I’ll stay at the boardinghouse. I’d like the cost to be included in our agreement.”

Pete had suggested the same thing. “Sure, why not?” Zeb said generously. She’d never find an office in High Plains. With those terms, she’d be gone in a week, and he could truthfully tell Pete she hadn’t worked out. Tonight he’d write another ad for the
Kansas Gazette.
The Crandalls could take it with the letters waiting at the mercantile.

Suspicion clouded her eyes. “That was too easy.”

“I’m giving you that chance you wanted.” He planted his boots wide and crossed his arms. If she wanted to act like a man, he’d treat her like one. “Name your price.”

“Twelve dollars a week,” she said boldly. “Plus room and board.”

She’d named a high price, expecting to negotiate. Zeb was glad to oblige. “I’ll pay you five. That
includes
room and board.”

“That’s insulting.”

“Yep.”

He wanted to rile her, but she didn’t blink. “This town needs a doctor, Mr. Garrison. You can’t afford to turn me down. Make it ten dollars a week, including room and board, and you have a deal.”

She had a point about the town’s need. Dr. Dempsey’s passing left him with a bad choice—a woman doctor or no doctor at all. For a few weeks, he’d have to tolerate her. “Fine, Dr. Mitchell. Ten dollars a week, it is.”

“Then it’s settled.” She came forward with her hand outstretched to shake on the deal. Again she met his gaze, demanding his respect and daring him to deny it.

Looking down at the beige glove, he saw the lace covering her fingers and the silky ribbon tied at her wrist. This wasn’t a man-to-man agreement. If he shook her hand, he’d notice the shape of her fingers, the warmth of her palm inside the lace. He didn’t want to touch her, but she’d win if he didn’t accept the gesture.

Annoyed, he gripped her fingers, but didn’t squeeze the way he would have shaken a man’s hand. Her bones felt too delicate for a show of strength. Neither could he ignore the scent of lavender.

Dr. Mitchell had no qualms about squeezing
his
hand. Those delicate bones had been deceptive. The woman had an iron grip.

She smiled at him. “You won’t be sorry, Mr. Garrison.”

He already was, but he kept the thought to himself.

Her eyes sparked with determination. “It won’t be easy. I’m well aware of the prejudice I’ll encounter.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” Her gaze hardened into blue glass. “You’re not the first man to ruffle my skirts.”

He couldn’t stop himself from looking her up and down. Pretty. Proud. And as stubborn as winter. He’d heard enough
of her smart talk. “Let me be frank, Dr. Mitchell. I wouldn’t hire you if I had a choice. In the past year, four men interviewed for the position. Not one of them worked out.”

She raised one brow. “Let me guess. Patent medicines for sale?”

“Maybe.” He didn’t appreciate her tone.

“Did anyone bring leeches?”

He shuddered.

“I’m not surprised.” Her voice leveled into friendly banter. “Medicine is changing fast. Twenty years from now,
my
skills will be considered primitive, but right now I’m among the most highly trained physicians in America.”

“You’re also female.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Maybe to you. Not to me.” He put his hands on his hips and stared hard.

The lady doctor stared back, reminding him of the woman in the duster. She’d been all female when she’d smiled a greeting, and he’d liked what he’d seen. He liked her now, too. If it wasn’t for her medical degree, he’d have invited her to supper, maybe taken her on a buggy ride along the river.

She tipped her head to the side. “Tell me, Mr. Garrison. What worries you the most about hiring a female physician?”

“Everything.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“All right.” He thought for a second. “Women are tender-hearted. If a man gets his hand cut off at the mill, you’ll faint.”

“No, I won’t,” she said with a casual wave. “I’ve performed autopsies. They’re gruesome but necessary.”

Zeb’s stomach recoiled. He took another approach. “You’re from back East, a big city with streets and shops. Life is harsh in High Plains. I don’t think you can handle it.”

“I did fine with the Crandalls.”

He snorted. “It didn’t even rain. What about winter? A blizzard can last a week. The snow’s so deep—”

“I’m from New York,” she said impatiently. “I know what snow looks like.”

She had no cause to be irritated. He was trying to warn her, to prepare her for hardships unique to Kansas. “Then tell me, Dr. Mitchell. Have you ever seen a tornado?”

Memories came at him in a roar. Knowing she’d see the upset in his eyes, he strode to the broken window and looked at the sky. He relived the wind buffeting the mill, and hail beating on the roof. He recalled running to town and seeing the wreckage. He’d almost died that day. Others
had
died. He pictured the missing children and felt wretched. He thought of Bess Carter all tongue-tied from what she’d seen.

He heard footsteps on the floor, the swish of skirts. An instant later, Dr. Mitchell laid a gentle hand on his bicep. The touch took his breath as the tornado had done. His muscles clenched beneath her long fingers. Whether from anger or awareness, he couldn’t say.

She spoke in a hush. “I want you to know, Mr. Garrison, I’m sorry for what you’ve lost. The Crandalls told me about Mikey and Missy. They showed me the spot and we prayed—”

“A waste of time.”

“I disagree.” She lowered her hand, but her words hung between them. “God brought me here to serve this town. You can growl all you want—”

“I don’t growl.”

“Fine,” she argued with a smile. “You can grumble, then. But there’s nothing you can do to chase me back to New York.”

“Is that a dare, Miss—” He cocked one brow. “I mean,
Dr.
Mitchell?”