The Doctor Takes a Wife (10 page)

N
o light showed through the windows, either in the doctor's office or the connected house in the back as Sarah strode up the walk in the gathering dusk. Setting the heavy pot of soup on the step, Sarah walked around the yard toward the back, her high-button boots crunching the dead brown grass. A quick glance around showed the buggy parked, its traces empty, but just to be sure he hadn't ridden the horse, she stepped into the small barn and found his chestnut gelding in his stall, busily devouring his oats. The beast looked up, snorted at her, then dipped his head to his feed once more.

Had Nolan already gone down to the hotel for supper? A glance at the watch pinned to her bodice had told her it was only five, but perhaps he'd missed the midday meal and had gone early. She'd knock, just in case.

Repeated knocking produced nothing but an answering silence. She was about to turn and go, but on an impulse, stooped to peer through the waiting room window.

In the dimness she could make out the shape of a
man sprawled in one of the chairs, his feet propped up on another chair, shirtsleeved arms splayed out limply beside him. Nolan's mouth gaped open slightly.

It was his utter stillness that alarmed her. Through the window she could not see any rise and fall of his chest, any movement of his jaw that would indicate Nolan Walker was alive. Oh dear, what if he had died, a victim of the very epidemic he was trying to combat? Could the influenza work that fast? Perhaps it could, if someone was utterly exhausted from his work, as Nolan must be.

With a cry of alarm, she tried the knob and found it unlocked. Maybe she was not too late. Perhaps if he was still breathing, and she summoned aid—Reverend Chadwick would be the closest—they could get him to bed and nurse him back from the brink… She crashed into the room.

The “dead” man came instantly awake, throwing himself into an upright position before his blue eyes were even fully opened.

“Are there wounded, corporal?” he barked out. “How many? How bad off? Are we in retreat? How close are the rebels?”

She uttered a shriek of surprise and jumped back at his rapid-fire questions and sudden violent movement, even as relief flooded over her that he was not dead or dying. “Dr. Walker—
Nolan
—it's me, Sarah Matthews,” she said. “The war is
over
, remember? You're in Simpson Creek, Texas.”

She watched him guardedly as Nolan struggled to focus on her, saw when the realization hit him that he'd
been dreaming, and when recognition dawned in his sharp blue eyes.

“Ayuh,” he said, his voice thick with his “downeast” accent and the remains of sleep. He stood up. “Of course. I…I dozed off for a moment. Just needed a catnap… What time is it?” he asked, rubbing his eyes and then his chin.

“Going on five-thirty.”

He blinked, reminding her of an owl.

“Wh-what are you doing here, Sarah? You—you're not ill, are you?” he asked, a touch of anxiety in his voice. He peered at her closely. “Or are you here for someone else?”

“No, I'm not sick, and I'm not here for anyone else,” she said, seeing the weariness lining his face, and his pallor. “But you're going to be soon if you don't start taking better care of yourself, Nolan. I—I brought you some soup,” she added.

“Soup?” he muttered, looking confused as his gaze fell on her empty hands.

“I left it on the step.” She went out to get the pot.

He was alert enough by the time she came back in to open the door for her. “But why—?”

“Because I guessed that you might have been so busy that you weren't taking time to go to the hotel for a proper meal.”

“You'd be right about that. I was going to walk down there, after I shut my eyes for a minute…that was an hour ago, I think.” He lifted the lid and sniffed the pot's contents, gazing into the mixture of chicken, vegetables and broth like a child might look at a gingerbread house at Christmas. “
Mmm,
still warm.” His face
relaxed from its tense lines and his mouth broadened into a smile. Then his stomach rumbled, loudly, and they both laughed.

“Sarah, I think you arrived just in the nick of time and probably saved my life,” he said. “Will you come into the kitchen and have a bowlful with me?” He took the heavy pot from her and set it on the chair beside him.

She looked at him, wanting to say yes, but knowing it wouldn't be quite proper to be alone with him in his private quarters. She didn't want to keep Prissy waiting for their supper, either, though her friend still hadn't returned from the big house when Sarah came in from the ranch.

“I…I have to get back to the cottage,” she said. “Prissy will be waiting for me, and we're to have company, Prissy's cousin.” She explained again about the unexpected arrival of Prissy's relatives from Burnet, but unlike when she had told her sister, she told Nolan how Vira Tyler had seemed to be in the early stages of an illness.

“Of all the fool things to do!” he snapped. “The newspaper editor was just telling me today how he's had word that the influenza's hit Burnet badly, and Prissy's aunt's came from there, probably bringing it with her. You must stay completely away from her, Sarah, do you hear? You and Prissy both.”

His sharp tone took her aback. “I—I'll try, Nolan, but I don't know if Prissy will. It's her aunt, after all,” she said, her tone mildly reproving.

He sighed. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to sound as if I was issuing orders. It's just that this
influenza's the most virulent I've ever seen, and in case that's what she's got instead of an ordinary catarrh, I don't want your health endangered. Or Prissy's either, for that matter.”

The caring in his tone, and blazing from his blue eyes, touched something deep in her soul.

“There are a lot of people stricken with it around Simpson Creek?”

He nodded, his face grave. “There've been a handful of deaths already between Simpson Creek and San Saba,” he told her. “People who woke up feeling well enough, just a bit tired, who've been on their deathbeds by the next morning. Mostly old folks, though I've seen plenty younger who were hard hit. It starts with the same sneezing and coughing that you said Prissy's aunt is doing. And like anything contagious, it spreads quickest when people are gathered together. I'm going to have to speak to Reverend Chadwick about canceling church services till this is over.”

Her mouth fell open. “Canceling church?” she repeated, aghast at the idea. “How could coming together to pray and sing be harmful?”

His brows knit together and his eyes grew stormy. “Everyone coming to gather in that little building is the very worst thing that could happen. It would only help the sickness spread,” he said, as if incredulous that she would have to ask.

He shrugged. “We physicians don't know how illnesses like this spread, only that they do when people congregate together like that. There's no need to make my job that much harder.”

The condescension that flavored his Yankee voice
lit a spark of irritation in her. “You might consider that the town coming together to worship could make your job easier,” she said.

“And how could
that
possibly be?” he demanded.

“We could pray for you, and for those who were ill,” she said. “Or haven't you ever heard of praying for the sick?” There—she could be patronizing, too.

He blinked. “Yes, of course, and I used to believe in it,” he said.

“'Used to?'” How could she have forgotten that however friendly they had become, they were poles apart in matters of faith? “You think it's impossible that the Lord could care about an influenza epidemic in a little Texas town?”

His face softened, and his gaze fell. “I…I'm sorry, Sarah. I don't mean to quarrel with you. I fear I'm too tired to remember my manners. Please forgive me.”

“Of course,” she murmured, seeing anew the lines of weariness that creased his forehead and cheeks. “And I'm keeping you from eating the soup. But before I go, I had another reason for coming,” she said. “Prissy wanted me to invite you to come down to the cottage for supper tomorrow,” she said. “I imagine you and Anson would have a lot to talk about, since you both served in the war, though of course he was a Confederate. I hope that's not a problem for you?”

In actuality, she thought it might be more of a problem for Anson, so she'd have to make sure he was prepared to be civil to their Yankee doctor.

“And we were going to ask a couple of the Spinsters' Club ladies, those that aren't attached to anyone…” She didn't say other females were being invited to
discourage Anson from flirting with her, for she thought Nolan's presence might be sufficient to accomplish that.

His expression told her that he realized the significance of her inviting him somewhere, but it was followed by one of regret.

“I thank you for the invitation,” he said, “but even if I weren't on a call when suppertime comes, I have to tell you I think any social gatherings are ill-advised right now, for the same reason I believe church should be postponed for a while.”

Her gaze met his, and she saw the pleading for her to understand in those blue depths.

“I suppose you're right,” she said with a sigh. “Very well, if Prissy hasn't already invited the other ladies, I'll tell her not to. But I suspect she's afraid Anson will be bored, and go home to his farm, leaving Vira with them for too long a visit,” she confided. “Why don't you just come, if you're not on a call? We'll leave the invitation open. You have to eat, and so will Anson,” she pointed out reasonably. “We'll understand if you don't stay late afterward, I promise.”

“I really think you ought to go back to your ranch till the threat is over.”

“I just came from there,” she said. “I told Milly not to come into town, since she's expecting, but I can't go running back to the ranch every time something happens.”

He sighed. “Very well, I'll be there if I'm able, Sarah. And thank you again for your thoughtfulness,” he added, gesturing toward the soup.

Sarah had only gone as far as the millinery shop,
which lay midway between the doctor's office and the cottage, though, when she saw Prissy and Anson coming toward her. Even in the gathering darkness, she could see their faces were grave.

“I'm sorry, did you get impatient waiting on me for supper?” she called. “Didn't you see the note I left that I was delivering some of the soup to Dr. Walker?”

Prissy shook her head. “No, it's not that. We've come to fetch the doctor.”

“What's wrong?” Sarah asked, stopping stock-still. She had a feeling she already knew, however.

“Mother's taken very ill, Miss Sarah,” Anson told her, his flirtatious manner gone as if it had never been. “She began having shaking chills while we were eating, and Aunt Martha put her to bed with a hot brick at her feet. She woke up with a high fever just a little while ago. And she's short of breath.”

“Flora said her forehead was so hot she was afraid the sheets would catch fire,” Prissy said, her eyes wide in the shadows. Since both the Mexican housekeeper and Prissy had a penchant for dramatic exclamations, Sarah didn't take the statement at face value, but she knew the situation was serious.

“Mama's staying with her, sponging her forehead and trying to get some willow bark tea into her. Oh, Sarah, please say you found Dr. Walker at home.”

Sarah nodded, reversing her direction and beckoning for them to follow. Poor Nolan. He probably hadn't even had time to eat a bowl of the soup before he'd be forced to leave his home once more.

T
oo hungry to bother reheating the soup, which was at least still tepid, Nolan was just lifting the first spoonful to his mouth when the bell at the door tinkled yet again.

Smothering a most unphysicianly curse, he let the spoon drop with a clatter back in the bowl and got to his feet. If it was anything less than a dire emergency, he promised himself as he trudged down the connecting hallway that led to the waiting room, he was going to tell whoever had come he'd be along in a few minutes after he'd finished his meal. A doctor had to eat, like everyone else. Or perhaps, if he was required to go some distance, he could put some soup in a big mug and gulp it as he drove. It was better than nothing.

When he recognized Sarah's anxious face in the window, however, thoughts of his interrupted meal fled.

He opened the door quickly. “Sarah? What's wrong?” He saw that Sarah was flanked by a worried-looking Prissy and a somewhat younger man he didn't recognize—her cousin from Burnet?

“Oh, Nolan, I'm so sorry to bother you again so soon, but on my way back to the cottage, I met Prissy and her cousin on their way here. Prissy tells me her aunt's taken very badly since I went out to the ranch this afternoon. Oh…sorry,” she added, with an apologetic glance at the other man on the steps. “This is Mr. Anson Tyler, Prissy's cousin. Anson, Dr. Nolan Walker.”

“Mr. Tyler,” he said, acknowledging the other man, and pretending not to see how Anson Tyler had stiffened at the sound of his voice.

“Please, will you come to the house, Dr. Walker? Aunt Vira's burning up with fever, and she's short of breath—” began Prissy.

But Anson Tyler was putting up a hand to stop his cousin's flow of words. “Prissy, we won't be needing this man's services after all,” he snapped, his body rigid, his voice shaking with indignation. “You didn't inform me the man was a Yankee. I won't have him touching my mother, do you hear? I take it there is no other physician in Simpson Creek? I'll escort you ladies to the house, and then I'll saddle a horse and ride for San Saba. There must be a doctor there we can trust.”

Nolan felt his temper kindle at the stiff-necked rebel's foolishness. If not for Sarah's and Prissy's presence, he might well have told Anson Tyler to come back when he was prepared to be sensible and closed his door on him.

But before he could say anything, Nolan saw anger storm over Prissy's normally cheerful features. She rounded on her cousin, stamping a tiny booted foot as
she exploded. “Anson Tyler, don't be a fool! The war is over and Nolan Walker is a fine doctor!” She shook her small fist at him.

Then Sarah chimed in. “Anson, it would take you an hour or more to saddle up and ride in the dark to San Saba, longer still to return with its doctor, even assuming you could find him. What would you do if you found him gone, out tending some sick person there? You'd lose time your mother may not have!”

Prissy turned her back on Tyler and stepped closer to Nolan. “Please forgive my witless cousin, Dr. Walker—we'd be very grateful if you'd come see what you can do for my aunt.”

Sarah looked as if she would very much like to box Tyler's ears, but she turned her pleading gaze on Nolan, too. “Please?” she murmured, and he knew in that moment he could refuse her nothing. He waited for consent from Anson Tyler, though. He could see pride and loyalty to the lost cause of the South warring with filial love and practicality, and he saw the moment the latter virtues won.

“Very well, Priscilla, Sarah, perhaps you're right in this matter,” he conceded. “Under the circumstances, I will set patriotism aside
for the moment
—” he said, his dark eyes warning Nolan “—and let this Yankee sawbones see what he can do for my mother. But take care, Yankee—I'm putting you on notice that we'll not accept any stinting in her care.”

Nolan set his teeth to prevent a contemptuous retort, saying only “If you'll excuse me, I'll just get my bag.”

As he retraced his steps down the passageway, he
heard Prissy snap, “Anson Tyler, if you don't stop being such an
idiot
, I'm never going to speak to you again!”

Nolan grinned. Texas women might appear fragile, but they had backbones of steel, and they didn't suffer fools gladly.

 

Sarah waited with Prissy, Anson and Mayor Gilmore in the parlor at the foot of the stairs while Mrs. Gilmore accompanied Nolan up the stairs to the guest room where her sister lay. They were gone, it seemed, for an eternity; when he returned to the parlor alone, his face was bleak.

Anson had jumped up when he came into the room. “How's Mother doing? What do you think about her chances, Dr. Walker? You didn't leave her alone, did you?” he asked, with a trace of his previous suspicion.

“She's sleeping at the moment, sir. Your aunt is staying with her while I speak to you. I've given her something for the fever and the cough.”

“You can save her, can't you?” Anson pleaded, his eyes wide with dread.

Prissy patted his shoulder soothingly. “If anyone can, he can, Anson.”

“I don't know,” Nolan said honestly. “Tonight will be critical. Much depends on the lady's constitution.”

Sarah thought Anson looked even more frantic when he heard those words. Prissy had already told her that Aunt Vira suffered many ailments, and her heart wasn't
strong. The excess weight she carried probably wasn't helpful, either.

“Have you applied a mustard plaster? The doctor in Burnet swears by them,” Anson said eagerly.

Nolan shook his head. “I haven't, but when I arrived, the housekeeper informed me she had. I left it on—it will do no harm.”

“How about a purgative?” Mayor Gilmore suggested. “Calomel syrup?”

Again, Nolan shook his head. “A lot of physicians use it, but I see no value in a medicine whose chief ingredient is toxic mercury.”

“How about bleeding her?” Anson said. “Surely you've thought of that.”

Sarah thought she detected a flash of impatience in Nolan's face, but it was gone too quickly to be sure. His next words, uttered flatly, though, tended to confirm what she'd seen.

“The option crossed my mind, yes, but it's my belief it only weakens the patient,” he said. “Some of my fellow doctors did it during the war, when they could think of nothing else to do. Their patients died, for the most part.”

“But—surely there's something you can
do?
” Anson demanded indignantly.

“Mr. Tyler, in the Hippocratic oath, physicians are instructed ‘First, do no harm.' I realize it's difficult to wait out the hours, but I've treated her fever and her cough, and propped her up on pillows so she can breathe more easily. It's called supportive therapy. I
will continue to watch over her. After that, it's up to the patient.”

“And up to the Lord,” Sarah said, startling herself when she realized she had spoken out loud. “I've been praying…I'm sure we all have been,” she said, looking around the parlor at the others. “Perhaps we could send for Reverend Chadwick.”

“I'll send Antonio,” Mayor Gilmore said, getting heavily to his feet. He appeared relieved to have something to do. Anson sank back into the chair, nodding in acceptance.

Nolan's eyes met hers, and in them, she saw gratitude that she had calmed those in the room with her words.

Lord, please, if it's Your Will, save Mrs. Tyler and show Nolan that You are indeed the Great Physician. Help him to realize that You are present, working alongside him.

 

He was awake, but in that not-fully-focused state in which one part of his mind watched the labored rise and fall of the elderly woman's chest and heard the whistle of her breathing, while the rest of his mind roamed free, visiting the past, pondering the future, when some slight sound—a rustle or the creak of a floorboard behind him—brought him to full alertness.

He turned, and saw Sarah standing there, a candle in its holder in one hand, a plate with a covered bowl in the other.

A glance at the clock told him it was midnight. “Sarah? Sarah, you should not be here,” he said softly, rising with the stiffness that long stillness brought and
coming to meet her. He'd thought she must have gone back to the cottage long since and be fast asleep.

She came into the circle of light provided by the lamp on the bedside table. “I couldn't sleep,” she confessed in a whisper, her gaze going to the woman on the bed. “How is Mrs. Tyler?”

“About the same,” he said. “Soon it will be time to give her some more of the willow bark tea, if I can arouse her enough for her to safely swallow. She was cooler for awhile, but now her fever's climbing again. What is this you're carrying?”

“I got to thinking about how you never did get to eat your supper,” she said. “I thought I'd warm up some of that soup and offer to sit with her while you eat it.”

“Dear Sarah,” he said, smiling at her in the flickering light. “You are determined to feed me, aren't you? I'm so tired I'm almost past the point of hunger, but this will be very welcome,” he said, taking the plate from her. He saw that there were also sandwiches next to the covered bowl of soup. “But come back into the anteroom, here, and sit with me while I eat. I don't want you exposed to her illness any more than you have already been.”

She hesitated. “But Mrs. Tyler—”

“Will be well enough for a few minutes,” he finished for her. “I'll be able to hear any change in her breathing from here,” he said, gesturing her into the adjoining room, where a small table and a pair of chairs stood.

“Who came in, after I came upstairs?” he asked her. “I heard the door open and close, and voices.”

“Reverend Chadwick,” she told him. “He's down-
stairs, keeping a prayer vigil. He said to call him if you needed him.”

He absorbed the fact. “He's a good man. Did you tell him what I said about canceling church services?”

She nodded. “He said he'd pray about it tonight. If he does decide to cancel them, he could put out the word around town, but there's always a chance people from the outlying ranches wouldn't hear and would show up anyway.”

“But there'd be fewer of them. Did the Gilmores and Mrs. Tyler's son go to bed?” he inquired in between spoonfuls of soup. “Prissy, too?”

She nodded.

“That's good. They're going to need their rest tonight, in order to be strong enough to combat this influenza if and when it strikes them. After being around Mrs. Tyler so closely today, I fully expect one or more or them to come down with it,” he told her. “Especially her son, who's been around her from its onset.”

“I'll be here to help take care of them,” she told him, her gaze meeting his steadily.

She was as brave and selfless as any of the sturdy male assistants who'd served with him in the battlefield tents, he thought, though slender and dainty. No wonder he was falling in love with her.

“I don't want you ill, Sarah, but I may have to take you up on that. So you'd best go now and get some rest yourself, in case I have to call on you for nursing care.”

“I will in a minute, Nolan, but before I go, I have a
question for you, something I've been wondering about for a long time now.”

“Yes?” He could not imagine what it was, but her lovely face was serious.

“Will you tell me what were you doing in Brazos County, after the war, when you wrote me from there?”