Isaac leaned over her shoulder, nuzzling her cheek. “What delights you so?”
She reached and caressed the side of his face, getting lost in the feel of his skin against her fingertips. “Life. It’s a glorious thing.”
The Doctor’s Woman
Dedication
As always and forever, to the Lover of my soul.
Acknowledgments
Mark Griep: for putting up with me for thirty-two years
Ane Mulligan & Elizabeth Ludwig: for your sweet slash-and-burn skills
Shannon McNear: for sharing your horse expertise and encouragement
Annie Tipton: for believing in me and my writing
Joe Whitson & Matthew Cassady: for your wealth of historical information
Chapter One
Mendota, Minnesota
1862
Emmy Nelson had lived with death for as long as she could remember. She’d watched it happen. Witnessed the devastating effects. Wept with and embraced those howling in grief. Even lost her betrothed—a man she respected, maybe even loved.
But she’d never tasted the true bitterness of it until now—and the acrid flavor drove her to her knees. Early-November leaves crackled like broken bones beneath her weight, but alone at last, she gave in.
“Oh Papa.”
Did that ragged voice really belong to her?
Her tears washed onto his grave like a benediction. How long she lay there, crying, she couldn’t say; long enough, though, to warrant Aunt Rosamund’s manservant, Jubal Warren, to put an end to it.
“Miss Emmaline.” Jubal’s footsteps padded across the backyard of the home she’d shared with her father, stopping well behind her. “Time we leave, child.”
Swallowing back anguish, she forced sorrow deep and waited until it lodged behind her heart. She’d pull it out later, when there were no eyes to watch her grieve.
She flattened her palm on the freshly dug earth and whispered, “Neither of us wanted to say goodbye, did we, Papa?”
Overhead, tree branches groaned in the wind. Fitting, really. The death of a dream and a loved one ought to be blessed with a dirge.
“Miss Emmaline?” Jubal insisted.
This was it, then. Slowly, she rose, wiping the dirt from her hands and the pain from her soul. For now, anyway. She’d put off moving to Aunt Rosamund’s in Minneapolis far too long. But walking away from a lifelong hope of settling in Mendota took more than courage.
It took time.
“Doc Nelson? Doctor!” Men’s shouts carried from the front of the house. Clearly the news of her father’s death hadn’t spread as far as she’d imagined.
With a last sniffle, Emmy turned her back on her past and walked away, Jubal at her heels.
In front of the cottage, two lathered horses snorted on the road, distressing her own mare, hitched to a packed cart in front of them. Their riders—dressed in military blue—pounded on the office door. “Doc, open up! There’s been an accident.”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you’ll find no help here.”
They pivoted at her voice. Sweat dotted the brow of the shorter man, confusion the other. “Excuse us, miss, but …” The taller of the two squinted. “Hey, yer the doc’s daughter. Sorry to bother you, Miss Nelson, but where’s he at? We need him.”
“The doctor … my father …” She glanced at Jubal for help. How to explain when her chest cinched so tightly, she could hardly breathe?
Jubal stepped forward. “Doc Nelson passed away, going on two weeks ago, now.”
One fellow slapped his hat against his leg with a curse. A curious reaction, one that pasted a scowl on Jubal’s weathered face.
“What of the fort’s doctor?” she asked. “Why didn’t you seek him?”
“Doc Brandley left for the front at Antietam back in September. We been expectin’ a replacement ever since, but he hasn’t arrived yet.”
The tall soldier stalked forward, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, torment clearly trapped inside his skin. He stopped in front of her, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Whatever had happened at the fort couldn’t be good.
“We need a doctor. Now. It’s Sarge’s leg. We tied it off as best we could, but the blood was still comin’ when we left. It’s beyond what any of us can fix. Next to your father—God rest him—yer the best we got.” He peered at her, his voice frayed at the edges. “Will you come?”
Jubal stepped in front of her. “Miss Nelson is expected in Minneapolis.”
Shoving his cap back onto his head, the shorter man darted around Jubal. “It’ll take us too long to get help from the city, miss. Our sergeant could be dead by then.” He stepped closer, smelling of horses and desperation. “Surely your father taught you some about healing.”
Her throat closed. There was no way the soldier could know how his words brought her papa back to life….
“You have a healing gift, Daughter. It’s not for man to chide what God’s given. Never be ashamed of what you are.”
She nibbled her lip, turning over the memories and examining them in the weak November sunlight. Should she go? Papa would not only understand her wanting to help, he’d ordain it. Aunt Rosamund, however, would have the vapors.
“Please, miss. It was my bullet what tore him up. I never shoulda—” The tall man’s voice cracked, and he wheeled about, head hanging like a whipped hound.
How could she refuse that?
“Very well.” She tightened her bonnet strings as she walked to the back of the cart. Jubal protested her every step. Ignoring him, she snatched her father’s worn leather bag then faced the men. “If one of you wouldn’t mind riding along with Jubal here, I believe it will be faster if I take one of your mounts.”
The tall man’s eyebrows dove for cover beneath the brim of his cap. The shorter just strapped her bag to the side of his bay. Jubal prophesied the wrath of God and Aunt Rosamund.
And all gasped when she hauled herself astride and snapped the horse into motion.
It was a hard ride, dirt and rocks flying behind her and the soldier. The path to the fort wasn’t well used from this direction, making it a challenge to stay in the saddle. By the time they charged through the wooden gates of Fort Snelling, her thighs ached from holding on and her fingers from gripping the reins. The soldier halted in front of the dispensary and hopped down. She followed suit, her feet barely touching the ground before he unstrapped the leather bag and shoved it into her hands. Had her father felt this unprepared, clutching his tools, dashing through a door into moaning and mortality?
Inside, a soldier lay on a table, soaked in blood and sweat. A woman hovered over him, wiping his head with a cloth.
Emmy darted into action with a “pardon me” to the woman and a visual assessment of the man’s leg. Ruined flesh gaped below the poor cloth tourniquet, but at least the fabric held.
Straightening, she unbuttoned her coat and hung it on a peg then grabbed a stained apron off another, all the while spouting orders. “I’ll need a bite stick for his mouth, plenty of brandy or whatever alcohol is on hand, and a poultice of milkweed and comfrey. Oh, and two strong men to hold him down.”
“Are you mad?” A deep voice boomed behind her. “What you need is a bone saw and a tenaculum!”
She whirled.
Framed in the doorway, a broad-shouldered man shrugged out of a coat—a well-tailored blue woolen. His green eyes assessed her as though deciding which part of a cadaver to cut up first.
She stiffened. Who did this arrogant newcomer think he was? She flashed her own perturbed gaze at the soldier and the woman who had yet to carry out her orders. “I thought you said you required my help?”
The soldier shrugged. “Seems the new doc just arrived, Miss Nelson.”
“That’s Dr. Clark, if you don’t mind.” The man stalked past the soldier to a washbasin, rolling up his sleeves to the elbows. Dipping his hands in, he cast her a dark look over his shoulder. “And for God’s sake, wash your hands. You look as if you’ve just ridden in from the
backcountry.”
Resisting the urge to hide her fingernails, she lifted her chin like a shield before battle. “Doctor Clark, if amputation is what you’re about, you might as well sign the man’s death warrant, for he’ll have no livelihood out here with one leg.”
“If that leg remains attached, I assure you I will be signing the man’s death certificate, and you’ll be the one to blame. Do you really want that on your head?” His voice lowered. “Now are you going to assist me or not, Nurse?”
She sucked in a breath. Should she back down? Or worse … humiliate herself and admit she wasn’t a trained nurse at all?
James Clark hid his admiration for the feisty woman beneath a scowl. She was a confident one, he’d give her that, though a field nurse likely had to be strong to survive in these backwoods. Intelligence lived behind those blue eyes, flashing like a lightning strike. Strength pulled a jaunty line to her lips. Sweet heavens! Would that they’d met under different circumstances, for very likely, this was a woman who’d not be swayed by convention. A refreshing change from the ladies out East. Grabbing the brush at the side of the basin, he attempted to scrub away such a thought along with the travel grime from beneath his nails.
Miss Nelson’s shoes clacked across the wooden floor, clipped and brisk. Water splashed into the porcelain bowl next to his. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, Doctor”—she shot him a sideways glance—“but with a steady administration of laudanum to keep the patient still, I’ve seen milkweed and comfrey work miracles.”
Bah! He snatched the towel off a hook, rattling the washstand with the force of it. This was just the sort of backward medicine he expected to encounter and furthermore … furthermore …
His shoulders sank. Furthermore, this was the entire reason Dr. Stafford had sent him out here. If he didn’t make it past this hurdle, he’d never get that fellowship at Harvard Medical School—the one his father had spent his life on pushing him toward.
Gritting his teeth, James crossed to the patient’s side and examined the leg. The flesh beneath the knee was mangled, a hotbed for incubation should gangrene decide to grow. What to do? Dare he try the folkish cure suggested by the snip of a woman?
The fellow writhed, pumping out a fresh wave of blood—and making up James’s mind. “Heat an iron, and I’ll need those instruments. Now!”
Miss Nelson darted over from the basin. “But Dr. Clark—”
His gaze locked onto hers. “Either we are a team, Miss Nelson, or you can walk out that door.” He angled his head toward the entrance. “What’s it to be?”
Crimson bloomed up her neck and onto her cheeks. The sergeant groaned, and with a whirl of her skirts, she mumbled, “Fine.”
It was a quick surgery. Miss Nelson’s fingers were nimble, her instincts keen as she handed him tools before he even asked. She only bristled once, when he set saw to bone, but to her credit, she remained silent. The soldier who’d opted to stay, however, emptied his stomach into a nearby bedpan, and the other woman fled out the door. Just as well. The cold air it ushered in cooled the perspiration on his brow. Despite what Miss Nelson may think of him, removing a body part never came easy.
“There we have it.” He tied a final suture, and she snipped the silk thread. Apparently when Miss Nelson committed to something, she did so wholeheartedly.
“While you didn’t approve of my methods, your help was impeccable.” He waited for her to set aside the tray of used instruments and meet his gaze. “Thank you.”
She pressed her lips together for a moment then answered. “You’re welcome.”
They both washed their hands. Each removed their surgical aprons, their movements in unison. The woman may harbor archaic medical knowledge, but God and country, she acted with precision.
Retrieving her overcoat from a peg, she slipped it on. “Goodbye, Dr. Clark. I wish you the best.”
He frowned. Oughtn’t a nurse continue tending a patient post-op? “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. I am expected in Minneapolis.” She fumbled with her bonnet strings. “You see, I’m not—”
A woman’s scream leached through the door, and Miss Nelson yanked it open. Worse sounds blasted in on a gust of wind. Children crying. Men cursing. Soldiers, horses, and guns. What in the world?
In four long strides, he drew up alongside Miss Nelson and blinked at the bloody chaos being prodded into the compound.
“Good Lord,” he breathed. “What is this?”
Chapter Two
Alarm. Fear. Dread. Emotions riffled through Emmy so quickly, her stomach clenched. She stared, horrified, as a wretched group of Sioux spread over the parade ground like an open sore, mostly women and children, many elders, and several warriors—all sporting bruises. This close, face-to-face with the people responsible for her betrothed’s death, she expected to feel some morsel of rage. Yet as she watched a soldier raise a horsewhip against a cringing woman, only one feeling pounded stronger with each heartbeat.
Compassion.
“No!” She jumped down the single stair and sprinted toward the man. “Stop!”
The private swung her way with a vow. “Back away, miss. This ain’t no place for a lady. These savages—”
“The only savage I see, sir, is the one with a whip in his hand.” She snipped out each word, sharp and pointed.
A scowl slashed across his face. “Oh? Injun lover, are you?” He hefted the whip once more. “Maybe you ought to join them, then.”
“And maybe you ought to give me your name and rank, soldier.” Dr. Clark shoved between them, his shoulders blocking her view of the man, his voice a steel edge. Though she couldn’t see the soldier, she had no doubt the fellow probably froze slack jawed. She’d read once that the growl of a tiger could paralyze its prey. Such was the bass tone of the doctor’s command. A tremor shivered through her. She’d hate to be on the receiving end of Dr. Clark’s anger.
A tug on her sleeve turned her around. Purple spread like a stain from the woman’s left eye, and it had swollen nearly shut. Her split lower lip was crusted over with a scab, but even so, she offered a small smile. “Thank you, lady. You are kind.”
Emmy blinked, astonished. “You speak English … and quite well.”
A black-headed boy with eyes the color of a summer sky grabbed on to the woman’s buckskin skirt, crying. She lifted the lad, letting him rest his head against her shoulder before she answered. “My husband is a white man. An agent. He will see you are rewarded when he comes for me.”
“No need. I’m sure you would’ve done the same.” The words flew from her tongue before she thought, leaving a bitter aftertaste. She sucked in a breath, stunned. How could she say such a thing to someone who may have supported killing innocents?
The woman’s gaze stared straight into her soul. “Yes, I would have done the same.”
Emmy breathed out, long and low, then startled when fingers gripped her elbow.
“Miss Nelson, shall we?” Dr. Clark tugged her away from the soldiers and their captives. “I’ve spoken with a lieutenant. These are the ‘friendlies,’ as he put it. Those not involved in some sort of uprising. Apparently these people are to winter here, down on the flats and, well, you can see for yourself they’re mostly women and children, many sick, some beaten. Would you reconsider your stance on leaving? I …”
His jaw clenched, and a muscle corded on his neck. Though she’d known him for hardly two hours, she’d wager whatever he was about to say would cost him a dear price.
“I need you.” He bent toward her, a rogue grin flashing across his face. “Though I won’t admit to saying that in a court of law.”
Over his shoulder, she searched the wreck of humanity. There must be more than a thousand souls to tend in this bunch. He’d need more than her help. He’d need a miracle.
And so would she. If she agreed to this, Aunt wouldn’t simply have the vapors—she’d suffer an apoplexy. If Papa were here … her heart beat faster. She knew exactly what Papa would say.
&
nbsp; Squaring her shoulders, she faced the doctor. “I suppose we’ll have to clear this with the colonel.”
He cocked his head. “Why?”
“I see by the cut of your clothing that you’re not military. Nor am I.”
His brow crumpled. “I have a six-month commission waiting for me once I walk through the colonel’s door, but you? I thought—”
“I’ll explain along the way.” She set off with a confident step, fighting a sneeze from the dirt kicked up by her own shoes and those of the soldiers and Indians. Her father had brought her here a few times over the past years, and now the knowledge served her well. She waited until the doctor joined her side before she spoke again. “You might as well know I am no nurse, not officially, anyway.”
Dr. Clark cut her a sideways glance. “I don’t understand. Your work back there was—” He dodged a soldier who parted them like a rock in a stream. “Let’s just say I’ve worked with many assistants, none as intuitive as you.”
For the first time since her father’s death, genuine warmth wrapped around her heart, as comforting as an embrace and far more effective than the weak afternoon sun. “I may not have a formal education, but I grew up at my father’s side, shadowing his every case.”
“He was an accomplished physician?”
“Quite.” Despite the pain and misery mere paces to her left, a half smile curved her lips. “Some say the best west of the Mississippi.”
“Really? What is your father’s name? Perhaps I may have heard of him.”
“Dr. Edrith Nelson.” Her smile soured. Speaking his name was bittersweet.
Dr. Clark’s step hitched, as if her wave of anguish moved him as well. “Did you say Edrith Nelson?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
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