by Donna Dalton
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Donna Dalton
Magic in Her Touch
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
A word about the author…
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“Have a seat in the waiting room,” she called out. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
Her voice carried a slight lilt. Not nearly as pronounced as his Irish nanny, but still detectable. The sound conjured thoughts of his youth, of playing hide-and-seek and hot-and-cold. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fun.
Lantern light painted the woman in a golden glow. Dark hair coiled at the nap of her neck. She wore a serviceable gown of gray with an apron tied at her waist. She was of average height with a slender waist that tapered to generous hips. Curves in all the right places, his schoolmate Donald Marcum would have said. Donald also had several missing teeth, courtesy of an angry husband who didn’t appreciate having his wife’s attributes so verbally categorized.
She handed the patient a glass swirling with murky liquid. “Drink this, Mr. Pardue. It will help with the pain and there’s also something in it to stimulate faster healing.”
Anson stiffened. Images surfaced of a crate of empty tonic bottles shoved beneath the bed. Of his wife Alice lying on the mattress, cold and lifeless. No one would die of drinking a charlatan’s brew again. Not while he drew breath.
Praise for Donna Dalton
I am immediately intrigued by the young woman with healing abilities who is trying to find her place in the world.
Check out Donna’s other historical romances
available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.:
Magic in Her Eyes, The Gifted, Volume One
The Cavalry Wife
The Rebel Wife
Irish Destiny
Irish Charm
Seven Swans Bride
The Gift
Loving Byrne
Magic in Her Touch
by
Donna Dalton
The Gifted, Volume 2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Magic in Her Touch
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Donna Alley Dalton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First American Rose Edition, 2018
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2294-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2295-7
The Gifted, Book 2
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
I dedicate this book to my friend and co-worker Juanita Hobson. Her support and delight in my books has been quite uplifting.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank Alida Berman for her candid and insightful critiques, and my faithful critique partner Mary Ann Clark. I couldn't do this without you.
Chapter One
Indian Territories
September 1877
If the mountain wouldn’t come to her, then she would go to the mountain.
Moira unpinned her apron and draped it on a wall peg. The starch held the cotton stiff and crisp even after hours of wear. Her simple day dress likewise showed little signs of creasing. Quiet days like today barely produced a pucker much less a wrinkle. While she didn’t wish ill health on anyone, there surely had to be someone suffering who needed her help.
She penned a quick note to Mrs. Lidle. The elderly widow had left earlier that morning to visit her convalescing sister. She didn’t want her companion to worry if she returned to find the place empty. Mrs. Lidle had agreed to stay at the office and act as assistant and chaperone without any compensation other than meals and a room. While the woman did little more than greet visitors, Moira was grateful for her kindness. And relieved. It was shocking enough that an unmarried young lady had assumed the position a man usually held—she didn’t need to throw dirt in society’s face by living alone.
She slung a thin wool cloak around her shoulders and snagged the physician’s handbag from the table. The black leather had been burnished to a soft, marbled gray over the years. Even the oak handle had been worn smooth and slick. The bag had served Doctor Troutman and the people of Mineral well. She hoped to do the same with a little luck and a lot of perseverance.
Her heels clicked on the floorboards, sounding like a clock in the wee hours of the morning when every tick stoked sleep’s rebellion. On the other side of the hallway, the waiting room stood silent and empty with chairs lined in precise formation, awaiting patients. It had been that way since her arrival a month ago. Only a handful of folks had ventured inside, those desperate to ease the ache of a decaying tooth or the spasms of a tiresome cough…or men merely curious about the young lady who had come to administer to the sick. Those were few and far between and wouldn’t put coins in her purse. Nor would it fulfill her pledge.
The matron of Seaton House orphanage had asked her to stand in as healer when the beloved town physician had unexpectedly passed on. The people of Mineral were important to Mrs. Campbell; therefore, they were important to her. She would do everything in her power to honor her mentor’s request—to please the one person who had offered shelter and understanding when no one else would.
She tugged open the door and stepped onto the boardwalk. The late afternoon sun painted the main thoroughfare in broad orange strokes. Carts and wagons trundled past, their wheels clattering on the dirt-packed roadway. People rushed about, eager to complete their tasks before darkness set in, which it did in a hurry once the sun disappeared behind the towering mountain peak to the west. Established nearly fifty years ago, the mining community of Mineral sprawled at the foot of the Shoehorn. While mining operations still managed to unearth pockets of silver, the railroad coming through had been the chief boost to the town’s population and economy.
Residential homes spread out to the south, tucked away from the dust and noise of the bustling business district. The smaller single-story dwellings of the merchant class stood as a buffer to the more ornate two-story homes of the wealthier citizens. She wouldn’t find many open doors in either community. Not yet. Given time and proof of her abilities, they would come around. They had to. Failure was not an option.
She turned to the north where false-fronted stores paraded down each side of the street. Some advertised their wares behind large glass-plated windows. Mrs. Stone�
��s millinery and dress shop had an exquisite display of hats and bonnets. A green felt cap adorned with white tulle and a dainty feather had caught her eye. But it would have to remain in the window until she had more than just lint lining her pockets.
Cool air swirled around her, and she clasped her cloak tighter. It wouldn’t be long before winter descended and brought with it the ills of cold weather. She had to earn the people’s trust. Fast. Else she risked returning to Seaton House in dishonor. For that matter, she might not be able to return at all. Mrs. Campbell was expected back any day now with a new batch of orphans. There may not be any room for her at the orphanage.
An approaching man edged to one side and tipped his hat. “Morning, Miss Devlin.”
He wore a plain tweed suit, faded yet crisply pressed. His beard and mustache were clean and neatly trimmed. Hair tonic glistened in his smoothed-down, short-cropped hair. He was as tidy with his appearance as the poet William Allingham was with words. However, instead of his usual bay rum scent, Mr. Cavendish smelled of apples. The sweet aroma triggered a mouth-watering vision of a barrel overflowing with freshly picked fruit. John Cavendish and his wife owned the general store in the next block, a quaint little shop that sold everything from pickles to pick axes to plows. In addition to the savory apples, she had discovered several boxes of glass bottles tucked high on a shelf, the perfect vessels for her potions.
She put on her most engaging smile, the one she used to calm fretful children and reassure anxious parents. “And a good morning to you, Mr. Cavendish. How is the missus? And young Peter?”
“They are doing w-we…” He shoved a handkerchief to his nose and sneezed—a loud honking noise that would make a goose proud. He frowned and wiped a snout glowing with rawness. “Pardon me. This morning my eyes started watering, and my throat turned raw. Now I’m sneezing. Didn’t expect the winter sickness to start so soon.”
His skin appeared normal, no tautness or flushing with fever. This was no winter sickness. She wagged her head. “I suspect you are merely suffering from hay fever. Weeds tend to sow their spores this time of year. When you breathe in the tainted air, your nose and eyes sometimes react to the particles.”
His face crinkled. “Hay fever, you say?”
“It’s not as grave as it sounds.” She fished in her medical bag and extracted a blue tinted bottle. “I have something that will help ease those symptoms if you are of a mind to try it.”
He eyed the bottle as if she held a snake. “What it is?”
“Just a tonic made from nettle leaves. It’s quite harmless.” She uncorked the bottle, drizzled a drop onto her finger, and plucked the droplet into her mouth. She smiled. “You see. Perfectly safe.”
“I don’t know… I’m not one for taking unfamiliar remedies.”
Perhaps appealing to the businessman inside him would help. She stoppered the bottle and held it out to him. “Try it. Free of charge. Take one spoonful when you rise and one just before going to bed. If the tonic doesn’t lessen your suffering, then you’re not out anything except your time.”
He hesitated, his mouth twitching as he considered her proposal. After a few seconds, his shoulders went up in a shrug. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try. It’s quite frustrating when you stop constantly to sneeze while assisting customers.”
“I imagine it would be.” She handed him the bottle. “Twice a day should remedy the problem.”
“Thank you, Miss Devlin. If this works, you will be a Godsend.”
She nodded and resumed her trek down the boardwalk. One down. Two hundred to go. Giving away her wares wouldn’t fill her purse, but a little goodwill and word of mouth could prompt more clients to seek her services. Paying clients.
Just ahead, a tall, slender man dressed in a somber suit of black slowed his approach. Color fled from his face. He clutched a Bible against his chest and muttered something under his breath. His Adams apple bobbed above the white necktie strapping his collar. He looked like a criminal about to face a hangman’s noose.
“Good afternoon, Reverend Turnage,” she called out in her most cheerful voice. Robins after a spring rain couldn’t chirp any happier.
The pastor of Trinity Presbyterian Church made the sign of the cross over his chest and left the boardwalk for the other side of the road. Contrary man. As Granny Tate would have said, if you threw him into a river, he’d float upstream. He wouldn’t call her a Godsend. Nor would he be visiting her any time soon, even if the grim reaper came rapping on his door.
She’d encountered many like him over the years. Religious zealots who considered anything abnormal to be spawned of Satan. A pang stabbed her heart. She’d lost a lot at their hands. First her mother, and then her beloved granny. If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Campbell and Meredith Booth, those fanatics would have snuffed out her life too.
She shook off the maudlin thoughts. She had a job to do and dwelling on the past wouldn’t get it done.
As she started forward, a low grumble tumbled through the town. The boardwalk began to wobble and shake. She glared at the distant peak. Dingled miners. One day, their blasting was going to cause more than just rattling and annoyed eardrums.
The rumbling got louder, the shaking more violent. Her feet threatened to go out from under her. She spread her arms for balance, pulse tripping. This was no blast tremor.
It was an earthquake.
The boards rattled and pitched beneath her. Dust boiled up from the street. A cart mule fought his owner’s hold. A horse yanked free from the hitching rail and bolted down the street, whinnying and kicking up its heels. On the next block, a large display window fell to the ground amid a shatter of glass. A loud screeching noise blasted the air as the sign over Mr. Cavendish’s store swung loose and dangled precariously from one end. All along the street, shop doors flung open and people staggered outside, their faces stamped with terror.
After a few minutes, the shaking diminished. The grumbling slowed and then ground to a silent halt. Moira drew in several calming breaths. Her childhood home in the hills of Tennessee had growled with tremors from time to time. Nothing like this teeth-rattling shockwave.
People milled about, dazed and confused, calling to one another. A woman emerged from a nearby shop and braced against the door jamb. Blood oozed from a gash on her temple. It was the schoolmistress, one of the few people who had visited the office. Miss Neagle had come in seeking relief from a monthly flow that sent her crawling to bed with debilitating cramping. She appeared to need help once again.
Moira rushed to the woman and grasped a slender elbow. “Let me help you, Miss Neagle.”
Glazed blue eyes rounded on her. “I-I was trying to get to the door when something fell from a shelf. It struck me on the head. Everything went black for a moment.”
Moira steered the injured woman to the edge of the boardwalk. “Sit. Let me have a look at you.”
Miss Neagle wobbled to the landing, and Moira fished a clean cloth from the physician’s bag. She dabbed gently at the gash. It wasn’t very large, maybe an inch long at most. And shallow. The bleeding had already started to slow. Was there any damage underneath? While the schoolmistress’s coloring was pasty, her pupils were the same size and reacting to the sunlight. A good sign. Granny Tate had told her the eyes were the window to the body and would show any injury lurking inside. Miss Neagle’s wound seemed to be contained to the outside.
Moira dabbed blood from the schoolmistress’s forehead. “How are you feeling? Still dizzy? Any queasiness?”
“I’m feeling a little better. Not as woozy as before. And no queasiness.”
Good. Miss Neagle would recover just fine. Moira handed her the cloth. “Keep this pressed against your head just below the temple. There’s a small gash. It’s not serious, but I want you to stay here until the bleeding fully stops and you can stand without any dizziness.”
“Will it need stitching?”
“I don’t think so. It ought to heal fine on its own. You will probably have a headac
he for a day or two. Come and see me if it starts to bleed again or if the pain worsens.”
Miss Neagle gave her a wan smile. “Thank you, Miss Devlin. You are just what the folks in this town need, even if they don’t know it.”
Moira merely smiled and pushed to her feet. Did anyone else need her help…even if, as Miss Neagle said, they didn’t know it?
All along the street, people collected in pockets, some frowning and pointing at the destruction, others sifting through the debris. A tearful child clung to his mother’s hand. Another had buried his head in wide skirts. It would be a while before frayed nerves mended.
A horse-drawn wagon appeared at the far end of town, kicking up dust as it hurtled down the street. People shouted and scampered out of the way. Moira frowned. Only something grave would cause such a reckless and dangerous careening through a crowded town.
As the wagon drew closer, the driver became more distinct. A substantial beard stretched to the man’s third shirt button and was an unusual mixture of red and brown. A few weeks ago, Claude Gunderson had brought his son into the office for the extraction of a stubborn baby tooth. It had taken quite a bit of sweet-talking to convince the boy to surrender his hairy anchor. The child finally let go and left with a gaping smile and a piece of peppermint.
The wagon rattled to a stop in front of her. “Miss Devlin,” Claude said over a rushed breath. “You’re needed at the sawmill straight away. The quake toppled lumber onto some workers. One of ’em is hurt right bad.”
Her stomach tumbled. While she wanted to help those suffering, this was not what she had in mind. Now she had an abundance of patients to treat, any number of which could require special handling. Mrs. Campbell’s oft repeated admonition scuttled in her head.
Be careful what you wish for. What you think you want may be more than you can handle.
****
Moira gripped the edge of the wagon seat as the horses galloped down Main Street. They raced past the Empire Hotel, past the livery, and past the saloons and brothels where even the drunks had left their whiskey and cards to survey the destruction. The quake had spared no one.