by Donna Dalton
“I understand, Mr. Cavendish. A good day to you, too. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Well, he didn’t seem to have been affected by Mrs. Wentworth’s rantings at church. Perhaps her remedy and Anson’s backing had nipped any fears that might have sprouted.
She continued to the end of the walkway. There, she traded the boardwalk for a narrow lane leading to the railroad stationhouse. It was much quieter and less congested. Unfortunately, it was also dry as a desert. In a matter of seconds, a powdery red film coated her boots. She sighed. She wouldn’t be enjoying much of the temperate weather. Not with her to-do list growing by the minute.
Just ahead, a small shack sat atop a raised platform. A thin, black wire stretched from the roof in either direction to poles placed at intervals along the train tracks. The telegraph was a marvelous invention, that is, when weather and malicious vandals left the wiring intact.
She climbed the stairs and went inside. A well-dressed gentleman approached, toting a paper-wrapped package bound with twine. He tipped his hat and murmured a polite “good morning.” Another genial greeting. Such a welcome change from the wary gazes that had hailed her in the past.
On the far side of the room, a woman stood at the counter with her back to the door. She wore a fashionable suit with rear bustle and matching cape. The ostrich feather adorning her hat bounced a lively jig.
“Just as I dictated, Mr. Brown. Not a single word more.”
The clerk nodded, his bald pate barely visible over the countertop. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll only send what you require.”
As the clickety-clack of the telegraph machine filled the room, Moira moved a safe distance from the counter. The woman’s haughty voice was quite unmistakable. Edeline Wentworth. The self-appointed town matriarch. There wouldn’t be any genial welcome from that corner. Might as well avoid any unpleasantness.
She gazed up at the wall shelf lined with jars of preserves. Apple, elderberry, pear…any flavor that could be imagined. She picked up two jars. Might as well start stocking her pantry, although two jars would most likely not carry her through the winter. There was nothing better than Mrs. Brown’s blackberry preserve spread over hot bread. She could eat the sweet treat at every meal. Probably would, much to the dismay of her expanding girth.
The clacking stopped, and chair legs rasped over the floorboards. “Your telegram has been delivered, Mrs. Wentworth. It will have to be transferred from the relay station to its destination. I expect you will receive a reply from the recipient within a few days.”
“Let me know as soon as you receive the reply. Not a minute later.” Mrs. Wentworth turned and stopped short, her brow crumpling like old paper. Pale lips thinned. Blue eyes turned to smoke. A storm cloud couldn’t look more menacing.
Moira hefted her chin. She had never cowered before. She wouldn’t start now. She forced a pleasant tone. “Good morning, Mrs. Wentworth.”
The ostrich feather swayed like a vulture feeding on a fresh carcass. “There’s nothing good about a morning when you are in it.”
Moira fisted the jars, resisting the urge to toss them at the woman. “It’s a pleasure to see you, too.”
Mrs. Wentworth gave a grunt and stuck her nose in the air. She sailed for the door, heels clacking like a runaway railcar. She yanked open the door and pounced through the opening.
As the door slammed shut, Moira rolled down her shoulders. What a shrew. She put on as cheery a smile as she could muster and crossed to the counter. She wouldn’t let Mrs. Wentworth ruin a perfectly good day.
“Good morning, Miss Devlin,” the clerk said with a nod. “What can I do for you?”
Smudges of ink slashed his shirt. His necktie sat at a crooked angle. Tufts of hair poked like hedgehog spikes above his ears. It appeared to be quite the hectic morning for the telegraph clerk.
“And a good morning to you, Mr. Brown. How is your wife? Hard at work keeping your shop stocked with preserves, I see.”
“Oh, yes. A day doesn’t go by that my Emily isn’t brewing some sort of sweet concoction.”
“She makes the best.”
He pointed to the jars she’d set on the countertop. “Is this all for you today?”
“These, and I came to collect Dr. Locke’s mail. You sent word that a package had arrived for him. He asked me to get it.”
“Absolutely. It’s in the back room. I’ll go and—” The click of the telegraph machine broke in. He frowned and moved to small table where a metal flange bounced up and down, belting out a staccato tune. “Give me one moment…”
He sat in the chair and picked up a pencil. The stub rasped over a piece of paper. It was amazing that anyone could turn those bursts of noise into words.
After a few minutes, the clicking stopped. Mr. Brown scooped up his deciphering and returned to the counter. “Sorry about that, Miss Devlin. It has been quite a busy morning.”
“I’m in no hurry. Please, take your time.”
He set the papers on the counter and disappeared through a doorway behind him. Moira hefted her reticule and searched for coins to pay for the preserves. As she fished, the paperwork on the counter caught her eye. Mr. Brown had such elegant handwriting. The lines were straight and precisely formed. It looked like artwork. Two words jumped out. Willoughby, Texas. Her heart started its own clickity-clacking. She knew that town. Knew it well.
She shouldn’t snoop, but curiosity and a good helping of dread overtook her. She leaned over and cocked her head to better read the telegram.
To Jack Thacker. Willoughby Texas. The healer you seek is living in Mineral, in the Indian Territories. Contact Edeline Wentworth.
A glacier formed in her stomach. Willoughby was the town where Granny Tate had been burned to death. Where she had narrowly escaped with her life. Where Jack Thacker had accused her of murder.
****
A spinning sensation seized her head. Dark swirls flecked with gold clouded her vision. Moira set down the tin of gypsum plaster and gripped the counter. It wasn’t her first episode of dizziness, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Over the past two days, her mind and her body had been all out of sorts. Not from illness, but from worry.
Edeline Wentworth despised her…there was no denying that. The town matriarch made no effort to hide her feelings. But to send word to Jack Thacker that the healer he sought was in Mineral? That went well and above hatred. And how had the woman known to contact the man? Someone at the orphanage must have carried the story of her rescue into town. The betrayal pinched, but fear of Thacker overrode her pain.
There was only one person in Mineral Jack Thacker would want to locate. Her. As she fled from her burning home in Willoughby, he had screeched a warning of finding her…of finishing what he started. That had been five years ago. A lifetime to her. Maybe not so long for him. Would he answer the telegram? Would he come to Mineral? Her roiling gut said he would. Few people in her experience ignored a chance at retribution…especially fanatics like Jack Thacker.
Thankfully, Mrs. Lidle had packed her things the day before to stay indefinitely with her ailing sister who had taken a fall and was now bedridden. While unfortunate, the accident held a silver lining. She wouldn’t have to worry about keeping her companion safe from Thacker. Louise would be out of harm’s way.
A knot gathered in her stomach. But what about Anson? He spent most of his waking hours at the office. Should she tell him about Thacker? Prepare him for what was to come? There was so much about her past she couldn’t reveal. He wasn’t ready to hear the truth; worse, she wasn’t ready to disclose it. Her insides were raw enough without adding his scorn to the mix.
She would just have to be extra vigilant. If…no, when…Thacker showed up, she would do everything in her power to keep him from causing anyone harm. Mrs. Wentworth may have started the rock rolling with her telegram, but she wouldn’t have the last word. Thacker would not get the best of her. Not this time.
Her head finally settled to a mild buzz, and she let go of the
counter. No more dawdling. It was time to get back to work. People were waiting on her.
She gathered the tin of plaster and tugged on the lid. It refused to budge. Dingles. She dug her fingers under the rim and tried again. Nothing. What the devil? Why did everything in her life have to be so difficult?
She leaned over, ground her teeth together, and pulled. The lid popped off, sending white plaster dust exploding from the can. She coughed and fanned at the billowing haze. Good grief. She didn’t need this. An uncooperative mule had mashed Mr. Gunderson’s oldest son against the stall door and fractured the boy’s lower arm bone. She needed to get the plaster mixed and back to Anson as quickly as possible.
“What’s taking so long with that…oh, I see.”
She swiped plaster dust from her face and blinked at the tall silhouette filling the doorway. “I’m sorry, Anson. The lid was particularly uncooperative. It stuck and well…this happened.”
“Opening gypsum tins can be tricky. I’ve taken many a bath in the powder myself. You should have called for help."
The only help she needed was to be granted more time. More time to figure out how to handle Thacker. More time to gather the courage to tell Anson about him and her gift.
She swept spilled powder into a pile with her hand. “I knew you were busy setting Jonah’s arm. I didn’t want to pull you away to help with what should have been a simple task.”
“The bone is set, and Jonah is resting peacefully now that the laudanum has taken affect. We’re just waiting on the plaster.”
At least the child wasn’t suffering while she fumbled around. She picked up a ladle and spooned gypsum powder into a large bowl. “I’ll get this mixed and bring it to you right away.”
“I can help if you’d like.”
“No, thank you. Now that the lid is off, it won’t take long to prepare.” She grasped the handle of the water pitcher, but powder slickened fingers refused to grip. Her hand slipped. The pitcher listed, and water sloshed over the rim. An unladylike curse bubbled to the surface. Thacker wasn’t even in town, yet he was already impacting her life…and not in a good way.
Footfalls scraped closer, and steadying fingers closed around hers. “Easy, there. I have you.”
His warm breath played over her neck. Her skin tingled and burned. Her muscles shuddered. The spinning in her head returned with more force, with more color. Yellow, this time. And bright. She groaned and slumped back against the sturdy chest behind her, the strength gone out of her.
His arms went around her. “What’s wrong, Moira? You’re weak as a sapling in a nor’easter.”
Moira. Would he say her name with such affection once he learned about Thacker? About her? About what she could do?
She forced steel into her spine and wriggled out of his embrace. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just upset with myself for spilling that plaster. I shouldn’t let my mind wander while working. It only leads to trouble.”
Concerned eyes poured over her. “I think I know what the problem is.”
“Y-you do?” Had he felt the seesaw of emotions tugging at her insides? The hunger warring with the knowledge that it was too dangerous to eat?
“You’re worried about how we will move forward together…as associates, as partners, especially after our rather shaky start.”
Shaky was putting it mildly. She was still shaking, but in a different, much more pleasing way. She busied herself with scrubbing her hands on the apron tied at her waist. Best to cleanse her hands and her mind before more than just water got spilled.
“I have been wondering how this partnership of ours would work. You didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms when you arrived.”
A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I’m sorry for that. I should have been more open minded…more hospitable. I was in a bad place, and I took it out on you. To make amends, I have a proposal for you.”
A proposal? Of marriage? Excitement trotted inside her. She reined it in with a fisted hand. How ridiculous to think such a thing. She was not the woman for him. She was complicated and messy. He was straightforward and tidy. Besides, he had his own baggage to carry. He didn’t need to add hers to the load.
“What is this proposal?”
“Something that will get us started on good footing, a foundation to build on, so to speak.”
All the buildings from her past had crumbled, solid foundation or not. No reason to think this would be any different. The wise thing to do would be for her to pack her things and leave. But she was tired of running. Bone tired. And the thought of leaving Anson made her insides curdle.
“What do you have in mind?”
His face split into a smile that reached into dimpled crevices. “A picnic. I’ll have Mrs. Gilliam pack a basket for us. We can eat and enjoy the temperate weather on the banks of Dancer’s Creek. It will be a simple outing where we can relax and talk about our partnership. Make plans for the future of the practice.”
Simple. Nothing in her life had ever been simple.
Chapter Fourteen
Anson set the wicker basket on the blanket he’d spread under a tree overlooking Dancer’s Creek. Mrs. Gilliam’s raised eyebrows as he made his request for a picnic supper had spoken volumes. But he refused to offer the landlady any explanations. She and the rest of the townsfolk could speculate all they wanted. This outing was for the express purpose of discussing his future partnership with Miss Devlin, as business associates. Nothing more.
The sun sat like a fireball a hand’s breadth above the peak of the Shoehorn. They would have just under an hour of daylight before darkness set in. That should give them plenty of time to eat and talk. He wanted to hear her opinions. Wanted to hear what she most desired from life. He would do his best to see that she got everything she wanted. She deserved it after the way he had treated her.
Anger and frustration had clouded his judgment. All his life, he had sought the good in people, had given them the benefit of the doubt. Not so with Moira. He had branded her as evil from the moment they met. It was wrong and completely unfair. He would make certain it never happened again.
The leafy canopy stretching overhead dipped and swayed in the gentle breeze. A soft gurgling bubbled up from the creek winding around the foot of the hillock. It was the perfect place to unwind and enjoy the scenery. Yet his supper companion was anything but relaxed.
She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, knuckles white with strain. Was she afraid of being alone with him? That he might take advantage? The thought that she didn’t trust him poked lancet sharp.
He held out a hand. “Here, let me help you onto the blanket.”
She hesitated, her eyes widening ever so slightly. Her chest rose and fell with quick breaths. Something had her spooked that was for certain.
“It’s all right. I won’t bite. I promise. I left my fangs at the office.”
A tentative smile dimpled her cheeks. She unfurled her fingers and grasped his hand. Warmth snaked up his arm and coiled in his belly. He imagined having her right there on the blanket, that ebony hair fanned out around her, silhouetting her creaminess. He stuffed down a grunt of annoyance. A perfect outing if he could keep his mind out of the gutter.
She floated to the blanket like an angel alighting on a cloud. He reluctantly released her hand and settled beside her.
“It’s quite lovely this evening,” she said, her words coming out on a breathy exhale.
“Indeed, it is.” He pointed to the flock of blackbirds performing acrobatics in the sky. “Even the birds are enjoying the weather.”
She tilted her head back, allowing sunlight to pour under her bonnet brim. Tension left her face. Taut lips eased. She sighed and rolled down her shoulders. She was loosening up. Good. She deserved some joy in her life.
“Let’s see what Mrs. Gilliam has packed for us.” He lifted the linen draped over the top of the basket. “Ah, I see bread, fried chicken pieces, and sliced apples. And a jug of what I hope is lemonade. She has fresh lemons freighte
d in from California. They make the most delicious lemonade. Just the right amount of sweetness and sass.” Just like Moira Devlin.
He uncorked the jug and poured the bright yellow drink into two tins. He handed her one. “Try it. Your taste buds will dance a jig.”
She took a sip and treated him to a sunny smile that never failed to warm him. “It’s delicious…and most refreshing.”
Lips moistened with lemonade called to him. He busied himself with unpacking their supper. “Speaking of refreshing…what would you like to see for our office, Moira? What do you see for our future?”
A gleam sparked her eyes. “I’d like to expand my herbal business. Turn it into a service that offers herbs not only for medicines, but for use in cooking as well. To encourage good, healthy eating. That should make seeing the doctor more appealing than just when people are sick.”
“A sound proposition.”
“What about you? What do you see for the future of the practice?”
He really hadn’t considered his future. All he had done since Alice died was put one foot in front of the other. It was time he started running.
He fished a plate from the basket. “I like the notion of promoting good health and well-being. We could expand on that initiative. Invite people to come in for routine wellness exams. Head off major problems before they start.”
“I like that, too. We could offer courses on wholesome foods and good hygiene.”
She really was an intelligent and caring person. He had misjudged her. Greatly.
He filled a plate with chicken, bread, and apple slices and handed it to her. “If this initiative catches on and business grows, we may have to move into a larger building. And perhaps one day, build a hospital for folks who need around-the-clock medical care.”
His pulse quickened, and he couldn’t stop from grinning. Where had that come from? He hadn’t been this excited about something in…well, in forever. And he owed it all to one person.