by Lynda J. Cox
“Victoria!” She wasn’t sure which most shocked her—Victoria’s assumption that Dr. Knight hadn’t included a physical description because he was as she described, or that Victoria assumed the men who chose to ride a stallion did so to prove their own manliness. “I have work to do. You know as well as I do at tomorrow’s festival I’m going to be busy with upset tummies, heat prostration, skinned knees and the like. I have to get supplies ready.”
“Maybe your short, fat, balding doctor with bad breath can help you when he gets here.”
That was doubtful. The train didn’t arrive at the station until almost five in the evening. All that would be left of the festivities then would be the dancing. “Good-bye, Victoria.”
Victoria pushed off the bar and walked out of the parlor. She paused in the doorway. “If Dr. Knight isn’t to your liking, Robbie is still available.”
“Robbie?” Abigail heard the squeak in her voice. “Robbie Roden?”
Abigail just barely stopped herself from adding a “t” to the end of Robbie’s sur name.
“Yep. Possum-face told Molly and Sophia that you and he are getting married Sunday. He told Molly to bake a special wedding cake just for the two of you and asked Sophia to keep the best room reserved for your wedding night.” Victoria chuckled. “They both told him unless he paid up front, there wouldn’t be a cake or a reserved room.”
The instant image of the lean, lanky, under-nourished boy—no, he was a man by chronological definition—came to mind, complete with an image of Robbie’s features which had lent to the less than flattering nickname of Possum-face. Abigail shook her head. Her ability to be amused by Robbie’s tall-tales disappeared when those lies began to hurt others. “I’ll follow your lead on not marrying again if Dr. Knight and I are not compatible.”
Victoria smiled. “Good idea. I just can’t see myself calling you Abigail Rodent.”
THE WORST “EMERGENCY” that had needed her attention happened in the pie-eating contest when a blueberry became lodged up Alexander Jennings’s nose. A handkerchief and an order to “Blow hard” resolved that problem. The festival was over and almost everyone had gone home to get ready for the barn dance. Abigail lingered on the street, helping to put things away. The distant blast of a train whistle reached her. After not hearing a train announcing its arrival to the station for several long years, that whistle still startled her. She straightened and turned her head in the direction of the tracks.
Victoria caught her eye from across the street. After a small group of children ran between them toward the train station, the sheriff held a hand out, palm down, and pushed it toward the ground, then held both hands out and spread them far apart, indicting height and width. Abigail couldn’t fully quell her grin.
A second call of the whistle did to her grin what she couldn’t. Her heart sped up while her stomach twisted in tightening knots. She wiped her palms down her skirt, wicking away the beading sweat, and tried to ignore the sudden moisture dripping down her spine.
What if he wasn’t on the train? Every penny she managed to keep squirreled away and hidden had been spent to purchase Dr. Knight’s ticket. Thank heavens she hadn’t trusted her meager savings to the bank. Had she done that, there wouldn’t have been even a single red cent left after the Brokken brothers robbed the institution. In the intervening weeks since Dr. Knight had answered the advertisement in the paper near Atlanta, the thought of being left standing at the proverbial altar wasn’t as disconcerting as she imagined. If he wasn’t on the train, the worst that could happen was she found herself married to a man she’d never seen. Surely annulling a marriage to an absent groom wouldn’t be too difficult.
As the train pulled into the station, the pointed, massive black grate on the front of the engine caught the corner of her eye, and Abigail craned her head in degrees to the train slowing. Steam hissed from the pistons, shrouding the whole locomotive in a writhing cloud. Forcing air into her lungs became a struggle.
What if he was on the train and decided that he couldn’t stay married to her? There wasn’t much Brokken could offer, if she was forced to be honest. Convincing any doctor to stay would be a hard row to hoe. Barter and trade worked well for what Abigail did, but would that suffice for him? The majority of Brokken’s citizens could barely make ends meet. How would they ever be able to pay a doctor’s fees?
What if she couldn’t bring herself to remain married to him? He could be as cold as a well-digger’s knee. Or as hot-headed as a struck match. He could object to having her assistance and deny how beneficial her use of native plants could be. That would be the very worst thing she could imagine. There was the real possibility he was everything Victoria had teasingly painted him. Looks weren’t everything, she knew.
Victoria broke into Abigail’s rambling thoughts. “Do you want me to walk with you to the train station?”
“No.” She emphasized her answer with a shake of her head. “Thank you.”
“Afraid the sight of a woman wearing a badge and a gun might scare him off?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Well, all of that and the fact you’re wearing trousers, too.” Abigail added a smile to take the sting from her words. She brushed as much of the dust as she could from her skirt. Gathering this many people on the main street of town with the accompanying horses and wagons made the dust fly. There was no way to avoid it. A tug of her shirtwaist, a fortifying deep breath, another swipe of her palms down her skirt, and a squaring of her shoulders did precious little to boost her confidence.
The brakes on the engine screamed with the effort to halt the black behemoth. A porter swung out onto a small set of stairs on a railcar.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk with you?” Victoria stood next to her and nudged her head in the direction of the station.
“I’m sure.” She reached under the table and withdrew a covered pie. “Take this to the jail and enjoy it. I put it back just for you.”
“Very clever use of my favorite pie to distract me.” The sheriff took the covered dish. “You’re also stalling.”
Victoria was right, and she couldn’t continue to delay any longer. Abigail crossed through the town square, passing the recently robbed bank and the town hall. Robbie Roden stood in the shadows of the bank, and even though Abigail couldn’t swear he stared at her, the hair along the back of her neck prickled. Alexander and Aaron Jennings sat in the shade of the blacksmith shop. The bright white of a large triangular piece of fabric serving as an arm sling to support Alexander’s injured shoulder shimmered in the shadows. Aaron waved at her. Alexander called, “Are you coming to the dance this evening, Miss Abby?”
“Maybe.” She turned her gaze back to the station. Two middle-aged women hurried off the train, dressed in more finery and frippery than Abigail had ever seen. The gentleman who disembarked from the train couldn’t possibly be Dr. Knight because a small boy stood behind him, the hem of the man’s frock coat held in his small fist. Abigail swept her gaze over the man and the child while she continued to make her way onto the wooden walkway that passed as a station in Brokken.
One of the older women stepped directly in front of Abigail. “Young lady, is there a boarding house or hotel in this...town?”
Without taking her gaze from the man on the walkway, Abigail nodded and gestured over her shoulder in the general direction of the town’s only hotel. “Over there. Sophia should have a room available.”
With a huffing of her breath, the older woman brushed past Abigail. “How rude...”
Abigail turned in the woman’s direction. “Ma’am, I’m sorry you feel I’m being rude. It’s just that my—” she couldn’t bring herself to call Dr. Knight her husband, though, legally, that’s what he was “—my intended is supposed to be on that train.”
She may as well have been talking to a wall. The woman already swept past her as if she no longer existed. Abigail’s attention returned to the man and the boy.
Good heavens, he was tall and le
an. A small, dark bag of some sort hung over one shoulder, while he held a slouch hat in one hand. He bent his head to the child at his side, and a curtain of dark hair fell across his face. When he straightened, he impatiently shook the hair back, and then positioned the hat on his head, tugging the bill down low over his brow, all with only one hand. The beard stubble darkening his jaw and cheeks was more than just from missing one day of shaving, though he wore a moustache and a goatee. At least he didn’t have muttonchops that had been allowed to grow into his moustache.
What Abigail found odd though was he never took his left hand from the pocket of his frock coat, not even to hold the slouch hat so he could sweep the overgrown hair from his face.
His long bowtie hung limp. The crease of his trousers no longer existed, and many more wrinkles marred the fabric at his knees. Abigail reasoned there probably wasn’t an area set aside on the train for passengers to freshen themselves. She looked beyond him. No one else exited the train.
Her gaze drifted back to the man. The child at his side clenched her heart. Thin, much too thin in her estimate. His little bony ankles and wrists extended well beyond the length of his trousers and shirt sleeves. Dark blond curls crowned his small head, but he hadn’t lifted it and she wondered what on the walkway could be so interesting to a small boy.
She looked up and down the short wooden platform, pausing to nod in greeting at Thomas Reed, the new cook at Molly’s restaurant. Reed hefted a small crate of perishables onto his shoulder and returned the nodded greeting. No one else was near the train. The heavy weight of disappointment pressed down on her. Doctor Knight had indeed decided not to come to Brokken, after all. Pastor Grisson would be the first to remind her marrying the man by proxy had not been a wise action.
“Yes, I’ll find you something to eat.” The gentleman strode past her, speaking to the boy struggling to keep up. “But first, we have to find Mrs. Bailey.”
Mrs. Bailey? No one would be looking for her other than her groom.
“Dr. Knight?”
The piercing whistle of the train announcing its departure drowned her out. Abigail took a step closer to the man’s retreating back. “Dr. Knight?”
When he didn’t respond, she spoke louder, fighting to keep her backwoods accent under control. That it always emerged when she was tired or flustered made the battle more difficult. “Dr. Mathew Knight?”
He still didn’t respond. Abigail lifted her skirt and jogged down the wooden platform until she was in front of him and the child. She stepped into his path. “Are you Dr. Knight?”
He halted and met her gaze. Never had she looked into such eyes. The color wasn’t brown or blue or green. It wasn’t even black, though black flecked the deep color. The child stepped behind his leg and bent his head as far to the platform as possible. Neither spoke forcing Abigail to break the silence.
“I’m Abigail Bailey.” She inwardly groaned. Her Virginia drawl made itself well heard. Maybe he hadn’t heard over the sudden loud hissing of steam from the engine.
His brows lowered, and he shook his head, and then shot a pointed glare at the train. There was little doubt he hadn’t heard her over the noise created with the locomotive’s racket. Abigail leaned closer to him and spoke louder, repeating her introduction.
The only reaction came in the form of a quick, single, terse dip of his head.
The platform shuddered with the forward lurch of the engine. Abigail threw all caution to the wind. She touched his lower arm and then gestured to the main street of town, indicating he should follow her.
A half-smile crossed his face but didn’t reach his unusual eyes. He dipped his head in what would have been a polite acknowledgment were it not for that cool, partial smile. He then held his hand out for her to lead the way.
Abigail craned her head around the tall form to the small child trying to hide behind the man’s long legs. The child peeked out from under the hem of the man’s frock coat. She smiled at him. The boy immediately dropped his gaze.
She stepped off the wooden platform and glanced up the length of the main street. He hadn’t said he was Mathew Knight. And, if he was, why hadn’t he mentioned the child in his sparsely worded letters? Taking him to her house wouldn’t be advisable, nor acceptable, if he wasn’t Dr. Knight.
The five-oh-five wasn’t even out of the station, but the sound of several hammers driving nails home reached her. Three men she didn’t recognize worked to make repairs to the false front of the butcher shop under the supervision of Yancy McCoury. He would be insisting on a job done correctly, as his small candy store shared a common wall with the butcher’s, and as promised, he had waited until the street festival ended to begin the work.
“Is the hotel open for business?”
Abigail startled with his question. “Yes, it is.”
Perhaps, the sweeping veranda of the hotel would be an acceptable place. Abigail led the way to the hotel and made her way to a seating area in a shaded corner of the wide porch. He waited for her to take a seat, and then sat in another of the wicker chairs that was at an angle to her. He lifted the boy onto his lap and immediately shoved his left hand into the pocket of his coat. Uncertain of what to say, Abigail smoothed out a non-existent wrinkle in her skirt and played with the lace that edged her sleeves.
“I apologize for what must seem to be rudeness on my part,” he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He brushed what travel dust he could from his coat with only his right hand. “I had difficulty hearing anything with the train so close. Please forgive my appearance. The accommodations on the train were rudimentary, at best.”
“I could barely hear myself over the noise.” She looked from him to the child. The boy studiously kept his head bent to the floor. Returning her gaze to the man, she said, “I’m Abigail. Abigail Bailey. I assume you’re Dr. Mathew Knight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Abigail quelled the sudden urge to grin. Victoria had been completely off the mark about Dr. Knight’s appearance. “You are nothing like I imagined.”
She wanted to take the words back as soon as they left her tongue. Fortunately, the child circumvented any response he might have had to her outburst. The boy turned into the man’s chest and tugged on the lapel of his frock coat.
Dr. Knight bent closer to him. “I’ll find you something to eat, Ethan. I know you’re hungry.”
Where in heaven’s name had she left her head? She heard him say more than five minutes ago he would find the boy something to eat. Without any warning, Abigail stood. The doctor jumped to his feet, dislodging the child. At least he had manners. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep a smile hidden. “My house is next door. If you want to come with me, I have a loaf of freshly baked bread and some thinly sliced roast. I can make him something to eat.”
Knight hesitated. Abigail added, “Or, I can bring it here.”
“Would you object to making something for both of us?”
Abigail’s mouth fell open. How could she have been so thoughtless? She threw caution to the wind again and took his right hand into hers. “Of course not. Do you want to come with me or should I bring it here?”
He pulled his hand back quickly, and she knew she had overstepped her boundaries. She was so accustomed to taking Sam’s hand or settling hers onto his lower arm. Those days of such familiarity and intimacy were long gone.
“I think Ethan would be more comfortable indoors.” He hesitated, then added, “So would I, if that is acceptable.”
“Of course, it is.” Abigail forced another smile. “Ethan?”
“My son.” Knight bent closer to the boy and tousled the already unruly curls. “He’s a bit shy.”
“I see that.” Abigail dropped to eye level with the child. Even though Ethan wouldn’t meet her gaze, she spoke directly to him. “Ethan, I have a cherry cobbler over in my house. I think it’s still warm. A friend of mine put a big bowl of ice cream in my ice box because I couldn’t go to the social a little while ago. We need to eat that
ice cream. Would you like some on your cherry cobbler?”
For the briefest of seconds, Ethan tilted his head up. His dark eyes widened, and he licked his lips. He nodded and immediately dropped his gaze to the floor.
Abigail stood and held her hand down to the boy. “Mr. Ethan, would you be a gentleman and take my hand and walk me to my house?”
“He doesn’t—” Knight broke off when Ethan released the hem of his frock coat and took Abigail’s hand.
Chapter Four
Shock rocked Mathew to his core. That the boy willingly accepted her out-stretched hand more than surprised Mathew. In the six months the child had been with him, Ethan shunned all attempts by strangers to win him over. It didn’t matter if that stranger was male or female, Ethan wanted nothing to do with someone he didn’t know. He had one of three responses to an overture such as the one this woman made: stare at the ground, bury his face against his father, or hide behind Mathew in the length of his frock coat.
It had taken him weeks to win the slightest trace of trust from his son. That trust was still fragile.
He had no idea how much Ethan remembered about Georgianna, though he doubted it was much more than impressions. This woman, like Ethan’s mother, had a soft voice, a slight repressed accent if his hearing was correct, and like Georgianna, she was a shade of blonde that defied definition. The color shifted from wheaten to strawberry to champagne, depending on how the light struck it. He supposed the similarities were enough to bring a sense of familiarity to the boy.
Realizing the woman and his son walked farther away from him forced Mathew to jog several steps to catch up. An unsettling sensation of being watched caused a thread of unease to ripple the length of Mathew’s spine. He glanced from one side to the other, not noting anything that was out of the ordinary—as if he would know what ordinary was in this small town. He shook off the unease and settled his gaze once more on the sway of Abigail’s skirt, the motion of the fabric more pronounced with her posture tilted down to Ethan’s level.