by Murray, Anna
“I appreciate your hospitality, Mister. Where’s Doctor Rutherford?” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. Her thoughts suddenly ran to wild speculation. What if the doctor had fled the town? Perhaps a tragedy had befallen him. What if he’d died? Maybe outlaws attacked him or a rattlesnake bite did him in. Or, what if he’d changed his mind about needing help? She’d used all her money for the tickets, and he was supposed to pay her back when she arrived.
“Don’t worry. Rutherford’s got a doctor’s excuse. He’s tending to Mrs. Carson,” the man named Roy explained. “Babies decide to arrive at the least convenient times. By the way, I’m Roy Easton, the law in this establishment.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Hannah Sutton. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Her grey eyes blinked as she assessed the man more closely.
Roy Easton lightly touched his hat brim. She saw his eyes flicker and his mouth tighten as his gaze moved down her skirt to her dusty boots. He was considering her unusual dress. Like Mary Walker, the Civil War surgeon, Hannah had taken to amputating her skirts slightly below the knee, and she wore men’s trousers beneath to cover her legs and ankles.
Roy Easton ‘s warm smile met her pursed lips. “I can see you ain’t no greenhorn, Miss, I mean, Doctor Sutton. Rutherford asked me to show you up to his place and get you settled. You must be tired.”
“That I am, Mr. Easton.”
Hannah stepped to and fro, as she was still recovering her land legs. Charles and Roy moved to the rear of the wagon and slid off dirt-covered trunks. They carried the luggage into the jailhouse.
“I’ll haul these up in a wagon tomorrow morning, if it suits you,” Roy grunted as he pushed the luggage through the door.
“It’s fine. I only need the necessaries bag tonight.” Hannah locked a firm hand around a small case and waited on the boardwalk outside the jail entrance.
The men finished the task and emerged from the office. Sheriff Easton grabbed a lantern from a post, and Charles climbed back into his seat and snapped the reins to move his rig down the street.
The lawman turned to her and frowned. “You’re late.”
“Yes sir. We ran into rain,” Hannah replied.
“Rutherford didn’t mention he was expecting a pretty lady doctor.” His voice teased.
“No. I don’t suppose he considered the possibility,” she murmured. “I pulled the short matchstick.” Hannah blushed, and she was grateful for the cover of darkness. Used to being alone and outcast, the feeling was magnified this night. The town was shuttered, and the man who was supposed to meet her was absent. He’d sent this proxy, but instead of a gruff sweat and tobacco trail man, which she would have preferred, this one was a charmer, and his flirtatious manner made her uneasy.
Roy Easton leaned in to hear her. “That makes you a pioneer, and pioneers do well here,” he drawled. “I expect you’ll be a perfect mate for Rutherford.” He paused. “Professionally speaking, of course.”
“Of course. Thank you for your confidence.”
Her gaze ran over the broad-shouldered lawman. He was the picture of health, a pleasant aspect of this dingy street in the middle of a dreary night.
The man’s eyes flickered recognition. “Did you say Sutton?”
She studied the nick on his chin. “Yes.”
He slid a finger up his neck and scratched under his broad-brimmed hat. “There was a Sutton family here when I was a kid. Their place burned, and they went back east. They lost a son in the fire, and another was burned as I recall, but she survived.”
Hannah’s back stiffened, and her eyes narrowed.
“You wouldn’t be related?”
“It’s a common name.” She looked past his shoulder, anxious to change the topic of conversation.
“Yes, I ‘spose. Josh and Amy,” he added. “Those were the kids. There was another girl, still in the cradle. I knew Josh. He’s up in the cemetery, God rest him.”
She drew in a ragged breath. “Mr. Easton, as I said, I’m tired.” Her gray eyes misted, and she was thankful for the darkness a second time.
“Of course, of course. Let’s get you to Doc’s.”
He turned and walked with long purposeful strides. The tall shadows of false front buildings were a godsend; the sheriff didn’t notice as she brushed the tears away from her eyes.
The five-minute hike to the little two-story house tucked down a side street gave enough time for Hannah to regain her composure.
“Will his wife be there to meet us?”
“Heh, that’s a good one,” he laughed. “Rutherford’s a bachelor. There’s little joy in his life.”
“Oh.” Hannah had tried to envision him countless times on the journey, and she’d settled on conjuring up a man with a wife and children, a strong leader in the community. She’d imagined him welcoming her, not only as partner in practice, but also as family, folding her warmly into the household. In her fantasy his wife would come to be like a sister, and the children would love her like a dear aunt.
“He has sisters or brothers?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” Her voice pitched lower.
Easton heard her disappointment. “Don’t worry, he’s not eccentric. He’s social enough. I’ve seen him play hopscotch with the kids. Oh, you’ll get on with Rutherford. Everyone does. He’s a good doc who needs a partner, what with all the miners and ranchers coming in to these parts since the war. The ladies are fond of him.”
“His letter lacked mention of himself. My mentor assumed he’d be married by now.”
“Single women aren’t rushing out to the territories, Miss. Those that make the trip are a precious lot. A young woman looking for matrimony in Wounded Colt can have her pick of the herd, pardon my saying.”
Hannah had no interest in marriage. Or, to be perfectly honest, she figured the institution had no interest in her. Marriage was not for offering a scarred body to a man, and therefore Hannah was not eligible. Not two years prior, her father’s business associate had shown a marital interest in her. Her father had taken him aside, and with Norwegian efficiency, Hannah’s suitor was swiftly passed to her sister.
Hannah’s parents, and her father in particular, had worked hard to give her an education normally reserved for a son. She’d thrived on books and learning. It went unstated, but the message to her was clear: She was to be a work partner, not a bed partner.
* * *
When they arrived at Rutherford’s house the sheriff paused outside the door, pondering the doctor’s orders. He’d said the new man was to bunk in the kitchen, where a bed had been wedged into a tight corner. However, as there was no privacy curtain, and no space for personal items, Roy decided this arrangement wasn’t proper for a pretty lady doctor.
He shoved open the creaky door. “Doc isn’t much for house repairs,” he apologized over his shoulder.
Hannah Sutton followed, declaring the place “nice” with a false brightness, even before he had a chance to fire up a lamp and show it off in dim light.
Sheriff Easton grunted and tossed his hat on the table. He wiped his brow and ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. Over lighting the table lantern he thought about how he’d best change the sleeping arrangements.
“You hear that?” He cocked an ear to the ceiling.
“Hear what?” Hannah whispered.
“Flapping. There’s, uh, a bat upstairs.”
She sucked in a breath. “Blast.”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “Dang Rutherford! He left the window open. Wait here Doctor, and I’ll go up to fetch the critter out.”
The sheriff had decided to assign Hannah to Rutherford’s bedroom upstairs, and he had to play the charade to go up there and make sure things were in order. He lit another lamp and bounded up the narrow back steps to inspect the private space. The bed wasn’t made, and clothes were strewn about on the floor and across a chair. Roy grabbed the covers and pulled them up, smoothing the wool army blanket to remove lumps. Then he collected the
clothes and stacked them in the hallway hamper. Tiny bottles and a few old photos littered a night table; Roy stacked them on a corner of the bureau. It wasn’t a proper clean up job, but he couldn’t delay much longer. He stomped and jumped and whooped a few times to pretend at bat catching.
Roy stumbled down the steps, winded from his hasty housekeeping efforts. “I pushed the critter out the window,” he winked. “Your room is clear up there.”
Hannah smiled. “Thank you. A sheriff has interesting duties.”
Easton threw back his head and laughed. “You don’t know the half of it, but some of my adventures end up in sheriff’s column in the Wounded Colt Dispatch.”
“Will your bat story make it in?” Her gray eyes danced in the soft light.
“Likely. It’s a small town paper.” He paused.“You hungry?”
She shot a glance at the stove. “Those cookies will satisfy me.”
Easton followed her gaze and saw the treats Rutherford had left on a plate for his new guest. “Ah. Well. The doc often gets cakes and pies as payment. You’ll be well fed here, Miss , I mean Doc.” He walked over to the stove and wrapped his hands around a cast iron pot. “There’s warm water in here. You can use it to wash up.” He picked up his hat turned it in his hands. “If there’s anything else you need, come down to my office and knock three times, hard, to wake me.” He smiled, revealing white and perfect teeth.
“You’re very kind, Mr. Easton. Thank you.”
The lawman shoved his hat onto his head and moved to the door. “Goodnight, Doctor Sutton.”
“Goodbye, Sheriff.”
Then he was gone. Hannah ladled warm water from the large pot into a bowl she found on the dry sink. Soap and cloths had been laid out; she stripped down and washed the trail dirt off as best she could. It wasn’t a proper bath, but the water on her skin was a great comfort. Water was safe. Water soothed. Water gave life and chased away danger.
Then Hannah stuffed her clothes into her bag, and carried it in one hand as she held the lamp in the other, She tiptoed through the healing temple, and noted the clinic was clean and stock was organized on shelves set against the stark white-washed walls. She was pleased to see the signs of a disciplined practice. Even though she hadn’t met him yet, Doctor Rutherford made a good first impression.
Chapter 3
“You’re a woman!”
He decided it must be another of Roy Easton’s pranks. A cruel joke was the last thing Jed needed in the wee hours of the morning. He’d hauled his exhausted body home to find a lump in his bed. An unmistakably soft, curved womanly form lay under the wool army blanket.
The slumbering body startled, opened her eyes, and squinted up at Jed.
“And you’re a man.” Her voice croaked. “Nature is indeed a wonder, sir.”
The woman sat up, cleared her throat, and stretched her naked white arms. The blanket fell away, and, through a thin sleeveless nightgown, Jed could see the outline of full breasts. Thick dark hair flowed to her perfect small waist. Her eyes were large and almond-shaped, but he couldn’t determine the color in the dusty-dimness of the small room.
He groaned, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was from disappointment.
“Hello. Doctor Rutherford, I presume?”
He leveled furious eyes on her. “I told Cole to send me a doctor! Not a nurse!”
She rested on one elbow and peered up at the scowling face. “Doctor Hannah Sutton, at your service.” Leaning forward, she held out a small hand. The nightgown gapped open at the neck, and he caught a view of soft hills down to a perfect, flat valley.
“You’re a woman!”
“Yes, you said that already. Excellent call, sir. Your powers of clinical observation are laudable.” She arched one lovely eyebrow and smiled.
Jed staggered back against the bureau and barely suppressed a second groan. This time it definitely wasn’t disappointment talking.
Yet the woman ignored what she perceived to be his theatrics. “While the sexual function differs between us, in this moment it appears I am your superior in brain and emotional stability,” she proudly proclaimed. “Cross my heart, Doctor, I won’t hold your natural deficits against you, sir.” Her smile grew.
The woman’s sweet voice enveloped him like warm water in a relaxing bath. No! Rutherford’s palm hit his forehead. “No . . . no. This won’t do. It will not work.” He paced the floor like a caged animal in front of her. The woman was too pretty and frail for Montana life. Besides, no woman could tolerate life under the cloud of his cruel disposition and eccentricities. A woman simply wouldn’t do.
“What do you mean no? I’m a doctor. Isn’t that what you sent for?”
“You’re a nurse. Women aren’t doctors.”
She glared. “Surely you’ve heard of Mary Walker, the war surgeon.”
“Of course, of course, but ---“
“Sir, I have the same training. I am not lacking.”
He hacked out a coarse laugh. This woman was too young, and too . . . too pretty for frontier life. Her skin was soft, her eyes those of an innocent. “Walker didn’t look like, look, it’s that I was unprepared for – “
“You dismiss me, but my training is recent, and with the best minds. Walker was a regular, no doubt like you.” Her words carried a sarcastic tone. “I’ve learned all that’s new to medicine.”
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “God save me. You’re a homeopath?”
“In truth, I lean to the eclectic philosophy. I’m a pragmatic, sir. I use observation and science. I was the best in my class at curing infections.” She punctuated her points with a bobbing fist.
“Fine. Fine,” he bit off, as he noted how her eyes shone through the dim space like silver coins. “Miss Sutton, I’m spent. I’m in no mood to battle with you about approaches to practicing medical arts. I’ve just now come from a grueling sixteen-hour birthing, and my head feels like it’s been hit with an iron skillet. I’m going down to the kitchen to sleep, and when I wake I hope to find this was all a bad dream.”
Jed turned on one heel and stomped down the stairs, his temples pounding with every step. He stumbled into the surgery for a dose of laudanum before wandering to the kitchen, where he kicked off his boots and dropped his body onto the wooden, canvas covered cot. The makeshift bed was narrow and too short for his over six-foot frame. He turned onto his side and brought his knees up, but they hung over the side and the wood frame cut into his leg. Damn. What had he done to Cole to deserve this?
With rain pelting the roof he drifted off, and it felt as though five minutes had passed when he heard banging at the back entrance.
Jed rolled over, deciding he’d shoot the coyote who was interrupting his sleep.
Before he could think about where he’d hid his pistol, the woman named Hannah Sutton flew past him and let the varmint in. A gust of wind and water assaulted Jed as the door opened, and he saw the outline of a small man clinging to a larger as they crossed the threshhold. The shorter man was clearly injured. He was moaning, and his arm hung askew. Both men were soaked to the skin.
“Sheriff!” Hannah Sutton exclaimed.
“Doctor Sutton! I have your first patient. Name’s Pete Cochran. His horse spooked and threw him.”
“Bring him this way Mr. Easton.” Hannah, dressed in a wrapper thrown over her nightgown, took charge and led them past Jed, who was scrambling to his feet and grabbing for his boots as he hurried to join the group in the surgery.
Cochran staggered to the examination room before he lost consciousness. Roy Easton laid him out for examination. Hannah gently removed his soiled shirt, and muttered with disdain about how he smelled of whiskey.
“Drunken riding is a dangerous business, especially in a storm,” she chastised the man who was passed out on the table. “At least the bone didn’t pierce the skin,” she observed. Hannah hunted for splints.
Jed swayed and hovered behind her. “I’ll take over now.”
“I’ve done this before,” she arg
ued. She pulled up her shoulders and waved an arm as if to fend off a pesky horsefly.
Great, Jed thought. He’d have a talk with her about the chain of command after the sheriff left. Easton, for his part, was holding Pete Cochran on the table but now he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “If I’d known I was going to cause a spat, I’d have treated him myself at the jail,” Easton drawled through clenched teeth.
Jed opened his mouth to continue his protest, but he was interrupted by another fist pounding on the door.
“Excuse me,” Jed growled. He turned, and he thought about finding his pistol again. This time he’d shoot the coyote through the door.
“I’ll get that,” Sheriff Easton cut him off at the pass, and he ran to the kitchen like a wolf racing for cover.
Jed backtracked to hold Pete on the table, and before he could get much farther in asserting his dominance, he heard the rapid fusilage of boots on the wood floor. It was Roy Easton, returned with another patient, and he was visibly upset.
“Doc, you gotta help Elijah.” A limp man leaned against the sheriff. Blood trickled from a gash on his head.
Jed wearily turned to the publisher of the Wounded Colt Dispatch, the town newspaper. Elijah Jones had seen his share of dust ups with angry readers, but it was usually threats or nicks and bluster. This, however, looked bad.
“He took it in his head to break a cheating husband in the paper, and the man broke him instead,” the sheriff explained.
Jed nodded, recalling Elijah’s thinly veiled slap at the adulterer in his weekly morality column. Damn it, why was Elijah bent on cleaning up the town?
Jed sat stout, middle-aged Elijah in a chair along the wall. “You smell of blood and brawl, man. You’re getting too old for this nonsense,” Jed admonished. He examined Elijah’s head wound as he shot a glance at the woman who’d competently set an arm and was now splinting it. “I’m busy here. You’re driving your own coach, Dr. Sutton.”