Lone Star Romance Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “That’s right. I have a key for the file cabinet. Doc kept his patient books locked in there.”

  “Good. Good.” Privacy was important, and Robert planned to maintain it. Nonetheless, it would be wise for him to read the records so he’d be familiar with the cases he’d be taking on.

  He turned toward the filing cabinet and made note of the fact that both drawers locked. I’ll move some of those bottles and vials into the second drawer. In the years he attended school, he’d seen more than a few patients grow dependent on certain elixirs and compounds. At the earliest opportunity, he’d lock away most of the laudanum, cocaine muriate, and morphine sulfate.

  Duncan looked down at his hands and made a face. “Half the soot from that train fell on me. We’d best wash up, even if the food at that diner turns out to be as black as the mess on our shirts.”

  Duncan and Christopher stripped off their shirts over at the washstand. “You’re a filthy mess, boy-o,” Duncan teased Chris.

  “No more than you.” Chris nudged him to the side. “But the admission galls me. Fill the pitcher again. I’m planning to scrub my head, and you can rinse it. I’ll return the favor.”

  “I should go first. You’ve such a big head you’ll use up all of the water!”

  Robert let their good-natured horseplay fade as he continued to walk about the office, opening drawers and taking stock of what was on hand. In my wildest dreams I never thought this is what I’d find. Everything I read said how backward the American West is, but this is the best medical setup I’ve ever seen. Holy Father, help me to use these things to Your glory.

  “Quit daydreaming and wash up. We’re hungry,” Chris called over to him.

  Rob looked at his brothers. “I’m not daydreaming. I was standing here thinkin’ on how proud Da would be to see such a grand arrangement.”

  “Aye, he would.” Duncan nodded.

  “True.” Chris nodded curtly then tacked on in a raspy tone, “But he’d not want us to starve half to death whilst you gawked around. Let’s go eat.”

  Duncan walked back to the waiting room where their trunks sat. “I’ll get your clean shirt.”

  The cool water refreshed Robert. He scrubbed, enjoying the astringent scent of the soap. He moaned aloud at the simple pleasure of Connant pouring a pitcher of water over his head to wash out the dust, soot, and soap.

  Dripping wet, shirtless, and with his suspenders hanging down, he wheeled around when someone burst through the door to the building.

  “Sheriff!” A strapping man swayed in the doorway. “I killed him.”

  “Killed who?” Connant pushed the man into the nearest chair. “Who did you kill, Otto?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Robert assessed the man quickly. His eyes were wide with shock, his whole frame shook, and he’d been violently sick all over the front of himself. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Connant rapped out.

  “They’re hurt.”

  “Who?” Connant demanded.

  “Mercy.” Otto groaned, then leaned forward and retched.

  Robert automatically held out the towel even though nothing came up. He turned toward the luggage to grab his bag.

  Duncan had opened the trunk and gotten out shirts. He tossed one to Robert. Christopher’s shirt hung open, but he’d moved on toward the next item of business. He was strapping on his gun.

  “The Steins live about three miles out,” Connant said as they all barreled through the door. He grabbed the reins to his own sorrel mare and yanked Robert up behind him. “That’s Otto’s horse,” he told Christopher.

  Christopher said nothing. He was swinging up into the saddle as Connant set off.

  Robert leaned forward. “How many in the family?”

  “Three. Old man and his two grandkids. Girl’s engaged to Otto; the boy’s a mere lad.”

  They dismounted and entered the house first. Something was burning in the stove, but the place lay empty. Chris and Duncan had gone toward the barn. “Here!” Chris bellowed.

  Duncan exited the barn carrying a schoolboy. Blood dripped from a lump on the boy’s head. Robert determined he was breathing well as Duncan rasped, “Old man’s alive.”

  Once inside the barn, Robert paused by the body of a man. Connant had his pistol drawn and shoved Robert ahead. “It’s not Stein.”

  “Back here,” Christopher called. He squatted beside an old man and was slicing through his britches with a knife.

  The lanky older man lay unconscious. Robert shouldered past Chris and knelt by the man’s chest to quickly assess his condition. Pale. Clammy. Shock. Breathing slow. Pulse thready. An ugly bruise on his jaw proved he’d fought, but the real injury was impossible to miss. The pitchfork in his thigh hadn’t hit an artery, but the extent of the damage couldn’t be determined yet.

  A young blond cradled the old man’s head in her lap. She was tenderly smoothing his brow with her shaky hand, but the sight of her made Robert’s stomach lurch. Her dress was torn, and hay clung to the back of her shoulders and hair. Her left eye was starting to swell shut, and other marks at her throat and wrists let him know she, too, had been hurt.

  Robert knew he could patch the old man back together. The girl bore wounds no man could heal.

  She knew the sheriff. The black-haired men were strangers. The first one—the one with the gun—scared her; the one who knelt closer touched Grossvater with a mixture of confidence and care. He looked her in the eye and spoke in a low tone, “I’ll be able to fix him up. He’ll be fine.”

  He sounded reassuring, but Mercy couldn’t respond.

  “My brother’s going to take that out of his leg, and I’ll hold a compress on it to keep it from bleeding. We’ll be moving him into the house. Do ye ken what I’m telling you, lass?”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  Grossvater moaned a little when they did the deed, and she bit back a cry.

  “ ’Tis a good sign that he’s feeling his leg, lass. I’m thinking the wound will make a mess of his bed. Is your dining table sturdy?”

  She nodded and led them inside.

  Another stranger in her kitchen looked much like the other two. He had Peter sitting in a chair and was dabbing at a knot on her brother’s head. Peter jabbered about the puppies.

  “This is Dr. Gregor, Mercy,” the sheriff said as he gave the kind-voiced man’s shoulder a quick pat. “He’ll help your granddad.”

  She wrapped her arms about her ribs and stepped back.

  “I could use some bandages. Do you have any?”

  Mercy went to the cabinet where they kept the liniment, Epsom salt, and bandages. She set all of the bandages at the head of the table.

  “There’s a fine help.” He pulled out a chair and patted the seat. “You sit here. If your grandda wakes, you’ll be nearby. I’m wanting you to drink this for me, too.” He set down a glass of water.

  She slipped around the edge of the room and did as he directed, then watched in silence as he used the things from his black leather bag. Nothing he said seemed real. Most of it was muffled, but the tone and cadence lulled her.

  Finally, he finished tending Grossvater. After he knotted the bandage in place, he took Grossvater’s pulse again.

  “Well?” one of the other men asked.

  “I’m cautiously optimistic. Let’s put him to bed.”

  The sheriff and the other man carried Grossvater to his bedroom, and the doctor took a look at the bump on Peter’s head. “Nothing wrong there this won’t cure.” He drew a glass tube from his medical bag and pulled out a sourball.

  “Thanks!” Peter popped the candy into his mouth and regained his usual, cocky grin.

  The doctor turned and held out his hand to Mercy. “Let’s go see to things.”

  When she stood, her legs felt rubbery. Even so, she didn’t take his hand. They walked across the kitchen, but to her surprise, he murmured, “They’ll put your grandda in a nightshirt for you.”


  “Oh. Yes. Thank you.”

  He didn’t touch her, yet his nearness made her sidestep. He pushed open the door to her room.

  Mercy stared inside. The tub. What is the tub doing in my room? And who put out my nightgown? It’s not bedtime yet.

  “Miss Stein.”

  She jumped at the sound of her name.

  “I’ll stay out here and make sure no one bothers you. I thought you might want to bathe. Afterward, I’ll see to your bruises and such.”

  Once in her room, Mercy locked the door. She didn’t want to undress with those men here, but she caught sight of herself in her mirror and choked back a sob. Her dress was in tatters and her hair hung in snarls. Those were just the outward things.

  I can’t stay like this. Grossvater and Peter need me. Her hands shook so badly, she could scarcely undress. Everything took great effort. It hurt to move. She stepped into the big galvanized tub, then knelt. All of the scrubbing in the world couldn’t make her feel clean.

  Chapter 3

  The thin walls of the house didn’t block out the sound of her weeping. Robert and Duncan exchanged a glance.

  “Mercy’s crying.” The lad stopped eating the inside bits of the roast Duncan salvaged for him. “Does she need a hug?”

  “She’s upset that the bad man hurt you and your grandda.” Duncan tapped the edge of the plate to divert the boy.

  Peter wrinkled his nose. “You said Grossvater is going to be fine. I’ll go tell Sis my head doesn’t hurt too much.”

  Duncan put a restraining hand on the boy’s arm. “Doctor will tell her. Hearing it from him will be more reassuring.”

  “Is she scared that bad man will come back?”

  Connant and Chris were out in the barn at this very moment, loading the body onto a buckboard. Duncan shook his head. “I give you my word, lad—he’ll never bother you again. Now you finish eating, then we’ll chop up the crisp bits of that roast and go feed them to your dog. After whelping, a mama dog needs lots of food.”

  After they’d left with the body and while Duncan took Peter out to feed the dog, Mercy’s door opened. Instead of putting on her nightwear, she’d donned a rust-colored calico dress. Avoiding looking at Robert or speaking, she sidled into the other bedroom.

  Robert stood by the door and watched as she smoothed the quilt over the old man’s chest, then combed back an errant lock of his white hair. Her hand shook.

  Though she’d washed her hair, it was too thick to towel dry well. Wisps that didn’t make it into the simple bun started to coil around her wan face and nape, reinforcing a vulnerability that tore at him.

  She didn’t seem in a hurry to leave her grandda’s side, and Robert struggled with that fact. If she drew comfort from seeing the old man was all right, that was good. She deserved solace whatever the source. Then again, he needed to examine her and hoped to have it finished before Peter came back into the house.

  Hooking his thumbs into his suspenders so he’d appear friendly and casual, Rob said quietly, “He’s resting well. With time and attention, he’ll be up and about.”

  “Thank you.”

  She whispered the words so quietly, he almost didn’t hear her. The hoarse quality to her whisper worried him. Is she having trouble breathing? She has marks around her throat. If she screamed… Robert shut down that line of thought immediately. It caused his ire to flare brighter, and she needed him to stay composed. He made the next overture. “Come out to the kitchen. I’ll examine your eye.”

  She ducked her head and turned to the side, as if to hide the bruising, swollen eye.

  “If we put a cool compress to it, you’ll not look so bruised tomorrow.” He paused. “Your little brother’s out feeding the beasts in the barn.”

  She shuddered. “Peter—”

  “We’ll talk about him.” Robert tilted his head toward the kitchen table. “Come.”

  ’Twasn’t an easy span of time, those next minutes. Mercy Stein left her grandfather’s side only to hear about her brother’s condition. Wary as could be, she tried to keep as much distance from Robert as possible.

  Robert turned his back on her and took a dishcloth from the rod by the pump. He dampened it, then methodically folded it into a compress. Each move he made was deliberate in an effort to keep from spooking the lass. As he drew close to her, she flinched.

  “There, now. This will make a difference.” He extended his hand and offered her the compress.

  “I don’t need it. Tell me about Peter.”

  The lass has grit. Robert laid the compress on the table easily within her reach and turned back to his bag. “Other than the bump on his noggin, he’s right as rain.”

  The corner of her mouth twitched in acknowledgment.

  After taking a few items from his bag and closing it, Robert approached her again. This time, he pulled out a chair and sat at an angle from her—close enough to touch, far enough that she wouldn’t feel crowded. “This is witch hazel.”

  He opened his other hand. Cotton wadding tumbled free. “I’ll dab this on your temple, throat, and wrists. It’ll lessen the soreness.”

  She cringed back into her chair. “Don’t need it.”

  “Miss Stein, did you hear Sheriff Gilchrist? You know I’m a doctor.”

  “I have witch hazel if I decide to use it.”

  “I’m here to help you,” he said gently. He waited a beat, then stated, “Something happened in the stable.”

  Her breath caught.

  “Women are delicate, easily hurt. It would be wise for me to—”

  “Leave me alone!”

  He stood and picked up the cotton wadding piece by piece, then took up the Thayer’s witch hazel. “I’m going to take these into your chamber and bring out the tub. You want your privacy, and I’ll honor that. Witch hazel is very safe and mild. A woman can use it anywhere she hurts. Do you understand me?”

  He got no response and didn’t wait beyond a heartbeat. His shoes made the only sound in the small wooden home as he went to her chamber. A tidy little place it was. An airy green-and-white quilt covered the iron bedstead, and matching cushions covered both a small chair and a dowry trunk.

  A dowry trunk—no doubt filled with all sorts of useful linens she’d prettified as she dreamed of a happy future. Robert winced. The dreams could still come true, but she’d not go to her wedding with the joy of an innocent bride. Otto knew already. At least she’d be spared having to tell him.

  Lily of the valley. He inhaled again. The scent from her soap lingered in her room. Robert lifted the tub and carried it through the kitchen to the back door. As he emptied the water into a flower bed, Duncan and little Peter came strolling back. Peter went on inside while Duncan stopped.

  “I’ll spend the night here. I want to be sure the old man’s all right when he awakens. The lass isn’t in any condition to do much, and if they needed help, the boy’s too young to fetch it.”

  Duncan nodded. “Should I stay?”

  “Nae. ’Tis already hard enough on the lass. The last thing she needs is folks hovering.”

  Hours later, Robert moved from the old man’s bedside and peered over the trundle to be sure Peter was sleeping well. Mr. Stein had awakened an hour ago. He answered questions appropriately and worried about Mercy and Peter before slipping back to sleep. In a day or two, he’d learn the truth. For now, he slept with the same innocence as his grandson, deaf to the sound of his granddaughter’s sobs.

  Where’s Otto? Connant said she and Otto were engaged to be married. If ever a woman needed comfort, now was the time. She deserved all of the solace and reassurance Otto could give.

  Robert carried the kerosene lantern with him to the parlor. A photograph of a woman and the old man in his younger days standing in front of a different house was propped beside another photograph of a family of four. The third photograph was of the children with their grandparents. It didn’t take much to deduce that Mercy and her little brother were orphaned and reared by their grandfather. Puir
lass hasna had an easy life.

  Even if Peter hadn’t knelt and said a bedtime prayer, Robert would have known this was a believer’s home. A well-thumbed hymnal, a much-loved Bible, and little colored picture cards from Sunday school bespoke that these people lived their faith. And their faith was just put to an awful test.

  He didn’t want to snoop. Casual observations were fine, but this parlor held too many personal touches. Robert went to the kitchen stove where he stirred up the coals. Spending the night here was a prudent choice, but it wasn’t a comfortable one.

  He wanted to be sure Mr. Stein didn’t brew a fever and hadn’t lost his mental abilities. Between the punctures in the old man’s leg and the bump on the back of his head, either of those complications could occur. So far, neither had materialized. Robert had confidence in his own professional skills, but medical science could only do so much. His faith in the Great Physician’s healing knew no bounds, and he sought wisdom and assistance from the Lord for each case. In regard to Mr. Stein’s welfare, his prayer was being answered.

  Robert also stayed for Mercy’s sake. He knew she didn’t want him there, but folks often resented a physician’s presence because it underscored problems they wanted to deny. She might seek care from him still; he’d discovered that in the dark of night, folks sometimes could ask a doctor things they couldn’t speak of in daylight.

  He’d set a pot of coffee on to boil after he tucked the boy in for the night. Sickened by the violence these people had suffered, Rob hadn’t bothered to eat. Grumbling in his stomach now made him lift the towel draped over a pan. The yeasty smell drifted up to him as he gazed at the dough that had risen and finally fallen flat. Fried in a dab of bacon grease, such dough still gave an empty belly satisfaction.

  The scents of fried bread and coffee filled the house. Robert sat down at the table and ate by the light of that single lantern until a faint creak made him look up.

  Still wearing her calico dress and clutching a shawl about her, Mercy slipped out of her own room and directly into the other bedchamber.