Firefly

by Linda Hilton

  He grumbled, “She’s promised to someone else.”

  “Is she?”

  He was forced to recall his own disturbed doubts about Julie’s willingness to marry Hans.

  “I’d have to be very careful. Her father isn’t a man I’d like to cross.”

  “Was Adam St. Rogers?”

  “No, but at least I trusted Adam. Wilhelm Hollstrom is a mystery. Maybe he’s all right, just a bit odd. He might be uncomfortable, like a lot of immigrants. But I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something underhanded about him.”

  “If I remember correctly, Daddy had you investigated that first time you came to call on me.”

  Morgan laughed and rolled onto his side again. He reached for the bottle of scotch and wrestled the cork from it.

  “Adam had sources and resources I can’t even begin to imagine. And he was in Ohio, a civilized state of the Union, not a wild Territory like Arizona.”

  “Don’t forget, darling, that Daddy is still in Cincinnati, and he still has all his sources and resources.”

  Propped on one elbow, Morgan poured the glass full and swirled the scotch slowly. He could just barely see it, and when some spilled out onto his hand, he wiped it on the seat of his pants.

  Julie had told him this morning—yesterday morning now—that her father had worked in a bank. In Indiana. Adam St. Rogers was right next door in Ohio. If anyone could find out the truth about Wilhelm Hollstrom, it was Adam St. Rogers.

  How strange, Morgan thought. I can’t lie to Adam. I’d have to tell him about Julie and the reason I’m so curious about her father. But Adam never blamed me for what happened, and maybe he’d understand. Maybe.

  He would write the letter in the morning. A long letter, one he had owed Adam for years. He needed answers. Julie Hollstrom had brought him back from one corner of hell, but the torment hadn’t ended.

  No amount of liquor could bring Amy back, and Morgan discovered suddenly that he no longer wanted the empty oblivion. He wanted Julie, and whisky wouldn’t pry her loose from Hans Wallenmund.

  What would? he wondered as he yawned and stretched and finally closed his eyes. Money? Was it to pay off that mysterious debt to her father that kept Julie tied to Hans? Morgan rolled over in anger and knocked the whisky bottle on its side. He grabbed it and set it safely away from his impromptu bed.

  *

  Julie called his name twice, then climbed the stairs with a heavy heart. The doorway to the rooftop stood open, and Julie saw the bare mattress with the whisky bottle not far away.

  Morgan stood by the wall, facing the backyard and the rising sun. Bare chested, bare footed, unshaven, he turned and greeted her quietly.

  “Good morning, Julie. I’m late again, aren’t I.”

  She nodded, unable to speak, then quickly averted her eyes. She had been devouring him unashamedly with her gaze.

  “Have I embarrassed you, Julie?”

  “Yes…no…I mean, I wasn’t expecting….”

  Her voice trailed off even as he watched her. In the morning light she looked fresh and innocent, though her green skirt showed signs of mending and her yellow blouse, clean from yesterday’s laundry, was worn thin at the elbows. He knew her hair was long in that tightly coiled bun, but even the severe style couldn’t dim the shimmer of summer sun on spun silver. It glowed like a halo above her bowed head.

  She’s beautiful, he thought, more beautiful than I ever imagined.

  He walked to the bottle and leaned over to pick it up. Julie watched, trying to hide her disappointment.

  “Here, take it,” he ordered. “Look at it.”

  “No, I don’t even want to touch it.”

  “But I want you to. See?” He pointed to the level of liquid inside. “It’s full.”

  Finally, slowly, she looked up.

  He gave her a grin that crinkled his eyes, that glittered in those gold-green depths.

  “You didn’t drink it?”

  “Not a drop.”

  She hesitated a moment before mirroring his smile, and when his arms opened, she went into them just as reluctantly. It wasn’t proper, not at all. He was practically naked, and she was more than practically engaged. Worse yet, she understood the danger far better than he, because if Morgan was merely seeking congratulations on his victory, Julie found much more.

  Chapter Eighteen

  July sizzled its way toward August, one busy day at a time. Thaddeus Burton left Plato the Thursday after his arrival, taking the stage to Prescott. He managed his crutches well, and left behind his horse at the livery to ensure his return, though by then no one doubted the big man’s honesty.

  His absence from the doctor’s office was keenly felt, however. With Burton gone, Julie found herself slipping into her old shyness again. She had been able to laugh with him, and with Morgan sometimes, too, but in the house alone with the doctor, she retreated into herself.

  Morgan noticed it and had no trouble locating the cause. It didn’t matter that, as the days and weeks went by, neither Julie nor her parents formally announced her engagement. With or without a firm date set for the wedding, she considered herself betrothed, and she had betrayed her promise when she let Morgan wrap her in his arms that Monday morning. More guilt, and he felt it too, because he blamed himself. He swore there would be no repetition.

  He also swore to find the cause of her other guilts. Promptly after sending her on her way that morning, he sat down and wrote to Adam St. Rogers. A telegram would have been faster, but Morgan could not avail himself of that convenience with the object of his investigation manning the telegraph office. So the letter was long, containing confessions and apologies as well as questions. When Morgan had written it over several times to make certain he had left out nothing, he carried it to the post office before opening the clinic for the day.

  Some of his patients, like the McCrorys, paid him cash which, after paying his bills, he faithfully deposited in a growing account in the bank. His long-standing debt at the general store was soon erased, and by the time Burton had been gone a week, Morgan decided to spend some of his hard-earned riches on himself.

  He let Ezra Farnum fit him for a new coat, silk-lined. The old one needed alterations, and it was worn enough that it wouldn’t last much longer anyway, so buying a new one, Morgan told himself, made perfect sense.

  He did not tell Julie about it.

  The more skilled she became at her work, the more he fought against taking her for granted. It wasn’t easy. She learned quickly, more quickly than he had ever imagined she would. When he caught her reading his medical books and discovered she had no course of study, he made a list for her. Every night she took books home, and he knew she read while fixing supper because he had picked up one of the volumes and found a page spattered with cooking grease.

  He didn’t dare wonder what he’d do without her.

  He could only wait, and hope for a reply to his letter to Adam St. Rogers that would tell him something, anything. He didn’t even know what.

  Two weeks after Burton left for Prescott, Morgan was making his Thursday morning errands in the sweltering heat, and he couldn’t get that long-awaited reply out of his mind. When he stopped at the post office, he crossed his fingers for an instant before pulling the door open.

  “Hey, g’mornin’, Doc!” Mr. Nisely called over the counter. “Been waitin’ fer ya. Got a letter fer ya t’day. Mebbe it’s the one ya bin waitin’ fer.”

  But by the time the elderly postmaster had finished all that, Morgan had the envelope in his hand and could see for himself that it wasn’t. The postmark was Prescott.

  Inside the envelope was a folded sheet of paper, but when Morgan opened it, another smaller sheet fell out, almost dropping to the floor before he caught it. It was a bank draft in the sum of one hundred dollars made out to Dr. Morgan.

  He let out another low whistle but did not say anything in front of the postmaster, who had never been accused of keeping a secret.

  Outside in the lat
e morning sun, Morgan squinted to read the note while he walked to the bank, the only detached building between the post office and the boardwalked shops.

  “Dear Doc,” the slightly scrawled letter read. “I made it to Prescott and got my claim filed all nice and legal. Found out too that my partner Jim Spence, r.i.p., had stashed some money in a bank here in the mine’s name. Damn fool place for money, if you ask me, but he didn’t. Anyway, I figger a chunk of it belongs to you and Miss Julie. Don’t you go paying none of my bills in Plato with this. I’m spending part of the loot on myself, resting up here at the hotel like you told me to. But soons I get solid on my feet again I’ll be back to pay all my bills. I kinda miss that old strawberry horse anyway.”

  Morgan laughed, remembering the detailed instructions Burton had left for Gus at the livery.

  He had reached the bank but didn’t immediately go in. He leaned against the brick wall in the last sliver of shade before noon and continued reading.

  “I know I don’t have to worry about you cheating Miss Julie outta her share, so I won’t tell you how to split this. But just don’t go getting married to her until I get back to Plato. I just love weddings and will be very hurt if I don’t get a invite to yours.”

  Morgan coughed, folded the letter quickly, and put it in his pocket. He’d have to make sure Julie didn’t see it.

  He put half the hundred dollars into his account and took the other fifty in cash, including the shiniest double eagle Dan Kincheloe had in his drawer. Dan said nothing about the gold coin, but Morgan suspected the teller had suspicions of his own. Still, neither man said a word, and Morgan walked back outside to finish his errands. He tucked the gold piece in a pocket separate from the rest of his money.

  Next stop was Farnum’s for the final fitting on that new coat. Morgan pushed the door open and the bell hung above it tinkled, bringing Ezra from his workroom.

  “Ah, good day, good day, Dr, Morgan,” he greeted around a mouthful of pins. “Here, let me help you off with that coat and we’ll get the new one on right away, right away.”

  The tailor reached up to remove the garment and deftly hung it on the tree by the door. Taking his tape measure from around his neck, he led the way to the back of the shop and there took the new coat from a hanger.

  “It looks done to me,” Morgan said, shrugging into it. The silk slid easily over his arms with a soft rustle.

  “Not quite, sir, not quite.” Ezra smoothed the black fabric over the broad shoulders. “I got the sleeves a wee bit too long, just a wee bit, but it’s no trouble to shorten them.” He fussed with the cuffs, inserting pins into them so that Morgan had to move carefully to avoid pricking his wrists. “What it really needs, sir, is a new waistcoat. A fine new waistcoat to show off that gold watch chain of yours. No sense having a new coat and wearing it over an old waistcoat, sir, no sense at all.”

  Morgan was about to protest that he couldn’t afford it, but then he remembered the money from Burton. It was found money, the kind to be spent on luxuries rather than necessities, and most of his necessities were taken care of anyway.

  Still, he’d never been spendthrift and could see no reason to begin now simply because he had a bit of extra cash.

  “No, Ezra, I don’t think so. And don’t try to sell me trousers. You made the mistake of telling me when I brought the others in for altering that you had made them out of your best material and that they had plenty of wear left in them.”

  The tailor came around to the front of him and flattened the lapels of the coat, then checked to make sure it hung evenly.

  “It was the truth, sir, the God’s own truth. Trousers take more wear than coats, you know, so I always use the best fabric possible. Now of course I used my best in this coat, too, sir, my very best, and I don’t have much call to, except for special occasions. Very special occasions. And if you aren’t going to be either married or buried in it, the least you could do is wear it over a new waistcoat and do it justice.”

  Ezra, being dead serious, jumped back a step or two in fright when Morgan began to laugh.

  He was still laughing, partly at himself for having ordered the new waistcoat that he didn’t need, when he walked into McCrory’s. There he purchased only the items he did need, soap, coffee, salt, and a tablet of paper to use when drawing diagrams for Julie. He had just paid and was on his way out the door when Katharine Hollstrom walked in.

  “Good morning, Dr, Morgan,” she sang.

  He tipped his hat politely.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” he asked her.

  “Quite well, thank you, though I’m sure I’ll feel even better next week when you finally take this thing off.” She lifted the splinted arm and gave it a disgusted look.

  “Don’t expect too much right away,” he warned. “It’s been idle a long time and the muscles will be rather weak. It may take several weeks for you to regain full use of the arm.”

  She made no attempt to hide her disappointment, and in fact seemed to play on it, pouting almost like a spoiled child.

  “And I did so look forward to being able to help Julie.”

  “I’m sure if you take things slowly and don’t try to do too much the first day, you should have no trouble,” Morgan encouraged. He tried to make a graceful exit then, but Katharine, who was no less plump than she had been six weeks ago, effectively blocked his retreat.

  “At least it will be more use than it is now, and so will I. You can’t imagine what a trial it has been for me to sit by and watch her work so hard. Especially now that this new treatment of yours has me feeling so much better than I did.”

  Katharine’s sincerity was tinged with such drama that Morgan immediately dismissed it. He found himself caught in the old dilemma again. He could wish Katharine a speedy recovery, which would free Julie to spend more time with him, or he could continue the charade of invalidism and delay the wedding. For the sooner Katharine regained her health, the sooner Hans would demand his bride.

  And that thought brought back Ezra Farnum’s words.

  This Thursday was busier than some, but still there were quiet periods between patients. During any one of those moments, Morgan could have given Julie the gold piece, but he waited until he knew they would not be interrupted. Finally, when the last patient had left, Morgan closed and locked the door.

  “Please, Julie, sit down and relax for a few minutes.”

  She did as he asked, seating herself on one of the plain wooden chairs along the wall. Morgan pulled up another and straddled it backwards to face her. He reached into a pocket and took the coin in his hand, liking the secure heaviness of it.

  “I got a letter from Mr. Burton today.”

  “Oh? Is he well?”

  “He’s fine. He’s spending some time in Prescott recuperating.”

  “I’m glad. I won’t worry about him so much now. He really was a very nice man.”

  “Yes, he was, for all he came in here looking like an outlaw.”

  It was easy to talk about Burton, and for those few moments of almost idle conversation Morgan thought he had lost his nervousness. But the instant silence descended, he felt eighteen years old again.

  He coughed.

  “Mr. Burton sent some money to pay for his care while he was here. It was a substantial amount, more than I would have asked from him.”

  “Well, you did save his life.”

  She left him a convenient opening; he took it.

  “With considerable help from you. Mr. Burton also recognized your contribution, so he wanted you to have this.”

  He held out his palm with the gold coin lying on it. Julie stared, disbelieving.

  “Go on, it’s yours. You earned it.”

  “Twenty dollars? No, I can’t take that much. You did so much more than I.”

  She hid her hands under her apron.

  “He sent me a hundred dollars, Julie. Surely twenty at least is yours. Put it away if you like; stick it in your hope chest or something.”

&n
bsp; At that remark, she did turn away.

  “No. I don’t want it,” she insisted with strange fervor.

  “Why not? You earned it honestly, Julie. You worked as hard as I did that night he came in here, and you really did more afterward. You fixed his meals, you saw to his personal needs, you sat up nights and watched him.”

  But thinking of Thaddeus Burton reminded Julie of a kiss in a stifling hot surgery and an embrace in the cool of a summer morning. She looked again at the money Morgan offered her and saw it for what it really was.

  Or was it? Had the letter from Burton reminded the doctor, too, of those minor but still significant transgressions and urged him to ease his conscience with purchased forgiveness? He had had money before and never felt the need to give any more of it to her than her weekly salary. Perhaps Burton had indeed insisted that part of his payment go to her. She could not refuse the man’s generosity, but neither did she wish to give Morgan the notion that she could be bought.

  “Please, Julie, take the money,” he begged gently. “Consider it a gift, the kind you never expected. Spend it lavishly. Buy yourself a new dress, a new pair of shoes, maybe a frilly hat. You deserve that much, at least.”

  And you deserve so much more.

  Slowly, she brought one hand out from under her apron and extended it toward his. She took the coin from his palm, taking great care not to touch him more than absolutely necessary. Care was not enough. Her fingertips came alive in that fraction of a second, and she quickly hid them again, now clutching the heavy coin.

  Morgan breathed a sigh of relief. He had been afraid for a minute there that she wouldn’t take it after all, but now at least he could take the refusal stand if she tried to give it back. He hoped that would not be the case, since she seemed to have taken secure possession of the coin, and he further hoped he could prevail upon her to accept a bit more.

  He took his billfold from his coat pocket and slid a five-dollar bill from it without looking at Julie. As he put the billfold away, he began to speak.

  “This isn’t a gift, Julie,” he told her, forcing his voice to a sternness he couldn’t feel. “It’s an investment of mine, one you aren’t allowed to argue with.”