Fair Play

by Deeanne Gist

  Her entire countenance changed. She put the thermometer in its case and reached for his cap.

  He caught her wrist.

  “Something’s happening,” she said. “You’re experiencing pain somewhere. I can see it in your face. Let’s not waste time. I was named after my granddaddies on both sides. I graduated cum laude from the University of Michigan. I’ve been practicing for seven years. And I can help you. But you have to tell me where it hurts.”

  “You’d lie to a dying man?”

  “Nobody dies on my watch. Not if I can help it. And I’m not lying. I’m Dr. Tate. I really, really am. Now, you need to tell me what’s going on while you still can.”

  His grip on her wrist had weakened to a point where she simply pulled free and removed his cap. From there, she went straight to the brass buttons holding his jacket together. Shoving the jacket open, she started on his shirt. Maybe dying in the Woman’s Building wouldn’t turn out so bad after all.

  “Where does it hurt?” she asked.

  “The gut.”

  “Did something happen? Did you run into anything?”

  A sharp pain lanced through him. Sucking in a breath, he gave a quick shake of his head.

  “What did you have for breakfast?”

  “A grizzly.”

  “I hope you’re joking.” She shoved open his shirt, then wrenched his undershirt from his trousers and scrunched it up to his armpits with a quick strokes. Lips parting, she swept her gaze from his torso to his eyes.

  Jaw clamped against the spasm, he managed a wink. “Not bad for a dying man, huh?”

  Her expression was all business. “Point with one finger where it hurts the most.”

  He drew an upside down U from his hip bone up over his belly button and down to the other hip bone. If she wanted to see it, though, she’d have to undo his belt. Instead, she simply pressed her fingers against the indicated area.

  He jumped, forgetting about everything but the pain, and shoved her hands away.

  “I know it’s tender. I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

  This was why he hated doctors. Instead of taking his word, they prodded him to see if they could get a holler. Well, he’d be dad-blamed before he’d give her the satisfaction of a holler.

  She finished her exam, then, quicker than he could spit and say howdy, she released his belt, unbuttoned his fly, mumbled an “excuse me,” and slipped a hand down to his hip bone. He registered a flash of shock until she pressed down. Agony arched his back.

  He gripped the edges of the cot. She continued her inspection, hands kneading the path he’d drawn for her.

  “Have you been on any long train trips recently?” she asked.

  He opened one eye. Was she trying to distract him? Even without the pain, he’d be hard-pressed to dismiss the fact that she had her hand inside his pants. “Rode up from Houston last month to—” He winced as she pressed a spot just to the right of his belly button.

  “Sorry.” Still, she didn’t let up on the pressure. “What did you do before you became a Columbian Guard?”

  He tightened his hold on the cot, but forced his spine to relax. “I’m a Texas Ranger.”

  “I see. I assume life as a Ranger is quite a bit more active than life as a Columbian Guard?”

  “Yes’m.”

  Head cocked, eyes closed in concentration, she kneaded the area up over his navel, then back underneath along his right side.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  He rolled his eyes. Diploma or not, she was female, and clearly felt a need to fill the awkwardness with chitchat.

  “We stay in some barracks here on the grounds,” he answered.

  At least her eyes were closed, allowing him to grimace undetected. It also allowed him to study her. He surveyed the tendrils of hair still loose from this morning. The lashes resting against smooth cheeks. The pulse at her throat. The curves so close to brushing him, but not quite making contact.

  She must bathe in a basket of apples, peaches, and summer berries. Whatever it was, it smelled mighty good. The boys back home could put whatever they wanted on his tombstone. He couldn’t imagine a better way to die.

  “When’s the last time you defecated?” she asked.

  All thoughts went up in a powder. “What?”

  She opened her eyes, her caramel brown finding his dark brown without even having to search.

  “When’s the last time you had a bowel movement?”

  Warmth crept from his chest to his neck. “I am not about to discuss that with you.”

  The eyebrow again. “I’m a doctor, Mr.—” She stopped, as if catching herself. “What’s your name?”

  That was quite a question, all things considered. “Hunter Scott.”

  “Well, Mr. Scott. If you want some relief from this pain, you need to answer my question. When’s the last time you’ve defecated?” She removed her hand and began to button him up.

  He swatted her away, doing the job himself. “I’m not discussing it with you.”

  Unwrapping the stethoscope from her neck, she hooked one end into her ears and set the other against his gut.

  “My heart’s up here, Billy.”

  “I’m listening to your stomach, and you may call me Dr. Tate.”

  “Where I come from, we’d definitely be on a first-name basis.”

  “Where’s the commode located in your barracks?”

  “For the love of Peter.” His nausea began to rumble again. Sweat collected beneath his arms and along his forehead.

  Straightening, she took the earpieces from her ears and allowed them to catch against her neck. “Do you have privacy issues, Mr. Scott?”

  The nausea peaked, then receded a bit. “I wouldn’t want to do what we just did with an audience present, if that’s what you mean.”

  Pink suffusing her cheeks, she wrestled his undershirt back down to his waist. “We didn’t do anything. I simply examined you the same as any other doctor would. And what I meant was, is the toilet in your barracks in close proximity to the sleeping area? Close enough for others to hear awkward sounds and smells?”

  If this wasn’t the darndest conversation he ever did have. “It is.”

  “And have you ever used it?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “When’s the last time you defecated?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are we back to that?”

  “Answer me.”

  Sighing, he let his arm fall over his eyes. “Coming up on three weeks.”

  “Good heavens. You must have an extremely high tolerance for pain. I can’t believe you haven’t sought help before now.”

  He said nothing.

  After a few seconds the door opened. “Nurse Findley, put together a pouch of psyllium tea please.”

  He glanced toward the door. Billy had her head poked through the opening, causing her white skirt to drape over a curvy backside.

  Straightening, she shut the door.

  “Are you barefoot?” he asked.

  She blinked in surprise. “Of course not.”

  “Then what’s on your feet? You don’t make a sound when you move.”

  A smile lifted her cheeks and brightened her eyes. “It’s my hygienic shoes. They have steel springs over the insteps and rubber heels, rendering them noiseless. They were invented by a woman and are marvelously comfortable.”

  He stared at a line of frilly white trim along the bottom of her skirt. He figured after all they’d been through he ought to at least be allowed to have a glimpse beneath those hems, but she didn’t offer to lift them and he didn’t ask.

  “A woman’s invention, huh?”

  “Yes. A woman by the name of Mrs. Fenwick.”

  The nausea began its ascent once again. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to keep it down this time. “Get me a dustbin, Billy.”

  The animation fell from her face as she rushed to accommodate him.

  He tried to roll onto his side, but was
as helpless as a cow in quicksand.

  Digging under his back, she rolled him onto his shoulder, then propped him against her while she reached over and held a bowl beneath his mouth. When he was finished, she eased him back, took the bowl out of the room, then returned with a cool cloth.

  Wiping his mouth, she gave him a soft smile. “Better?”

  “I’m not dying, am I?”

  “No.” She folded the rag inside out and ran it across his forehead. “You’re constipated.”

  He slid his eyes closed. “That can’t be right. How could something like that knock me so low?”

  “It’s not something to trifle with. Has it ever happened before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I can give you some immediate relief today, but until you’re defecating at least three times a week, there are a few things you’ll need to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have a tea I’d like you to drink every morning. And so you know, this came on in part because of the inactivity of your new job, not to mention sitting on that train from Texas to Illinois. I suggest you begin performing calisthenics in your room or in a gymnasium. Chicago has several I can recommend. You’ll also need to eat a nutritious diet that is easily digested. Last, you’ll need to come in for daily massages.”

  He studied her. “Massages? As in, the kind of massage you gave me a few minutes ago?”

  “No, that was an examination. I was needing to see if I could feel your colon through the abdominal wall, which I could. That’s a sure sign it’s much too full. Your massage will be in the same area, but it can be done through the fabric of your trousers.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  Though her expression remained stoic, a blush crept into her cheeks.

  “Who gives the massages?” he asked. “You, or a nurse?”

  “Me.”

  He pursed his lips. “What does your husband think about your job?”

  “I’m not . . . that’s none . . .” She swept a hand up the back of her hair, but the loose tendrils floated down again the minute she lowered her arm. “You also need to quit being shy about attending to your needs. Everyone defecates. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do.”

  A slow smile lifted one corner of his lips. “You’re not married, are you?”

  “Mr. Scott, you need to be paying attention to my instructions. They are very important.”

  “Hunter. My name’s Hunter.”

  Spinning about, she whisked up a sheet from a nearby chair and plopped it on his stomach. “Remove everything from the waist down and roll onto your side.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Hunter’s jaw slackened.

  She opened a glass-fronted cabinet with shelves full of surgical instruments and withdrew a large wooden box. Inside nestled a syringe for the likes of Paul Bunyan, along with tubes and a long ivory pipe.

  “If that’s what I think it is,” he said, “you can just put it right back in that cabinet.” But his brief respite had passed, and the pain began to build again. It didn’t matter. No way would he sit still for this.

  She turned to him, back straight, face set. “You’re having an enema, Mr. Scott. It’s the only way. Afterward, you’ll have immediate relief, and then you can do the three things I’ve recommended for a period of three months. Otherwise, it will happen again.”

  “I’m leaving.” With a Herculean effort, he pushed himself to a sitting position. The room wobbled, the blood drained from his head. Billy handed him a bowl.

  This time she didn’t stay by his side. Instead, she wrenched open the door. “Go find the Columbian Guard who brought Mr. Scott in here and bring him to me immediately.”

  Even as he retched, her words brought relief. Carlisle would get him out of here. He’d never let this woman do what she planned. By the time he’d finished, his arms trembled, his head spun, and he could hardly remain upright.

  She carried off the bowl and returned with Carlisle.

  “Get me outta here.” Hunter still sat upright, barely.

  Carlisle scratched his chin. “The doc says you’re giving her some trouble.”

  “She tell you what she plans to do?”

  Carlisle’s gaze touched the instruments strewn across the counter. “She did.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  But his friend did nothing. Just stood there. Finally, he turned to Billy. “Would you give us a minute, doc?”

  “Certainly.” She left, her woman-invented shoes making no sound.

  The door clicked shut. Carlisle rubbed the back of his neck. “Did I ever tell you my dad’s a doctor?”

  “I don’t care. Get over here and help me up.”

  “I think you ought to do what she says.”

  “You either help me out of here or I’ll knock your ears down so they’ll do you for wings.” A spasm curled him up like a scorpion’s tail, robbing him of his breath.

  Carlisle sighed. “Listen, this isn’t so bad. Lots of people have had one. And if you don’t do it, then I’ll have to work all your shifts. Besides, you’re acting as scared as a rabbit in a wolf’s mouth. It’s embarrassing.”

  Embarrassing? Carlisle wanted to talk to him about embarrassing?

  Holding Hunter’s gaze, Carlisle removed his hat and jacket, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’m going to call her in here. And when she comes, you hunt up something you can use for a backbone, because if you give her any trouble, I’m going to knock you out cold as a meat hook.”

  This could not be happening. “I’ve got more backbone in my little finger than you have in your entire spine.”

  “Then let’s get this over with.”

  But it wasn’t Billy who came back in—it was the nurse. Hunter did as he was told, and when all was finished, Carlisle kicked the nurse out while the treatment took effect. Finally, Carlisle led him back to the cot. Hunter collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

  When he woke, he was alone, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. Once he did, he threw an arm over his eyes. Death and the deuce, but he hated doctors. Still, he had no pain and he didn’t hear any harp music, so the purgative must have worked.

  He tapped his ribs, looking for his watch, but his jacket and shirt had been removed, leaving him in nothing but trousers and undershirt. There was no window, so he had no way of gauging the time.

  Someone had cleaned the examination room, lit a flowery-smelling candle, and set a fresh bowl within reach on his invalid’s table.

  The diploma on the wall snagged his attention. Billy Jack. What kind of parents named their daughter Billy Jack? And what kind of woman went to college to take up a man’s profession? Miss Pantalets-Trousers came to mind along with the bevy of women who’d clambered through the halls of the Memorial Art Palace. He shook his head. He’d never seen such a bunch of foolishness.

  Still, he had to admit, Billy Jack Tate was no quack. She’d managed to diagnose his problem in a matter of minutes and to cure it without sawing, leeching, or administering electric currents. Not that he was happy with the solution she’d come up with—but still, he’d seen an awful lot worse.

  As if his thoughts had conjured her up, she opened the door and stuck her head inside. “You’re awake.”

  He didn’t reply, not sure whether to thank her or strangle her.

  Stepping into the room, she shut the door and leaned against it. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been riding the rough string with a borrowed saddle.”

  She pushed away from the door. “What does that mean?”

  “Means I’ve felt better.”

  “Does your stomach still hurt?” Approaching the bed, she glanced at the sheet twisted about him and tugged it loose, then brought it up to his chest. “Well? Does it?”

  “I’m all right.”

  She folded the lip of the sheet over and smoothed it across him.

  “You tucking me in?”

  “You still sleepy?”

  “I need to
get up. What time is it?”

  “Around eight o’clock.”

  His eyes widened. “At night?”

  “Yes.”

  Throwing off the covers, he pushed himself to a sitting position. “I’ve got to go. My shift started two hours ago.”

  She placed a hand against his arm. “Not so fast. Mr. Carlisle said he’d work your shift for you.”

  “He should have woken me.” Swinging his legs over the side, he paused. The room spun for only a few seconds, and his stomach made no objection at all.

  “You’re too weak to be doing any guarding, Mr. Scott. If something were to happen, you’d be in no shape to take it on. I have some dinner for you. Then my orders are for you to return to your barracks, drink your tea, and head right to bed.”

  He studied her. “You always work this late?”

  “If a patient needs me.”

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Oatmeal with prunes.”

  He cringed. “Not much of a cook, are you?”

  Smiling, she rolled the invalid’s table to him. “They’re from the Garden Café up on the roof. And your stomach’s had a traumatic day, so we’re going to feed it something that will help your digestive tract.”

  The oatmeal was cold and he hated prunes, but he cleaned his bowl all the same.

  After he finished, he pushed the table aside and stood. “Where are my clothes?”

  “Right over here.” She retrieved them from a lower cabinet, then handed them to him.

  “Somebody brushed these for me,” he said.

  Glancing down, she shook out her skirts. The chatelaine no longer hung from her belt.

  He shrugged on his shirt and adjusted it against his shoulders, then began buttoning it. “Thank you for brushing them.”

  “Yes, it was, I only . . .” Looking up, she swallowed. “You’re welcome.”

  Her discomfort surprised him. She’d not so much as hesitated when she’d undressed him. But that had been different. He’d been a patient on a cot in a great deal of pain. Now he was a half-clothed Columbian Guard, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, she was an unmarried lady doctor.

  She cleared her throat, fiddled with her hair, tugged down her sleeves, and crossed her arms.