Fair Play

by Deeanne Gist

He pulled on his jacket. “My boots?”

  “Oh!” She shot off to another corner of the room and came back with them. “So, you’re from Texas.”

  “That’s right. Where are you from?”

  “I grew up in Boston, but I live here in Chicago now.”

  “A city girl?”

  She smiled. “Through and through.”

  “But you went to school in Michigan?”

  “Yes. They’re the first state medical school to formally admit women.”

  With his jacket gaping open, he pulled on a boot.

  She reached out to steady him.

  “Cum laude, huh?” he asked.

  Again, she blushed. “Did I say that?”

  “You did.” He pulled on his other boot.

  The minute he finished, she released him and took a step back. “What about you? Did you go to school?”

  “I did.” Lifting his chin, he began securing the brass buttons on his jacket. “Only I graduated ‘praise the laude.’ ”

  Her laugh changed her entire face. Bright eyes. One dimple. Straight teeth. Rounded cheeks.

  “Is your home far from here?” he asked.

  Her laugh tapered off, but her smile remained intact. “It’s about a ten-mile train ride, but I’ve been offered a room at a women’s dormitory built for the accommodation of the unprotected during the fair. So I’ll be staying there on the nights I work. That way, I won’t have to go so far.”

  Nodding, he secured the last button and pulled down on the hem of his jacket. “How do I look?”

  Her smile dissipated. She handed him a pouch of tea. “You look very charming, Mr. Scott.”

  He tucked the pouch into his pocket. No sounds from outside penetrated their room. Only her breathing, his breathing, and the sudden rushing of his blood.

  “May I walk you home?” he asked.

  “Under the circumstances, I thought perhaps I should walk you home.”

  He lifted the corner of his mouth. “Despite what you may think, I never get sick. Most of us boys from Texas have been raised with a gun in one hand and a milk bottle in the other. So, no need to worry. I’ll be fine. I feel a hundred times better already. Thank you . . . I think.”

  Her smile returned. “You’re welcome . . . I think.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  She shook her head. “I have some paperwork yet.”

  “I thought you closed at seven.”

  “We do. But I imagine I’ll be staying until a little bit after nine on most days.”

  Nine. Good to know. That’s when his second shift of the day ended.

  He placed a hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see you tomorrow, doc.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “For my massage.” Winking, he stepped through the door and gently pulled it shut behind him.

  INTERIOR OF THE WOMAN’S BUILDING7

  “Hunter nodded. ‘I’m going to sweep through the building.’ ”

  CHAPTER

  9

  Billy didn’t see Mr. Scott the next day, of course, for she worked only three days a week. But she’d seen him the following day and all of her workdays since.

  Though his massages took fifteen, twenty minutes at the most, he always managed to draw her into conversation until, eventually, an easy friendship had formed between them.

  Today was no different. Stepping into the surgery, he removed his sword, then began unfastening his blue sackcloth jacket. To the right and left of each shiny brass button, black braid radiated out in a straight line, culminating in a cloverleaf design. “Afternoon, Billy.”

  Though she addressed him as Mr. Scott, he insisted on calling her by her Christian name. The only time he used her proper name was when they were out in the public area.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Scott. How are you feeling?”

  “Light as a feather, ma’am.”

  She held back her smile. That had become his way of letting her know he’d had his tea and taken care of business. Folding a swansdown cloth, she placed it in a stack with other like-sized ones.

  “What’re you doing?” Sliding his jacket down his arms, he caught it before it dropped, then draped it across the hygienic chest. Thank goodness he’d never asked to see what was inside it.

  “I’m separating bandages,” she said.

  Approaching her, he leaned a hip against the counter and crossed his arms. “What are they for?”

  “This stack right here? Bandages for the nose.”

  “What about that one?” He indicated some muslin with his chin.

  “Those are patches for the eyes.”

  “And these?” He continued to single out each pile until she’d identified the dressings for jaws, knees, abdomens, and chests.

  “You ready?” She placed the last piece of flannelette in the knee pile.

  “Sure.” Moving to the edge of the cot, he grabbed the heel of his boot and worked it off his foot. She’d learned that his cowpuncher boots were made of armadillo—an animal that, according to Mr. Scott, looked like a miniature dinosaur, birthed only quadruplets, tasted like pork, and jumped four feet in the air when startled.

  She still wasn’t sure she believed him, but he swore he was telling the truth.

  Locking his hands behind his head, he stretched out on the cot. “Got a letter from LeRue yesterday.”

  “Your brother?” Starting at the lower left hip, she began to knead his colon.

  “Uh-huh. He’s going to a rodeo over in Pecos this week.”

  She glanced at him. “Have you ever been to a rodeo?”

  “Sure. Plenty of times. Matter of fact, back home, us boys used to gather up at whoever’s folks had gone to town and have a rodeo of our own with their stock.”

  “And when would that have been?”

  “I don’t know. When I was about twelve or so.” Tensing, he grimaced.

  She immediately stilled. “Is that tender right there?”

  “A little.”

  She backtracked and did it again.

  “Do you do that on purpose?” he asked, scowling. “Do you press it again to see if you can get a holler out of me?”

  “Of course not. I’m just trying to see if I feel any inflammation.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, there were about six of us and we got to be pretty good at riding. We even drew for our stock, just like real rodeo cowboys.”

  She only had one sister, and Pauline was so much older than she, it was more like having an extra mother. But Mr. Scott and his brother were only a year apart in age. The way they’d whiled away their childhood was a great deal different from the way she had.

  “What kind of animal did you draw?” she asked.

  “All kinds. One time, though, I drew a wild steer. I got on that thing and, boy, did he pitch. He went right through a brand-new wooden gate and left me on the back side of it.”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “Were you hurt?”

  “I was pretty bummed up and we had to rebuild the gate as best we could before his pa got home.”

  “Did he notice?”

  “His pa? Yeah, he noticed. Whipped his boy pretty good. Said we could’ve gotten me killed.”

  Looking up, she paused. “What did your parents do?”

  “They never knew. LeRue painted me with iodine and bacon grease.”

  She nodded. “All that salt in the bacon grease will heal about anything, won’t it?”

  “Sure enough.”

  And so it went. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays she worked at the infirmary and had a little peek into the life of Hunter Scott. And upon very rare occasions, she’d give him a peek into hers.

  On the other days of the week, she stayed at her apartment on Congress and Forty-third, hoping someone would see her shingle and send for her. But no one ever did.

  With Osler’s large tome, Principles and Practice of Medicine, sprawled open on her lap, Billy curled her stockinged feet up under her legs on the bureau’s couch and read the section on tumors o
f the intestine. To her relief, Mr. Scott showed none of the symptoms outlined. In fact, she decided it was time to cut back on the frequency of his massages.

  Yawning, she checked her timepiece. Almost nine o’clock. More and more she stayed after hours in the parlor of the Bureau of Comfort. It was much more comfortable and spacious than her tiny room at the Women’s Dormitory, if a bit cooler, and it gave her a chance to peruse Osler’s exciting new medical book.

  She glanced out the window to the electric lamps lining the walks outside. She knew she’d regret it if she didn’t at least attempt to tour the fair, but so far she hadn’t been able to summon up any enthusiasm for wandering through its six hundred acres when she’d been on her feet all day.

  And her off days were out of the question. For if she wasn’t going to spend any time in her apartment, then she might as well take down her shingle. She wasn’t about to do that.

  Sliding the tome from her lap, she brushed aside her hems and began to massage her arches. Hygienic shoes or no, her feet were still sore by the end of her shift. The work hadn’t been demanding, but it had kept her busy. Most every day she saw someone for fatigue, swollen feet, or dehydration. Her most exciting case by far had been Mr. Sc—.

  An insistent pounding on the parlor door caused her to jerk upright.

  “Open up!”

  She raced to the door.

  Mr. Scott barged inside, his eyes spooked like a horse’s. Balanced in his large palms, a newborn in nothing more than a diaper kicked its tiny arms and legs giving forth a squall equal to that of a mighty warrior.

  Billy touched her throat. “What on earth?”

  Mr. Scott stretched his hands toward her. The babe turned red and increased its protest at being handled in such an unmotherly fashion.

  “I found it abandoned.” His breath came in spurts.

  “Abandoned?” she asked. “Where?”

  “It was wrapped up in that cloak made of prairie chicken feathers.”

  “Good heavens.” Supporting the child’s bald head, she took it into her arms. “I’ll examine it immediately.”

  He nodded. “I’m going to sweep the building. See if I can locate the mother.”

  Without waiting for a response, he was back out the door, leaving it ajar.

  Securing the infant against her chest, she jiggled and shushed it, gently buffing its back and arms to ward off the goose pimples covering its chilled skin. There was certainly nothing wrong with its lungs.

  Though she’d delivered many a baby and had treated that many more, she realized this was the first time she’d ever actually been alone with one. Usually the mother or the nurses were right there. Having this one all to herself touched a chord deep inside.

  Temporarily securing the babe in a corner of the couch, she tucked a towel around it, hastened to scrub her hands in the sink, then placed her instruments on the invalid’s table. The abandoned babe screamed the entire time.

  Newborns had such a distinctive cry. A sound very different from a baby of even two months. Collecting it into her arms, she took it to the cot in surgery.

  “Well, hello there”—she unfolded the towel and crude swaddling—“fellow. What were you doing wrapped up in that feather cloak? Didn’t you know that was a beaver collar trimming its neck? Why, it took a Dakota woman ten years to make that thing, one feather at a time.”

  His skin color was good. His chest movements were superb. His umbilical cord had dried up, but the stump had yet to fall off.

  Picking up her stethoscope, she listened to his heart and lungs. “It’s a very good thing your diaper was dry. It would have been a shame had you decided to christen the cloak.”

  At the sound of her voice, the babe’s cries briefly came down in volume, his blue eyes big and watery. But when she began to examine his skull and fontanelle, his protests rose again. She was glad he was a fighter. With the challenges he was sure to have ahead of him, he’d need to be.

  Hunter could find no trace of the mother. No workers or visitors had seen anyone with a baby either. Pushing open the door to what he’d come to think of as Billy’s parlor, he stepped inside. The babe was still kicking up a ruckus. Crossing to the examination room, he stopped at the door.

  “If Mr. Scott doesn’t find your mother,” she said, acting as if the tot were listening instead of crying, “I’ll do my best to locate a wet nurse. Some people believe being born with a silver spoon in their mouth is most advantageous, but being born with a mammilla in your mouth is a much better state of affairs and the key to excellent health.”

  He blinked, unsure he’d heard correctly.

  “Do you know where I first learned that?” Finishing the one task, she moved her index fingers to each of the baby’s fists. It grabbed on tight, then quieted a bit when she lifted it clear off the cot by nothing but the strength of its grasp.

  “I learned it from my mother. She was visiting with the neighbor ladies and one of them was going to have to bottle-feed her newborn. Well, my mother didn’t like that. Not one single bit. She firmly told the woman that it would be worth her while to find a wet nurse or the baby might become sick.”

  The babe quieted completely. Billy eased it down, then gently took hold of its right leg, rotating it at the hip joint. The babe stared at her with the same fascination Hunter felt.

  “Wouldn’t you know, a few days later, my rag doll became very ill. I just knew it was because I’d been bottle-feeding her.”

  A smile tugging at his lips, Hunter settled against the frame of the door. He’d discovered she wasn’t the type of woman who checked her mirror much. As a result, she often had a mussed look about her. Tonight, the pins holding her dark blond hair had loosened, disheveling the twist at her nape. A single curl fell along her back, leading his eye down to the curves at her waist and those below. The wrinkles resting against her backside gave evidence of her having sat on the couch reading for some time now.

  “Even back then I knew I wanted to be a doctor. So I went outside to the pump and soaked myself with water. When my mother discovered what I’d done while wearing my best white pinafore and kidskin boots, I calmly explained my doll was sick and needed a wet doctor.”

  Hunter burst out laughing.

  Billy twisted around, one hand holding the babe securely on the cot, one hand clutching her collar. Red filled every inch of her skin.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

  Instead of answering, he chuckled and shook his head. He couldn’t imagine why any little girl would want to be a doctor when everybody knew girls were supposed to grow up and become mothers.

  She turned her back to him, then began to diaper the infant. It was a boy, he noted.

  “What’s the matter with you, Hunter Scott?” she asked. “What were you doing to sneak in here and eavesdrop on a conversation that wasn’t meant for you?”

  The tenor of her voice upset the babe and it started to cry again.

  Making his way to her side, he cocked a hip against the cot. “I’m sorry, Billy. I really am sorry to have upset the babe, but I wouldn’t have missed that tale for the world.”

  Grabbing a flannel blanket from the invalid’s table, she swaddled the babe, then pulled it to her shoulder, rocking it, nuzzling it, cooing to it. Its crying settled into whimpers. He couldn’t help but notice how good she was with the little tyke.

  “Did you find anything out?” Her voice was soft. Low.

  “Not a thing. Nobody saw a mother. A baby. Nothing. How is he?”

  “He appears to be just fine. Hungry, I’m sure, but not malnourished.”

  “How old do you think he is?”

  “Judging from the umbilical cord, I’d guess between seven to fourteen days old.”

  “That young.”

  “Yes.” She rubbed her cheek against its bald head.

  “What are we going to do with him?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll take him with me tonight to the Women’s Dormitory. See if anyone knows anything.” />
  “And if they don’t?”

  Their eyes locked. The gravity of the situation sinking in.

  He nodded toward the door. “Come on. I’m walking you home.”

  “No need for—”

  “It wasn’t a question. I’m not about to let you to take that thing clear over to Fifty-second Street by yourself.”

  “It’s not a thing. It’s a he. And it’s not that far.”

  “I’m going with you, Billy.”

  “What about guard duty?”

  “It’s after nine. Carlisle’s already on the job.” He walked to her. “Here, give him to me. You go pack your doctor’s bag.”

  She looked up, her creamy brown eyes accented with shots of translucent chocolate and outlined with a fine black ring. “Careful. You need to support his neck. Like this.”

  Taking Hunter’s hand, she positioned it. He wasn’t sure which was softer, her or the baby.

  “I need to go to the café on the roof,” she said. “Hopefully they’ll have some goat’s milk.”

  “Go on, then. I’ll stay here with him.”

  Biting her lip, she hesitated, then did as she was told.

  WISCONSIN BUILDING8

  “A set of wind chimes hanging above Wisconsin’s porch clanked together in a discordant composition.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  The nighttime crowd gravitated toward Lake Michigan, where an elaborate fireworks display could be seen to best advantage. Though the show was on the opposite side of the park from Billy and Hunter, the bangs and pops were still plenty loud. She hoped they wouldn’t upset the child. His tiny body curled up like a sausage inside the flannel blanket, its round little rump soft against her arm.

  “Is this night air going to harm him?” Hunter asked, the sword at his side jostling against the doctor’s bag he’d insisted on carrying for her.

  “I hope not. I wish I’d have thought to bring an extra blanket, though.”

  They crossed through the fair’s northernmost section, where forty-four states of the union and four territories had erected buildings. Only an occasional couple graced this section, making the park feel eerily abandoned. Still, the electric lights inside the buildings threw off iridescent halos that competed with the moon’s silvery glow and reflected a rainbow of colors in the lagoon.