by Janet Dean
Dr. Edgar’s face flushed. “No offense, Dr. Lawrence, but are you in a position to be so selective?”
“Yes, I believe I am, young man, as long as I’m alive and kicking.” He handed the paperwork to the doctor, then ushered the red-faced applicant out of the office.
When he returned, Mary said, “Maybe the other two applicants—” Her father’s scowl stopped her.
“If a doctor is to take over this practice, Mary, he must be competent, honorable and care about people. If such a man exists, I’ll hire him on the spot.”
Mary nodded. The first interview hadn’t been a positive beginning, but surely one of the other two applicants would meet her father’s high standards.
She found the boys in the waiting room playing hide-and-seek. Michael counted to ten, while Ben and Philip scurried for cover. As soon as Ben saw her, he forgot the game and plunged into her skirt. “Is it time to go home?”
“Remember, we’re having lunch here with Grandpa.”
A hank of dark brown hair tumbled over Philip’s brow, covering a hazel eye. He swept it off his forehead. “Ben wants to play ball.”
Michael’s green eyes fixed on her. “Why can’t we take him outside? We do at home.”
Mary glanced through the window. The sun shone bright for October; the wind had died. A perfect fall day. But with Luke Jacobs snooping about town, she couldn’t bear letting Ben out of her sight.
Ben jumped up and down, his pleading eyes melting her resolve. “Can I? Please?”
If the boys played out back, no one could see them from the street. “All right, just until we eat lunch. Here’s your ball.”
Ben whooped and trotted alongside her as they headed for the door. She had work to do, but the beauty of the day and the boys’ shiny faces pulled her. Chores shouldn’t come before her children but sadly often did.
A few minutes later, her father joined them and raked leaves while her sons tossed the ball. As soon as her father gathered a pile, the boys tumbled into it, hollering with delight. Even her father, who saw his efforts undone in minutes, chuckled at their antics.
“Children and leaves go together,” he said, resting a forearm on the rake. “When you were young, every fall you collected leaves and pressed them in the pages of my medical books.” He smiled then tugged her close. “Daughter, you’ve brought indescribable joy to your mother and me.”
Mary leaned into him, wanting to be that carefree girl, instead of a woman weighed down by the past and what the future might hold. “You and Mother gave me a wonderful life, Daddy.”
Leaving the boys to their fun, Mary and her father ambled indoors arm-in-arm. “I’ll clean the surgery before I start lunch,” Mary said.
“You have your own chores to do. I can manage here.”
“We’ll work together.”
Her father crossed to the counter where a familiar bottle sat.
Too familiar.
A knot formed in Mary’s stomach. Luke Jacobs’s potion reminded her of their confrontation in the square. Of his unsettling interest in Ben. And his accusation that she’d followed him to the livery. Every time they met fire or ice erupted in her veins, leaving her reeling. Feeling wrung out. Confused or frightened.
Her father picked up the container. “I decided to give that peddler’s tonic a try. He told me the secret ingredient is catnip. Imagine that?”
“How could you purchase that man’s remedy, knowing I worry about his interest in Ben?”
“Kitten, I’m a doctor. I must be open to anything that’ll help my patients, whether I like the seller or not.” He smiled. “I took a dose last night and got the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. I plan to buy a couple more bottles.”
“I didn’t know you had trouble sleeping, Daddy.”
“Ever since your mother—” He looked away, blinking hard, then cleared his throat. “I fall asleep in my chair, but by the time I get to bed, I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling.”
To learn the fatigue on her father’s face had more to do with the pain he carried in his heart than the patients in his practice banged against Mary’s lungs. She slipped her arms around his waist and gave him a hug. “Delivering babies and making house calls in the middle of the night doesn’t help either. What you need is another doctor in here.”
He ignored her comment. “All I need is a couple nights of taking this stuff. That should break the cycle.” He gave her a smile. “That medicine might do you some good too, with those severe headaches of yours.”
She stepped away from her father. “Never!”
He laughed and tweaked her chin. “You’re a stubborn woman, Mary Lynn Graves.”
In his humorous tone, Mary heard his approval and basked in its warmth. She laid a soft palm on her father’s cheek. “Like you, Daddy. Just like you.”
“Goes to show, the Good Lord knew what He was doing when He brought you to us.”
Moisture filled her eyes. Her father always made her feel special, loved. She’d expected all men to be like Henry Lawrence.
How wrong she’d been.
She craved the happiness her father had shared with her mother, happiness she’d never found with her husband.
At night with the boys tucked in bed, she ached with loneliness, reliving all those endless evenings she’d spent waiting for Sam, dreading his shuffling steps, his hands fumbling at the door, his blurry eyes resting on, yet not seeing, her. Even with him in the house lying beside her, he was lost to her. Alcohol took her place as his companion, as the love of his life. She couldn’t compete with a mistress that enabled him to forget the suffering of his childhood.
What had she become? A woman focused on regrets, instead of counting her blessings—her father and her sons. They were the only men she needed in her life.
What if she lost Ben? A shiver snaked down her spine. She met her father’s gaze. “I’m afraid of what Luke Jacobs could do to all of our lives.”
“I’m sorry. I know that peddler has you upset, but I suspect you’re overreacting.” He gave her a smile. “The Good Lord will work it out. Give Him time.”
Obviously, her father didn’t grasp the enormity of the situation. “Given enough time, Ben could be riding on the seat of that peddler’s wagon—on his way out of town.”
Her father frowned. “Guess I’ll have another talk with that fellow. See what I make of him.”
Henry Lawrence wouldn’t let anyone harm her or the boys. A load of worry shifted from her shoulders to his. With a lighter step, she scrubbed the surgery and then headed to her father’s quarters to prepare lunch.
After they’d eaten, Mary set about cleaning her father’s rooms. Michael and Philip had joined their grandfather out back, once again raking leaves but this time burning them in a barrel. Mary kept Ben inside, away from smoke, a trigger for his asthma. Nearby her new son stacked the wooden blocks she’d loved as a child. Her parents saved everything she’d ever touched, no matter how insignificant. She soaked up that realization like a thirsty sponge. She owed them everything, God even more. She hadn’t come close to paying the debt.
When she became a doctor, she’d keep her father’s legacy alive in this town, long after he couldn’t care for his patients.
True, going to school and studying, taking care of her sons wouldn’t be easy, but she could and would manage it all, as soon as her father had help in the practice. She’d prayed for God to send a doctor. Surely one of the two remaining applicants would be His answer.
Finished with the cleaning, she strolled into the office and peered out the back window. The boys and her father had made progress but still had work to do. She might as well catch up with the accounts. Her work at home could wait another day.
She sat at her desk and delved into the sorry state of her father’s books. He rarely collected cash. Now Luke Jacobs picked her father’s pockets. As she recorded the payment of a bushel of apples, her hand shook and ink splotched the page. If only that man would leave town.
Ri
ght then, outside the window, Luke Jacobs strode past. Slowly, trying not to alert Ben, she rose and inched closer. At the sign alongside the path leading to her father’s office, he paused, reading Henry Lawrence, M.D. Then he glanced toward the entrance. Mary caught her breath, held it, her body unbending as steel, ready to spring into action to shield Ben. A second later, he moved on.
Mary sagged against the frame. Could he be looking for her home? Hoping to find Ben? Or merely searching for another place to sell his remedy?
Either way, Mary had a sinking feeling that he’d be back.
Chapter Six
Luke left the Whitehall Café, his stomach full and his mind grappling with a sense of responsibility toward Ben. As he strolled along the sidewalk, lost in thought, he wondered if he could find a way to see his boy without giving away his fatherhood. Would Miss Graves allow him within a mile of Ben?
Not likely. The woman had it in for him. She might be attractive, but she appeared tauter than an over-wound clock. Luke suspected more than his interest in Ben had her in an uproar. His medicine would probably do her good. But he didn’t want to get involved with her problems, whatever they might be. He had enough of his own.
This morning at the livery, John Lemming had turned down his request for a job. Mr. Hudson had done the same at the general store. His housekeeper had wired back that she had no place to go and wanted to remain in the house without pay. That didn’t sit well with Luke. He planned to take the train back to New York. No point in hanging on to his rig. He’d sell it and send his housekeeper the money. Once the local doctor recommended his remedy—
A whinny, then a blood-curdling scream sliced through the air. Luke whirled toward the sound. A child, half lying in the street, half cradled in a woman’s lap. Screaming, she waved her hands over the child’s head. A dark stain spread across her skirt. Off to the side, a horse stomped. Bystanders stopped, frozen in place.
Luke broke into a run, dodging wagons and buggies, mentally preparing the next steps before he reached the child. He crouched at the mother’s side. “What happened?”
Wide-eyed with shock, she didn’t appear to see him. “The horse,” the woman said, tears running down her face. “Something spooked the horse. He kicked.” She rocked back and forth, holding her son in her arms. “Oh, Lord, my boy! My sweet boy!”
“Ma’am, let me.” His gaze met hers, firm enough for her to release the grasp she had on her son. A circle of people crowded around them. “Get the doctor. And get me some rags.”
“I’ll git Doc Lawrence!” A passerby sped off.
Luke guessed the injured boy to be seven or eight. He checked his pulse. Steady and strong. Good. He lifted one eyelid. The pupil dilated. He checked the other. A concussion.
“Oh, God, save my son!” the mother cried.
Luke eased the boy’s head to the side. The horse’s hoof had laid open a section of scalp, and a lump formed on his skull. Thankfully, the horse caught the child from the back, not at the temple.
A woman thrust material in his hand. “I bought it to make diapers.”
“Thanks.” Luke folded one cloth into a pad and laid it over the wound, then wrapped the other around the boy’s head and added pressure to stop the bleeding.
The mother wept over her son’s frame, her tears disappearing into his sandy hair. “My baby! My baby! Don’t let him die.”
Another woman dropped to her knees and hugged her close. “I’m praying, Martha.”
“We’re all praying, Mrs. Cummings,” a man from behind said with conviction and an affirming pat on her shoulder.
Hearing the whispers of prayers, Luke tried to imagine such support in a big city like New York and failed. He touched the mother’s hand. “Mrs. Cummings, your son is breathing. He’s got a concussion and he’s going to need some stitches, but skulls are tough. Except for a headache, he’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, God,” someone murmured.
Evidently, the boy’s mother heard Luke. She quieted and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Are you sure?”
Suddenly an older man, breathing heavily, his face ruddy with exertion, bent over them. “Let’s get Homer to my office and stitch him up.”
The boy groaned. “He’s coming around,” Luke said.
Dr. Lawrence patted Mrs. Cummings’s back. “It’ll take more than a kick in the head to keep young Homer down.”
Mrs. Cummings gave a weak laugh and let Luke take her son from her arms—yet kept a grip on his hand.
The boy opened his eyes. “Oh, my head hurts. Wh-What happened?”
Color returned to the boy’s cheeks. “You and a horse got in a kicking match, and the horse won,” Luke said. “You’ll be fine.”
Dr. Lawrence stepped alongside Luke. “My office is just down the street.”
Luke remembered seeing the cozy clapboard house with Dr. Lawrence’s shingle out front.
Inside the waiting room, Luke’s steps slowed. Mary Graves rose from behind the desk, alarm plain on her face, her gaze fixed on the small, quiet form in his arms.
At the sight of her, Luke’s heart hammered in his chest—the same rush of energy he’d experienced helping the boy. The realization sunk to the depths of his stomach with a thud. Careful, Jacobs. Don’t get involved.
Mary Graves lifted her gaze to him and her mouth thinned. Obviously the woman could barely stomach him. Perhaps the fact she worked for a doctor explained her intense mistrust of his medicine. Giving Ben that ball had only increased her hostility.
She followed the procession into the surgery, where Luke eased Homer onto the table, being careful of his head.
Taking one look at the matted blood on the makeshift dressing, Miss Graves hurried out. Within minutes, she returned, carrying a basin of water, a bar of soap and towels, the epitome of efficiency and calm.
His gaze collided with hers and held. A flush crept up her neck, and she quickly turned to the boy. In the moment before she’d looked away, something flared in her eyes. She might hate him, but she wasn’t unmoved by him. To his dismay, he found the insight appealing.
Miss Graves smiled at the boy and covered him to his chin with a blanket. “Trying to get out of school, Homer?”
The boy gave a lopsided grin. “No, ma’am, I like school.”
Then she looped an arm around Mrs. Cummings’s middle and pulled her close. “He looks good, Martha,” she said softly, easing the worry lines on the mother’s face.
Petite, with wavy chestnut hair and vibrant jade eyes, Mary Graves was more than equal to the task. She knew her way around a surgery, knew how to comfort a patient and his family. Nothing about her demeanor spoke of the woman who’d battled with him on the square. He shouldn’t be surprised. At their first meeting, this woman possessed an almost passionate concern for others, though she hadn’t shared it with him. Odd how he’d called her Miss Nightingale, as if he’d sensed her medical training.
Dr. Lawrence smiled. “He’ll look even better with the new haircut I’m about to give him.” Easing Homer onto his side, he snipped a hank of brown hair, then cleaned the wound with soap and water, eliciting soft moans from the patient.
Luke couldn’t keep his eyes off Miss Graves, pleased by her calm demeanor at the sight of blood. Of course, he’d expect that of a doctor’s assistant. She glanced at him and caught him watching her, then lowered her gaze.
Dr. Lawrence finished cleaning the wound. “Mary, take Martha to the waiting room.” Before the mother could protest, Miss Graves led Martha Cummings away.
The older man met Luke’s gaze. “Mrs. Cummings is a wonderful woman but prone to fainting. If I let her stay, she’d be on the floor, and we’d have two patients on our hands.” He smiled, raising a questioning brow. “So, Doctor, would you like to stitch up that gash, or shall I?”
Luke had wondered how long it’d take Dr. Lawrence to uncover his profession. “I’ll hold him,” he mouthed, not wanting to alarm Homer.
Doc nodded just as Miss Graves returned to t
he surgery. She appeared surprised to still see him there. By the tension around her mouth as she prepared the needle, he half expected her to toss him out.
Before she could, Doc came around to meet the boy’s gaze. “This is going to hurt and I’m mighty sorry. But once we’re done, I’ve got a candy stick for you.”
Tears filled Homer’s eyes, but he managed a shaky nod.
Miss Graves handed Doc a bottle of antiseptic. He dabbed the wound. At the sting, Homer shrieked. Luke trapped his arms and legs so he couldn’t thrash, while Dr. Lawrence talked a blue streak about fishing, dogs, anything to take the lad’s mind off what came next.
While Doc stitched, Mary Graves kept her eyes on the boy, laid a gentle hand on his forehead, crooning that it would soon be over. She stood mere inches away. He couldn’t help noticing her scent, clean and starchy, with the faintest touch of something he’d smelled before. Where? Ah, in his grandmother’s garden on his parent’s estate. What was it? Honeysuckle?
Doc tied off the last stitch, and Luke eased his hold on the boy.
Miss Graves straightened and patted the lad’s hand. “You were very brave, Homer. The only thing left to do is bandage you up, and that won’t hurt at all.” She crossed the room, opened a drawer, brought out gauze and a fine-tipped pair of scissors and in minutes finished the task while he and Doc washed up.
Miss Graves gave the boy his promised treat and his mother a bottle of antiseptic along with instructions to keep Homer quiet but awake. Then she cleared away the mess with the competency of a trained nurse. His esteem for her raised another notch. Whatever needed doing, she did and did well. She and Doc’s motions meshed like they’d been orchestrated to music.
Dr. Lawrence tossed aside the towel and patted Mary’s hand. “Thanks for your help, daughter.”
Luke’s head jerked up. “This is your daughter?”
“Yes,” he said, his tone laced with pride. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.” He eyed Luke. “So, out with it, Doctor. Why aren’t you practicing medicine?”