The Drifter

by Susan Wiggs

  G.M.M.

  Graciela Maria Mundy. The mother Leah had never known.

  A wave of sentiment washed over her as it often did when she was fatigued. She had no memory of her mother, but she felt a tearing loss all the same. Or more accurately, an emptiness. The absence of something vital.

  Although it seemed nonsensical, she had an uncanny feeling that if only her mother had lived through childbirth, she would have taught Leah the things textbooks couldn’t explain—how to open her heart to other people, how to live life in the middle of things rather than outside looking in, how to love.

  She stared at her face in the barrel of the blotter. Her features had the potential to look exotic, owing to her mother’s Latino heritage. But Leah worked hard to appear ordinary, choosing the plainest of clothing and scraping her hair well out of the way into a bun or single braid. She could do nothing to change her eyes, though. They were large and haunted, the eyes of a woman who knew someone had taken a piece of her away, and she’d never gotten it back.

  Regaining a firm grip on her emotions, she thrust the blotter into a drawer, folded the letter precisely into thirds, and sealed it with a blob of red wax. “Work hard, Penny,” she murmured under her breath. “I shall be glad to have your company soon.”

  She and Penelope Lake had never met face-to-face. Leah had contacted Johns Hopkins Medical College, newly founded the year before. The college had opened its doors to women from the very start, so Leah had asked to sponsor a promising young female medical student. Her father had sworn he wouldn’t tolerate yet another woman in the practice.

  In a rare act of defiance, Leah had persisted. She’d been put in touch with Miss Penelope Lake of Baltimore, who showed signs of becoming a gifted physician and who was interested in moving west. Away, as she hinted in her letters, from the cramped confines of settled society.

  The correspondence grew surprisingly warm and intimate. Leah could well imagine Penny’s world because long ago Leah had once been a part of it—cavernous homes like mausoleums, grim social visits, mannered conversations that went nowhere. And always, always, the unspoken expectation that any woman of worth would concern herself with home and family, not a profession.

  Leah and Penelope Lake seemed to be kindred spirits. Why was it so easy to write openly to Penny, Leah wondered, when she was so guarded with the people she saw every day? She lived in a busy boardinghouse filled with interesting people, yet she could find no true friend among them. Even Sophie, her assistant, maintained a cordial distance. Leah wondered if it was simply her destiny to be alone in a crowd; never to know the easy familiarity of a close friendship or the quiet comfort of a family.

  Even less likely was the possibility of intimacy with a man. Her father, always formal, demanding and distant, had made such a thing seem impossible. That was his legacy. With his pride, his expectations and his tragic shortcomings, he had left her as a creature half-formed. He had taught her that appearances were everything. He’d never shown her how to dive beneath the surface to create a rich inner life. Some parents crippled their children by beating and berating them. Edward Mundy was far more subtle, molding Leah’s character with undermining phrases that slipped in unnoticed, then festered into wounds that would never heal. He sabotaged her self-confidence and he limited her dreams.

  “What a charming frock,” he used to say to her when she was small. “Now, do you suppose Mrs. Trotter would fix that unruly hair in order to do the dress justice?”

  And later, when she was a schoolgirl: “There are a hundred ways to be mistaken, but only one way to be right. You have your mother’s looks and—alas—her contempt for conventional wisdom.”

  When she became a young lady and a social failure, he had said, “If you cannot attract a decent husband, I shall permit you to assist me in my practice.”

  By the time she recognized the harm he’d done her, it was too late to repair the damage. But he was gone now, and maybe she could find a way to move out from under his shadow. Maybe the world would open up for her.

  “It’s not fair for me to pin so much hope on you, Penny,” Leah said, shaking off her thoughts.

  She placed the letter to Penelope Anne Lake on a wooden desk tray, then checked her register. Mrs. Pettygrove had sent her houseboy with a list of the usual complaints, all of them imaginary, all treatable with a cup of Sophie’s mild herb tea and a bit of conversation. The Ebey lad, the one who had been kicked by a horse, had passed a quiet night.

  Unlike Leah. Her own head throbbed—not from an iron-shod hoof, but from a man with an iron will.

  And the most frightening eyes she had ever seen.

  Just the thought of those hard gray eyes brought her to her feet. Restlessly, she paced the surgery, scanning the bookshelves and the framed certificates hanging on the walls, trying to construct her day in some sort of orderly fashion. But the extraordinary night she’d passed destroyed her concentration.

  Memories of the man’s bleak gaze troubled her as she stopped at the coat tree behind the door and put on a white muslin smock. The garment had been laundered and starched and fiercely pressed by Iona, the deaf-mute girl abandoned by her parents three years earlier.

  Over her father’s protests, Leah had taken in the girl. Other women marry and have children of their own. But you have to adopt someone else’s damaged goods.

  Leah wished she could forget her father’s bitter words. But she remembered everything. Her blade-sharp memory was both a gift and a curse. In medical school, she’d been renowned for her ability to commit the most minute detail to memory. Yet the curse of it was, she also recalled every slight, every slur, and they hurt as fresh as yesterday. Leah Mundy, too busy doing a man’s job to remember she’s a woman... Her childhood friends had gone to parties while Leah had stayed home, memorizing formulae and anatomy. Her classmates had married and become mothers while Leah doctored people and delivered other women’s babies.

  Resolutely, she filled a small earthenware churn with vinegar heated at the kitchen stove. She added sassafras and mint, then a pinch of ground cloves, and put the container on a tray to take upstairs.

  As she passed through the hallway, she heard the sounds of clinking dishes and silver from the dining room, the clack of the coffee grinder in the kitchen. Smells of sizzling bacon and baking biscuits wafted through the house. Eight o’clock, and Perpetua Dawson would be serving breakfast.

  Leah rarely took the time to sit down for a meal with the boarders. When she did, she felt awkward and intrusive anyway. She had never learned to be comfortable in company, even among people she encountered every day. For most of her life, she’d been regarded as an oddity, an aberration, sometimes an absurdity: a woman with a mind of her own and the ill manners to show it.

  She paused in the grand foyer. Perhaps this was the area that had deluded the outlaw into thinking the house fancy. High above the front door was a wheeled window of leaded glass depicting a ship at sea. The colored panes with their fanciful design served as a reminder of bygone days when the owner of the house had been a prosperous sea captain. A railed bridge, reminiscent of a ship’s deck, spanned the vestibule from above, connecting the two upper wings of the house.

  By the time Leah’s father had bought the place, it had been an abandoned wreck for many years. He’d gone deep into debt restoring it, but impossible debt was nothing new for Edward Mundy.

  She went up the main staircase, noting with satisfaction the sheen of verbena wax on the banisters. Iona kept the house immaculate.

  Leah stopped outside the first door on the right. She tapped her foot lightly against the door. “Carrie? Are you awake?”

  No sound. Leah shouldered open the door, the tray balanced carefully in both hands. Silence. Heavy drapes blocked out the morning light. She stood still for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. The room had a fine rosewood bedstead and, when the cur
tains were parted, a commanding view of Penn Cove.

  Carrie lay unmoving in the tall four-poster bed. Alone. Good God, had the husband abandoned her?

  Leah turned to set the tray on a side table—and nearly dropped it.

  The gunman.

  He dozed sitting up in a chintz-covered chair, his long legs and broad shoulders an ungainly contrast to the dainty piece of furniture. He still wore his denims and duster, his hat pulled down over the top half of his face.

  Held loosely in his hand was the Colt revolver.

  Leah gasped when she saw it. “Sir!” she said sharply.

  He came instantly alert, the hat brim and the gun barrel both lifting in warning. When he recognized Leah, he stood and approached her, raising one side of his mouth in a parody of a grin.

  “Morning, Doc,” he said in his gravelly voice. “You look mighty crisp and clean this morning.” Insolently, he ran his long, callused finger down her arm. The forbidden touch shocked Leah. She flinched, glaring at him. Before she could move away, he cornered her. “Uh-oh, Doc.”

  “What’s the matter?” She forced herself to appear calm.

  “You missed one.” Before she could stop him, he reached around and fastened the top button of her shirtwaist.

  A man should not be so familiar with a woman he didn’t know. Particularly a married man. “Sir—”

  “Do you always look so stiff and starched after wrecking a man’s boat?”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, she moved past him. “Excuse me. I need to check on my patient.” She deposited the tray on the table. “Did you find a bottle of your wife’s tonic? I need to know what she’s been taking.”

  “All our things are on the boat.”

  “I wish you’d remembered the tonic.”

  “We had to abandon ship pretty fast. It was all I could do to keep myself from choking you to death.”

  “That wouldn’t do Carrie much good, would it?”

  “Damn it, woman, you could have killed us all.”

  “Perhaps you’ll consider that the next time you try to kidnap me.” She took the lid off the medicine crock.

  He crossed the room, boots treading softly on the threadbare carpet. “What’s that?”

  “An inhalant to clear the lungs.”

  “So what’s wrong with her?” he asked, and she heard the anxiety in his voice. “Besides...you know.”

  “Yes, I do know.”

  “She’s got the croup or something?”

  “Or something.” Leah folded her arms. “I’ll need to do a more thorough examination. Her lungs sounded congested last night. She’s in danger of developing lobar pneumonia.”

  His ice gray eyes narrowed. “Is that bad?”

  “It can be, yes, particularly for a woman in her condition. That’s why we’d best do everything we can to prevent it from happening.”

  “What’s everything?”

  “The inhalant. Complete bed rest. Plenty of clear liquids and as much food as we can get her to eat. She must regain her strength. Pregnancy and childbirth are arduous chores, and they take their toll on frail women.”

  He glanced at the sleeping form in the bed. So far, Leah had not seen him touch her, and she thought that was strange. None of her affair, she told herself.

  “Carrie doesn’t eat much,” he said.

  “We have to try. Since she seems to be resting comfortably, don’t disturb her. When she wakes on her own, help her sit up. Have her inhale the steam and try to get her to take some broth and bread. Mrs. Dawson will have it ready in the kitchen.” Leah turned to go. He stepped in front of the door, blocking her exit. He was one of the tallest men she had ever seen—and one of the meanest-looking. She folded her arms. “If you dare to threaten me again, I’ll go straight to Sheriff St. Croix.”

  Her warning made no impression on him—or did it? Perhaps his eyes got a little narrower, his mouth a little tighter. “Lady, if you know what’s good for you, then you won’t breathe a word to the sheriff.”

  She hitched up her chin. “And if I do?”

  “Don’t take that risk with me.”

  The icy promise in his voice chilled her blood. “I don’t want any trouble,” she stated.

  “Neither do I. So I’ll be spending the day working on the boat you wrecked last night.”

  “That boat was a wreck long before I disabled the rudder.”

  “At least I could steer it.” He hissed out a long breath, clearly trying to gather patience. Then he dug into the pocket of his jeans and took out a thick roll of bills. “What’s your fee?”

  She swallowed. “Five dollars, but—”

  He peeled off a twenty-dollar note. “That should take care of the fee, plus room and board. I ought to be able to get the steering fixed today, and then we’ll be off.”

  She stared at the paper money but made no attempt to take it. “I’m afraid you didn’t understand. You have to stay here and take care of your wife. Not just for today, but until she gets better. You can’t just go sailing off into the sunset.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said she needs complete bed rest and plenty of food and care. She won’t get that on your ship. She won’t get that without you. You’re staying here, Mr....” She floundered, realizing he’d never told her his name.

  “Underhill. Jackson T. Underhill. And I’m not staying.”

  “What’s your hurry, Mr. Underhill?” Leah demanded. As if she didn’t know. He was a man on the run. A fugitive. From what, she didn’t care to speculate. None of her affair. Her gaze flicked to the twenty dollars in his hand. Was it stolen?

  “I don’t have time to lollygag on some island.”

  She felt a niggling fear that he’d go off and leave Carrie. “You cannot abandon your duties,” she stated. “I simply will not allow it.”

  “I’ve got business to take care of.”

  “You’ve got a wife to take care of.”

  He waved the money at her. “That’s what I’m hiring you to do.”

  “I’m a doctor, not a nursemaid.” Leah planted her hands on her hips and wished she were taller so she could face him down, eye to eye, nose to nose. “Good day, Mr. Underhill. I’ll look in on your wife this evening. If you need anything before then, tell Mrs. Dawson. She’ll instruct Mr. Douglas to fetch me.”

  She reached past him for the doorknob. He seized her wrist.

  Something happened; she wasn’t sure what, but his touch sparked a hot and alien sensation within her. His grip was strong, though it didn’t hurt. His gaze was brutal and uncompromising. And in spite of it all, she felt a curious breathlessness, a quickening in her chest.

  “If I need anything?” he repeated. “Lady, there are a lot of things I need.”

  She snatched her hand away, mortified by the forbidden sensations his touch had caused. “I wasn’t speaking of your needs, but Carrie’s. I’ll treat your wife to the best of my abilities.” She hoped he didn’t hear the slight tremor in her voice. “Beyond that, I can promise you nothing.”

  Face flaming, she pushed past him and left the room.

  * * *

  The Mundy place had a real honest-to-God bathhouse, Jackson was pleased to discover. Apparently, this had been a fine estate at one time, and the previous owner had spared no expense in endowing it with luxuries. Perpetua Dawson, the small, busy woman who ran the kitchen, had shown him to the bathhouse, pointing out the deep zinc tubs and the furnace-heated water supply.

  After laboring to bring the crippled boat into harbor, Jackson had looked in on Carrie, finding her listless and vague. Trying to calm the panic beating in his chest, he went to the baths to enjoy the first good soak he’d had since...Santa Fe, was it? No, there was that night in San Francisco not so long ago. A frizzy-haired whore, wet-brained from too muc
h beer, had careered right into Jackson and landed in his lap. Laughing, Carrie had struck up a conversation with her and blurted out that they’d bought passage to Seattle. He’d thought the whore was too far gone to hear. He hoped he was right.

  Carrie had cajoled him into spending his winnings on a room at the Lombard Hotel. She had exclaimed gleefully over the luxurious velvet draperies, the champagne and oysters, the tray of chocolate truffles....

  But then she’d looked at the fancy grille on the window and shivered. “This is a prison, Jackson. They’ll never let me out of here. I’ll never be safe. Never.”

  “Hush now, Carrie,” he’d said, repeating an age-old pledge. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  “Build up the fire,” she had begged. “It’s too cold in here.”

  The thought ignited an old, old memory that raised a bittersweet ache in his chest. The years peeled away and he was a boy again, sitting on the wet brick pavement in the moldering courtyard of the St. Ignatius Orphan Asylum of Chicago. Through a grille-covered window he could hear a little girl sobbing, sobbing.

  Carrie. With shaking hands, Jackson had held the bundle of sweets he’d stolen from the pantry of the refectory. The sweets were never given to the children, of course. Brother Anthony and Brother Brandon saved them for themselves.

  Holding a little cloth bag of gumdrops, Jackson started to climb. His feet, in worn and ill-fitting shoes, wedged into the gaps left by crumbling mortar. His wiry arms trembled as he pulled himself up. A sliver from the windowsill stabbed into his hand. He ignored the pain. At St. I’s, kids knew better than to cry over a sliver.

  “Carrie,” he said, finding a toehold on the rain gutter. “Carrie, it’s me, Jackson.”

  Her sobbing hiccuped into silence. Then she spoke, her little-girl’s voice clear as a crystal bell. “They locked me in. Oh, save me, Jackson. I’m so cold. I’ll die in here.”

  “I couldn’t pick the lock,” he said apologetically. “I tried and tried.” He pushed the bag of sweets between the rusty bars of the window. “Gumdrops, Carrie!”