The Drifter

by Susan Wiggs

  Driven by instinct, Jackson jumped to his feet, his hand going for the phantom gun he wasn’t wearing.

  “It’s Captain Hathaway’s boy,” Leah said.

  “We need you to come,” the lad said, panting in tandem with his horse.

  Leah got up. “Mr. Underhill?”

  “Me? You want me to come?”

  “I can always use an extra pair of hands.”

  * * *

  The next evening, Leah came down from her room wearing her burgundy chambray suit with a cream-colored polonaise trailing down the back of the wide-pleated skirt. A pair of lace gloves and a small hat completed the outfit. She’d taken special care to dress, for Mr. Armstrong had invited her to the Good Temperance Hall to look at the moving pictures projected by Professor Newbery’s Magic Lantern.

  She felt a pleasant flutter of anticipation in her chest. It was past time she engaged in social diversions.

  Hearing light ripples of female laughter, she stepped into the parlor. Adam waited in the wing chair by the hearth while Carrie Underhill and Aunt Leafy peered into the ornate wire cage of the old lady’s pet canary.

  “He’s very charming,” Carrie said, waggling a finger into the cage.

  She was having a good day, Leah saw with relief. No temper tantrum, no sly attempt to get someone to give her the tonic, no furtive trip to Puget Race’s Drugstore in town. “Carlos is my only comfort since Ambrose passed,” Aunt Leafy said wistfully. “But what a mess he makes in his cage.”

  Carrie handed her a stack of papers. “Here, take these for the lining. I’m finished with them.”

  To Leah’s knowledge, Carrie had never taken an interest in reading the Island County Sun or any other papers. She wondered what she was doing with them.

  “You look lovely,” Adam said, tearing his gaze from Carrie and crossing the room to bow in courtly fashion over Leah’s gloved hand.

  “Why, Dr. Mundy, we didn’t see you come in. What a charming frock,” Carrie said. “I haven’t seen that style in at least ten years. I really think it should be revived.”

  “You put a fresh face on it,” Adam said gallantly.

  “Thank you,” Leah murmured. “Shall we go?”

  “Where are you going?” Carrie asked with a sharpness that took Leah aback. Dear God, was Carrie jealous?

  Before Leah could answer, Jackson arrived, sweaty and sunburned from working on the boat. “Who’s going where?”

  Leah laughed at the absurdity of the moment. “Honestly, we are not running off to plot a revolution. Adam and I are going to the magic-lantern show.”

  “Have a good time,” Aunt Leafy said vaguely, pushing a sunflower seed at the canary.

  “We will indeed, Mrs. Leafington,” Adam said. He held the front door for Leah. As she stepped past him, she felt the heat of Jackson’s glare and made herself ignore it. She repeated to herself for the hundredth time that Adam Armstrong was as handsome a man as she’d ever seen. He was polite and well-to-do. She should be pleased by his attention.

  But as they walked down the lane toward the red-painted Temperance Hall, all she could think about was Jackson and the thunderous look on his face when he’d realized she and Adam were stepping out together.

  When they reached the lodge on the brow of the hill above the harbor, Adam stopped in the darkening yard. With the lightest of touches, he lifted her chin so that she was looking at him. “This isn’t going to work, is it?”

  Color stung her cheeks. “The lantern? But I’ve heard it’s most interesting—”

  “I’m not speaking of the lantern, but of us,” Adam said.

  Her cheeks burned hotter. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sure you do, Leah. We should make a marvelous couple, you and I. But we don’t, because it’s not there.”

  “‘It’?”

  “The attraction. The spark that should be there, but isn’t.”

  She sent him a rueful smile, grateful for his understanding. “Mr. Armstrong, I can explain the anatomy of the human heart. But I certainly can’t explain how it governs the emotions.”

  “No one can, Leah,” he said with weary authority. “It makes fools of the best of us.”

  16 May 1894

  My dear Penelope,

  I wish to thank you most profusely for the journals and papers you sent regarding addictions. I have spent the past several nights wide-awake, poring over the new materials. Alas, there is no miracle cure. I knew there would not be, but still I dared to hope that new research would yield a way to ease this journey for my poor patient.

  Each hour is a battle. The boarders at my house are practically in revolt, but I know not what else to do. My patient, Mrs. U______, makes wild accusations during her fits of rage. Other times, she is cajoling, much like a child teasing for a sweet. But her goal is always the same. Her goal is to entice someone to get more of her tonic—that vile fluid sold by quacks—and give it to her so she can sink back into a drugged oblivion.

  However, I am delighted to report that my treatment, crude and ruthless as it is, seems to be having some effect. The raging tantrums are less frequent, the nights a bit more peaceful. Each day, it seems, is slightly easier than the previous one, thank God. Some days I dare to hope that we are reaching the end of this difficult journey.

  She would have succumbed to her cravings long ago if not for Mr. U______. He is the most devoted of husbands, Penny. I have seen him sit with her for hours without moving. Sometimes he tells her stories, even sings to her. She never thanks him. There are times I am given to wonder—

  Leah set down her pen. What in heaven’s name was she doing? Why did she think so long and hard of Jackson Underhill? It was fatigue, she told herself. Sheer and utter fatigue, because a fortnight had passed in which she had not slept a single night through. But as she’d said to Penny Lake, things were slowly improving. She glanced down at the calf-bound journal on the desk. She had to check on Captain Hathaway, whose appendix attack had been acute. At the captain’s residence, Jackson had helped move furniture, drape tables, and hang lanterns to turn the kitchen into an operating theater. She’d been glad for his help, and he’d seemed grateful for the distraction. She must remember to thank him.

  Through the window, she could see Adam Armstrong with Carrie. Together they walked up from the bathhouse. Carrie was gowned in a pretty lavender gabardine shirtwaist, her golden hair shining and swept up in the back, and she seemed animated, chattering away while her companion listened with rapt attention.

  Leah didn’t know much about Adam. He had good manners and plenty of money, which made him the ideal boarder. In truth, his attentiveness to Carrie seemed to have a beneficial effect. Still, something about their unexpected friendship bothered Leah. She wondered if it bothered Jackson. Surely Adam had heard the screams at night. Yet he was as attentive as a courting swain.

  A beautiful face and a charming manner were worth more, Leah realized, than she wished them to be.

  She planted her elbows on the desk blotter, closed her eyes, and massaged her throbbing temples. There were times when her calling as a doctor took so much out of her that she was certain she had no more to give. And yet she did give. It seemed her well was never dry. She wouldn’t allow it to be. She was too disciplined to allow it. Too stubborn.

  “I suspect that headache is my doing,” said a soft voice.

  Leah opened her eyes and looked up in surprise. In the doorway of the office stood Carrie, a tentative smile wavering on her face. Adam was nowhere in sight.

  “Carrie dear. I saw you come in from the yard.”

  “The bathhouse is a godsend. And the garden is just beautiful.”

  Leah hastened to her feet as a cautious hope rose inside her. “Look at you. How lovely you are.”

  “Thank you. I thought it was ti
me I resigned myself to being well.”

  Leah’s heart leaped in exultation. “Oh, Carrie. I’m so very pleased for you.” She took the younger woman’s hands. Carrie’s fingers felt slightly clammy, but she clasped Leah’s hands with a friendly squeeze.

  She seemed better, truly better, and even as Leah’s heart exulted, she felt an evil stab of dismay. Once Carrie was better and the boat repaired, there would be no reason for Jackson to stay.

  “I came to thank you.” Carrie went to the window and looked out. “All along, I knew in my heart you were doing what was best for me. The things I said, screamed at you... I—I didn’t mean them, Leah.” She cleared her throat. “May I call you Leah?”

  “Of course. And I know you didn’t mean those things. It was the craving that made you speak so.”

  “Yes. Yes. Leah, can you forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. You’ve done your act of contrition. I’ve seen how hard it’s been. You and your husband—”

  “My husband.” Carrie gave a blithe laugh, fingering the tasseled drapery pull as she gazed out across the yard at the harbor. “All Jackson thinks of is that boat of his. We have nothing in common.”

  But what about the baby? The question burned in Leah’s mind. She choked it back, telling herself that it wasn’t her place to sit in judgment of a patient. “He’s working hard on the repairs.”

  “Adam’s boat isn’t a wreck. His boat is ready for a cruise,” Carrie said.

  “Is it?” Leah asked, growing more confused by the moment. “I believe Davy Morgan mentioned a bad carbon buildup in the engine.” She eyed Carrie closely, watched for the dilated eyes, the agitated movements of someone under the influence. But Carrie appeared calm and rational, perfectly in control.

  “Jackson said he’s going to take the steamer to Seattle soon. He’s got to earn more money. He’s good at that. He’s always been good at that.”

  “I see.” Leah didn’t, but she had no idea what to say.

  “Adam has money. Lots of money.” Carrie sighed with contentment.

  Adam Armstrong was one of the wealthiest men in the islands. A woman like Carrie, who seemed to crave fine things, would naturally be impressed by him.

  “I’d be safe with Adam,” Carrie murmured, watching out the window. In the distance, a side-wheeler nosed into the harbor. A steam whistle pierced the air.

  “Your husband seems devoted to keeping you safe,” Leah said. She wondered if Carrie recalled all the nights he’d sat up with her, holding her and murmuring into her ear.

  Carrie rubbed her hands up and down her arms, hugging herself. “He wants adventure. He wants to go sailing off into the sunset. I’ll never understand him. Never.” She turned, a dazzling smile on her face. “But that is no concern of yours. You’ve done more than enough, Leah. I shall always be in your debt.”

  Five

  When Jackson went looking for Leah, Aunt Leafy told him the doctor had been summoned to the Babcock household in town. “I hear tell the whole family’s ailing,” the older lady had warned him with a dainty shudder. She pushed a few seeds into the cage of her pet canary.

  “What’s the matter with them?”

  “Plenty, according to the boy who came running. And it’s a crying shame for Miss Leah, because the Babcocks never pay a fee.” Turning away from the birdcage, Aunt Leafy cocked her head and studied him. The sun shone on her white hair, giving it a lavender cast. “You ailing, too, Mr. Underhill?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Your wife doing poorly again?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said with stronger vehemence. “She passed a quiet night last night. I think she’s going to be right as rain.”

  Aunt Leafy smiled wisely. “Pretty little thing. And good company, too. I expect she’d’ve gotten better quicker if she had a real doctor.”

  “Leah Mundy is a real doctor.”

  “Humph. It ain’t the place of a woman to go poking around the human body. Just ain’t right, that’s my opinion.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I reckon that is your opinion.” This, he realized, was a prejudice Leah faced every single day. He hurried upstairs to tell Carrie he had to leave for a while. Their money had run out. God, what he wouldn’t give for an ordinary workaday wage. But circumstances hadn’t handed him that, not ever. He had to go to Seattle.

  “You’ll be all right while I’m gone?” he asked Carrie.

  She smiled brightly and nodded. “I’ll always be all right from now on, Jackson. I’ll always be safe.”

  He smiled back. “I’ll be going to Seattle real soon.”

  “You could go tomorrow,” she said quickly.

  That surprised him. He’d expected an argument from her. “You don’t mind?”

  “Why should I mind? Look at me, Jackson. I’m better. Truly.”

  “If the doc agrees, then I guess I’ll take the steamer to the city.” He bent to kiss her brow. She exuded a just-bathed softness that always roused tenderness in him. Tenderness and now hope. She was so beautiful. A twinge of desire pierced him, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. The things he wanted from Carrie had nothing to do with sex. But damn, it was good to see her smiling, to see the color back in her face. She appeared to be free of her addiction. That was why he wanted to see Leah. He wanted to know if it was true, if Carrie had her problem under control.

  Funny, he thought as he walked along the waterfront, then up the hill toward the Babcock place, how quickly he’d developed the habit of checking with Leah. He’d never allowed himself to depend on anyone, least of all a mule-stubborn lady doctor. It was a new experience, relying on Leah.

  As he walked through the little town, a strange feeling twisted in his gut. In just a few short weeks, he had memorized the place. There was Brunn’s dry-goods store and chandlery where boaters stopped to repair and resupply, where Jackson would get provisions as soon as the schooner was fit to sail again. From the side of the hill, Jackson could see the boxy, rust-colored building in Coveland that served as the sheriff’s office, with the jail annex built of fieldstone—a place Jackson casually avoided.

  The Methodist church, painted pure white with a spun-sugar steeple, sat back a little from the main street. He had never ventured inside, but sometimes in the evening he stood outside the picket fence and listened as the choir practiced hymns. Over the door hung a sign: We Are All God’s Children. Last Sunday, he’d had a perverse notion to go in, to see if it was true, to see if they’d let a desperado worship beside the pastor’s wife.

  But he hadn’t gone in, of course. Church had a bad effect on him. It always made him think of the terror of his boyhood days in Chicago. The penances dealt by Brother Anthony were harsh in the extreme. Jackson was convinced that the cold-weather ache in his legs was due to the hours he’d spent kneeling on cold flagstone.

  The schoolhouse in the next block bore a new coat of red paint. A bronze bell hung in a yard trampled from the children’s games. Upon the brow of a hill, houses stood in rows, their porches whitewashed, their gardens starting to burst with the abundance of summer. The scent of lilacs spiced the air.

  It was a town of families that worked together, played together, prayed and wept and laughed together. People made their homes here. Some of them would never leave the island. Jackson couldn’t imagine it, yet at the same time he wanted it with a fierceness that made his chest hurt.

  To belong somewhere. To have someone.

  You belong in your boat, he told himself. You’ve got Carrie to look after. He wanted it to be enough. He told himself it was enough.

  As he walked, he thought about the baby Carrie had lost. If it had lived, Jackson would have had the child to look after, as well. Life was a strange thing, he reflected. A man never knew what might happen to him next. Who would have thought a woman like Leah Mundy would fill
his thoughts and make him wonder what it would be like to wake up in the same place every morning? To have friends, a job, neighbors.

  He spied the Babcock house at the end of a rutted dirt lane. Apparently, there was no risk of contagion, for several neighbors had gathered on the porch. Sophie Whitebear stood to one side of a strange device on a wooden table. Leah was gesturing at it and talking.

  Even without hearing her words, Jackson could imagine the light, clipped timbre of her voice, the sturdy certainty that underlay her words. When she spoke of medicine, Leah Mundy exuded confidence. There were other times—when she spoke of her father and her past—that she seemed as lost as Carrie. But when it came to doctoring, there was no one smarter, and Leah knew it.

  It seemed the whole town had turned out for whatever doctoring she was doing this morning. There were farmers in overalls and seafaring men in striped shirts; tradesmen with their aprons on, and even Reverend Cranney. With his clean white hands pressed together, he resembled an overaged choirboy—guileless and baffled. His plump wife, poured into a corset tied way too tight, stood gossiping with some of the parishioners.

  Flanked by his two deputies, Lemuel St. Croix, the sheriff, stood to one side, watching the proceedings with only mild concern. Jackson skirted the group. He’d always avoided the law on principle; now he had a specific reason for keeping a low profile.

  He didn’t like the look of the St. Croix fellow anyway. Slippery. A little too fond of fancy clothes. The gun he carried—a Colt with a nickel-plated stock—was flashy, more like the piece a riverboat gambler would carry. Fortunately for Jackson, St. Croix also lacked the usual vigilance of a lawman. He seemed preoccupied by his conversation with a man in a threadbare army sergeant’s shirt. Women crowded close to the house, many of them looking pale and aghast.

  “She’s filling your head full of lies,” a man said brusquely.

  Jackson craned his neck to see the speaker. It was Mr. Gillespie, the town butcher. Muscles bulged in his arms and neck, and his face was flushed with anger. Standing hardly a breath away from him was Leah Mundy, showing no signs of intimidation as she glared at him with hands on hips.