A Summer Affair

by Susan Wiggs

  He continued his examination, pressing his hands over her midsection and then down each thigh, into the dusty leather of each boot. “Checking for more concealed weapons.” A curious throb of awareness disturbed his concentration. He was reacting in the most unguarded and basest way to the soft, female form his hands were exploring. It was insane, he told himself. He really ought to get more sleep. “You’ll forgive me for not trusting you.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort.” She kicked at him, narrowly missing his groin. “You’re impudent. What sort of man would debauch a woman who came to him in need?”

  “The sort who’s a doctor. And I assure you, I’m not in the habit of debauching my patients. If I need to debauch someone, I imagine I’d choose a woman who doesn’t share your affinity for mayhem.”

  “I’m actually not a violent person. I’ve had a difficult night.”

  “That makes two of us, Miss…?”

  Not surprisingly, she didn’t fill in the blank for him. Continuing to ignore the gun, he picked up the old coat he’d cut from her bleeding body and patted it down. A crinkling of paper in one of the pockets drew his attention.

  She dropped the porcelain cup. It shattered on the floor. “Don’t you—”

  “Too late.” He took out a printed first-class parlor car billet from the Great Western Railroad Company. “Miss Isabel Fish-Wooten,” he read from the ticket. “I’m guessing that would be you. Traveled from Denver to San Francisco, I see.” He checked the date. “Been here less than a fortnight, and you’ve already managed to get yourself shot.”

  Their gazes locked, and he felt a heated stab of resentment. She had brought violence into his home and his place of work. He deserved some answers. “Tell me, Miss Fish-Wooten,” he said. “What are you doing in disguise, with a bullet in your back?”

  She regarded him with a steadiness he knew must be hard-won. “If I answered that, Doctor, would it change the way you treat me?”

  “Of course not. On my oath as a physician, I serve humanity without prejudice.”

  “Then why ask?”

  For a traumatically wounded woman, she was annoyingly logical, he thought, making no effort to hide his resentment. After all these years, he should know better than to ask. Some stories spoke for themselves: the coal miner with wheezing lungs, the upcountry greenhorn with a private itch, an immigrant girl bleeding to death from a self-induced abortion, the elderly war veteran with defeated yellow eyes and years of whiskey on his breath.

  “I concede your point,” he said. “In fact, you don’t need a gun to make it.”

  “Nevertheless,” she said in a soft whisper.

  Isabel Fish-Wooten. What the devil sort of name was that? A name for a dainty society fribble, plucking lace hankies from her sleeve and crooking out one finger as she sipped tea from a bone china cup. Not impersonating a boy and getting involved in Barbary Coast shoot-outs.

  She studied his diplomas, framed and hanging on the wall. “Theodore B. Calhoun. Your medical degree—” she squinted at an ornate certificate “—is from Toland Medical College. I have never heard of that.”

  “It has a different name now. The University of California.”

  “I’m sure that’s a fine institution.”

  Blue could tell she was weak from blood loss and was likely to drift off. Then he could appropriate the pistol and bring in the authorities. He didn’t much care for authority, but he despised guns even more. He regarded the Derringer with loathing. It was no bigger than a child’s toy, yet he knew well the havoc it could wreak. He was certainly no stranger to guns, and even now the sight of one dredged up memories that had haunted him for years.

  “You have a beautiful home,” said Miss Fish-Wooten. “Are you a millionaire?”

  The question startled a brusque laugh from him. She was an absurd woman, but keeping her engaged in conversation seemed safer than letting her wave a gun around the surgery. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I was wondering if you’re a millionaire.” She offered a vague, rather startlingly beautiful smile, and just for a moment, he could see the woman she might be if she weren’t an outlaw and half-dead on his table.

  She put away the smile like a cherished keepsake and added, “I came to America to marry one.”

  He eyed the ragged remains of her clothing, lying in a shredded heap on the floor. “I take it you didn’t succeed.”

  “I abandoned the plan after meeting a few truly ghastly prospects. All the candidates I encountered were either decrepit, lecherous or both. So I changed my plans.”

  “You don’t want to marry a millionaire after all?”

  “I intend to become one on my own.”

  “And have you succeeded?” he inquired.

  She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. Even so, the gun held steady. “Not yet. But I’m in no hurry. There’s too much of this country to see. Too much of the world. My vocation in life is to travel. I like to describe myself as a lady adventurer.”

  “You should be more careful about the sort of adventures you pursue.”

  “And how would you describe yourself?” she inquired. “As the famous Dr. Calhoun, medical director of the Mission Rescue League?”

  He didn’t bother to reply, nor to ask her how she knew of him. People in need tended to find him quickly. People who lacked money found him even quicker than that. Still, she was the first to demand his services at gunpoint. Despite that unique situation, he held his tongue. All his life, he had been a man of few words, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have plenty on his mind.

  Miss Isabel Fish-Wooten had no interest in him anyway, he told himself. She neither cared for nor understood his passion for healing. She was probably only making conversation in order to keep herself awake. She blinked her increasingly heavy eyelids, which kept trying to flutter shut. She fought delirium with a certain grim determination that was at odds with her cultivated manner of speaking. She held on to consciousness for much longer than he would have predicted.

  “May I have more water, please?” she asked.

  He found an unbroken cup in the cabinet, keeping his eyes on the gun. “You don’t have to demand anything from me at gunpoint,” he said.

  “That’s what I was told by the last man I shot.”

  He turned to refill the cup from an ewer under the pump. “Do you make a habit of shooting people?”

  “Certainly not.” She sniffed in an injured fashion. “But this is the wild West. I read all about it in Mr. Mark Twain’s newspaper column. People live and die by the gun here.”

  “Fools live and die by the gun here.”

  His bitterness seemed to startle her. “You are half-right, at least.”

  He handed her the water and watched her drink. She inspired in him an unsettling mixture of interest, annoyance, compassion and revulsion. She was not beautiful, nor even conventionally pretty, yet he found he could not take his eyes off that intense, piquant face. Her storm-colored eyes were set off by thick lashes and shadowed by secrets. She had a small nose, pointed chin and the dewy pale skin that characterized English girls. Not that he’d known many English girls, but aside from the gunshot wound and the terrible haircut, this one seemed fairly typical.

  “You’ll want to send word of your mishap,” he said. “Whom shall I contact?”

  She frowned. “Contact?”

  Gathering patience, he said, “About your injury. You’ll need serious bed rest and plenty of help during your recovery. Can we send a wire to your parents or…?”

  “No.”

  “Any family? A traveling companion?”

  “No.” With each “no,” she sagged a little more on the cushioned table.

  “Look, instead of playing this guessing game, just tell me whom to contact.”

  “No one. As a matter of fact, I must be on my way.”

  “I’m afraid not, Miss Fish.”

  “Fish-Wooten, if you please. And I certainly shall be on my way.”

  “You’re
injured. You’ve undergone a serious surgical procedure. The risk of infection is high. In my professional opinion, you must keep still and rest.”

  “Did I ask for your professional opinion?”

  “No.”

  “Then I shall—

  “You demanded it. At gunpoint,” he reminded her.

  “Oh. I did, didn’t I? Well, you’ve rendered your opinion, and I am grateful. But I must be going.”

  Exasperated by the woman and by the absurd conversation, he said, “Let me help you lie down.”

  “No, thank you.” She propped her shoulder against the wall. He could see her battling shock and fatigue—and winning the fight.

  He stole a glance at the clock. In perhaps another fifteen minutes, Delta would be coming to work and Lucas would be getting up. He didn’t relish the prospect of either of them encountering the first patient of the day.

  He stayed quiet, hoping she would drop off to sleep. As expected, she started to nod, her eyelids sliding to half mast and her head lolling to one side. His gaze slipped to her gun hand. She still kept her index finger curved around the trigger.

  He leaned forward, preparing to make his move, when she dragged herself alert, her eyes opening wide, eyebrows lifting. He froze, hoping she couldn’t tell from his stance that he’d been going for the gun.

  “Just because I’ve stopped talking,” she told him, “doesn’t mean you’ve won the argument.”

  He couldn’t even recall what the argument was about. But he simply nodded and maintained his silence. She seemed satisfied and relaxed against the wall. A moment later, her chin sagged to her chest. Her hand, still holding the gun, lay in her lap but she was truly asleep, her breathing slow and even through slightly parted lips.

  Finally, Blue thought. She had lasted longer than many a grown man with lesser injuries than a bullet in the back. His window of opportunity was closing fast.

  He could hear the distant, buttery voice of Delta Beasley, singing as she came up the walk. He set his jaw and scowled. It was a fact that all women were born noisemakers. Delta was the finest nurse he knew, but she had an annoying penchant for singing spirituals, a habit Blue found depressing. His very earliest years of life had been spent on a Virginia plantation, and the singing reminded him of those days. Given what had happened there, before his father brought the family to California, he didn’t relish reminders.

  Focusing on his mysterious patient, he knew he had only seconds to take possession of the gun. As a young soldier facing the chaos of battle, Blue had learned to be quick and decisive. Later, as a physician stationed at a fort in Wyoming, he’d learned the value of stealth and precision.

  One thing he’d never learned to appreciate was the unending treachery of a female. He practically owned the weapon when, in one swift movement, she straightened up, pointing the pistol at his chest.

  “I only ever give a man one warning,” she said through gritted teeth. “You just used yours up.”

  “That won’t stop me from trying,” he said, as furious with himself as with her.

  “What’s the matter?” scolded Delta. Like a well-stoked locomotive, she marched into the surgery and eyed the bloody bullet lying in an enameled surgical tray. “Don’t you get enough patients on your own, you got to go dragging gunshot victims in from the Lord and his apostles know where?” She placed her hands on her hips and looked from Blue to the gun to the patient. “I declare, you probably go down to the waterfront and pry up rocks better left alone.” The whole time she spoke, Delta moved toward Miss Fish-Wooten. “Hold out your hand, girl, and let me check your pulse.”

  The edgy patient, gun in hand, shook her head. “My pulse is fine, I’m sure.”

  Delta sniffed disdainfully. “I bet you got a fever.”

  “No fever,” Miss Fish-Wooten said with a stubborn lift of her chin.

  “You sure know how to pick them,” Delta said to Blue.

  “You keep nagging me about finding a new woman,” he said.

  “That ain’t funny, boy. Where’d you get this one, anyway?”

  “She found me.” He caught Delta’s expression. “I swear, she did. One minute I was eating a muffin, and the next thing I knew, she had a gun to my head.”

  “And blood on your floor. I saw the trail. A fine mess, too. Bernadette’s going to have a fit of apoplexy. You know how fussy she is about her floors. I swear, you need to sleep some nights, ’stead of prowling around digging up trouble. You won’t do anyone a lick of good if you don’t get some rest. The world needs rescuing but no law says you got to see to all of it personally.” The whole time she spoke, she kept her attention on the patient. “Honey, let me get you another pillow.”

  “I’m not lying down,” said Miss Fish-Wooten.

  “Just to lean on, baby,” Delta said in her soothing lullaby of a voice. “I’ll fetch one from the linen cabinet here.”

  Blue motioned with his eyes for Delta to grab the gun. Over the years, he and his assistant had learned to communicate without words, sending silent messages across the surgical table.

  They’d known each other since their army days. How a young slave girl had become a surgical nurse for the Union Army was the stuff of legend. She had served at the hospital of the Union Second Corps at Gettysburg. The survival rate in her command was the highest of the battle. Because she was a female and a Negro, she did not win any medals for her fearless service, patching up Union soldiers and sending them back onto the field of combat. As ham-fisted stubborn as any morally righteous woman could be, Delta Beasley didn’t need medals. She won something far more precious—the hearts of the men whose lives she saved.

  To this day, a few retired soldiers still remembered her with a letter or small gift at Christmas.

  Blue was one of those privileged few. As a wounded and terrified sixteen-year-old horse soldier, he had been put into her care. When she’d saved his life, he had promised her he would study medicine. More than two decades later, he’d not only kept that promise, he’d made Delta an integral part of his practice.

  They continued, in silence, to weigh their chances against the lady adventurer. Too risky, Delta indicated with a flickering glance at the gun.

  He noted the steadiness of the stranger’s trigger finger and the steely look in her eyes. It was an expression he remembered from his days of treating battle wounds in the Indian wars after he earned his medical credentials.

  This woman possessed a warrior’s angry will to live. She must be suffering unimaginable agony, yet she showed only disdainful superiority as she said, “I know what you’re thinking, both of you. And your assistant is correct, Dr. Calhoun. It’s best to avoid provoking me. I confess to having an occasionally volatile temper.” She caressed the trigger with her finger, yet all the while, she never stopped staring at Blue. “Pray don’t try anything. I would hate to have to hurt anyone. But you understand, that wouldn’t stop me.”

  Delta nodded. “Honey, I only try what I know I can get away with. You want to hang on to that gun, you go right ahead. I never had much use for a gun myself. But you go on and keep yours. I won’t pay it no mind.”

  She’d be as good as her word, Blue knew. Delta always was.

  “I reckon you’ll be late on your rounds,” she said to him. “And I guess we’d best report this shooting to the police.”

  Miss Fish-Wooten scrambled from the table, swaying a little as she jammed on the battered hat. “I’m afraid I must be going. I’ll need my Colt’s back, please.” She underscored her request with the Derringer.

  As he unlocked the cabinet, Blue wished he’d left the damned thing loaded. Since his departure from army service, he hadn’t turned a gun on anyone, but he’d never been invaded in quite this manner, either.

  “And the bullets,” she added, helping herself to a laboratory smock hanging from the back of the door. Wincing with pain, she donned the bleached cotton coat and put the pistol and bullets in the pocket. Then she backed toward the door, wobbling a little.

&
nbsp; Go, thought Blue. Fast and far.

  But as quickly as the thought crossed his mind, he said, “You shouldn’t be up and about yet. You’re weak from trauma and blood loss, and you’re bound to get a deadly infection.”

  “Are you asking me to stay?”

  “I’m telling you the hazards of leaving.”

  “That answers my question, then.”

  She took two more steps backward, then turned and hurried toward the exit. She stumbled out, letting the spring-hinged door swish shut behind her.

  By the time he realized he’d never see the woman again, Blue was shaking. The reaction was wholly unexpected. After all he’d seen and done, nothing should surprise him, nor move him to any emotion except the steely sense of duty that had ruled his heart for the past decade. He thought, after such a long time, that he’d found a way to live his life. It was not joyful, but at least useful, and he had taught himself to neither want nor expect more. Deep down, he knew he didn’t deserve more. His fatal mistake had been in succumbing to restlessness and ambition rather than settling down to a quiet life. If he’d learned to be content rather than rejoining the army in search of adventure, Sancha would still be with him.

  Yet while he was tending Isabel Fish-Wooten, something had flickered to life inside him, a rare energy he’d never felt before. He quickly ground out the spark.

  He turned to find Delta studying him. Her face resembled a fresh-baked currant bun, plump and shining.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Mmm-hmm,” was all she said. Then she turned and set about cleaning up the surgery.

  Three

  Blue’s only son came bumbling, bleary-eyed and surly, down to the kitchen a few minutes later, in search of food. At fifteen, Lucas Montgomery Calhoun was as handsome and sulky as a Lake District poet, and had the disposition of a bear disturbed from hibernation.