Stone Dreaming Woman

by Lael R. Neill

  “Do I owe you an apology now?” he whispered. Her arms tightened about him. Then she raised her head just enough to look up into his eyes.

  “No. That was just as much my idea as yours. Don’t apologize to me unless it was just a one-time impulse and you intend never to repeat yourself.”

  He proved to her that he was up to her one-line stingers. “Chèrie, I’ll kiss you goodnight every night for the next eighty years if you’ll have it,” he said softly.

  “In eighty years I’ll be a hundred and five! Who in their right mind would want to kiss a hundred-and-five-year-old woman?” The grey eyes tilted again.

  “A totally smitten one-hundred-eight-year-old man,” he whispered, holding her hands against his chest. She laughed softly.

  “I swear, one of your ancestors had to have kissed the Blarney Stone!”

  “Just wait eighty years and you’ll know that I’ve never meant anything more.”

  “I’ll check again tomorrow, thank you.”

  “Tomorrow, gladly.” He raised her hands to his lips.

  “Then good night, Shane.”

  “Good night, Jenny.” He leaned down and bestowed a chaste peck on her forehead.

  “Sleep well.”

  “I don’t think I’ll sleep at all, after this,” he sighed.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” She backed away from him, letting her hands run softly through his. Then she was gone, leaving behind an aura of Honey Almond Cream.

  When she came up the stairs, she saw a thin slice of light under her uncle’s closed door.

  “Uncle Richard?” she called softly, rapping one knuckle against the center panel.

  “Come in, Jen.” His voice was quiet too, lest they wake Mavis. Jenny let herself in. Richard was at his desk, two books open and papers spread around him.

  “I just wanted you to know that Sergeant Adair is here. We’ve just come down from North Village, and since we have to go back tomorrow, he’s staying the night.”

  “Mavis told me what went on. How’s the boy?”

  Concern flitted over her features. “I revised the stump until it will bear weight. He’ll walk again.”

  “Quite a baptism by fire, wasn’t it.”

  “Not really. My first patient was actually Sergeant Adair’s horse.”

  Richard choked back laughter. “Oh, Jen! But out here physicians do occasionally treat animals.”

  “I’ve nothing against that. They have the same feelings we do. Just don’t ask me to perform large animal obstetrics. I’m not that strong. Well, I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed. I just wanted to let you know what’s going on under your own roof.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart. I’m going to stay up for a bit. It’s going well tonight.”

  “Genius burns the midnight oil,” Jenny said with a laugh. She bent down and kissed the top of his head. “Good night. Sleep tight.” They had exchanged those words since she was just a child.

  She floated into her room, still high on the champagne bubbles in her blood. She crawled into bed, pulled down the snuff lever on her bedside lamp, and snuggled beneath the covers, her senses still full of Shane’s touch and the daring kisses.

  Chapter Eight

  When she awoke, it took only a moment for her mind to take up where it had left off the night before, with Shane in the lamp-lit kitchen. And when she thought of the numerous eligible men who had endeavored to court her, he was so far ahead of the pack he eclipsed everyone else.

  She rose and dressed quickly in the cold of first light, putting on her new madras blouse and her riding skirt, two pairs of socks, and throwing on a navy cardigan. She came downstairs, riding boots in hand, as quietly as she could manage, noting as she passed the marble-cased Newhaven on the mantel that it was nearly six-thirty. No one had risen yet, and the silence of the old house wrapped around her, calm and comforting. She tiptoed into the kitchen. In the dim glow of dawn she could see the outline of Shane’s body muffled in blankets on the lower bunk. He stirred as he heard her come in and poked his head from beneath the covers. His face looked warm and flushed with sleep, and rumpled hair spilled over his forehead, giving him a boyish appeal that belied his age. Then he yawned, and one hand emerged. He scrubbed it over his face, removing the last traces of sleep, and raked his hair back.

  “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” she said, smiling. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No. I was awake—mostly awake, anyway. I just didn’t want to make noise and disturb anyone else.” Since the fire had not totally gone out overnight, she stoked the stove and pulled the teakettle over the burner atop the firebox, then fed the fireplace to warm the room. He watched her from the shelter of his cocoon.

  “Did you sleep well, then?” she asked.

  “I didn’t just sleep. I died.”

  “Me too.” She came around the table and sat in the chair he usually occupied at meals. “Go ahead and stay there until the kitchen warms up.”

  “If you’re going to sit next to me, don’t pussyfoot around.” He stuck his hand out from the side of the bed and patted the bunk next to his legs, but it was cold in the room; his hand immediately disappeared beneath the covers again.

  “That’s something doctors don’t do…” she protested.

  “I’m not your patient.” Reluctantly she capitulated. Presently his hand reemerged and reached toward her. She took it shyly in both hers, but not before solicitously making sure his shoulders and arm were covered. She looked down at the hand she held. It was strong and vitally warm and the fingers long and tapered, the sensitive hand of an artist. Suddenly she wanted that hand to caress her again as it had last night.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” he prompted at length.

  “Do you realize what Aunt Martha would say if she could see me now?”

  “You told me last night you’re not a lady—you’re a medical doctor.”

  “And you just told me you’re not my patient.”

  “Could I have a convenient relapse?”

  “Not unless somebody comes along and shoots you again, God forbid!”

  “No. Once was way more than enough,” he agreed with a sigh.

  “Well, it’s a foregone conclusion that your occupation is dangerous. How many times have you been involved in a firefight, then?”

  “Only four times, counting that one. Two you know about. Then once a couple moonshiners took a potshot at Paul and me. They’re in prison in Ottawa now, serving hefty sentences for attempted murder. Another time was last August. It was a little more frightening. Three men escaped from prison and took off into the woods. They were real desperados. We cornered them in a mine, and they only surrendered after we threatened to dynamite the adit and leave them there to starve. But that’s over the course of six years. I’ve fired my pistol a few times to break up fights and quiet noisy drunks, but that really doesn’t count. And now everybody around here knows we won’t stand for anyone disturbing the peace regardless of how mean they think they are, so by and large Elk Gap is quiet.”

  “Yes. I heard how it was before you came.”

  His wry smile said a volume. “True, I had my hands full for about a year. But gradually the troublemakers decided it wasn’t worth tangling with Mounties and either settled down or moved on.”

  “But I know your territory isn’t just Elk Gap. How far does it go?”

  “To the Quebec border, then clear on up to Castlereigh in the north. That’s a good eighty miles. When I ride rounds it takes me two weeks, and that’s if I can keep moving at a pretty good pace. If I stop at all the Indian villages, it takes longer.”

  “Knowing you, you probably do.”

  Again the wry smile. “I do, but they’re not quite the same Iroquois as the people I’m used to. In North Village they have some very different customs, and a lot of their mythology is more like the American Plains Indians. Their speech is a little different, too. In fact, the Iroquois farther north call them Stray Dogs because they don’t appear to belong anywhe
re except to themselves. Don’t ask me how that ever happened. The first time I rode into the village outside of Five Mile and said something, one of the elders said, ‘Stray Dog’ and everybody laughed. I patted Midnight and asked him if he had let that huge fart I had just heard. Everybody laughed again, including the elder who had made the comment. To this day he calls me Stray Dog and I call him Horse Fart.”

  “Stray Dog and Horse Fart!” Jenny repeated, suppressing laughter. “Oh, Shane! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years!”

  “I’d like you to meet them someday. They’re good people.”

  “I think I’d like that very much. Well, it’s getting warmer in here now. I’ll leave and let you get dressed.”

  He sighed melodramatically. “I was just getting to enjoy this.” Pointedly his hand tightened on hers.

  “You can hold my hand later. Mavis will catch us. Besides, the teakettle’s boiling.”

  “Well, all right, then. If you must.” His tone, full of euphuistic disappointment, sent a warm rush of amusement through her. She went to the stove and measured tea into the ironstone pot, poured boiling water on top of the loose tea, and then disappeared through the back kitchen door, which led to a small part-hallway, part-pantry and the recently added bathroom. When she emerged into the parlor, Mavis was just coming out of her own room.

  “Good morning, Mavis. I started tea.”

  “Thank you. I was awake, but I didn’t want to leave my room until I heard Mr. Weston moving around upstairs. Sometimes he’s a late riser. Often I reserve that time for whatever hand sewing I need to do.”

  “I understand. When his writing is going well, I’ve known him to stay up all night. Oh, by the way, Sergeant Adair is here. He is taking me back to North Village, and it was so late when we got back last night that it didn’t make sense for him to go all the way home only to turn around and come back here this morning.”

  “And the Indian boy?”

  “I gave him a stump that will bear his weight. I know where I can get a prosthesis for him. Eventually he’ll walk again.”

  Mavis shook her head. “You a doctor. My, my. I would never have guessed in a million years.”

  “Women doctors aren’t that common, after all.”

  “All right, ladies. I can hear you talking in there. It’s safe. I’m decent,” Shane called. Jenny and Mavis came around the corner from the living room. He was dressed, washed, and his wild hair tamed. He had made his bed neatly.

  “My, don’t you look like Merry Sunshine this morning,” Mavis observed. Jenny took the tea mugs from the cupboard and filled all but Richard’s, which she left on the top of the warming oven. Mavis took her own, and Jenny brought Shane’s to the table. She watched him put sugar in his tea.

  “It was a late night last night. I’m afraid Jenny got chucked into deep water.” Mavis turned to Jenny and cocked a maternal eyebrow at his use of her first name.

  “ ‘Doctor Weston’ sounds so pretentious and stuffy, doesn’t it?” Jenny interjected.

  “Well, yes. I’ll give you that.” Mavis rattled pans and banged the cooler door as she retrieved a bowl of eggs. Jenny heard Richard on the stairs and hurried to fill his tea mug and take it to him. Another day was beginning.

  Less than an hour later they were on their way to town. Jenny once again felt dowdy, bundled into Mavis’s oversized fox jacket. Shane is so exotically handsome in that magnificent silver wolf parka with all that bright beadwork, like some romantic hero straight out of one of Cousin Elizabeth’s penny dreadfuls. I wonder what Aunt Eleanor would say, she thought. She always did have an eye for a good-looking man.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked eventually. The question caught her by surprise.

  “I was looking at that beautiful beadwork on your parka, trying to figure out if it’s right on the leather or if it’s appliquéd.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Done on another piece and then sewed on.”

  “It’s appliquéd, then. Those strips aren’t totally decorative. They cover the seams between the sections of hide, so wind can’t blow in.”

  “But won’t it wear out?”

  “If it does, I’ll get it fixed, or have another made. All I have to do is furnish the pelts, and that’s not hard. And as I told you, I never wear it when I’m going to be in the woods for any length of time. I have a bear parka and leggings for rough work, but because it isn’t lined it’s not as warm as this.”

  For the millionth time she marveled at the twist of fate that had brought her here. But I’ve heard it said that nothing ever happens by accident. Perhaps this is meant to be.

  They moved at a trot through the broken snow. Fleur matched her stride to Midnight’s, and they fell into rhythm like a well-trained draft team.

  Jenny was enjoying the ride in spite of the cold. All too soon they arrived at the outskirts of Elk Gap, where they slowed to a walk even though the street was still deserted. The only sign of life was Paul coming out of the livery stable. He kicked his chestnut mare into a canter to catch up to them.

  “Hello, Paul,” Shane called across the street.

  “Good morning, Miss Weston,” he said, politely touching gloved fingers to the brim of his Stetson. “Shane, I had a notion where you were. This time I didn’t worry.”

  “There was a medical emergency at North Village. Jimmy Richardson stepped in a leg-hold trap and severed his foot. I came down to Richard’s to telephone Angus, but when I got there I got the surprise of my life.”

  “Oh?” Paul prompted, falling in next to Jenny. Shane looked down at her, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

  “I’m actually a medical doctor.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Paul exclaimed on the end of a long sigh. “That would be the surprise of my life, too. But what are you doing way out here?”

  “That was my question,” Shane said.

  “I worked myself half to death in school, and I couldn’t find a practice to buy into or a hospital that would hire me in anything but a nursing capacity. It was so frustrating I decided to come out here and visit Uncle Richard for a while and forget the world. But it seems it caught up with me.”

  “I suggested she go talk to Angus. You know how hard it’s getting for him to make house calls. In fact, that’s where we’re going now.”

  “That’s a good idea, Miss…ah, Doctor Weston.”

  Shane laughed. “I made the same mistake,” he said.

  “You may call me Jenny if you’d like.”

  “That’s gracious of you, if you don’t think it’s too familiar.”

  “No. You’re Shane’s partner, after all. I’m probably going to be in contact with you from time to time.”

  “You’re riding short patrol?” Shane asked after a minute or so.

  “Yes. I wanted to get it out of the way. Afternoon is when we’re going to get calls.”

  “Good idea. And I may not be home very soon. After we’ve talked to Angus, we have to go back to North Village. It’ll be late this afternoon before I get back.”

  “Well, I’ll ride with you as far as the clinic, then.” After about half a block Paul turned off with a salute as Jenny and Shane stopped in front of Angus’s office.

  Before either one thought of it, Shane boosted her down from the tall mare. She caught a tiny tightness around his eyes.

  “Shane, you shouldn’t do that yet,” she said in an undertone, her hand lingering against his left shoulder.

  “I’m all right, honest. It’s just a little sore deep down, that’s all.”

  “Well, then, since you’re not my patient, I’ll let Doctor MacBride get after you.”

  “Oh, believe me, he certainly would,” he replied grimly. He opened the clinic door and ushered her into the waiting room. The small foyer had six or eight mismatched kitchen chairs around the institutionally white walls and an enormous hall tree next to the door. The whole room was permeated with the medicinal odors of alcohol and Lysol. To Jenny, that must be how heav
en smelled.

  A hallway led to the left, obviously toward the examination rooms. Almost directly ahead of them a stairway led to the second floor. The hallway continued to the right, into indefinite obscurity.

  Another of the ubiquitous little railroad stoves kept the anteroom warm. Shane helped her take off Mavis’s fox jacket and hung it on the hall tree. She folded the fascinator and laid it on the seat, along with two of the three sweaters. As he was unbuttoning his own parka, they heard Angus MacBride’s voice down the hall.

  “I’ll be there directly,” he called.

  “It’s me. This is a social call,” Shane responded.

  “Well, then, you can indulge an old man and come back to my study. So why have you so graciously condescended to come calling on such a fine day?” The gravelly, disembodied voice carried a rough undertone of sarcasm.

  “Careful, Angus. There’s a lady with me.” He directed Jenny past the stairs and down the short right-hand hallway that led to the doctor’s study.

  At first she was almost afraid to raise her eyes. The big room looked like the den of a mad scientist straight from the pages of Mary Shelly. To the right stood a fireplace flanked by two windows. Solid bookcases covered the rest of the walls. In one corner the doctor had placed a round table with a binocular microscope and a globe of the world on it; in the other hung a fully articulated human skeleton. The small pelvis and the large nuchal crest marked it male. Finally she looked at the good doctor himself. He stood behind a large walnut desk full of papers, books, and other oddments.

  “Well, Miss Weston! Welcome to my lair. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?” She gave him her best cane-syrup Brisbane smile. From church she remembered the large, broad-shouldered man with thinning white hair and blue eyes that regarded the world levelly. Right now they calmly studied her over a pair of Ben Franklin reading glasses. Mutely she handed over a small leather case roughly the size of a wallet. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Go ahead. Look at what’s inside,” she prompted. It contained miniatures of both her diplomas and her licenses to practice medicine in Virginia and New York.