Jolt

by Jodi Bowersox

  "Now we scrub the floor, and when we go back in, Dr. Fischer and I will be scrubbed and gowned and carrying Mrs. Emory, unclothed and wrapped in a sterile sheet." He gathered these things from the cupboard as he spoke. "Doctor, run upstairs and see what's keeping Miss Torres. I'd like her to assist me."

  Fischer put a hand to his head. "Oh! In all the commotion I forgot to wake her." He jogged out of the room, and Tate set Haskel to the task of swabbing the floor while he took the linens and surgical gowns into the parlor.

  Gently rolling her to her side, he spoke softly. "Mrs. Emory, I just need to get to your buttons."

  As he started unbuttoning her shirtwaist, she whispered through clenched teeth. "What are you going to do?"

  He hated to scare her, but he had to tell her about the impending surgery. "I believe you are having an appendicitis attack. That simply means that your appendix has become inflamed and infected, and unfortunately, it has to come out."

  She let out a sob, and Tate wanted to console her in a more tangible way, but he knew the best thing he could do for her was get her prepped for surgery as quickly as possible. He kept working on the buttons. "You're going to be fine. I have had experience with this surgery, and I have done all we can to make a sterile environment to keep infection at bay."

  Rolling her to her back once more, he began to work the sleeves off her arms as her husband came into the room. "I'm all done, Doc."

  Tate rose and began to roll up his sleeves. "Good, she will feel better about all of this if you undress her."

  Haskel moved to her side. "Everything off?"

  Tate nodded. "Everything. Put this sheet around her. I'm going to scrub and get dressed." He moved out into the hall as Jeremiah came flying down the stairs. "Is she coming?"

  Jeremiah stood at the bottom looking baffled. "She's not in her room. I can't find her anywhere."

  Chapter 32

  "This town could use a few more streetlights," Lalita grumbled as she stumbled over a stone on the street. A nearly starless night, she was relying on lights shining out of the houses to guide her, but they did nothing to illuminate her path, making it slow going.

  Determination to do whatever she could to save Tate's medical career was fueling her trek toward the house that stood next to the saddlery, but that didn't mean that a good, long pep talk wasn't fueling the determination. "Tate's too kind to tell me this is what needs to be done, and even if he… he has had a change of heart about marrying me, he cares about me enough to not want me to be with someone who calls me a 'squaw.' "

  She stopped as she suddenly realized why that term had gotten Tate's fist swinging. "Oh my gosh. It was because of his family." She began moving slowly, a new revelation dawning. "He just wanted to protect me because I remind him of his family. Maybe he never really loved me; maybe he just mistook a need to watch over me for love."

  With no money of her own, she had needed that place of safety, but hopefully, if Dickson agreed to drop the charges and help rebuild her reputation, she could find someone who would hire her.

  With a hand on her shoulder bag, she turned a corner, and her destination came into view. Tate has taken care of me; now I have to do this for him.

  ***

  It was fortunate that Tate had performed this particular surgery several times, as the need to find Lita was vying for his attention. He couldn't even send Jeremiah out to search for her, as he needed him to assist.

  Mrs. Emory had responded well to the chloroform, and the inflamed appendicitis had been removed—none too soon in Tate's estimation. He was now closing the incision in between two sheets covering her upper and lower body.

  "Where do you think she would have gone?" Jeremiah asked behind his mask as he gathered the bloodied gauze by Mrs. Emory's feet.

  Tate shook his head as he tied another knot. "I don't have any idea. It doesn't make any sense."

  "Who does she know in town?"

  "The Pilsons, although I doubt she'd go there after her last visit. She knows Reverend Niemeyer and the Allens, but she doesn't know where they live."

  Jeremiah held out the treated aseptic gauze pad with a gloved hand as Tate set down his needle and scissors. "What about Dickson?"

  Tate's eyes grew wide over his face mask. "Why would she go there?"

  "Just a hunch. She seems like the kind of woman to take matters into her own hands."

  Tate positioned the pad while Jeremiah brushed adhesive on gauze strips to create surgical tape to hold it in place. Tate couldn't imagine why Lita would go to Dickson's, but his pulse jumped to a higher level at the thought. "What do you think she'd hope to accomplish?" He pulled the two bed sheets together and pulled off his gloves.

  Fischer followed suit after depositing the wads of used gauze in the pan that Tate held toward him. "I don't know. What are the possibilities?"

  While Tate checked Mrs. Emory's vitals, he pondered that question. "I could see her trying to talk sense into him—maybe even tell him that we had planned to marry."

  "What about his offer? She's watched you sit around all week with no work."

  Tate scrawled the results of Mrs. Emory's pulse and blood pressure on a pad of paper, not liking this train of thought. "And then I practically scolded her for wanting to buy a few sundries. She thinks I'm penniless." He pulled off his surgical mask and gown. "But I can't see her actually accepting Dickson because I'm having a financial crisis. She has more heart than that."

  Fischer untied the cloths wrapping his shoes. "Exactly, Tate. I'm not suggesting she'd leave you because you're poor, but that she believes she is the reason for your sudden poverty."

  The woman's husband appeared at the door, and Tate waved him in, his chest so tight he could barely breathe. "I believe your wife is going to be just fine, Haskel. She will need to stay here for a few days, though. You are welcome to wheel the bed back in and stay the night."

  Haskel came to his side and stroked his wife's cheek with tears in his eyes. "Thanks, Doc. You're a good man and I—" He fought for control. "I am so sorry that I signed that petition. Josephine was just furious about it, and when this came over her, she wouldn't hear of calling any other doctor."

  "All is forgiven." Tate clasped his extended hand. "And now I must ask you a favor. I should stay here and watch your wife for the next several hours, but… my Miss Torres has gone missing."

  Fischer stepped forward. "Just tell us what to look for and what to do."

  Tate spent the next several minutes explaining the dose for pain medication should she wake up before he got back and wrote down the phone numbers of the other doctors in town in case of excessive bleeding at the incision site. Then grabbing his jacket and hat, he hurried through the house and out the back door.

  Clouds had rolled in, blocking out any celestial light, but he could still see where he was going by the light from his house.

  As he strapped Maisy into her harness and hitched the buggy, he tried to think of any other reason that Lita might go to Dickson. Lightning flashed, thunder clapped, and he remembered her term for thinking in new directions—brainstorming.

  "What does she have to offer him besides herself?" he asked aloud as he backed Maisy out. All at once it dawned on him that her little history book was missing. Snapping the reins, he sent Maisy trotting down the hill. Knowledge. The sky broke open, and it started to pour. She might offer what she knows of the future in trade for her own.

  ***

  Lalita stood frozen on Dickson's porch. The thunder and lightning had sped her steps toward shelter, and now that she was under the eaves, the downpour was keeping her there. Her plan had seemed sound right up to the moment that she stepped onto the porch; then the memories of their carriage house encounter had flooded her.

  Shaking it off she pulled out her phone, started an audio recording, and slipped it back into her purse. She lifted her hand to knock, when the door suddenly opened. A surprised Seth Dickson stood in trousers but no shirt, his suspenders hanging at his sides. His astonishmen
t quickly turned into a grin. "I heard someone on my porch, but I never imagined it would be you, Miss Torres." He ran a hand through his hair. "What can I do for you?"

  Lalita swallowed and tried to lick her lips, but her mouth was suddenly dry. "Mr. Dickson," she squeaked, "I wonder if I might have a moment of your time."

  He stepped aside and waved her in. "Honey, you can have all the time you want."

  She waffled a moment, but a sizzling crack of thunder had her scurrying into the house. The Dickson residence wasn't as nice as Tate's, but it seemed serviceable. Dickson ushered her into the parlor, and Lita observed that it could use a good cleaning as she lowered herself to sit primly on the edge of a chair.

  He seemed to notice her scrutiny. "If I'd known you were coming, I'd have had the boys clean up a bit." He pulled a shirt off the back of a chair and slipped it on.

  Lalita tried to smile. "How is Max? It must be annoying to have your leg out of commission in the summertime."

  "Yeah, well, he's getting along." He tucked in his shirt and pulled the suspenders to his shoulders. "That isn't the reason for your visit tonight, though, is it—to inquire after Max." He sat on a worn out chair across from her.

  She chewed her lower lip. "No. I came to ask you to drop the charges."

  Dickson's chin ticked up. "So… you'll marry me?"

  She slowly shook her head. "No, Mr. Dickson. I can't. I don't love you."

  "Pshaw, that'll come later. You'll see."

  Lita pulled her shoulder bag to her lap. "What if I offered you something else? I have inside knowledge of some economic boons that you could take advantage of, and I also know of some coming economic crises that you could avoid."

  The man leaned back and crossed his arms. "I didn't realize that you were a financial advisor. How did an Indian woman get a job like that?"

  She pulled out her history journal and held it to her chest. "It's not exactly my job, Mr. Dickson. I know about these things because up until I ended up unconscious on top of Pikes Peak, I… I lived in the 21st century."

  Dickson stared at her a moment before snorting out a suppressed laugh. "Oh my, you are a peach." He leaned forward, his forearms on his legs. "So what is it you think I'd be interested to know?"

  "I'd need your word that you'll drop the charges first, even without marrying me. In writing."

  The man couldn't stop grinning. "Well, okay then." He jumped up and went to a desk in the corner and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. After a few minutes of writing, he held it close to his lips and blew gently.

  Stepping toward her, he held it out, but when she reached for it, he pulled it back. "Not quite yet, Miss. I think you made a promise of your own."

  She realized she needed him to say it out loud. "Would you mind reading to me what you wrote?"

  His smile took on an unattractive smugness. "I'd be delighted." He cleared his throat dramatically. "Should Miss Torres provide me with information that would certainly lead to wealth, I promise to drop the charges against her."

  She nervously opened her book. "Well, the first thing you need to know is that next year there will be a downturn in the economy, and there will be runs on the bank. Your cash will be safer under your mattress than a bank in 1893."

  "I see." He pulled the desk chair over and sat close to her. "And what about the 'boon' you spoke of."

  Lalita narrowed her eyes. It was obvious he didn't believe her, so why was he still listening? "In 1896, there will be another gold rush. This time in the Yukon."

  He sat back. "The Yukon! That's the news you think you can bribe me with? I have a business that keeps us in food and clothes. I wouldn't travel to the Yukon for all the money in the world!"

  "Well," Lalita scrambled, "you wouldn't have to go yourself. You could just hire someone to go for you—someone who could be there right from the beginning to stake some of the first claims."

  Lalita tried not to blink as he looked into her eyes, a smirk lingering. "Do you know what I think?"

  She shook her head. "No, Mr. Dickson, your mind is a mystery to me."

  He laughed again. "You're a mystery to me as well, but I think you came with this horse hockey as an excuse." He ran the back of his finger along her jaw. "I think you just wanted to come see me for me."

  Suddenly his arm came around her as he pulled her face to his. One touch of his lips, and she was sliding down off the chair and to the floor, her hat tumbling behind her. Trying to scramble to her feet, she got tangled in her skirts, and then she was being lifted into the air. She grasped her book with both hands as the shoulder bag slid off her shoulder. "But I have proof! Just let me show you. I brought my phone."

  "Hush, we don't want to wake the boys."

  Lalita disagreed. "Max! William! Help!"

  Dickson carried her through the house with his arms around her waist until he had her on the wash porch. He set her down on her feet, and she spun to face him as she hooked her bag over her head and slid the book inside. She said a silent prayer that her phone was still recording.

  Dickson's earlier joviality was nowhere to be seen. "Now, are you going to be quiet, or do I need to take you on out with the saddles."

  She took a step back and shouted louder. "Max! William! Help!"

  With two long strides, he took hold of her waist and threw her over his shoulder. As he pushed through the screen door, she yelled some more. The rain was still coming down, and the cold water penetrated the cotton of her dress in a matter of seconds as she pounded her fists against him. She tried to kick, but he held her legs tight.

  The smell of leather was overpowering as he opened the door to the saddlery. He switched on a light and closed the door behind him before setting her down. She quickly moved to the other side of a saddle perched on a stand, breathing hard. "Mr. Dickson, I have proof that what I say is true. I have a 21st century phone with me. You won't believe what it can do." She trusted that he wouldn't comprehend that it was recording his every word. She reached for her bag. "In fact, I've got pictures that will blow your mind."

  His hand shot out and grabbed her wrists, and in another moment he had her hauled around the saddle. "Who knows what kind of little revolver you might have in there. I think it's best if you keep your hands where I can see them." He pulled them to his chest and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her against him. He looked down at her and smiled. "Now this is better."

  "Tate and I are going to be married," she blurted out as he ran his hands over her back. "That's why I can't marry you."

  His hands stilled, his mouth smirking unbecomingly. "Oh, I know he's sweet on you. Anyone can see that."

  Lalita shook her head. "Then why would you…"

  A corner of his mouth twitched up. "It won't be the first time I take the doctor's woman."

  He lowered his mouth toward hers, and she pushed hard on his chest. "What do you mean?"

  He pulled her back against him and whispered in her ear. "Augusta. My wife died because of Dr. Tate Cavanaugh, so I took Augusta."

  Lalita was appalled. "You… you kissed Augusta?"

  He buried his nose in her hair. "Oh, I did more than kiss her. She was wearing the dress you were wearing when the doctor set Max's leg, and she smelled like honeysuckle."

  Lalita thought she was going to be sick. "Did she… was she willing?"

  He backed her against the wall. "She said she wasn't, but then all women say that, don't they?" With his body pressed against her, and her arms trapped at his chest, he began to run his hands through her hair by her face.

  She squirmed against him, kicking at his ankles, but his heavy work boots absorbed what little impact she could make. "You just want revenge on Tate; you don't want me at all."

  He laughed. "Oh, I want you, and since there's always the chance that you'll go to jail…"

  His rain-slicked hair reminded her of something, and her eyes grew round. "You go to church!"

  He sneered. "So do you, my little soiled dove."

  Lalita managed to
turn her hands around and dig her nails into his chest. "I am not a soiled dove!"

  He jumped back but grabbed her wrists again. "Hey now, that's enough of that." His voice deepened into a husky snarl. "I don't mind a bit of a tussle, though. The late Mrs. Cavanaugh didn't have an ounce of fight in her." He looked deep into her eyes. "She was as limp as a rag doll. Nearly took the fun out of it." His expression changed to one of disgust. "Then the pathetic creature took the doctor's razor to her wrists a few days later."

  Lalita's jaw dropped. "She… she killed herself? Because you—? I thought she fell in the bathtub!"

  The door opened, and William stepped in, dripping wet and scowling. "Pa, what are you doing?"

  "Never you mind. Go back to bed."

  Max stumbled in on his crutches. "No, Pa, leave her alone!"

  Lalita wrenched her arms free and ran toward the sons. They moved aside to let her through. As she ran out into the stormy, dark night, she hoped the boys could slow their father down.

  She splashed through the rain until she reached the street that was fast turning to mud. She heard a horse snort a ways up the road and could make out a buggy through the driving rain. Lightning flashed and she jumped, screeching.

  "Lita!"

  She wiped the rain off her face as she slogged forward. "Tate?"

  Without warning, hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her back. Her boots stuck, and she sat down hard in the mud.

  Another flash of lightning revealed Tate with his fist drawn back, and then she heard the fight commence. After a few punches, the two were brawling on the ground.

  Lalita got to her feet and stumbled out of their way, straining to see Maisy. She heard the sizzle as tingles ran down her spine. The flash was blinding just before the dark.

  ***

  "Lita! Lita!" Tate stood calling in the rain after finally throwing the punch that knocked Dickson out. William provided an umbrella and a lantern before dragging his father to the house, but he couldn't find her anywhere.