A server slipped unobtrusively into the room to remove their dessert plates and provide a silver service of fresh-brewed, fragrant coffee. The drink of kings, as far as Ben, noticeably perking up, was concerned.
“Thank you kindly,” he told the young man.
No, hardly a young man. Actually, not much more than a boy, Ben noticed now. Second notice took in the neat black trousers, the immaculate white shirt. And the halting walk. Tact and courtesy would have decreed that no mention be made of what might possibly be a childhood deformity, embarrassing to question. But Ben had always been known more for his trouble-making capabilities than for his tact and courtesy. Even here, in a new set of circumstances, he was not about to change his personality just to suit the powers that be.
“You hurt yourself somehow, son?” he wanted to know.
Astonishingly enough, color washed right out of the boy’s face as if suddenly leached away. He shifted a nervous look toward his employer. “N-n-no, sir,” he finally managed to stammer. “Just—uh—well—”
“I think what Roy is tryin’ to say,” eased in Holcomb, comfortably, “is that he and another kid were tusslin’ around when they shouldn’ta been, and he got banged up a little. Ain’t that right, Roy?”
“Uh—yessir.” Loaded tray in hands, he was already trying to back out of the room without anyone making more of a fuss.
“Reckon he was a little ashamed of himself. Roy is from the orphanage here, Ben, learnin’ t’ handle some of the work in helpin’ with the household, and he’s kinda shy. Not out in public much, you see.” Holcomb poured a cup of coffee into a thin china cup and sipped approvingly.
“Kinda young t’ be waitin’ tables, ain’t he?” murmured Adam.
“Well, now, not t’ my mind. All the kids there need to learn jobs, y’ know. Which means I coordinate schedules with Madonna Bellini, the lady runnnin’ the place, to get our older children educated and trained, so’s they can get a good start in life.”
“Admirable,” said Ben, without any emotion at all. A few minutes’ silence, during which he lifted his delicate etched goblet, so that light from the brass chandelier overhead could shine through the potent amber spirits inside. “You a church-goin’ man, Charles?”
A small harrumph and a slight shift in position. “I’m a member in good standin’ at the First Pentecostal Church, just outsidea town. Prob’ly don’t get there as often as I should, with the press of business goin’ on, and all, but I do provide financial support.”
“I imagine you do.”
Holcomb tilted his mostly bald head a little sideways, like an inquisitive chickadee. “You got some reason for askin’?”
Ben shrugged. “Don’t mind a’tall seein’ the kids, or takin’ care of emergencies. Just wonderin’ how your fellow congregants would feel about my attendin’ to medical pursuits on Sunday.”
“Doin’ the Lord’s work, son,” boomed Holcomb with a wide grin. “Just doin’ the Lord’s work. So. You got any other questions about your contract with Whitfield?”
“Reckon everything was pretty self-explanatory.” He fiddled with a fork, then a spoon. “May have a few things crop up, as time goes on, but I can check in with you. Adam and I will get ourselves unpacked and situated over the next coupla days, then we’ll be open for business.”
“House meet with your approval?”
“Absolutely, Charles. Quite a nice surprise, havin’ so much space and convenience.”
“Good, good. All of us here wanna treat our new doctor right. Never know when he might haveta treat us!” Holcomb chuckled at his own wit. “Now, I’ve hired a housekeeper for you. Nice widow woman, name of Violet Langley—member of our church, in fact. I’ll send her over t’morrow.”
Rearranging his cutlery was beginning to jangle Ben’s nerves. He was ready for a brisk walk back to his new home, in the sweet-scented evening air, and further discussion with his handyman who would, no doubt, offer plenty of strong opinions about this whole evening.
“Oh, don’t get your back up,” advised Holcomb with supreme good humor. “I see that look on your face. Just tryin’ t’ save you time and energy, Doctor. You see how things go, and, if it doesn’t work out, why, then, you go right ahead and find somebody more suited t’ your tastes. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” Ben agreed after only the slightest hesitation. “Although I would like t’ know how much this lady’s monthly salary will be costin’ me.”
“Not a penny. All part and parcel of your employment contract, taken care of by the city.”
By the city. He was beginning to sense that phrase meant by a behind-the-scenes well-heeled Charles Holcomb himself. “Ahuh. Well, I appreciate your takin’ so much on yourself, Charles, when you surely got plentya other things demandin’ attention.” Crumpling his napkin, he pushed back his chair and rose, an open signal to Adam that it was time to go.
“Glad we had us this little talk, Doctor,” said Holcomb, rising also to walk his guests to the door. “Seems like we understand each other pretty well.”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Ben agreed vaguely. “I thank you for the fine meal, Charles. Please pass my appreciation on t’ your cook. G’ night, then.”
Outside, in the soft moonlit air that greeted them like a benediction, Ben drew in a deep breath, stretched his arms, shrugged his shoulders, and started off across town at a steady pace.
In silence for a while, as night sounds drifted in around them: loud music and an occasional raucous shout from one of the watering holes on tree-lined Main Street; the distant cry of a coyote, off in the surrounding hills; the slow plod of a horse’s hooves and the jingle of harness as a lone rider came into town.
“You got somethin’ in your craw?” Adam finally had to ask.
“Huh. Just that I’m wantin’ t’ take a good long soak in the fancy bathtub upstairs, maybe scrub away this sense I‘ve been sold a bill of goods. Not sure what I landed us into, my friend.”
Another brief silence. “Thinkin’ it ain’t all what it appears?”
Shoving both hands into his back pockets, Ben strode along for a few minutes. “Anything that looks too good t’ be true usually is, Adam, don’tcha figure? Town’s payin’ for this, town’s payin’ for that. I’m just wonderin’ what Whitfield—or Holcomb—might want from me in return...other than my medical services.”
“Time may tell.”
“So might a good Pinkerton man. Reckon I should send a letter off t’ my brother, John, over in San Francisco, soon’s I can. I could use some advice.”
II
Dr. Ben Yancey’s first official patient arrived two days later. Actually, three patients arrived together, and it was four o’clock in the morning when the pounding at his front door whisked him willy-nilly out of his bed and down the stairs.
“Burns, Doc!” gasped the first man inside. “Restaurant kitchen caught afire, and some of us got hurt tryin’ t’ put out the flames.”
“Here—come in the office,” Ben directed briskly. The last thing any burn victim needs is to see more fire, but light was necessary. So, after setting a match to several kerosene lamps and opening shades to first dawn, after washing quickly but carefully with carbolic, he began working triage.
Fortunately, nothing too serious—hands and arms, mostly, and one worker with a gouge from the side of his head where a timber from the ruined ceiling had fallen onto him. Application of cold water, first, to ease the pain; then opening the blisters, gentle squeezing out of accumulated fluid, ending up with a wrap of soft bandages.
“What happened?” The worst finished and taken care of, Ben was snipping away clotted hair from the head wound and able to ask details.
“Grease fire at Bundy’s Café,” answered the spokesman of the group, Henry Reynolds. His minor injury dealt with, he was sitting off to one side, observing procedures while trying not to wince with discomfort. “We’re the kitchen crew—damn thing flared up outa the blue. Managed t’ get it put out, b’fore th
ere was too much damage, but—well, y’ see.”
“Huh.” The injury was cleaned and covered, the patient dazed but comfortable. “And is there a Mr. Bundy?”
“Mr.—? Oh. No, sir. Mr. Mackey owns the place. He was there when the fire started, shipped all of us over here right away.”
Ben, by now clearing up, nodded. “Good for him. You boys live roundabouts?”
“Boardin’ house, Doc. A few blocks away, on Midden Lane.”
Just then Adam appeared, snapping his suspenders into place, looking only slightly less scruffy than the professional in the room. “Mawnin’, Doc. Anything I can help with?”
“Ah. Always my right-hand man. Yeah, Adam. I’d like you t’ hitch up the carriage and take these boys back home.”
“Home?” Henry repeated, ready to protest. “Can’t do that, sir. Now that you’ve patched us up, we gotta get back t’ work.”
“No such thing,” the doctor said sharply. He was busy at his apothecary cabinet, pulling out a small drawer of supplies, preparing miniscule glass bottles, writing a label of instructions. “With those burns, not a one of you is gonna be worth a lick of spit for a few days. And I’ll meander over t’ the café, later on, t’ let your boss know.”
The three patients exchanged wary but resigned glances. Okay. Can’t really argue with the doctor treating your wounds.
“Now, Henry, you all will be feelin’ some discomfort soon, if you ain’t already,” continued Ben, returning with medicine in hand, “so I’m gonna give you a small dose of laudanum t’ take if the pain gets too bad. Let’s see…this is Wednesday; come back and see me again t’morrow, all right?”
“Uh. All right, Doc.” Henry tucked the bottle into his pocket with one unbandaged hand, then reached out to clasp the doctor’s. “Thank you, sir. Feelin’ better already.”
After they had trooped out in Adam’s wake, Ben, moving back to finish clearing away, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Chuckling, he realized that only desperation had kept his victims from turning tail and running the other way at first sight of him.
Black hair tousled every which way by exhausted slumber, rich dark stubble showing from cheek to chin, robe pulled on inside out over a flannel nightshirt, bare feet thrust into slippers looking as worn and weary as their owner. Next time there came an early morning call, Ben decided, he really ought to look slightly more presentable.
His second patient arrived later on that same day, just after he’d finished eating dinner.
Mrs. Langley was proving to be, if nothing else, so far an admirable cook.
A tall, dignified woman whose face never relaxed into a smile, whose posture never eased into a slump or a slouch, her iron-gray hair and lined features indicated middle age. Per Charles Holcomb’s instructions, she had hired a laundress and a housemaid to help out. While she seemed to possess no sense of humor, even when tweaked by Adam’s lighthearted attempts at jesting, she turned out such excellent meals, such superlative desserts, such unparalleled pots of coffee, that both men were quite willing to overlook this one small flaw.
It was she who interrupted Ben’s final few sips from his cup to announce that Mrs. Fairlady Halliwell had arrived for a consultation.
Freshly shaved, bathed, dressed, and entirely presentable at this hour, he looked up from perusing ads in the Whitfield weekly newspaper. “Ahuh. In the waitin’ room, is she?”
“Mrs. Halliwell,” repeated the housekeeper, in the severe tone reserved for one who apparently didn’t yet realize that life was no more than a vale of tears. “The mayor’s wife.”
“Ah. The mayor’s wife.” Nodding, Ben folded up the newspaper and headed down the hall. Evidently a person of some importance, who deserved to be treated with respect. Although Ben treated most of his patients with little else.
She was sitting on a straight wooden chair against the far wall, tucked away into the room’s shadows, away from the window’s light. A pretty, faded woman, all in monochromatic beige, as quiet and unobtrusive as a flower wilted by time. Or by hard use. A woman whose choice of color indicated a wish to fade off from view. Possibly to disappear completely.
“Mrs. Halliwell,” he said politely, deliberately making some noise as he approached. His movements, as he bent over her right hand with a display of old-world southern manners, at least drew a tiny half-smile.
“Good afternoon, Doctor. Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”
He pulled the remaining chair closer to sit, facing her, with interest and concern. “That’s what I’m here for, ma’am. What can I do for you t’day?”
Instead of an immediate answer, she glanced around the room, taking in its spare but clinical appointments, done mostly in clean pure white. “You’re quite well set up here, Doctor.”
So it was to be that way, was it? Obviously she needed some delay, and obviously he had rushed too quickly into the lady’s appointment.
Thus, he pursued some courteous and inconsequential chit-chat, about the pleasant weather, about the beauty of the surrounding countryside, about the town and its charms, about the adventures of his travel to get here.
At that, she brightened just a little. “Travel,” Mrs. Halliwell murmured. “That seems such a wonderful way to spend one’s life.”
“Or dangerous,” chuckled Ben, “dependin’ on your point of view, I reckon, and what you have t’ cross t’ get there. You and your husband lived here quite a while, have you?”
“Oh…a few years, now. Stenton was called to apply for the position of mayor, and…”
“Called. By Charles Holcolmb?”
“Who else?”
Was it his imagination, or did her words contain a tinge of bitterness?
“Well, then, Mrs. Halliwell. Tell me, how can I help you today?”
For response, she extended her left arm, slowly and carefully, and unbuttoned the cuff of her sleeve to roll the fabric away. What Ben could see of her wrist and forearm showed swollen, reddened flesh that looked and felt feverish.
“May I?” As gently as he tried to examine the injury, she winced away from his touch. “Mrs. Halliwell, that’s a pretty bad sprain. It’s a good thing you came t’ see me.”
She was biting her lip with discomfort and distress. “Is there anything you can do? This has rendered me somewhat—helpless.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he assured her, offering his characteristic sweet and winning smile. “We’ll fix you right up. Just let me get some things t’gether.”
He hastened down the hall to the kitchen, where Mrs. Langley kept a reservoir of water always hot, for any necessary domestic task. This time, bolstered by arnica, it would be used for fomenting the injury, to reduce the swelling and relieve the pain.
Placing a towel across her knees to prevent splattering, Ben lightly settled her left forearm into the plan. A soft hiss of hurt greeted his effort, and a startled jerk away.
“No, no, just soak the wrist for a little while. There, just like that. Exactly.” And Ben went on to explain what he was doing, and why. Leaning back into his chair, he asked if she were fortunate enough to enjoy household help.
“I am. Are you wondering whether I’m merely a dilettante, sitting in my parlor window like some china ornament for any passerby to admire?” Either Mrs. Halliwell was feeling more comfortable with him by now, or the hot water had added an edge to her tongue.
Ben grinned. “No, ma’am, not a’tall. Just makin’ sure you got somebody around t’ help out. When we’re finished here, I’m gonna wrap up and immobilize this arm, so you won’t be able t’ do much.”
“Immobilize?” She seemed startled.
“Yes, ma’am. Only way t’ heal. And I want you back here t’morrow, for another treatment, and another wrap. That work out okay with your schedule?”
The corners of her mouth turned up, just a trifle. “I will certainly have to rearrange the hours I spend before the window, Doctor. But—yes, I will come back again tomorrow.”
Considering a moment, the man kn
own more for his trouble-making qualities than for his tact and courtesy decided to dive in headfirst. “Can you tell me what happened, Mrs. Halliwell?”
“What happened?”
The slight jerk of his chin indicated her injury.
“Oh. That. Well. Uh—I tripped. Yes, I tripped, and I fell against the wooden door frame.”
A slow, speculative look up and down, from the serviceable beige flowered hat to the neat beige buttoned boots. “Ahuh. Tripped. Fell. Got it.” Frustrated, he thrust his fingers through the black thatch that had never obeyed the dictates of a comb. “I can do a pretty good job of listenin’, Mrs. Halliwell. If ever you wanna talk—”
“Thank you, Doctor,” she said crisply. “I’ll keep that in mind. It’s very kind of you to offer. Quite frankly, I—I had forgotten that—that there were men who might still how—kindness…”
The walls were up, the bars clamped down, the door slammed shut. Ben could go no further. Not right now, anyway.
His third patient that day was acquired on his return to the office. After Mrs. Halliwell’s quiet exit, Ben had let his housekeeper know that he would be gone for a while, speaking with the owner of Bundy’s Café. Besides, it was a beautiful day for a walk, and he needed some exercise, anyway.
No ocean breeze here, as in Charleston, he realized, strolling along the graveled walk and taking in the sights. Still, the climate seemed similar to that of his boyhood home, thus far. He enjoyed the slight lift of breeze that stirred the cottonwood leaves and cooled the afternoon’s sultry temperatures; he enjoyed the openness and friendliness of Whitfield, the wide welcoming streets, the shady blocks that merged into wood and brick and stone of the downtown proper.
It was a pretty place, with its backdrop of green and gold curves, spreading timberland, and cool jagged Sierra Nevadas in the distance. A man could do worse than settle in here for his lifetime.
Busy and thriving, as well.
Foot traffic, horse traffic, wagon traffic all moved briskly here and there, conducting necessary business, interrupting to socialize, then moving on. Ben passed the Whitfield Bank, a pharmacy whose plate glass window had been painted in gold lettering, a dry goods store, a tailor and seamstress, The Sundry Shop, a hardware, Whitefield Post Office, The Mercantile Exchange, a small theatre advertised by colorful posters, the local newspaper bureau, and the sheriff’s department.
A Western Romance: Benton Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 7) (Taking The High Road Series) Page 3