One of the cross streets held Bundy’s Café, discernible by a faint whiff of smoke around its edges. Open, however, and serving several patrons. Ben tracked down Ed Mackey, harassed but hospitable owner, and, over a cup of coffee, discussed with him the condition of his three injured employees.
Relieved by the update, Mackey informed the doctor that he had already brought in his brother as temporary help— “Lazy young sod, anyway; it’ll do him good to see what it’s like workin’ in a real job.” —and would manage to scrape by till “the boys” were released for duty.
After a pleasant chat, Ben thanked his host, shook his hand, and departed. Wanting to finish off the downtown area, he took in the length of several blocks, peered in windows, greeted passersby with a smile or a warm “Howdy” and a tip of his hat.
He had rounded the corner past a little bakery, intending to continue on. Except for unusual sounds that reached him. Farther on, down toward the residential area, into an alley. Muffled cries and hoots of mocking laughter and the occasional yip. Of fear, or of pain. Then a pop! pop! pop! and a loud whimper.
At the far end, in front of a wooden fence, knelt a cluster of three boys, scuffling around in the dust, chuckling and chortling.
“What’s goin’ on here, fellas?”
An immediate scramble for position, as the startled young hoodlums jumped to their feet, ready to run.
“Uh-uh,” said Ben, approaching. “Let me see first…”
In the bare dirt lay a small brown puppy. Around it, scattered in piles of shredded paper and burnt fuses, could be seen the remains of firecrackers. Other than violent quivering of the animal’s body, and a crooked hind leg, there was no movement. As if it were resigned to its fate.
Just as the boys, ranging in age from ten to early teens, gathered force, Ben swooped down upon them like an avenging angel. “You pusillanimous, putrescent, lousy little rodents!” he roared. And grabbed hold of their collars, their shirt sleeves, their hair—and hung on. “What the bloody hell have you done?”
One actually tried indignant defense. “Hey, we didn’t—”
Ben flung him up against the fence. “Shut up, you goddamned piece of shit.” Likewise the other two, with a clump and a thump that rattled their teeth. “Stay there!”
Bullies are never so cowardly as when they themselves are being bullied. Scared to the soles of their bare feet by the violence of this madman, the boys stayed.
Meanwhile, Ben had knelt beside the puppy, running a gentle, careful hand over its trembling form to check for injury. Some minor bloody gashes here and there, easily taken care of, but he didn’t like the looks of that crooked hind leg. In spite of a touch that was probably hurtful as well as frightening, the animal’s only reaction was the swift grateful lap of a tongue across Ben’s hand.
Hauling himself upright again, cradling the puppy in his arms, he surveyed the line of miscreants stashed tight to the wooden pickets. “Sheriff’s office is just around the corner,” he informed them grimly. “Figurin’ you already knew that, however. Get your asses in gear and march.”
No matter how much the boys might have wanted to flee, the voice of authority had spoken, and in a loud and ferocious tone, no less. They marched.
Sheriff Daniel McGowan, seated at his desk filling out paperwork, looked up as his door opened to admit a motley crowd of people, blinked, and shambled upright. “Good afternoon,” his greeting was more question than salutation.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Ben Yancey, Whitfield’s doctor. Nice t’ meet you, although it woulda been better under different circumstances.” Still holding the little dog, who had buried his nose in the crook of Ben’s elbow as if to hide from the world, Ben went on to explain what he had just interrupted.
“Huh.” The sheriff, a dignified but daunting tall figure of a man, glowered under his brows at the boys, who had slunk to the opposite wall, as far away from that raving maniac as they could get. “So. Jesse Dunhill,” he addressed the eldest, “in trouble again. And now you’ve dragged your brother and his friend into the mess right along with you.”
“Wa’n’t no mess,” said Jesse sullenly. “Jist havin’ us some fun.”
“Yeah,” piped up the next in line, snapping his suspenders with an air of defiance. “Wa’n’t our fault that dumb ol’ stray dog come through.”
The youngest boy was more easily cowed by thought of repercussions. His straight blonde hair stood up all over his head, and his pale blue eyes had gone wide with apprehension. “I’m sorry, Mister Doctor. Didn’t mean to cause any harm.”
“One of you broke the hind leg of this poor little guy,” snapped Ben. “From what I saw, all of you were involved, and I’ll see the three of you behind bars for life.”
That got their attention, as he intended it should. Fear can be a great motivator, and the burgeoning criminals were well on their way to being greatly motivated.
“I’ll get these young’uns to their folks,” said the sheriff, nodding, “and have a little talk with every one of ’em. See what’s a fittin’ punishment. Don’t need no vicious hooligans in our town.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. You do that. Right now, I’m gonna take this dog back t’ the office, in the hope I can fix him up. But I’ll stop by later on t’ check with you.”
And that was how Jake the little brown pup became Ben’s last patient of the day, and his devoted companion for life.
III
An initial, possibly significant visit to Whitfield Orphanage required something more special than his usual summer linen garb, or even his preferred office dress of shirt sleeves and vest; no, for today, Ben chose his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes: severe black frock coat, black bow tie, striped waistcoat, and lightweight wool trousers.
“You’re lookin’ that grand,” approved Adam. Still seated at the dinner table while he finished off a piece of Mrs. Langley’s lemon cake, he was sneaking small bites to Jake, curled up under his chair. “Nervous?”
“Naw. Nothin’ more than a house call, multiplied a few hundred times.” Grinning, Ben drained his coffee cup of its last dregs. “Hell, man, don’t be feedin’ that little guy such rich food. Y’ know he’s in this house on sufferance, anyway. Mrs. Langley pitched a fit when she found him in my office yesterday.”
“Somethin’ about no filthy animals indoors, wasn’t it?” A nonchalant shrug, then a gentle stroke along Jake’s furry back, using his stockinged toes. “You done a good thing that day, savin’ this feller, Doc.”
With Adam’s ready assistance, Ben had set and splinted the puppy’s broken leg and cleaned up the slight cuts spread over his thin, starved body. Since then, a steady supply of food and love was already beginning to transform the pitiful wretch into a cheerful companion, who happily clomped the plaster cast around as his beloved master’s shadow.
“Yeah, I think so. Sheriff come down hard on those boys, too. They’ll be paintin’ and whitewashin’ every public buildin’ in this town for the next three months.”
“Bad kids?”
“Noooo,..don’t seem like it. Just left on their own too much, and not thinkin’.”
“You’d oughta suggest t’ that Mr. Holcomb that he build some kinda shelter for stray critters,” said Adam, for whom animal care was not only his lifelong work but his passion as well. “And then set them boys t’ cleanin’ up and clearin’ out. That might make ’em see things in a diff’rent light.”
Ben decided he should probably just empty out what remained in the coffee pot into his own cup. Once Mrs. Langley returned from church services, she would brew up another batch, anyway. “That’s a good idea. Need t’ stop by with my report in a couplea days, keep him up to date on how things’re goin’.”
Adam’s chair creaked as he reached for another slice of the cake, left temptingly on display in the center of the table. “Well, me and Jake will be takin’ our leisure on the front porch whilst you’re gone, Doc. Got us some serious snoozin’ t’ catch up on.”
“Ahuh.” Laugh
ing, Ben turned to set his empty cup in the sink. “Think maybe I’ll join you, you ol’ reprobate, once I get back.”
For this afternoon’s visit, the stylish carriage had been hitched up to Petronious and was ready for use. Another glorious late summer day, with sunshine just pouring down in buckets, and birds singing their little hearts out in joyous song. As he trotted along, Ben wondered if such fine weather might not get a little boring sometimes, and whether Whitfield residents might occasionally long for a good thorough gullywasher of a storm.
Boring weather or not, he found himself whistling as they trotted along. So far, he’d been able to satisfactorily handle what had come along. After several visits to his office, the three Bundy’s Café burn victims had recovered and returned to work; and Mrs. Halliwell had stopped by twice more for the hot water and arnica treatments, which had served to improve the condition of her sprained arm.
Hmmm. Mental note. Must take the time to meet her husband, the mayor. Wonder if there are any other local dignitaries I need to pay homage to?
As for those delinquent boys—Ben shook his head, newly annoyed. Privileged sons of two of Whitfield’s founding families, and well-to-do, besides, he could only hope they would learn their lesson after some grueling public service.
Whitefield Orphanage had been built ten years ago, in what had been an open field to the west and south. Now the town had grown up around it, so that it stood surrounded by residential areas and other, offshoot businesses: a funeral home, a livery stable, a granary, and so on.
Even tucked out of the way, far from the main route of traffic, the place was an imposing edifice; and Ben surveyed it with respect as he climbed down from the carriage and loosely wrapped Petronious’ reins around a hitching post.
“Doctor Yancey, how good to meet you,” said the lady who served as administrator, when he was ushered from the front door down a hall and into her office. Rising from behind a substantial desk, she came forward to join him in an informal seating arrangement near tall sunny windows. “Please, do sit here, Doctor. I’m Mrs. Madonna Bellini, in charge of the orphanage.”
“Mrs. Bellini.” Ben accepted the shake of a surprisingly firm hand.
Dressed in what he supposed was her own Sunday best, of navy shirtwaist, cameo brooch at the collar, and full flowing skirt, she was a petite woman, not much over five feet. Her hair and brows were the thick black of her ancestry, rich espresso threaded now with gray, lively black snapping eyes, and a humorous expression. Which one might expect, given her task of dealing with some hundred or so young residents.
While they chatted together, with Ben gaining some history of the establishment, its daily routine, and the director herself, a young lady slipped into the room from a side door. She was carrying a modest tray filled with china ware and accessories.
“Ah, Jessamine, my dear,” Mrs. Bellini welcomed her with a warm smile. “Thank you so much. Doctor Yancey, this is my trusted aide and friend, Miss Jessamine Lassiter.”
“Miss Lassiter.” He rose easily to greet her with a small bow, then resumed his seat once she, too, had settled gracefully onto the settee. “Mrs. Bellini and I were just discussin’ all that you have goin’ on here.”
Like her superior, Jessamine was dressed all in navy, except for a pure white collar that had been starched and ironed within an inch of its life. Seeing it, the good doctor stretched his own neck slightly in sympathy for what must be the scratchy stiffness around such a lovely throat. Although she didn’t seem to mind.
Tilting her head a little, as if to better scan the man opposite, she sent him a smile as warm and genial as Mrs. Bellini’s, a minute ago. One that came near to melting his bones. “From the south, I see. Which part, Doctor Yancey?”
God, she was pretty. No. More than pretty. Beautiful, with that widow’s peak of lustrous black hair, confined neatly in a net, face like an angel’s, and eyes more purple than blue. He hadn’t been so taken with a woman since…well, since…
“Dr. Yancey?”
“Uh.” A mental shake to recover from the effect of her presence. They must think he was daft, woolgathering while at their very first encounter; were they wondering, too, if he were even competent to attend their charges here? “Sorry. Just thinkin’ about a case…Uh. Anyway. Yes, Miss Lassiter, I hail from Charleston. Just rode int’ town about a week ago.”
“Charleston? My, what a long trip that must have been for you.”
Recovering, he managed to grin. “More for my horses, ma’am, and the friend who rode in with me. But, you—you’ve been here a while?”
“Tea, Dr. Yancey?” Mrs. Bellini had leaned forward to pour from a plain white pot into equally plain white cups. Nothing extraordinary. Just serviceable. “And please do sample from our selection of pastries; Cook does a marvelous job of providing sweets for all of us.”
As Jessamine leaned forward to offer the plate, her fingers accidentally brushed his. Only great restraint prevented him from leaping out of his chair with the electric tingle that resulted.
Down, you horny ol’ half-witted bull moose! What the hell is wrong with you?
“Yes, Doctor, I have been,” she answered the question he had asked a hundred years ago. “Since I was about three, wasn’t it, Madonna?”
“Indeed.” The director frowned at past memories of past wrongs. “Jessie’s parents were unfortunately—um—killed, in a tragic accident.”
She raised thick black lashes to meet his interested gaze. “Murdered,” she corrected. “My parents were murdered, as you well know, Madonna. Even if you are trying to be tactful.”
For a moment Ben simply surveyed the girl, liking what he saw. “What happened?”
“My father owned a ranch up in the foothills.” Jessamine paused to sip at her tea, remembering bits and pieces from a bloody time gone that no child should ever have to remember. “Someone wanted it. They rode in one night—a band of unknowns—shot my folks, drove off our stock, and burned the house.”
“Leavin’ you there—all alone, in that unholy mess?” His tone and expression registered the horror he felt grinding up against his breastbone.
“For a while. Even now, in memory, I catch flashes of red—flames, I guess, that I saw shooting up into the night sky; and noise…so much noise. Yells. The thunder of horses. Then—nothing.”
Ben managed to swallow the last of the cookie that tasted dry as dust in his mouth. “You musta been scared outa your wits,” he said softly.
“I was.” Her gaze slid sideways to the director. “But Madonna rescued me. She saved my life.”
“Terrible, terrible,” said Mrs. Bellini with a shudder. “Jessie’s mother was my friend, and I’d heard talk in town that something might happen that night.”
“So she came riding out, as quickly as possible, to warn us.”
“Except—I was too late. Too late.” The words echoed across the room like a graveyard knell. “I could only grab up Jessie and come tearing back here.”
“Here?” Ben glanced around the room. “Thought this place wasn’t set up till ten years ago.”
Carefully Mrs. Bellini poured another cup of tea for each, offered cream and sugar. “It wasn’t. Jessamine came to live with me; through a local lawyer, I petitioned the court, and custody was granted to me almost immediately.”
“You probably put the fear of God into this town,” said Jessamine with a glint in her astounding eyes. “Not one single person wanted the welfare of a three-year-old orphan resting on his conscience.”
Stretching out his long legs, Ben gave the matter some thought. “And the ranch?”
“The ranch?”
“You said your paw had a ranch, and someone wanted it. What happened to the ranch?”
“Oh. It was sold. Shortly after—everything…”
“Sold? But—was it for a fair price? Did you have a lawyer lookin’ out for your interests? Who bought the place? B’cause, whoever did, is prob’ly the—”
“My goodness, Doctor.” Mrs. Bellin
i put down her empty cup and abruptly rose, concluding their conversation. “How did we wander off onto such a depressing subject? Here we are, nattering on about things from the distant past that don’t even concern you. So boring, when you kindly stopped by to interview our children.”
“But, ma’am,” puzzled, Ben began an automatic protest, “you barely started tellin’—”
From her position behind the director, Jessamine, unseen, quickly shook her head. No. Not now. Let it go for the moment.
Hell. Another mystery. Was this town built on mysteries?
“Jess, my dear, please ring the bell and assemble all the students in the Main Hall.” Beaming, Mrs. Bellini turned to slip her arm through Ben’s. “Come with me, Doctor. We have a table and chairs all arranged for you, and records of everyone’s history ready, if necessary. This shouldn’t take long at all.”
It probably wouldn’t have, if not for a couple of complicating factors.
The children, ranging in age from toddlerhood to late teens, stood in quiet, respectful rows, neatly groomed and dressed, awaiting his attention. For the most part, they were in good health and apparently well-fed, answering his gentle or teasing questions promptly, if a trifle subdued.
Too subdued, for Ben’s liking. But maybe that was the way of most orphans, left on their own without family or friends to care about them. Ben wouldn’t know; he had no experience in this field. But he’d better start learning, fast.
“Hey, Roy, my man,” he called out, acknowledging the boy who had served as waiter at Holcomb’s mansion. “You doin’ okay?’
What the hell? Did he seem that much of an ogre, to elicit this sort of response? Because the lad’s face had set into an expression of stolid endurance, and he looked ready to run—or cry. A quick nod, and he disappeared behind the others. Still limping.
A Western Romance: Benton Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 7) (Taking The High Road Series) Page 4