“Well, I’m glad I was able t’ help. Just call on me anytime. So, tell me, Mayor, how long have you been runnin’ Whitfield?”
“Oh, hardly running the place—town council does that. I’m more of a figurehead, really.” The chair joints creaked a little as he shifted, much as, Ben figured, the man’s own joints must creak on occasion. “And we don’t stand on ceremony here. Feel free to call me Stenton.”
“Much obliged. Whoever is in charge, they seem t’ be doin’ a fine job. Clean streets, fine variety of businesses, contented and busy populace. Why,” Ben grinned, “from where I’m livin’, you can’t even hear any bar fights goin’ on, or any loud music from the saloons.”
An appreciative chuckle. “Well, now, Doctor, if you find you’re missing any of that…”
“Reckon I can manage somehow t’ restrain myself.”
Another half-hour or so passed by in pleasantries, mainly about Whitfield, the orphanage, any local news, and so on. Eventually Ben got to his feet, thanked the mayor for his hospitality and his time, and made a leisurely departure.
His next stop was Field Mercantile, across the street. Wandering up and down each aisle, he approved of the layout and setup—not that he knew anything about the subject, really, other than what appealed or didn’t appeal. Big, light-filled windows; items laid out in orderly style, clean and dust-free; an interesting selection that invited attention and touch.
“May I help you, sir?” a solicitous clerk asked at his elbow.
“Ahuh. Just figurin’ out what I need, uh—Davy…” as he glanced at the young man’s name badge. “Tell you what: while I think about it, wonder if I might have a few words with Mr. Burton. Just t’ say hello and chew the fat.”
“Mr. Burton?” A doubtful expression. “Well—uh, I can go ask if he’s free, Mr. —?
“Doctor. Doctor Ben Yancey, new in town.”
Immediately the expression brightened into genuine effusion. “Oh, Doctor, welcome! You helped out my brother, Jackson, already. Last week, the fire at Bundy’s? He said you done a fine job, made him take a few days off week, give him some painkillers and such.”
“I remember him, of course,” Ben said gravely, nodding. “A brave lad. Burns can be monstrous hurtful at first, and then itchy while they’re healin’. How’s Jackson doin’ by now?”
“Good, sir, real good. Doesn’t think there’ll even be a scar. You keep on lookin’ at stuff, Doctor, and I’ll go have a word with Mr. Burton.”
Frank Burton appeared so quickly that Ben had the sneaking suspicion he’d been lying in wait somewhere, eavesdropping, until it was time to appear. A big, genial, florid-faced man, with a bush of brown hair and eyebrows to match, he exuded friendliness and good will.
“Hello, there, Doctor Yancey.” He held out a meaty hand to shake.
Good man to have on your side in a fight, Ben reflected, studying the shop owner who overtopped him by half a foot or so. And Ben was not a small man, by any means.
“C’mon back t’ my office, and we’ll palaver a bit. Glad t’ meetcha, Doc, and not in a professional way.” His hearty laugh boomed across the aisles and reverberated off the walls.
By now it was close to noon, and Burton’s offer of a cup of coffee came as a much-appreciated hiatus in Ben’s busy morning. Following the pattern of his visit with the mayor, less than an hour ago, the two men discussed the town’s doings, the orphanage, any local news, and so on.
“So I understand you’re president of Whitfield Council.”
“I am,” assented Burton, leaning back to lace his fingers across a comfortable expanse of midsection. “I am, indeed.”
“Well—doin’ that, and runnin’ a thrivin’ business…must take up a lotta responsibility and time.”
“Oh, not s’ much. The place pretty much operates on its own. I’m just somebody t’ complain to on occasion: a figurehead.”
“A figurehead,” murmured Ben. Another one. Damn. The town was just chockfull of figureheads. “Ahuh. Must be the mayor, then, who makes all the decisions.”
“He does have that position. So, Doc, I’m hearin’ mighty good things about your work so far. You done settled int’ your house, gettin’ all cozy and such?”
A final sip from his cup, and Ben could climb to his feet as a prelude to departure. “I am. It’s a bit grander than I’m used to, but I’m willin’ t’ move up the ranks.” Laughing, he reached out for another handshake. “Speakin’ of the house, I reckon I’d better get back to it, in case somebody needs me. Thanks for your time, Frank. Good t’ meet you.”
He had just reached the front door when it opened, bell jangling, to admit Jessamine Lassiter.
Was ever timing more auspicious?
“Miss Lassiter,” said Ben with obvious pleasure. If he’d been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it. “So you’re out and about t’day? And lookin’ mighty pretty, b’sides.”
The swift color had flooded up into her cheekbones. His fingers curved over hers, curved around the doorknob, so that she was held fast. “Doctor Yancey,” she acknowledged.
No formal orphanage uniform today; she was wearing a subdued plaid of dark blue and beige, complete with white cotton lace collar and cuffs. The lightweight dress fabric floated and swayed over modest hoops like the clean lines of a handbell. Her outfit was topped off by a charming little straw skimmer trimmed by silk roses, putting one in mind of a summer garden.
Far from being a fashion maven, Ben could only guess that this outfit was much more simple than most he had seen in town, suitable for running errands and fielding orphanage work. Simple or not, she was beautiful. She would be beautiful in a rag picker’s tatters, he thought, surveying her with a bemused smile. Intelligent, too; and caring, and sensitive, and…
“Are you shopping for anything in particular?”Jessamine asked, looking up with an unconscious flutter of lashes.
Sure am. And I think I’ve found it.
“Oh, just checkin’ out the lay of the land. Meetin’ people. Gettin’ on everybody’s good side. Or maybe just bein’ a pain in the—uh—backside.”
“Ah. And you find that necessary, do you?”
“I like knowin’ where I stand. So are you back here replenishin’ your supplies?”
“Excuse me,” interrupted a heavyset matron, who was attempting to enter the store but finding her way blocked.
Embarrassed, Ben released his clasp and stepped back with an apology.
“Hmmph.” With a sniff, the lady looked him up and down and then barreled her way through.
Jessamine tactfully waited until she was out of earshot before releasing a tiny giggle. “That’s Mrs. Burton. Frank’s wife. Used to having her own way, and doesn’t take kindly to anyone being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, Doctor, a few items on my Monday’s list were unavailable, so I’ve come to see if a delivery can be made.”
“Ahuh.” His gaze was traveling from her eyes to her lips and back again, as slow and sensuous as a sweet caress.
Jessamine’s blush deepened. “Dr. Yancey?”
Good God. What was he doing, mooning over this innocent like a sick calf?
Jerking out of his mental trance, Ben nodded. “And how is everything at the orphanage? Is Mattie feelin’ better?”
“Mattie.” She glanced around, as if checking for bystanders, and lowered her voice. “She was sick again, a little while ago, but she seems to have recovered. It comes and goes. Some sort of unusual malady, Doctor?”
“Uh—no. Not so unusual. I’ll stop over there later this afternoon, see what’s goin’ on.”
His casual acceptance and easy compliance relieved her own concerns. “I’m sure Madonna will appreciate that. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not making light of a situation that has us worried,” she answered frankly. “I’ll let you go, then. Good day, Doctor Yancey.”
Once out in the open again, and away from the mercantile’s somewhat stifling atmosphere of too much of everyth
ing, he meandered on toward the city park and found an empty bench where he could take in the sights from a different angle.
Several boys raced by, rolling a hoop with laudable success. They were being chased by a dog barking with excitement and a younger boy whining because he couldn’t quite keep up. Farther away, a woman dressed in black, with white apron and cap, was pushing a perambulator along, singing in a soft voice to its fussy occupant. Across the small pond, where several ducks happily splashed, stood two formally dressed gentlemen, engaged in a spirited conversation.
Ben stretched his arms along the top of the bench, slouched down to the tip of his spine, and rested his head back with eyes closed, enjoying the kiss of the sun. Too many details, all mixed together, that needed to be sorted out and categorized. For a while he just let them mix. Then he gathered himself together and headed back home for the carriage and his medical bag.
Another private conversation with Mattie Jamison at the orphanage yielded no fresh results. She was up and about, tending to garden work and looking fairly fit, when he arrived. But his suggestion—no, his recommendation—that she speak with Mrs. Bellini fell on deaf ears. In fact, the girl’s reaction was almost alarming.
“Mattie, Mattie,” he soothed from the middle of a row of pole beans, “calm down. I’ll go with you, if you like. But you really can’t—”
“You don’t know what I can or can’t do!” she said fiercely. Her fingers were clenched so tightly around the stem of a plant that several of its branches snapped off. “No!”
Ben sighed. “All right for now, Mattie; I’ll abide by your wishes. But, soon…”
He was on his way to Mrs. Bellini’s office when Jessamine intercepted him.
“Well. Hello again.” His tired face lit up with a smile. “Were you able to get those deliveries made?”
“I was, Doctor, thank you for asking. Could you come with me, please? I’ve discovered someone else you ought to see.”
All business again; no light chitchat when medical care must take precedence. Straightening, he shifted his bag to the other hand. “Certainly, Miss Lassiter. Lead the way.”
Just outside the stable door, propped up against a hitching post, they came upon the orphanage’s second patient of the day: Nicholas, a wan, stringy-muscled boy of about twelve, who managed to pull himself upright as they approached.
His manner was neither subservient nor fawning but rather defiant. “Huh. Toldja not to tell anybody,” he sneered at Jessie.
“Huh yourself,” she sneered right back at him. “You’re in pain, Nick, and the doctor should look you over, as long as he’s here.”
Setting down his bag, Ben reached out for a careful handshake. “Got yourself bunged up somehow, didja, son?”
“What if I did? Ain’t no concern of yours, is it?”
“Nicholas!” Jessie was aghast. “You keep a civil tongue in your head while you’re talking to us. Now tell Dr. Yancey where you’ve been hurt.”
Slowly, sullenly, the boy with straight coarse hair the color of straw and eyes darkened by resentment indicated the left side of his thin body.
They were alone here, in the dappling shade of a wide sycamore, with a couple of horses whickering in the nearby corral and crows cawing off in the distance. Not ideal conditions for an examination, by any means, but Ben would take what he could get.
“Okay if I check you over?”
Taking silence for assent, he unhooked the boy’s coveralls and lifted his loose shirt. Bruises. Lots of bruises. And a painful struggle with each breath in and out. Ben’s careful, gentle fingers moved over the chest and midriff, searching out what he knew to be wrong.
“Cracked ribs, Nick.” The doctor had already snapped open his satchel to reach unerringly for necessary supplies. As he worked, he explained. “Gonna wrap these bandages around you, to kinda hold things t’gether. That’ll give you some support while everything heals. Don’t want you gettin’ pneumonia, son.”
“No work at all, correct, Doctor?” Jessamine put in as if she already knew the answer.
“Absolutely not. Well—that is, unless you got school work you’re doin’ at this time of year. That’s the only kind you’re allowed.” Finishing up, Ben chuckled a little. “You’ll haveta take it real easy for some time.”
The boy’s rebellious attitude had mellowed with such unexpected care and concern. “But Mrs. Belllini won’t—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll speak t’ Mrs. Bellini, fill her in on my plan for treatment. Afraid it’s pretty much bed rest for you, young man. And I’ll be back here t’morrow t’ see how you’re doin’.” A pause, while Ben put things away and shut the case. “Mind tellin’ me what caused this?” he asked casually.
“Uh—I fell—?” His suddenly expressionless gaze met the girl’s; some sort of significant communication passed between them, however wordless.
“For the last few months, Nicholas has been apprenticed to our local smithy,” Jessamine slipped in, smooth as cream. “Learning a trade he’s been interested in. But yesterday he lost his balance, as they were shoeing a big stallion, and he was caught by the hooves.”
“Indeed,” said Ben, looking from one to the other.
She nodded. “Yes. And Nick thought he would be fine, but I found out just a little while ago that he’s been hurting a lot, and afraid to say anything. Silly boy,” she added fondly.
“Ahuh. I can see how that might happen.”
Holy Hannah. Would he get the straight of any story from any person in this place? Or did everyone bend the truth to fit their own circumstances? No stallion’s hooves had done that damage; the bruising and cracked ribs were man-made, sure as anything.
“Well, then, Nick, c’mon up t’ the main buildin’ with me, and we’ll have us a little chat with Mrs. Bellini. Then we’ll get you t’ bed with some laudanum for that discomfort you’re feelin’.”
V
Several more uneventful days passed by.
Although Mrs. Langley ruled the household with an iron hand, on one issue she had had to concede: the indoor presence of a little stray dog with the cast on his leg. Jake had adopted Adam as his first favorite master (with Ben his close second) and could be heard thumping happily across the wooden floors after either; or, better yet, seen occupying one of their accommodating laps during down time.
With summer weather still so balmy and pleasant, much of that took place on the wide front porch, where pots of blooming plants hung from rafters and others climbed up the whitewashed fence and others yet spilled out and over a rock garden. Color and fragrance and serenity: Ben felt it almost as a mild shock, upon every homecoming, and began to wonder how he had managed to live for so long without this uplifting sense of purpose.
Besides the usual retinue of patients at the house office—one elderly man complaining of rheumatism; another sick with a racking cough; the young wife of the station master in her first trimester of pregnancy—Ben made a flying visit to an outlying farm, where one of the vaqueros had been gored by a bull. Every afternoon, as his schedule permitted, he called upon the orphanage, to examine Nicholas, who continued a slow recovery; and Mattie, who remained adamantly silent.
As much solicitude as he felt for the children there who needed his services, it didn’t hurt that he just happened to bump into the lovely Miss Lassiter every time. Always busy, always attending to supervision of staff or clerical bookkeeping work or dealing with tired and lonely and heartsick youngsters; yet always with a few friendly minutes to spare, to talk about inconsequentials, to smile and simply enjoy each other’s companionship.
Ben often wondered, but had not so far found nerve to ask, whether some other man in this thriving little metropolis had caught her attention, whether she was seeing anyone on a regular basis. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
He had returned home later in the week, after one of these visits, to find Adam waiting for him on the veranda with a printed missive, nicely sealed in an envelope.
“Brought
by some fella named Quincy McClennon, said he’s Mr. Holcomb’s right-hand man,” reported Adam, without any expression at all.
“Is he, then? Hi, ya, Jake.” The doctor stooped to ruffle the dog’s ears and pat his wriggling backside. “I know, I know, that cast is inconvenient as all get-out, ain’t it, even bein’ changed once already? Couple more weeks, anyway, big guy, and we’ll see about gettin’ it cut off for good. So we had a visitor.”
“Yep. Reckon you could call him that.” Adam’s opinion of this McClennon character couldn’t have been lower, since he offered not a word of criticism or compliment.
Wondering just what it was that had put Adam’s nose out of join, Ben plopped down on the wicker chair next to his and accepted the note to read. “Huh. Just an invitation to another supper, up t’ the Holcomb mansion. Wonder how many of these goldarned things I’ll have t’ go to.”
Adam chuckled. “Nothin’ in your contract about that, huh?”
“Not a peep. Hell. And it’s t’night. Sure enough would rather stay here and shoot the breeze with you for a while, my friend.” He rose, stretched both arms wide, yawned, scrubbed at the unruly hair that would not be tamed. “Well, duty calls, so I reckon I’d better get cleaned up and hike myself away. You got anything goin’ on?”
“Well…”
Ben had paused at the door, expectant.
A grin, half-sheepish, half-triumphant. “Asked Mrs. Langley—Violet—if she’d be interested in a meal not home-cooked, for a change. So we’re headin’ out to Bundy’s Café later on.”
“By God,” said Ben, chortling. “You got the lady t’ smile, after all.”
A quick bath and a change of clothing slightly improved the doctor’s mood, so that he was feeling almost jovial by the time he trotted Petronius up to Holcomb’s front gate. Before he had even finished swinging down to the ground, a boy appeared, to discharge his responsibilities.
“Well, hello, there,” Ben greeted him, handing over the reins. “Walter, ain’t it? From the orphanage?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take your horse, now, sir, if you wanna go on inside. Master Holcomb is waitin’.”
A Western Romance: Benton Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 7) (Taking The High Road Series) Page 6