She arched a brow. “How do you know?”
We spoke and she looked into my eyes. I stood close and felt her shyness. He didn’t want to say any of those things to the town gossip, so he stuck to business. “She had good references.”
Matilda Johnson huffed. “Letters can be forged.”
“I have my doubts,” Zeb replied. “But you don’t need to worry about Dr. Mitchell’s character. I don’t like the fact she’s female, but she cares about people.” Did she deserve a chance to prove herself? He’d taken her advice and his eye hadn’t twitched in two days. Zeb didn’t want to go down that road, but the thought grabbed him and wouldn’t let go.
The woman glared at him. “The Ladies Aid Society wants you to get rid of her.”
Zeb couldn’t think of anything in High Plains more tedious than the Ladies Aid Society. He’d have preferred another tornado to dealing with a herd of hotheaded gossips. In the guise of community service, the Ladies Aid Society bossed the whole town, with Matilda leading the charge. Zeb had heard enough.
“Look here, Mrs. Johnson—”
“Zeb!” He turned and saw Abigail coming from the back room. “Did Mother tell you what that awful new doctor did?”
That did it. He couldn’t stand here and listen to Nora being unfairly judged. “She’s not awful, Abigail. I’m not happy she’s female—” Liar. He liked her womanly side just fine. “—but she’s not a bad person.”
Abigail pouted. “I don’t like her. She interferes.”
Zeb agreed, but didn’t say so.
Mrs. Johnson steered them back to the counter. “As long as Zeb’s here, Abigail, why don’t you bring him one of those cinnamon buns you made.”
Abigail beamed. “Of course.”
Zeb held up his hand to stop her. “Thanks, but I can’t stay.”
Before either woman could protest, he strode out of the mercantile. He had another call to make, this one on Dr. Mitchell.
Chapter Eleven
As he strode toward Dr. Mitchell’s new house, Zeb considered what had just happened. He’d taken Nora’s side against the Johnsons. There would be a price to pay if he snubbed the store owners, especially after showing interest in Abigail, but which of them would pay it? Nora had bought a house, a sign she intended to stay in High Plains. Zeb held the purse strings for the salary they’d negotiated, but he couldn’t force her to leave. Her presence would make finding a male doctor more difficult. What if she refused to leave?
He hated the idea.
He liked the idea…a lot.
He’d gone crazy and it was Nora Mitchell’s fault. He paced up the road to the Roysden place. Brice and Annie Roysden had been among the first to arrive in High Plains. Zeb had cut the lumber for their home and helped to build it. The house had five rooms, including two bedrooms on a second floor. Annie Roysden had been nervous since the tornado and had gone back East. The couple had had quite a row and Brice had stayed, though it seemed he’d gotten lonely and had changed his mind.
Zeb thumped across the porch and rapped on the door. No one answered, but he heard humming from an open window. He rapped again, more forcefully. The door opened before he could lower his fist. Instead of Nora, he saw Carolina Samuels. A widow in her fifties, she’d been Doc Dempsey’s nurse.
“Good morning, Zeb.” She spoke in the even tone of a woman who couldn’t be surprised.
“Good morning, Carolina.” He removed his hat. “Is Dr. Mitchell in?”
“She’s with Alex.”
Zeb’s brow knotted. If something had happened to the boy, Mrs. Jennings should have informed him. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He has the measles.”
Zeb put the pieces together. Alex had fallen ill. Instead of telling him, Mrs. Jennings had asked Nora for help. Irked, he fisted the brim of his hat. “May I see her, please?”
“That depends,” the nurse answered. “Have you had the measles?”
“I had them as a boy.”
“Good,” she said, smiling. “Come on in.”
As Carolina widened the door, he stepped into the parlor. Brice had apparently sold the furniture with the house, but his wife had taken the womanly whatnot when she’d left. Today Zeb saw a wooden bench, two hard chairs, a divan by the hearth and a secretary pushed against the wall. He also saw an oil painting depicting a fancy town house surrounded by a lush flower garden that no doubt included lavender. Memories of Frannie flew like the shingles in the storm. He recalled watching her paint. He thought of the week he’d spent at Cape Cod with her family and how her brushes had caressed the easel when he’d wanted her fingers laced with his. He recalled the day she’d jilted him…The sky had been clear and bright, the sun warm on his face.
As he glowered at the painting, his stomach knotted. Dr. Mitchell, it seemed, had a taste for art like a true city lady. Would she last in High Plains? He doubted it. One good storm and she’d run back to New York. He had to find another doctor for High Plains, a male doctor who wouldn’t cut and run.
With his jaw tight, he looked at the entry to the dining room. A navy blue curtain hung in the doorway. Behind it he heard Nora speaking in soothing tones, then the fussy whimper of a feverish child.
Carolina indicated a chair. “Sit down, Zeb. Dr. Nora will be with you soon.”
“Thank you.”
She left the parlor, but he didn’t sit. Instead, he paced around the room. One minute his temper flared. The next he thought of the oak waiting to be cut and felt a longing for shelves of his own…shelves in the room of a son who’d share his name, a daughter who’d call him Papa. To his consternation, his mind conjured up a picture of a toddler with red hair.
“Stop it,” he muttered to himself. He wanted nothing to do with a woman who practiced medicine and liked oil paintings.
The curtain fluttered and he turned. In the doorway stood the shy woman who’d arrived in High Plains in a duster and floppy bonnet, except instead of a canvas coat, she was wearing a calico dress. It didn’t have a single flounce, not a shred of lace. A row of wooden buttons ran from her neck to the vee of the bodice. Her red hair hadn’t changed color, but she’d tamed it into a braid and looped it around her head. As the light struck the plaits, he thought of the swirls in a piece of oak. This woman had stood with him at the river. She’d seen the potential for wheat fields and understood his dream. She’d listened while he’d prattled on about the mill. He’d liked her, in spite of himself.
As the curtain fell back in place, she stepped deeper into the parlor. “Good morning, Mr. Garrison.”
Two days ago he’d been Zeb and she’d been Nora. That’s how he thought of her, but the moment called for formality. “Dr. Mitchell.”
“Has your eye improved?”
He scowled. “I’m not here as a patient and you know it.”
She raised her brows. “Then why are you here?”
“I heard you bought this house.” He indicated the wall with the painting. “I wanted to know what you’re up to.”
“I’m not up to anything,” she said. “I needed an office. Percy kindly found—”
“Percy?” Since when was she on a first-name basis with that Boston sycophant?
Nora indicated a chair. “Please, sit down. I’ll explain.”
“I don’t want to sit.” He sounded childish, but he didn’t care. “I want to know why you bought a house. We agreed on a one-month trial.”
“Not exactly,” she answered. “We agreed you’d pay me for one month. I never promised to leave.”
She had a point. He turned his back and looked out the window. The mercantile lay to the east. His own house sat on a rise a quarter-mile to the west. Dr. Nora had plopped down in the center of his life.
Her voice drifted across the room. “I’d be glad to explain. Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea?”
No way did he want to sit and make small talk. Irked yet again, he faced her. “I don’t want tea. I want answers.”
Poised and patient, she smoot
hed her skirts and sat. She looked weary…as weary as he felt himself. An unwanted concern softened his stance, but he refused to sit. Sitting would make them equals.
She folded her hands in her lap. “It started with Alex. When he came down with measles, he had to leave the boardinghouse. Percy had the deed for this house and sold it to me. With Mrs. Jennings’s permission, I brought Alex here.”
“She should have told me,” he said irritably.
“Why?”
“I’m paying her to look after him, that’s why.” If he’d known Alex was ill, he’d have taken him to his house and asked Cassandra to watch him. Or he’d have hired Carolina himself. Since he’d decided to get married, he’d thought about adopting the boy.
“I can’t speak for Mrs. Jennings,” Nora replied. “But I was there when he took ill. He needed a doctor and she asked me.”
Zeb didn’t like the implication at all. If Mrs. Jennings trusted Dr. Mitchell, so would others. If she succeeded with Alex, her reputation would improve and he’d never get rid of her. On the other hand, he didn’t want Alex to suffer. “How’s the boy doing?”
“He’ll be fine.”
Zeb’s next words nearly choked him, but they had to be said. “I’ll pay you for your services.”
“No.” She held up her hand, palm out to stop him. “This isn’t about money. I’ve enjoyed having him.”
Zeb didn’t like feeling beholden to this woman. Neither did he like the motherly glow in her eyes. If he paid for Alex’s medical care, she wouldn’t have a claim to the boy. On the other hand, he saw an advantage to not paying her. “May I ask you a question, Dr. Mitchell?”
“Of course.”
“Your salary runs out in a month. If you’re not going to take money for your services, how do you plan on supporting yourself?”
“I’ll accept payment from anyone I treat,” she said. “Just not for orphans.”
“I see.”
“Do you, Mr. Garrison?”
Zeb liked a good fight, but mostly he wanted her to leave High Plains the instant he found a replacement. Matilda Johnson had handed him a weapon this afternoon. He decided to use it. “You should pack your things now, Dr. Mitchell. You don’t have a prayer of winning this town’s respect.”
“I disagree.”
“There’s talk about you.” He sounded grave, even threatening.
“There’s gossip,” she said, correcting him. “And it’s unwarranted. As you can see, I’ve hired Carolina Samuels. She’s an excellent nurse and she lives here. At no time will I be alone with a male patient. Does that satisfy you?”
“I’m not the one who’s talking.”
“But you’re listening.” She arched her brows. “Perhaps to Mrs. Johnson?”
Zeb stayed silent.
“She dislikes me,” Nora said quietly. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m accustomed to criticism. The Ladies Aid Society has already delivered a letter of concern. It’s insulting, but it’s just paper. I care about just one thing and that’s this town. The people of High Plains deserve a competent physician.”
“I can’t argue with your logic, Doc. What I question is your competence.”
“You didn’t question it when you hired me. As I recall, you described my credentials as—”
“I know what I said.”
“—as impeccable and impressive.”
“That was before I met you.”
“You met me on paper,” she insisted. “We exchanged two letters.”
“And not once did you mention your gender.”
“Of course not.” The woman had the gall to look bored. “It’s irrelevant, but we’ve had this talk before, haven’t we?”
Zeb had heard enough of her superior tone. “May I be blunt?”
“Of course.”
“If you’re such a good doctor, what are you doing in a little town in Kansas? Why aren’t you treating rich folks in New York City?”
He expected the question to raise her hackles. Instead, she answered with a tinge of apathy, as if she answered the question every day. “You’re not the only person who’s prejudiced against women. No one would hire me.”
“I can see why.”
She pushed to her feet. “You see their prejudice. You don’t see me at all, and you don’t have the knowledge to judge my skills.”
She had a point, but he saw another angle. “I know this town. No one’s going to respect you.”
“I’ll have to change their minds.”
He chuffed. “You can’t. You’re female.”
She indicated books stacked on the floor, waiting for the oak shelves. “I’ve read those books. I’ve studied long hours—”
“A waste of time.”
“You’re wrong.” She raised her hand to her chest in a pledge of sorts. “My younger brother died of asthma. I couldn’t save Ben, but I can help others.”
Zeb snorted with doubt. “Is that a fact?”
“Yes!”
“Tell me, Dr. Mitchell. Who made you God?”
“No one,” she said. “But I believe in Him. That’s why I’m here, and why I’m not leaving.”
“That God you worship,” he said mildly. “He sent a tornado to High Plains. He let Pete’s first wife die. Back in Bellville, I saw a man lose his hand when a log bucked against the saw. I’ve—” He almost said he’d loved a woman who’d cut out his heart, but he didn’t want to share that information.
Her eyes softened. “You’ve been hurt, too.”
“Who hasn’t?”
He felt as if his skin had turned into glass, and she could see his broken heart. Her eyes misted with a sympathy he didn’t want and an understanding he feared. They’d met just days ago, yet she knew his innermost thoughts.
“Zeb?” She’d used his given name. Did she want a truce or to remind him of the connection they’d shared at the river?
He kept his voice neutral. “What is it?”
“About Boston…I know you’ve been hurt. I’m sorry.”
His neck hairs prickled. Had Cassandra blabbed to her about Frannie? Nora had made friends with Rebecca and Emmeline. Had they told her he was looking for a wife? The thought made him bitter. He didn’t want Nora Mitchell nosing into his heart. He hardened his gaze. “What are you talking about?”
She wrinkled her nose, a sure sign she’d said more than she intended. “Nothing, really.”
“Spit it out.”
“I’m talking too much.”
She waved her hand as if to fan the air. Instead, it fanned his temper. Dr. Mitchell didn’t know when to be quiet. She had that in common with Frannie. And Abigail. Cassandra, too. Tonight, when he saw his sister, he’d have a few choice words regarding her loose tongue. Right now, he had to deal with Dr. Mitchell. He needed a weapon, something that would send her packing to New York. He pointed at the painting. “See that picture?”
“Of course.” Her eyes looked misty.
“That’s where you belong, Doc. In a town house in New York with a husband and six kids. With some fool man who’ll keep you in your place.”
Her cheeks turned redder than her hair. “Stop right there.”
“Women don’t belong in medicine.” His voice rose to a shout. “You should get married and have babies.”
“Get out!”
He felt powerful and he liked it. He also knew he’d been meaner to this woman than he’d been to anyone in his life. Why? It hit him…The anger at Frannie had been simmering for two years. Nora Mitchell had turned up the heat and it had reached a full boil. All the words he’d never said to Frannie had swelled into the ugly beast inside him now. He’d turned into a horrible person, a mean person.
Apologize.
His conscience nearly knocked him off his feet. Yet his pride made him walk out the door before she threw something at him. The two parts of his personality were at war. Was Nora the victim or was he? Zeb didn’t know, but he felt certain of one thing. The war between them had taken a sharp turn, and it wasn’t
in his favor. Later he’d decide if he owed her an apology. Right now he needed to pound some nails. Churned up and frustrated, he headed to the town hall where he’d be among men. For today, he’d all the female foolishness he could stand.
Chapter Twelve
The man had the gall to slam her own door in her face. Nora had never felt so shaken in her life. Zeb Garrison had been insufferable, but that’s not why her knees had gone weak. She could take being mocked as a doctor. What she couldn’t bear was the terrible emptiness, the fear she’d never know the joys of a husband and a family. He’d assumed those joys were hers for the asking. They weren’t.
She’d had a beau before medical college, but she hadn’t loved him. She’d been kissed, but her toes hadn’t curled even a little. As for Albert Bowers, he made her shudder. When it came to real love, she’d never experienced the sweet yearnings her mother had told her to expect.
Until now.
The thought stopped Nora cold. Zeb Garrison had been intolerable, so why did she feel drawn to him? Common sense told her to keep her distance, but another instinct—a brighter one—made her go to the window and watch as he walked away. The sun reflected off the paisley vest he always wore, obscuring the design with a glaring light. She lost sight of him as he rounded the corner, but she could still hear the thunder of the slamming door and the roar of his voice. He owed her an apology, but she didn’t expect to receive one.
Carolina came out of the kitchen. “I heard every word. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
The nurse put her hands on her hips. “I know Zeb well. Something’s bothering him.”
“Not something,” Nora said. “It’s someone and that someone is me.”
“Even so,” Carolina insisted. “It’s not like Zeb to shout.”
Nora thought of the conversation before he’d exploded. She hadn’t meant to step on his toes, but she’d trounced all over them. He’d accused her of arrogance—of playing God—and she’d argued back. She’d seen the hurt in his eyes and she’d alluded to Frannie. That’s when he’d pointed to the painting, and his attack had turned personal. Nora didn’t want to go down that road with Carolina.
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