Kat's Law
The Sawtooth Range, Volume 1
Samantha St. Claire
Published by Samantha St. Claire, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
KAT'S LAW
First edition. April 8, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Samantha St. Claire.
ISBN: 978-1732736764
Written by Samantha St. Claire.
For Kat
Kat’s Law
The Sawtooth Range
Samantha St. Claire
Copyright © 2017 by Samantha St. Claire
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Samantha St. Claire
PO 421
Carlsborg, WA 98324
www.samanthastclaire.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com
Kat’s Law/Samantha St. Claire – 2nd ed.
ISBN 978-1-7327367-6-4
For Kat
The world is but a canvas to our imagination.
― Henry David Thoreau
CONTENTS
Her Father’s Daughter
Once a Ranger
Disciplines of Restraint
Unpleasant Changes
A Deer in the Crosshairs
Sheriffs Bullies and Liars
Shifting Perspectives
Lost Places of Solitude
Deferred Decisions
Buried Secrets
Dual Suspicions
A Rumble of Thunder
Whispered Warnings
Nightmares and Premonitions
Pleasant Distractions
Veiled and Unveiled
A Ranger’s Sense
Dangerous Chemistry
A Habit of Mistrust
The Wound
Ten Kinds of Fool
Kat’s Justice
A Healer’s Care
chapter 1
Her Father’s Daughter
Idaho Territory 1888
Dust particles danced in a slender ray of sunlight streaming through an open window, before drifting down to rest on carefully organized shelves lined with apothecary jars. A young woman's fingers grasped one tall glass jar and removed it from the shelf. She narrowed her eyes to study the label and nodded before turning back to her patient.
"Are you sure we shouldn't wait for your father, Miss Kat?" Mr. Halverson, the father of the patient, asked.
Dr. Kathryn Meriwether closed her eyes, taking in a deep, steadying breath. Ignoring the question for the moment, she crossed the room to where a boy lay quietly on the examining table. Her flare of anger under control, she stepped around the boy's father to retrieve a bottle of iodine and cotton from the drawer.
In a voice she hoped conveyed her confidence, she answered him. "Mr. Halverson, I assure you that I am quite as capable of handling such an injury as my father."
She returned to the boy's side and began to clean the wound. His leg muscle tightened, causing her to glance up into his pale face. As much as she'd like to focus on the wound, she knew the boy needed comforting. "So, Jeremy, how old are you now? The last time I saw you, you couldn't have been much older than four or five. So, that must make you ten?" She knew he was younger, but the lie might provide a moment of distraction.
"No ma'am, I'm nine. My brother, William, he's ten." Jeremy clenched the sheet in his fists as she probed the wound. The momentary discomfort was worth it if she was able to thoroughly clean the laceration and prevent infection.
"That horse of yours really landed a good kick, didn't he, Jeremy?" She could see that the cut had gone deep, but she was confident that no nerves had been damaged.
The boy managed a crooked grin, piling up the freckles on one cheek. "Yes, ma'am. She's a caution. She knocked me clean over to the fence. For a while there I thought I'd been hit by lightning. My head hurt like blazes."
"Jeremy! Remember what your mother said about school yard language?"
"Sorry, Pa." The boy grimaced in response to his father's tone. "It hurt real bad."
Kat turned her attention to the boy's head, seeing the beginnings of a bruise. "You hit the fence?" She touched the swollen tissue just above his left eye. It might be a more serious injury than the cut, she thought.
"Made me dizzy for quite a spell."
"Hmm." Kat lay her instruments to the boy's side. Stitching was easy. She rather liked it, taking pride in being recognized among her peers for the straightest stitches, leaving the smallest scars.
"You're sure, Miss Kat?" Kat turned again to face the boy's father. She pulled herself up to as tall as she could, but still only managed to raise her eyes to the man's chest. Five feet and two inches didn't give her a lot of elevation with which to work.
She smiled tightly at the man. "Mr. Halverson, it's 1888. Many women are entering the field of medicine. I've worked in a hospital where I've sewn up men who've been stabbed through to their backbone, and men impaled by steel girders. I've cleaned burned flesh from a dozen people injured in a factory explosion. We can wait for my father, and watch your son bleed, or you can trust me to do what I've been fully trained to do. You decide."
The man frowned and looked away from Kat's unflinching gaze. He tilted his head, took in a long thoughtful breath, before shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well, all right." Under his breath he added, "I guess a woman's pretty good at sewing after all."
Kat could feel the blood rising to her cheeks, so she worked to check a bitter retort. Instead she turned back to the table and smiled sweetly at the boy. "Jeremy, just imagine that I'm going to put a hem in your leg." She patted his good leg, picking up the needle. It was a bit like the needlework she'd seen her mother do often enough, but something she'd never bothered with as a girl. She'd found far more satisfaction in stitching together torn flesh.
Jeremy grinned down at her from the narrow wagon bench while Mr. Halverson stood awkwardly on the porch, his hat gripped tightly in his hand. "Thanks, Miss Kat."
"You're welcome, Mr. Halverson." Kat assumed some responsibility for his discomfort, and tried to assuage her guilt by adapting a less professional tone of voice. "Please remember what I told you about watching Jeremy for the next few hours. He shouldn't do any chores for a day or so, just in case. Head traumas are nothing to ignore." She rubbed her hands on her apron, wincing as she did. Her hands had become painfully dry and cracked from washing them so often in the hospital.
"Will do. It's good to have you back." He put his hat back on his head and climbed into the wagon next to his son. "My Josephina sure missed you when you left for school. She's going to be mighty glad to see you."
A laughing image of her childhood friend, pig tails swinging, flashed into her mind. Next to her father, she missed Josie most of all. "I can honestly say that my first year away there was not a day that passed that I didn't think about her. It's been hard to imagine her as a married woman with children. She must have her hands full if they're half as precocious as she was when we were growing up."
"Oh, to be sure! You two have a lot to catch up on. You planning to stay for a while? Know your dad would be a happy man if you did. He's been pretty lonely since your ma passed away."
She'd heard the question at least a dozen times in the past three days. Drawing her shoulders back and folding her hands at her
waist, she looked past the man down the hill to the patchwork of houses and small businesses that comprised the settlement of Snowberry, in Idaho Territory. "Well, Mr. Halverson, since I just arrived, I suppose I'll be here awhile. Please tell Josie I'll be out to see her soon if she doesn't make it to town before I do." She laughed lightly, remembering that her father had told her Josie was eight months pregnant.
He tipped his hat. "Will do. Give my regards to the doc, Miss Kat."
"Actually, it's Dr. Meriwether now." Kat put on her most disarming smile, determined to make her point without provoking offense. She'd keep reminding them until they got it right. She'd worked too hard, endured too much, for the right to be called by that title.
Mr. Halverson's brow formed a neat 'v' before his eyes widened with understanding. "Oh yeah!" He clucked to the mule and pulled away. "Imagine that!"
Kat stood on the porch, her hand resting lightly on its faded blue railing, watching them drive the short distance down from the bench and on into the main street, muddy with spring rains. So much remained as it always had. So much had changed, like her. Some things would have to change after four years. She'd prepared herself for them, but was still surprised by those she'd not anticipated, like the growth of the valley. Idaho Territory was rapidly filling up with settlers, miners, and business men. The long valley that stretched out for thirty miles along the Payette River would soon be lined with small settlements like this one. She speculated, as many others, that it would not be long before the territory, that had provided a pathway to the travelers of the Oregon Trail, would earn statehood.
She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out the letter, wrinkled and smudged from having been read so many times in the past two weeks. The letter was more than an invitation, it was a door to everything she'd wanted since entering medical school, an opportunity to work in a new hospital with educated men and women, now her equals.
A cloud passed over her face, causing the corners of her mouth to turn down.
She lifted her gaze to the town again, where a one-horse buggy plodded its way up the hill to the bench. Oh, how she'd missed seeing him come up that road after visiting patients all day. His return signaled the end of the day and the time when he belonged to her alone. As much as she'd missed Josie, leaving her father had plunged her into a period of grief that had nearly derailed her dream. Only by burying herself in her studies was she able to pull herself through those first lonely months. Instead of crying herself to sleep, she would study until her eyes grew too heavy to hold open. Many were the mornings she awoke with her face creased by the edges of the book that had become her pillow. She shivered at the memory.
She looked down at the letter still in her hand. As much as her dream was about to come true with this invitation, his would surely die. Carefully folding the letter, she pushed it deep into her pocket. Looking back to the road, she saw her father's hand lift as he hailed her. At the familiar sight, a thrill filled her as her childhood memories came rushing back. Lifting her skirt to her ankles, she gave into the little girl habit and trotted down the road to greet him.
Chapter 2
Once a Ranger
Was it the girl's choking scream or the vision of the blood-soaked snow that woke him this time? He sat on the edge of his bed with elbows to knees, palms pressed tightly to his closed eyes. It didn't matter anymore. The dream was always the same, ending the same, and he always awoke like this, sweat drenched shirt, breathing like he'd run for miles. He had been running, for months now, from the dream, from the memory that wouldn't leave him. Not even here, 1,500 miles away, could he escape it.
Jonathan Winthrop leaned further forward, pressing the palms harder into his eyes until he felt pain. That was real. How much of the dream was based in reality? Once again, he wished that he could sleep, just one night, without the haunting.
Rising wearily to his feet, he crossed the wood floor to the crude table bravely supporting a bucket of water. Splashing cold water on his face helped to clear his head. Despite the chill of the morning, he stripped off his shirt and doused his body with cold spring water. He shivered. Taking the small mirror and propping it on the window sill, he did what he'd done for years as a Texas Ranger. He shaved. It didn't matter the weather, snow or heat. It didn't matter the place, prosperous town or high desert. He took the time to groom himself, to shave and attend to the neatness of his clothing. He was a Texas Ranger, a title worthy of respect.
Gazing in the mirror, he hesitated, the razor lifted half-way to his cheek. But he wasn't a Ranger now, was he? And respect? He'd none for himself, why would others give it to him? But habits die hard so he touched the razor to his cheek and drew it up against the night's growth of stubble. The routine slowed his breathing, forcing the dream back into that dark haunted corner of his mind where it would wait until he closed his eyes to sleep.
Rummaging through the drawer, he pulled out a clean shirt and slipped it on. After looking in the mirror again, he touched his temple where strands of gray hair peppered through brown. This was something he'd only noticed since the dreams began.
"Jonathan, you're turning into an old man, and old men don't make their living with a gun." He said it aloud, and felt a little better for it. Sometimes a little lie to oneself can help, but only for a little while. The need to find another line of work had nothing to do with a lessening of his skills and everything to do with shattered confidence.
Rays of brilliant gold, over-laid with pink spilled over the eastern mountain range as he stepped from the bunkhouse into a crisp spring Idaho morning. The chill drove away the nightmare's last echoes, pulling him back into the present. He breathed deep taking in the fragrant incense of pine and cedar. The climate and the landscape were vastly different from his native Texas, a difference he rather favored.
His mare nickered a greeting, impatient for breakfast. He called to her, "What are you whining about? You never used to wake up in a dry bed. You're growing spoiled. Count your blessings, girl!"
The bay called again, more persistent this time. Jonathan stepped down from the porch and crossed the muddy yard to her corral. She loved scratches almost as much as grain, at least that's what Jonathan supposed from her insistent nudging. He obliged, as her neck extended, eye lids lowered in pleasure.
After several minutes of indulging her, he said, "Okay, enough of that." Jonathan threw her breakfast into the corral and waited awhile to watch her nuzzle through the grass in search of grain. He knew he loved that mare too much, but more than anyone in his life in recent years, she'd been his faithful friend. Conversations with her were short and to the point, and never unduly emotional even if she was a mare. With her, there was never the confusion of ambiguous language or awkward silence.
"Mr. Winthrop!" A gangly boy of thirteen, all legs and arms not yet grown into, flapped at him from the porch of the main house. The house was just a larger shack really, but this one, unlike the bunkhouse, held a fireplace and facilities for cooking.
"Father's got breakfast ready," he shouted, scaring a hen into a frantic dash across the yard.
Jonathan waved back. "Thanks, Adam. Be there in a minute."
He combed his fingers through his mop of wavy brown hair and pushed his hat low on his brow. The mare looked up and snorted.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Jonathan threw back and strode across the yard, his long legs stepping effortlessly across a dozen puddles along the way.
Timothy Hindricks wasn't much of a rancher, yet. But Jonathan considered himself mighty lucky to have met up with a man who knew how to cook. Opening the door to the enticing smell of fried ham and biscuits was nearly akin to heaven as far as he was concerned. A dozen years on the trail and more in the war had nearly brought him to despair of ever eating anything that didn't taste like rawhide or burnt flour. It seemed everything he'd eaten in those years had been drained of every ounce of moisture, requiring a canteen of water to even wash it all down. He wondered at times if his own saddle would have had
more to offer in terms of flavor.
But Timothy! Well, Jonathan was convinced Timothy knew magic when it came to cooking, and with nearly every meal Jonathan could count on a pitcher of gravy to pour over everything. And he did. Timothy was a man who could cook, and as his appearance attested to, he liked to eat his own cooking nearly as much.
As Jonathan stepped through the door, Timothy rubbed his hands on the apron around his generous girth, greeting him as he did. "Good morning, Jon! Splendid morning, don't you think? Sky the color of the blush on a pretty girl's cheek!"
Jonathan had never met a man with such enthusiasm for the ordinary. But then, he'd never befriended a school teacher. The ones he'd known growing up in east Texas seemed more inclined to display their enthusiasm for discipline and he'd known that enthusiasm often enough on the seat of his britches. Taking the mug of hot coffee from Adam's hand, he considered Timothy's word picture. It had been colorful, but he might have likened it to the color of his hands after washing them in a cold mountain stream. He chuckled to himself. He'd certainly never be a poet.
Timothy dished up a generous helping of ham and placed it on the table next to a stack of books with titles such as Cattle: Their Breeds, Management, and Diseases and The Hearty Devon Breed.
"Adam and I already had ours. You take your time." He picked up a bowl of gravy and pushed it across the table. "Been wanting to talk to you about our agreement." Timothy lowered himself onto a stool across from Jonathan.
Jonathan looked up, an eyebrow cocked expectantly. "Sounds a mite ominous the way you put it, Timothy."
Timothy threw back his head and laughed. "No, nothing bad. Not at all. Much to the contrary." He picked up a spoon and held it by the handle, turning the tip of its bowl in circles on the tablecloth.
Jonathan grew more curious at the man's hesitancy. He leaned back in the chair and studied Timothy's suddenly serious face. "Well?"
Kat's Law Page 1