Healing Hearts

by Sarah M. Eden

  “I can draw you a picture of the outhouse, if you’d like,” Miriam said. “You seem so disappointed.”

  Had he given that impression? He looked at her, ready to explain, but enough amusement remained in her eyes to tell him she was teasing him. How unexpected. Welcome, but unexpected.

  “I will let you know if I ever desperately want a portrait of the privy.”

  “I am here to help.”

  That she managed lightness helped him to do so as well. “Why don’t you help me with supper?”

  She closed her notebook and tied it with the leather strap. She rose and crossed to the stove, but then she paused and looked at him.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  Her fingers fussed and twisted around each other. She took a deep breath. “I know very little these past few days has gone the way you expected. I’m certain you’ve been frustrated. But you’ve also been kind and considerate. Thank you for that.”

  Her thanks came with a degree of surprise for his being a decent human being. An ache started in his chest. Though she hadn’t said as much directly, such moments spoke of a painful and difficult past.

  “You are welcome, Miriam.”

  She turned her attention to the meal preparation, again withdrawn and quiet. She was guarded, and it seemed for good reason. The town might not be warming to her quickly, and he still felt awkward around her, but he would make certain that, in this home, she was treated with kindness. And he would do what he could to make certain he showed her that not all doctors were the monsters she hinted at having known.

  Chapter 9

  Miriam’s years in Blackburn Asylum had been filled with one misery after another. The patients wallowed in hopelessness, often left to suffer untreated by a doctor who saw them as less than human. A grueling amputation brought on by neglect. Burying so many poor souls who had wanted nothing more than basic compassion. She’d tried to help as many as she could, but her options had been horribly limited.

  She could still see their faces, so many pale, gaunt faces. Eyes pleading with her. Expressions wrought with agony and fear. She had made every attempt to heal them and help them—even in the dark of night. Once Dr. Blackburn had declared that a patient had received his or her allotment of medical care for the day or week or month, Miriam had been forbidden to do anything more. “There must be order,” the doctor had said. “There must be schedules and allotments.” He had insisted on it.

  She had nursed them anyway. In the end, it had done little good. They died, sometimes suddenly, sometimes fading by degrees, leaving behind nothing but Dr. Blackburn’s records of their treatments and the portraits she’d drawn of them.

  Gideon’s words from a few days earlier remained with her: “I address what I can. Beyond that, I try to help people live happy lives.”

  Dr. Blackburn certainly hadn’t lived by that philosophy. His patients’ happiness had never meant anything to him. They were peasants for him to lord over. Their illnesses were opportunities for him to prove his worth and line his pockets.

  Miriam had seen the asylum ledgers. Dr. Blackburn had received reimbursements for medications she knew he hadn’t administered, funds for equipment he never purchased, and stipends for patients he no longer housed. He was growing wealthy while his patients were suffering. And dying.

  He had considered those patients with persistent conditions as a personal challenge. He was unwilling to leave them alone to “live happy lives” if it meant admitting he couldn’t cure them. Miriam had lived in fear that she would have one of her episodes in his presence and he would make curing her his next impossible task. The patients whose healing became a matter of pride to him never survived. Not ever.

  So, as awkward as things were with Gideon and this town, she couldn’t truly complain. She hadn’t once felt herself to be in danger where Gideon was concerned. On the contrary, she’d come to truly enjoy his company. She’d even begun to trust him a little.

  “Rupert is coming by today.” Gideon always reviewed their expected and potential patients each morning in the parlor. “Paisley told me Hawk cut his arm deeply yesterday. He may come by and have it looked at. The Jepsons south of town had a mare foal last night. I’d like to go check on the new arrival this afternoon.”

  Nervousness seized her. “If someone comes by while you’re gone, do you think they will even let me help them?”

  He shrugged. “If they are desperate enough.” There was a hint of laughter in his response that set her more at ease.

  Mrs. Fletcher and Rupert stepped inside only a moment later. Miriam was happy to see the little boy. He’d been the first in this town to show her true acceptance.

  “Hop up on the table, Rupert, and give Nurse Bricks a ‘howdy,’” Gideon said.

  He moved to the washbasin while Miriam helped Rupert climb onto the table. Even with the step stool, Rupert had some trouble. His leg wouldn’t fully heal for some time yet.

  “What mischief have you been undertaking, Rupert?” Miriam asked. “And don’t tell me ‘none.’ I think I know you well enough now to be certain that can’t be true.”

  Rupert’s gap-toothed grin was all the answer she needed.

  “Keep it up,” she whispered, then joined Gideon at the washbasin. “He is walking a little better.”

  “He is.” Gideon glanced at Rupert. “I only hope I found all of the rot. I’d hate for him to have to endure another surgery.”

  He was an odd sort of doctor. His patients’ comfort always came before his own. Even his pride seemed less important than their convenience. Miriam admired it, even though she didn’t know what to make of it.

  “I am getting nothing but pensive looks from you today,” he said quietly. “Has something upset you?”

  She wasn’t about to admit that she’d been pondering him to the point of distraction. “You don’t actually think Rupert will require further surgery, do you?”

  He shook his head. “He would be more miserable than he is if the gangrene were still there.”

  She finished washing her hands and returned to the examination table. “How are you feeling?” she asked Rupert. “Have you been keen to obey the doctor’s instructions?”

  Rupert puffed his chest out proudly. “I even told my pa I couldn’t do my chores in the barn on account of Doc saying I wasn’t to get my cut-up part all dirty.”

  Only with effort did Miriam keep a straight face. “A great sacrifice on your part.” She lowered her voice. “Do you know what great sacrifice I made on your behalf?”

  He shook his head, watching her eagerly.

  Gideon must have recognized her efforts as the distraction she meant them to be, because he set quickly to work unwrapping the boy’s leg.

  “I have hidden away a cinnamon cookie where Dr. Mac­Namara will never find it,” Miriam said. “All so I could give it to you today if you had been good and obeyed his instructions.”

  “Doc didn’t find it?” Rupert’s eyes widened hopefully.

  “He did not.”

  Gideon peeled back the final layer of bandaging. Miriam watched his expression for signs of concern but saw none.

  “You have been using the tincture I gave you?” he asked Mrs. Fletcher.

  Her brow lowered, heavy with worry. “Exactly the way you said to. I’ve been very careful.”

  “I can see that,” he assured her. He wetted a bit of cloth with the same mixture he’d sent home with Mrs. Fletcher nearly a week earlier.

  “It smells bad,” Rupert said.

  “I hope you are referring to the tincture and not Nurse Bricks’s cookies.” Gideon dabbed the wet cloth along the stitched-up wound. Rupert winced, but didn’t object. No doubt he was used to it after nearly a week of treatments.

  “Nurse Bricks’s cookies don’t smell bad,” Rupert said once Gideon was finished. “Hers are
the best cookies ever.”

  “Other than your mother’s,” Gideon whispered. “Make sure you say that part.”

  “Other than my ma’s cookies,” Rupert said, though with some hesitancy.

  “Well done, Doctor.” Miriam thoroughly enjoyed his sense of humor.

  Gideon stood up. “Now, Nurse Bricks, I believe this brave young man has earned himself a cinnamon cookie, though I object to you hiding them from me. I spent half the night looking for the last one.”

  “You have to get your bones broken,” Rupert said. “Then you can have all the cookies you want.”

  “That’s a pretty stiff price. I think maybe I ought to try talking sweet to the cook instead, and see if that works.” He winked at Miriam.

  Heat immediately stole over her. She wasn’t one to blush easily, but, when she did, it was always at the worst possible moment. She wanted to keep a strictly professional tone between them. Friendliness was dangerous.

  She looked away from him and spoke to Rupert. “Don’t you fret; I won’t give him your cookie.” She took his wrist in one hand and the pocket watch Gideon had lent her in the other. “I will give you Rupert’s numbers, Doctor, if you’d like me to.”

  They had this part down to a flawless routine. She had a knack for finding a pulse; she was even quicker at it than Gideon was. He jotted down Rupert’s pulse when she told it to him. Miriam had the boy lie flat on the table and measured his length, calling that number out as well—Gideon only measured the height of children, wanting to make certain their growth was continuing at the correct rate.

  Having finished her part, Miriam took Rupert to the kitchen for his cookie.

  “Is Doc gonna have to cut off more bits of me?” he asked as he climbed onto a kitchen chair, despite his heavily bandaged leg. Little ones were remarkably resilient, adapting quickly to their limitations.

  “It doesn’t seem so.” Miriam set his cookie on the table in front of him.

  Rupert grinned. “I like Doc. He’s nice.”

  “Yes. He does seem to be.”

  Rupert took a generous bite of his cookie, obviously content with his reward. “Maybe you should marry him like you were supposed to.”

  Somehow she managed not to choke on her next words. “It isn’t that simple.”

  “Sure it is.” Crumbs flew from his mouth as he spoke. “You like him, and you are already here.”

  What would Gideon say if he heard that argument? Con­sidering he had intended to marry someone who wasn’t guaranteed to like him and who wasn’t already there, he would probably find Rupert’s ill-conceived plan a fantastic one.

  “You make good cookies.” Rupert took another bite. “I bet Doc likes your cookies.”

  The mischievous little boy was playing matchmaker. She could find some amusement in his efforts. “Doc likes my drawings.”

  “You draw?”

  She nodded. “It is one of my favorite things.”

  “Could you draw me?”

  She already had, but that portrait captured a moment of worry. He wouldn’t enjoy seeing that. “If you will sit here very still, I will draw you a quick picture.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. Miriam took her notebook from the shelf she’d begun keeping it on. She withdrew a page from it and took up her pencil. Rupert must have truly wanted the picture. He kept quite still; only his eyes moved, darting to her again and again.

  She made a quick sketch, nothing elaborate. It captured him though. His broad smile. The mischief in his expression. She even included his half-eaten cookie.

  She slid the paper to him. “What do you think?”

  His face lit with excitement. “That’s me!”

  She laughed quietly. “Of course it is.”

  He climbed off the chair. “I’m going to show Ma!” He ­hobbled from the room, clutching the paper in his hand.

  Miriam returned her pencil to its rightful place, then quickly checked to make certain nothing had fallen out of her notebook. Everything was as it should be.

  She crossed paths with Mrs. Fletcher as she made her way back to the parlor. “Did Rupert show you his picture?”

  The woman watched her a moment, brow drawn. Was she upset?

  “Would you rather I hadn’t drawn it?”

  “It was very kind of you,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “He was so pleased with it.”

  Yet, Mrs. Fletcher still looked dissatisfied. “Is something the matter?”

  “You and Dr. MacNamara seem to get along well.” That was a weighted observation if ever Miriam had heard one. “He’s a good man, you know. Exactly the sort a woman would be fortunate to—”

  “Ours is a strictly professional relationship. Neither of us wishes for anything more.”

  “He still needs a wife.” That was, apparently, supposed to be a strong argument.

  Miriam forced her voice a touch stronger. “But I don’t need a husband.”

  “You are opposed to marriage?”

  Gideon had told her on her first day of employment that the town afforded him precious little privacy. Even little Rupert had been marching down this particular road.

  She swallowed a lump of apprehension. What if they started asking questions she would have to refuse to answer? She might do best to address the things she could in the hope that they would leave her be if she satisfied their curiosity.

  “I have no objections to marriage,” she said, “and none to Dr. MacNamara in particular. I don’t know him well, and, I will add, he doesn’t know me either. I can tell you with absolute certainty that the more he knows me, the more grateful he will be for his escape.” She pressed her lips closed on the instant. She’d inadvertently admitted more than she’d intended to. She was not usually so careless. Letting things slip was a good way to land herself in trouble. A quick exit seemed best. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Only then did Miriam discover Gideon standing in the parlor doorway, watching her. He’d overheard the entire exchange, no doubt, from Mrs. Fletcher’s attempts at playing rematchmaker to Miriam’s unintentional admission that someone actually acquainted with her was far more likely to be opposed to a match than someone who knew nothing of her.

  Humiliation hit her like a bucket of hot water. What little pride she possessed pooled at her feet. Perhaps if she moved quickly, she could reach the small recovery room behind the stairs and close herself in there to wait out the burning blush spreading over her face.

  “I should—look into—” She couldn’t formulate any kind of excuse, so she simply walked around the staircase. She slipped into the dim interior of the room and dropped her heated face into her hands.

  “Miriam?” Gideon spoke from the open doorway.

  Was she not even allowed to be embarrassed in private? After two years of near-total isolation, Miriam had expected to welcome some company and interaction. That was not proving to be the case.

  She moved her hands away from her face and turned away.

  “I am sorry, Miriam.”

  “What are you sorry about? I am the one who was caught talking about you behind your back.”

  “I am sorry this town is being difficult.” He stepped around to face her. “I didn’t realize they’d upset you this much.” He took her hands in his. “I wish I could promise that they will eventually stop harping on the topic of our aborted wedding, but I suspect they won’t for a long while yet.”

  His touch was comforting, reassuring. She even managed to look him in the eye. “You did warn me this arrangement would be awkward.”

  “Do you really believe I would have the biggest objection to a marriage between us?” His tone was as kind and soft as his touch.

  “I know that you would.” Men didn’t generally care to marry women whose minds were broken and whose bodies offered evidence of it at unpredictable intervals.

  “I would remind y
ou,” he said, “I happily contracted an arranged marriage. That is not the action of a man who demands perfection in a union.”

  “It isn’t a matter of falling short of perfection.” She stepped away, and he released her hands. “If you truly knew me, you’d be thanking the heavens for how this all played out.”

  His slow smile shone with amusement. “I doubt that, Miriam.”

  “You shouldn’t.” She stepped to the doorway. “You really shouldn’t.”

  With that, she moved to the kitchen, despite not having anything to do in there. She needed space. She needed time. In only one week, Gideon had begun chipping away at the walls that kept her safe. She couldn’t afford to truly trust him, but she feared she was beginning to do just that.

  Chapter 10

  Late that evening, after Miriam had returned to the hotel, Gideon placed a sign in the window indicating he was next door at the jailhouse, then dragged himself across the small side yard with the express purpose of eating a large slice of humble pie.

  Paisley sat in the chair at the desk. Cade sat on a stool beside her with his legs up on the desktop, crossed at the ankles.

  “What brings you ’round, Gid?” she asked.

  “You were right.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Paisley said. “What was I right about?”

  He sat on the edge of the half-wall that divided the jail cells from the rest of the room. “She’s hiding something.”

  Hawk stepped out of the back room at exactly that moment. “We’re talking about Miriam?”

  Gideon eyed Paisley. “You told him about your suspicions?”

  She held up her hands. “I didn’t say a word.”

  “She didn’t have to,” Cade jumped in. “We ain’t blind.”

  Cade and Hawk exchanged a knowing and amused glance. Gideon waited. Those two never needed encouragement.

  “Your new nurse watches everyone as if she expects them to pounce at any moment,” Cade said.

  “She’s nervous. That would make anyone a little stiff,” Gideon said.