“I was honest. Other than my shoulder, I feel fine. And it may be months or years before I have another episode.”
“Or it could be today,” he pointed out.
“I have never had more than two in a row. Mine are more infrequent than many other people experience.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know that I can take that risk.”
“If I find myself feeling unwell, I will retire for the day. I promise.”
“There would be no one here to help you if you were injured again.”
She was ready for that objection. “There is Tansy. She has experience with this. Better still, she is not bothered by it.”
He shook his head. “I cannot ask her to spend even more time away from her home.”
“But you can ask the people of Quarterville to go even longer without a doctor’s care?” She held his gaze firmly. “At the worst, Gideon, you would be leaving Savage Wells temporarily without medical care, which is something you have been doing regularly for three years. You needn’t pay me while you’re gone if I don’t see any patients.”
He slipped his fingers around her good hand. “I am not concerned about the money, Miriam. I think you know that.”
“Your concern arises from the belief that this condition makes me unworthy of the title of nurse.” She’d been told that before, but never while the doctor saying it was holding her hand.
“No, Miriam.” His other hand cupped her face, his touch so gentle, so tender. “I worry about the town, I always do. But this worry is for you. I don’t know how to help. I don’t know if I even can. And the thought of leaving you to face another seizure, alone, weighs on my mind. And my heart,” he added quietly.
Hope bubbled, but reality stood ready to burst it. “Knowing what you know of me now, you can’t possibly . . .” She couldn’t force out the words.
His expression softened even more. “Is this what you meant all those times you said I couldn’t possibly care for you and would be grateful to have escaped our arranged marriage ‘if I knew you better’?”
A chill trickled through her, painful and dispiriting. “People have abandoned me over this, Gideon. People who claimed to care for me.”
He raised her good hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss there. “I’m still here.”
The front door opened. Gideon released her hand. Miriam stepped away, grateful for the chance to sort out her thoughts, but acutely missing his reassuring touch.
“If that is my mother, I will jump out the window,” Gideon warned under his breath.
“She knows how to wind you tightly. My mother was the same way.”
“How did you endure yours?” he asked with an exhausted sigh.
“I ran away from home.”
He laughed, but when she didn’t, his amusement faded quickly. “You truly ran away from home?”
“We really don’t talk much, do we?” She began setting out his instruments for the day. “On my nineteenth birthday, I boarded a train that took me to a small women’s college of nursing, and I never returned. Furthermore, I don’t think my parents wanted me to.”
“How could they not? They were your family.”
She knew he would understand their objections if he gave it much thought. “Let me put it this way: I was the cherry end table amongst the mahogany furniture of their lives.”
Mrs. Fletcher and Rupert, still limping, stepped into the parlor, ending any further conversation.
“We’ve come as you requested,” Mrs. Fletcher told Gideon.
Miriam pushed aside her personal uncertainty and focused on their young patient. No matter that her nursing skills had often been called into question, she knew how to care for patients, she knew how to love the people she was supposed to help. And she meant to do precisely that.
Chapter 22
Rupert was a mystery. Despite thoroughly examining his leg, Gideon could find no reason for the boy’s limp. Miriam had taken Rupert onto the porch to watch the stage come in.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Gideon admitted. “His leg has healed, and, watching him walk, he seems to be limping with both legs. I can’t account for it.”
She wrung her hands. “Neither can I.”
Gideon scanned the paper containing Rupert’s medical history. “He seems in perfect health. He’s energetic and growing as he should.”
Mrs. Fletcher looked as bewildered as he felt. “He’s had such a difficult few months. My heart aches seeing him still hurting.”
“Has he complained that he’s in pain?” The boy hadn’t seemed overly uncomfortable.
“He seldom complains about anything.”
Gideon hated not being able to help. First Miriam and now Rupert. What good was he if his list of suffering patients only grew?
“That deputy, Andrew, is some kind of checkers genius.” Father entered the parlor with no more introduction than that. “Hasn’t lost a game all morning.”
“He’s also an excellent tree climber,” Gideon said. “You should challenge him to that.”
Father laughed. “I’ve not climbed a tree in years. I ought to give it a go while your mother isn’t around to grow faint at the sight.”
“Father, this is Mrs. Fletcher. Her boy, Rupert, came in for an exam today.”
Father greeted her, a farmer’s wife in drab clothing, with the same bow he would have given a fine lady. “Your boy is the one on the porch, I’d guess. He and the nurse seem to be good friends.”
“Yes, Miss Bricks is wonderful with him.” Something of Mrs. Fletcher’s tension dissipated. “Between her and Dr. MacNamara, this town is well cared for.”
“Dr. MacNamara.” Father spoke as though he was feeling out the words, getting the taste of them. “Your grandfather would have thought that a fine thing. A doctor in the family.”
If only Father had come to visit on his own. Mother was a harder medicine to swallow.
Miriam stepped inside. “I believe I can begin demanding a higher wage.” Her gaze settled on Father and lingered a moment before jumping to Gideon, then back again a few times. “Good heavens, the two of you look alike.”
Father pretended to pluck a bit of lint from his cuff. “Gideon always was a fine-looking lad.”
Miriam’s mouth shot upward on the instant. “You must be his father.”
“I must be.” Father gave her his usual deep-waisted bow. “And you are Nurse Bricks, I understand.”
“At the moment, I am a solver of mysteries.” She turned to Gideon. “I have discovered the reason for young Rupert’s limp.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I asked him.” She cocked her head to the side in an overdone show of pride. “I told him he walked as though his feet hurt, and he said that they do, but only when he wears his shoes.”
“Oh, what a fool I am.” Gideon slapped his hand against his thigh as the entire picture became clear. “He has grown quite a lot since spring. It’s right there in his history. Of course his shoes are pinching.”
Miriam nodded. “Meaning, there’s nothing truly the matter with him.”
“I am so relieved.” Mrs. Fletcher embraced Miriam, though she was careful not to disturb her arm hanging in its sling. “We’ll not have the money for new shoes for some time, but before winter, certainly.”
“He can go barefoot until then,” Miriam reassured her. “Most children prefer that anyway.”
“I’m so glad this was something simple.” Mrs. Fletcher gave Miriam one more hug, then gave Gideon one as well. “I won’t impose any longer.”
“You are never an imposition,” Gideon said. “And please don’t ever hesitate to come see us if you are ever concerned about anything.”
“Come see us.” I hope I can keep saying that.
He saw Mrs. Fletcher out. When he retu
rned to the parlor, Father was seated beside Miriam on the sofa, already deep in conversation.
“And they all love Gideon that way?” Father asked.
He ought to have slipped back out, but he wanted to hear Miriam’s answer.
“Everyone loves your son. I don’t think they can help themselves.” Miriam seemed at ease in Father’s company. It was a MacNamara talent, one Gideon had hoped would serve him well in gaining the confidence of his new nurse. “And, in turn, Gideon cares for and worries about them. He loses sleep and works all hours of the day and night. He travels for days at a time to reach towns even more remote than this one because he knows if he doesn’t, there won’t be anyone to help them.”
She made him sound like a saint.
“Gideon was always like that,” Father said. “He never was content to sit idly by. He always had to be doing something. He was exhausting.”
“He still is,” Miriam said.
That pulled a laugh from his father.
“He never stops moving,” Miriam said. “He doesn’t sit down for more than a moment, not even for the length of a meal. Always moving or talking or thinking. Even watching him think is tiring.”
Father patted Miriam’s hand. “I am happy he has you, Miss Bricks. Too many of the women in his life haven’t understood him.”
“Please, call me Miriam. And don’t give me too much credit. I am convinced your son is not understandable.”
It was time for Gideon to join the discussion. “That is a fine thing to say about a man you’ve asked to increase your wages.”
Miriam turned wide eyes to Father. He gave Gideon a warning look. “Miriam, here, is my newest friend. You be nice to her, son. I hold the ear of the leaders of this nation, you realize.”
“Not from this far away, you don’t.” Gideon sat on a nearby ottoman. He would rather have sat by Miriam. Truth be told, he would rather be holding her hand and caressing her face again. He didn’t know where the impulse had come from, but the feeling had been too strong to ignore.
“Has he played his cello for you?” Father asked Miriam. “He is very talented.”
“He played ‘Gentle Annie’ the other day. I think it was the loveliest version of that tune I’ve ever heard.”
He hadn’t realized she was familiar enough with Stephen Foster’s work to have recognized the melody. Something about her unabashed praise was a little embarrassing.
“Mother always felt I should have concentrated on more refined music,” Gideon said. “She was probably right.”
“Nonsense,” Father said. “You learned to play both styles of music, so you should be permitted to choose what you keep playing.”
“I’ll go make us some lunch.” Miriam rose from the sofa. “Don’t get your hopes up, Mr. MacNamara. There is a reason I am a nurse and not a cook.”
Once Miriam had left the room, Father said, “I like her.”
“Miriam is wonderful,” Gideon acknowledged.
“Is that why you wanted to marry her?”
“I had been looking for a woman who would be comfortable living in the middle of nowhere as well as who could be a helpmeet with my patients. Everything I had learned of Miriam told me she fit that mold perfectly. It was to have been a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Marriage isn’t supposed to be mutually beneficial—” Father held up a finger. “That came out wrong. Do not tell your mother I said that.”
Oh, how he’d missed talking with his father. “It’ll be our secret.”
“What I was trying to say is that you don’t pick a wife because she’s the most convenient option. You choose a woman who lights you up every time you see her, who makes your heart lodge itself in uncomfortable places.”
“Such a woman is not as easy to find as you seem to think.”
“How difficult is it to walk into your own kitchen, Gideon?”
“My kitchen?” There was only one woman in his kitchen at the moment. “You mean Miriam?”
“I didn’t mean the stove, lad.”
Gideon sighed. “Ian, apparently, left out the part of the story where Miriam refused to marry me.”
“Why did she refuse?” Father’s calm question didn’t set Gideon’s back up the way Mother’s demands for information always did.
“Because she didn’t know. The agency that arranged the match told her she was coming here for a job.”
“Oh, dear.” Father shook his head. “Is that why you contacted Ian? To determine what legal recourse you had?”
Gideon shrugged. “I suppose. Mostly I was embarrassed, I think. And I would like the money back that I paid to the bureau.” He winced at how mercenary that sounded.
“If you ask me, Miriam was wiser about this than you were. A marriage based on anything other than mutual affection and respect will never truly be convenient.” Sadness touched his words, something Gideon seldom remembered hearing or seeing from his father. He was ceaselessly cheerful, sometimes to the point of seeming foolish. “But in the few moments I saw you together, I saw both respect and affection.” Father stood. “Don’t discard that.”
He left on that declaration. Gideon remained behind, dumbstruck. He had never, in all his life, heard his father speak that way.
Chapter 23
“Thank you for your help with dinner tonight, Paisley.” Miriam stirred a simmering pot of carrots on the stove. “Lunch was a disaster.”
Miriam hadn’t planned on her humble meal being served in the formal dining room on Gideon’s best dishes, but Mrs. MacNamara had insisted.
“I cook a big meal like this here once a month.” Paisley mashed a bowl of potatoes as they talked.
“Once a month?”
“Gideon does a lot for my father. Making dinner so he can invite people over is my way of repaying him in a small way.” Paisley added some salt to the potatoes. “I know how to make only the one meal, and it’s nothing gourmet, but he seems to appreciate it.”
“At the risk of sounding awful, meeting his mother makes me wonder how he became such a—” How could she put her thoughts into words? “How it is that he doesn’t—”
“—put on airs?” Paisley stirred a lump of butter into the potatoes. “Miraculously, he’s the best of men—except for my father and Cade, of course.”
The guests were all gathered when Paisley and Miriam entered with the last of the food and took their seats. Every place at the table was occupied; Mrs. MacNamara had issued several invitations.
Discomfort settled over Miriam as she eyed the gathering. Her mother had forbidden her to dine with company after the seizures had begun. She hadn’t sat down to a finely set table with dinner guests in years. Before coming to Savage Wells, she’d eaten alone in her room at the asylum.
Gideon tapped the side of his goblet with his fork as he stood at the head of the table. Heavens, this was bringing back memories. Father had always begun their dinner parties that way. Mother had been so particular about gatherings and etiquette and appearance.
“Thank you all for coming this evening,” Gideon said. “And thank you to Miriam and Paisley for providing the meal.”
Now and then, she saw glimpses of the society gentleman he must have been back East hidden beneath the rougher influence of the West. She couldn’t say if she liked one better than the other. Indeed, it was the mixture she found most intriguing.
“I don’t intend to make a big speech,” Gideon said. “Enjoy your meal and each other’s company.”
Conversation was general and friendly as the meal got underway. Mr. Endecott spoke at length with his wife regarding his upcoming sermon. Miss Dunkle devoured every word Mrs. MacNamara spoke as though she, and not the preacher, was speaking of eternal truths. As near as Miriam could tell, their conversation centered around the latest Eastern fashions.
“I don’t like these,” Mr. Bell mutte
red, holding up a spoonful of mashed potatoes.
Miriam sat near him. “Would you prefer carrots?”
Mr. Bell’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know if I like those either.”
“Do you want to try some?”
He pushed his plate a bit away. “I don’t know.”
Oh, how he reminded her of George. So earnest. So lost.
“If anything strikes your fancy, tell me. I’ll find it if I can.”
He neither agreed nor argued, but sat staring at his plate, his food nearly untouched.
“Maybe offer him a bit of my moonshine.” Tansy sat on Miriam’s other side. “Brought some with me, but Doc told me to keep it outside on account of his mother not understanding our ways yet.”
Miriam liked that she seemed to be included in “our.” She met Mr. Bell’s gaze. “Do you like sweet tea?” That was the actual content of Tansy’s “moonshine.”
Mr. Bell shook his head.
“Sorry, Tansy. That doesn’t seem to be what he’s looking for, either.”
Tansy took it in stride. “He’ll hit upon it soon enough. He always does.” After a bite, she said, “How’s your arm? That was a nasty fall.”
“It is improving by bits.”
Tansy raised an eyebrow. “So, why is Doc still worried? I been sitting here wondering why he watches you so closely.”
“He watches me?” She hoped no one else could overhear their quiet conversation. “Like he is trying to decide the fastest way to get rid of me?”
“More like every time he looks up he’s afraid you won’t be there and is relieved that you are.” Tansy waved in Cade’s direction. “Hand over the potatoes, will you?”
He wants me here. She’d sensed that. She’d felt nearly certain those were his sentiments. But Dr. Blackburn’s words, spoken so many times over the past two years, continually undermined her faith in herself. “Your mind is broken. It always will be. Broken minds cannot be trusted.” She’d tried not to believe him, but his insistence made her question so many things.
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