When Thomas’s body had finally succumbed to his gruesome injuries, Cora marveled at her sweeping sense of relief. Her husband lay dead, but she only wanted to smile at the buoyancy of her heart—a twist of emotion she’d been trying to unravel since that September night in 1864. She was certain there must be something wrong with her, something vital that lay broken in jagged pieces at the bottom of her soul. What woman smiles sitting next to her husband’s deathbed? What woman feels so little for a man she’s lived with for seven years?
I’m incapable of love. Real, deep, true love—it’s beyond me. My loveless life has ruined me.
The question that confused her most: if Thomas had loved me would I have been able to love him back?
She shook her head to clear the dark memories and confounding thoughts. “One thing at a time,” she said to soothe Father Bracewell’s sweet concern, though she’d silently vowed never to marry again. Her nursing skills would be more than enough to support and provide for her life. She didn’t need a husband to survive, and she refused to be smothered under someone else’s control again.
Those around her had dictated her circumstances until now. The orphan home, the cotton-mill boss, her husband, Dr. Rand during the war, and, recently, the kind assistance of the Bracewells, who housed and fed her as midwife to the parish. Yet since that night at Chaffin Farm, spurred perhaps by the guilt that followed her relief after Thomas’s death, she’d wanted nothing more than to move on. Move forward. Alone and free.
But a family . . .
Cora’s lonely childhood had been filled with gossamer visions of a real family. The steel-strong bonds of commitment and blood. A quiet touch, a shared laugh. Connection. She’d hoped for those things with Thomas, naively assuming it’d all come as part of the package of marriage. But she’d found nothing to soothe her soul in Thomas’s house.
Mercer’s journey west offered her a way to break free, to finally stand on her own two feet. She’d already broken through walls and defied tradition to be a surgeon’s assistant on the battlefield. She could do this thing as well, on her terms, in her way.
Or, at least, I hope I can.
“Your face is rather flushed, Cora. Are you feeling well?” Father Bracewell asked, his wrinkled eyes pinched in concern, but also hopeful she’d finally admit to her mistake.
Cora smiled. “I feel quite well, Father. It’s this fine sea air. Invigorating, don’t you think?”
Bracewell sighed, shook his head. “Women shipped off to the West like loads of dry goods. What is the world coming to?”
Cora held back a laugh and turned away from him to take in the shape of the steamer ship that would convey her to New York. From there, she’d load Mercer’s big ship bound for the seas around South America and up to San Francisco. Then Seattle. The possibilities sizzled on the air.
I’m ready. Time to go.
January 16, 1866
New York City, New York
Albert Cunningham checked the scrap of paper one more time to be certain he was headed in the right direction.
Mr. Asa S. Mercer
91 West Street
He was, of course, on track. But Albert was always thorough and careful. It was the very thing that made him an excellent surgeon.
The sun had only been awake in the sky for an hour or so, but the New York streets bustled with activity. Albert savored the buzz of energy and industry, his face alight with the prospect of what was to come.
An adventurous journey.
My own practice in the West.
Albert arrived at Mr. Mercer’s small office. He’d yet to meet the famous organizer, but Dr. Charles Barnard, the man who’d hired Albert, assured him Mercer could be trusted. A whirlpool of rumor and controversy swirled around Mercer’s name and his plans. Albert would judge for himself, as careful in his relations as he was with his patients. But he was not concerned with Mercer’s goals of marrying off women to men in the West. He was only concerned with the experience of assisting Dr. Barnard on the voyage and the chance to break out on his own at the end of it.
The voyage had already been delayed several times, an irritating inconvenience, but the energy in the office as Albert ducked inside told him today was the day. A huddle of men surrounded a large mahogany desk, their voices loud with the morning’s activity. Albert was instantly aware of his tall stature in the low-ceilinged room and in comparison to the other men. As a young man he’d often hunched to match others’ heights, but his mentor, Dr. Vista, had quickly weaned him off the habit. Terrible for the spine, Albert. Why be ashamed of all that God-given height? Be proud, stand tall.
So Albert squared his shoulders and stepped closer.
Dr. Barnard noticed him first.
“Ah, there you are. Come in, come in.” The doctor, a solid man with small, active eyes, a bald head, and a fine black suit, waved Albert into the circle. “Gentlemen, this is my assistant for our adventure, Dr. Albert Cunningham. Top of his class at King’s College and trained by Dr. Ernest Vista, one of the best surgeons in the country. Albert, this is Mr. Asa Mercer, the architect of our journey.”
Albert turned his attention to the man on the opposite side of the desk. Mercer’s vibrant red hair, formed into odd pompadours above his ears and on top of his head, was certainly striking. His beard was thick and stiff off his jaw, his suit fine, and his tie neatly arranged. But Albert focused on Mercer’s eyes, looking directly at the man. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mercer.” Albert held out his hand.
Mercer gripped it firmly. “Tall one, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Albert indulged. People had a compulsive need to point out his height.
“Glad to have you, young man. I expect the highest of standards from the men on this journey. There’s to be no flirting with the young women, nothing untoward, if you understand me.” Mercer increased the pressure of his hand on Albert’s.
“Of course, sir. My new practice comes first; I’m not looking for a wife. I assure you that you have nothing to worry about from me. I’m here to give medical aid, see a bit of the world, and nothing more.”
“Good man.” Mercer released his hand and turned his attention to another man in the circle. Albert watched Mr. Mercer, forming his opinion. The man was ambitious, with a powerful presence, but there was a glint in his eyes Albert didn’t trust. He frowned, wondering if he should be concerned.
“Now, I heard, Mr. Mercer, that you’re out of money. Care to comment on that?”
Albert and the group turned to discover the source of the brazen comment. A tall, slender man, face young and fresh, stood in the doorway. His gray suit was expertly tailored, his dusty brown hair and beard neatly trimmed. A small notebook was tucked under one arm. He gave the group a crooked, mischievous grin.
Mercer frowned. “This is Mr. Roger Conant, reporter for The New York Times. He’ll be joining us for the voyage. To . . . report on our success.”
“That’s correct,” Conant confirmed, his smile growing, “though success is yet to be determined. I’m here to record everything as it happens, which makes Mr. Mercer just a bit uneasy. Now about the situation with your funds—care to comment?”
Albert folded his arms, eager to hear Mercer’s response.
Mercer’s frown deepened, a blush of anger coloring his cheeks. “Everything is in order, I can assure you. I’ve recently secured an investor, and we are more than taken care of.”
“Ah, yes, the illustrious Mr.”—Conant referred to his notebook—“Sniktaw. Such an odd name. Odd man as well, from what I hear.”
“Sniktaw is a well-respected mountain man who forged his own fortune. He admires our undertaking and thus offered his generous support. Now, that’s enough, Conant. We must get over to the hotel and make arrangements to load the ship.”
Conant nodded, an arrogance flickering in his eyes that Albert wasn’t sure he should admire or suspect. Either way, he was glad the inquisitive man would be there to keep an eye on Mercer.
Conant, sensing Albert’s
gaze, turned his direction. “And who’s the giant? Sure you’ll fit on the ship, my good fellow?”
Albert inwardly sighed. “Dr. Cunningham. Nice to meet you, Mr. Conant.”
Conant held out his hand. “Pleasure’s all mine. What sport?”
“Excuse me?”
Conant chuckled. “Come now! With that height and those ham-hock arms—you must have been wickedly good at some sport.”
Albert half smiled. “Boxing.”
Conant gave an excited whoop and clapped his hands together. “Of course! And I bet no one ever knocked you out?”
Unable to help himself, Albert’s smile grew. “Not once.”
“Magnificent. Well, you and I will have to talk more, and perhaps a little sparring? I’m no match for you, of course, but always up for a workout.”
“I’d like that.”
Mercer cleared his throat, drawing attention back to him. “We have work to do, gentlemen. You’ll have to save your socializing for later.”
The men broke apart, off to their individual assignments.
Dr. Barnard chuckled to himself, clapped Albert on the shoulder. “Ready for this, Cunningham?”
“More than ready, sir.”
“Well, then . . . off to the fortuitously named Lovejoy Hotel, currently bursting with Mercer’s hoard of women.”
Lovejoy Hotel
Cora maneuvered her way down the wide staircase, weaving around the clumps of chatting women. Pushing through all the wide skirts was like wading through mud. She’d purposefully worn only one petticoat and her most flexible and smallest bustle in anticipation of moving more easily around the ship. Her dress was modest, but Cora had taken great care in making it—and two others—specifically for this voyage. Her launch-day dress was a simple white shirtwaist, lace trim at the sleeves and collar, and an emerald-green skirt with black-velvet ribbon accents along the hem. Her thick coat matched the skirt beautifully. When she’d put on the outfit at home, she’d felt stylish and confident. But now, seeing some of the finer dresses, she only felt out of place. Add that to the fact that she hated crowds, and the first inklings of anxiety tightened her stomach.
What am I doing? I don’t belong here.
There’s still time to go back to the Bracewells’. Midwife is a perfectly respectable livelihood. What right do I have to go gallivanting off on some grand adventure? The war is over. No one will accept me as a nurse and surgeon’s assistant anymore.
Cora took a deep breath and felt for the corner of her black drawstring purse. The shape of her suture kit helped steady her resolve. She carried it with her always, a reminder of all she was capable of and all she’d done during the war.
Everything is fine. It’s time to move forward.
I deserve this.
Cora navigated around three women whispering intently, turned the corner, and collided with a solid chest. She stumbled, an apology bursting from her lips almost instantly. “Excuse me. I’m so—”
The shock of his size clamped off her words. She tilted her head way back to find the man’s face, and for a moment she didn’t remember what she’d been trying to say or why. A steady hand came to her upper arm.
“My apologies, miss. Bit of a madhouse in here,” he said with a flash of a smile. His teeth were lovely and straight, his jaw square and made prominent by a neatly trimmed black beard. There was a charming crook to the line of his nose and a thin scar above his right eyebrow. Her nurse’s mind instantly wondered what injuries had caused the defects. Boxer, maybe? With his size . . . Or the war? His vivid eyes, an intriguing shade of gray, searched her face. “Are you all right?”
Cora blinked, remembered herself. “Oh, yes. Perfectly fine. I apologize.” She wondered how a man this tall and this broad ever walked through a crowded hall without taking out half the passersby. Thomas had been the same height as her and sapling thin. He’d been uninterested in physical activities, preferring to sit in his study and obsessively attend to the books of his father’s cotton mill. A skill that made him brilliant at business but woefully lacking on the battlefield, though bullets felled even the strongest of the soldiers.
But this man was a Goliath. Cora blinked again, suddenly aware of her hands pressed to his boulder chest and his body flush against hers as the crowd compressed around them.
Another man approached and clapped the giant on the shoulder, which brought his body even closer to Cora’s. “Whoa there, Cunningham. Didn’t you just promise old Mercer you weren’t interested in any of our fine ladies?” This man was tall as well, but much more lithe. His suit a bit ostentatious, his smile a bit wicked. He grinned at Cora, raised an eyebrow.
“We had a little run-in,” Cunningham answered. “These halls are impossible to navigate.”
“Especially when you are . . .” The dashing man looked the large man up and down, face eager with humor. “Well, huge.”
“Yes, thank you, Conant. Very helpful.”
“My pleasure, Doc. He is impressive, isn’t he, miss?”
Cora frowned at the brash man and quickly dropped her hands. This only fueled the man’s humor.
“Don’t worry, my dear. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know our brave doctor.” He winked at Cora and passed a conspiratorial glance to Cunningham. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve other enthusiastic young women to attend to.” He strode off and was instantly surrounded by several buzzing females, asking several questions at once.
Cora forgot him instantly and kept her head tilted up to the man in front of her, her pulse quickening even more. “He called you doctor—you’re a surgeon? I thought Dr. Barnard had joined the expedition?”
“Yes, you’re right. I’m his assistant for the Mercer journey, Dr. Albert Cunningham.” Albert took a small step back, gave her a formal nod.
Cora’s mouth went dry. Say something. Tell him you’re a nurse. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Cunningham.” She smiled, trying to feel poised and self-assured. He returned the smile, and Cora felt a warm pulse move through her stomach. “I’m Cora Martin. I’m . . . a nurse. I was hoping to assist Dr. Barnard as well. I wrote to him, but he never answered my letters.”
“You’re a nurse?”
“Yes, sir. I started as a midwife and then assisted a surgeon during the war, performing all types of complicated procedures as well as caring for the men. And I’d like to help—”
“You assisted a surgeon, and he allowed you to perform procedures?”
“Yes, sir.”
Albert blinked quickly, his eyes making a quick search of her face. “Well, that’s . . .”
Cora waited for him to say the things male surgeons always said in response to her experience. Please don’t lie, young lady. That’s just not done. But you’re a woman! Albert’s lips pressed closed, no more words coming. He had an odd look on his face. Cora asked, “Are you all right, Doctor?”
His smile faded a bit, his eyes lifting to look over her head. “I’m sure two surgeons will be more than enough. I’m sorry, but I must go. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
With that Albert brushed past her and moved down the hall. Cora turned to watch him hurry out the front door of the hotel. She frowned, confused and a bit discouraged.
I think I would have preferred the words of disbelief.
That was just . . . rude.
Cora thought of all the surgeons who had turned her down over the years. All the men who’d dismissed her plea to learn more and do more. The beds need changing. The bandages restocking. That’s what you should do. It was only Dr. Rand who’d put a scalpel in her hand, taught her to sew skin and stop a bone from bleeding, and trusted her with the morphine. She’d cut bullets out of flesh and helped amputate more limbs than she could count. But this Dr. Cunningham wouldn’t even have a real conversation with her so she might tell him those things.
She wrapped her hand around the corner of her purse. Keep going. Someone will say yes. Just like Rand. Ask until the answer is yes.
After all, Cunningham was only the
assistant surgeon. It was Barnard she had to find.
Albert pressed his teeth together as he plowed into the open space outside the hotel. His heart raced, and his palms had gone annoyingly damp. Just a pretty girl. Nothing to be concerned about. The hotel is full of them.
Yet none had caught his attention like Cora Martin.
She was taller than most women, an instant advantage, and her skin creamy, hair deep walnut brown splashed with highlights. But it was her expression when she’d told him she was a nurse that took his breath. The eagerness, the intelligence. The gleam of desire in her hazel eyes. He knew instantly she wasn’t like any of the nurses he’d worked with before.
Her hot palms against his chest had certainly pulled on his attention as well.
And the hope in the tension of her shoulders, which I dismissed by running away. How must she feel right now?
He rubbed at his forehead, the guilt itching the back of his neck. Turning, he looked up at the double glass doors, considering.
Go back in. Find her. Help her.
He wanted to ask her a dozen questions about her experience. He wanted to find the source of her zeal, which had been so evident in just a few words. He wanted to stand too close to her again.
No. No, I can’t. I must stay focused.
Albert’s family had shuttled many an accomplished young woman his direction over the past few years. But he’d always been too busy studying his profession or disenchanted with the options to consider marrying any of them. He’d yet to meet a woman who could sustain a stimulating conversation. And the day he finished his work with Dr. Vista he’d promised himself not to even think about women or marriage until his practice was heartily established, much to his father’s chagrin. But Dr. Vista had supported this course of action. Good man, Albert. Don’t get distracted. There’s plenty of time for all that. Get your feet solidly on the ground of your work first, and then grow your family tree.
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