The Prairie Doctor's Bride
Autor
Kathryn Albright
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17,7K
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28
Chapter One
Western Kansas 1879
Sylvia Marks stared at the gold-and-green sign swinging over the Oak Grove mercantile, then dropped her gaze to the corner of the large display window. The crack was still there—a casualty from her last visit before Christmas. Mr. or Mrs. Gallagher, the owners of the store, had stuffed old copies of the Oak Grove Gazette into the opening to keep out the cold. They wouldn’t be excited to see her back again—or Tommy.
The main street of town was deserted this early, even the livery stable doors were shut tight. She hoped the store would be empty of customers. It was why she had come as soon as the sun rose enough for her to see her way across the river. Most folks were still in bed—at least she hoped they were. It wasn’t herself she worried about. She had long ago grown tough enough to endure their stares and whispers. It was Tommy she worried for.
She glanced down at her son. She’d wrapped him up as best she could, but at seven years old, he was growing out of near everything he owned. Spring had better hustle along a little faster so that she could see to shearing Jeremy and Petunia. Besides selling the sheep’s wool, she would be able to knit Tommy a larger sweater and make them both new socks and stockings. As it was, snow melted from her worn boots and the wet seeped inside, working its way down through the frayed wool strands and settling against her skin. Guess it was one more thing to make her tough.
She took a deep breath—best to get this done. She took hold of her son’s hand and strode through the doors of the Oak Grove mercantile. She knew exactly what she had to get: two yards of cheesecloth for rendering her cheese, along with two cases of jars with lids so that she could bottle her honey come late spring. That, and some flour and oats.
“Be right with you!” a man called out from the back room.
Her gaze caught on a bowl filled with silk ribbons of every color at the close end of the counter. It looked like the storekeeper had been cutting them into lengths. Large scissors lay beside the bowl. She couldn’t keep herself from touching the length of dark blue silk that shimmered pretty as the night sky. Wouldn’t that feel nice in her hair? She’d always been a fool for pretty things, but in her life pretty always had to walk a step behind practical. A bit of twine worked just as well or better for tying back her hair.
Mable Gallagher stepped through the curtained doorway.
Sylvia grabbed her hand back from the ribbons immediately, feeling guilty even though she’d done nothing wrong.
Mrs. Gallagher’s brows drew together in a frown. “What do you want, Miss Marks?”
She didn’t sound happy about being pulled from whatever she was doing in the back, or perhaps it was more a matter of Sylvia’s way of doing business that the woman didn’t care for. Out of necessity, Sylvia bartered more than she bought outright. She had precious little coin for any extras...like the ribbon.
“Just got a few necessities I’m aimin’ to buy. Won’t take but a minute.”
“See that you hang on to that youngster of yours. I won’t have a repeat of last time.”
Sylvia tightened her grip on her son’s hand. What had happened was an accident. Tommy had not meant to knock over the tower of canned goods. Mrs. Gallagher should have known better than to stack them so close to the window. Any fool could figure the outcome of that. Children liked to climb things, and Tommy more than most. She leaned down. “Don’t you pay her no mind,” she said softly in her son’s ear. “What’s done is done and a lesson learned. Just stay close.”
She straightened. “I got my wagon out front. I need a sack of flour and another of oats.”
“That all?”
“No. I need two yards of cheesecloth and two cases of canning jars and lids. I got three crocks of sorghum molasses and a dozen eggs to barter.” She set her basket of eggs on the counter.
“Are these fresh?”
“Wouldn’t bring them if they weren’t fresh.”
Mable Gallagher picked the stub of a pencil from over her ear and started tallying up in her ledger.
Sylvia was halfway through haggling out a satisfactory exchange rate when Mrs. Gallagher stiffened.
The pungent smell of the stockyards snuck into the room. The hair on the back of Sylvia’s neck stood on end. Only one person could make both Mrs. Gallagher and herself uncomfortable—Tommy’s uncle. She tightened her grip on her son’s hand and turned to face him.
Carl wore the same brown britches and coarse cotton shirt that he always wore and each time she saw him they were dirtier and smellier than the time before. Looked like his long hair was getting streaks of gray in it. He was young for that to happen and she wondered if Thomas, had he lived, would have grayed early too.
“Well, well. Who we got here?” He swaggered up to her and stopped too close for comfort, staring down his long nose at her. By the way he acted, she could tell that he’d been into a bottle of spirits already. Being that it was so early could only mean he’d been up half the night drinking.
She stood as tall and stiff as she could, and still only came up to his chin. “Morning, Carl.”
“Ain’t you a purty sight this early come to town.”
His gaze roamed over her, making her queasy in her gut. He must have seen her wagon out on the street. Of all the people in town, he was the last one she wanted to see.
“Who you got hiding there in your skirts? That my kin? Well, step out here, boy, and let me have a look at you.”
“We don’t want trouble, Carl,” she said, moving to shield Tommy with her body.
“Why, I don’t never cause trouble.” The insolent sneer on his face deepened. “Come out here so you can say a proper hello to your uncle.” Moving faster than she’d thought possible, he snaked his hand around her and grabbed her son by the arm.
A cry of pain erupted from Tommy as fear leaped into his brown eyes.
Carl stuck his hands under each of Tommy’s armpits and whisked him up into the air, letting his legs dangle. Then he shook him. “You sure he’s a Caulder? He don’t hardly weigh three stone.”
“He weighs just what he should. Now, put him down. You had your fun.”
“He needs to grow a little backbone. Gotta be tough in this world. Ain’t that right, boy? Your ma had to learn that.” Carl shook him again. Harder this time.
Mable Gallagher pushed aside the curtained doorway to the back storage area and called out. “Henry! Get out here!”
Sylvia trembled with anger. “Put him down!” She inched closer to the large scissors lying at the end of the counter. She had never hurt Carl before, but she would to protect her son.
Carl tossed Tommy aside as if he was no more than a sack of potatoes and slammed his hand down on top of hers, pinning her fingers to the wood. “Now, what are you doing, woman? That ain’t very hospitable of you.”
Henry Gallagher strode into the room. He wasn’t as tall as Carl, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in muscle. He was a stocky bull of a man.
Carl relaxed the pressure on her hand, giving it a last squeeze before pulling completely away from her.
Immediately, she crouched before her son. “Are you all right?”
Tears brimmed in his big chocolate-brown eyes. He nodded—the motion barely detectable.
“You gotta quit mollycoddling the boy,” Carl said. “He’s a Caulder. Should act like one. Not some namby-pamby.”
She stood up, her gaze colliding with Henry Gallagher’s. His wife was no longer in the room. He looked from her to Carl and pressed his lips together. His censure was no help. It wasn’t her fault that Carl had shown up and was the one causing the fuss. Yet it seemed her link to that name made everyone judge her accordingly.
She stiffened her spine. The sooner she and Tommy could leave, the better. “I need two yards of cheesecloth and two cases of canning jars. I already negotiated for them with your wife.”
With a glance at Carl, Henry walked over to the corner stock of canning and pickling supplies. “These will have to do. It’s the only size I have left over from last summer. There’ll be a new shipment in June.”
“They’ll do fine,” she said crisply. She just wanted to get out of town as quickly as possible, before Carl got any more mean ideas.
Mr. Gallagher got the cheesecloth and picked up a case of the jars and carried them out to her wagon.
As soon as the man disappeared through the doorway, Carl sauntered over to the counter. “These yours?” He held up her basket of eggs, the handle balanced on one stubby finger as he swung the basket to and fro.
Her chest tightened. “Carl, why are you being like this? You’d best put that down.”
Carl shrugged. “You ain’t been by to see me in a long time. I near forgot how you looked. Just catchin’ up is all.”
The arc of the basket’s swing got wider and wilder. One egg flew out and splattered on the floor.
Anger exploded inside. Her chest tightened. Such waste! “What do you think you are doing?” She rushed forward, reaching to steady the basket.
He held it just beyond her reach. His mouth curved into a taunting jeer. Another egg flew out and met the same end on the mercantile’s plank floor. “What’ll ya give to get them back?”
Her heart pounded. “Now, you listen here. Those eggs belong to the Gallaghers now. There’s no sense in what you are doing.”
He grabbed her wrist, his fingernails digging into her skin, as he held up her arm just high enough to put her off balance. “Don’t you point your finger at me, missy. You always did think you were better than me and we both know it ain’t so.”
His words hurt—cut—as much as those grimy nails of his. She hadn’t made the best choices in life, but she couldn’t think about that now. Not with Tommy looking on. It was better to let the anger take over than to let what he said get to her inside.
Heat built up and rolled through her. Her jaw tightened. “You let me go.”
He huffed out a breath. “Or what? What you gonna do? You ain’t no bigger than a mite.”
“Mama?” Worry filled Tommy’s high-pitched voice.
She hated that he was a witness to Carl’s bullying, but there was nothing she could do about it. She twisted her arm, glaring back up at Carl. “Let go of me.”
“I’m just having a little fun. You know what that is? Fun?”
“This ain’t it. Not by a long shot.” She stomped down with the heel of her old boot on his foot. Hard.
Surprised, he loosened his grip for a moment, only to grab hold again. His jaw tightened. “Why, you little—”
“What’s going on here?”
A man stood in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the early-morning sunlight on his back. He was tall as an oak tree with a deep voice to match. Sylvia couldn’t recall ever seeing him in town before.
Carl’s grip loosened. She wrenched from his grasp.
Carl sneered and let go of the basket.
Before she could think to react, the tall man scooped it up, saving the eggs just inches from the hard floor. His actions were so quick and precise that Sylvia stood there in shocked silence, her mouth gaping open, as he handed the basket back to her.
“It appears none are injured,” he said in that deep voice.
She closed her mouth.
His gaze, green as the pines in the Shenandoah, skimmed over her, before he turned back to Carl. “How’s that rope burn?”
Carl scowled. “Healed up.”
“Glad to hear it.” The man didn’t budge. He seemed to be just fine with waiting for Carl to make the next move.
Carl scowled again. He tugged his wide-brimmed hat down over his ears. “Guess the fun’s over. Gotta get back to the stockyards anyways.”
It was all Sylvia could do to hold in her relief as he stomped away. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and in the case of the Caulders, she’d learned it was half-rotten before it hit the ground. Only Thomas had been different, taking after his ma’s side of the family instead of his pa’s. She’d been wary of Carl for some time, but when he didn’t come around for a while, she thought things were better. For years, he’d had a woman friend over near Fort Wallace who kept him busy. If that wasn’t the case anymore, guess she would have to watch out for him from now on whenever she and Tommy came to town.
“What can I do for you, Doc?” Henry asked from behind the counter.
Doc? Sylvia turned back and stared as the tall man walked over to the counter. So, this was the doctor that Mayor Melbourne had talked into staying in Oak Grove. She’d heard tell of him a year or so ago but never had a reason to meet the man face-to-face.
She took in the way he was dressed—his white shirt was a bit rumpled, but clean. He wore one of those shoestring neckties she’d heard tell of and it wasn’t even Sunday! His dark burgundy vest had fancy stitching along the edges, like something she’d seen when she lived back East. He had dark brown scruff along his jaw and chin and upper lip. Seemed he wasn’t sure whether he was growing a beard and a mustache or not. His wavy hair was so thick it sprung like a soft cushion from his head. That, she could tell because he didn’t wear a hat or overcoat.
Didn’t he have the sense to know he’d catch his death of a cold in this wayward weather? Spring in Kansas was nothing to sneeze at, half the time cold, wet and windy and the other time sunny, hot and still windy. But today was a sunny one, so guess he had a right to enjoy the feel of it on his head after the fright of a winter they’d had.
“I passed the supply wagon late yesterday on my way back from Putnam’s ranch. Thought I’d check to see if my order of medicine and books came in.”
“I haven’t had a chance to look through the packages,” Henry said. “If you’ll wait, I’ll open them up.”
Funny how accommodating Mr. Gallagher was with other people. Guess some folks just counted more than others. Tommy inched up beside her and slipped his hand into hers. A peace stole over her as she felt the warmth of his skin against hers. Maybe she didn’t count to these townsfolk, but she sure as shootin’ counted to Tommy. And for her, that meant everything.
She walked up to the counter and set her basket down. “I have your eggs here. Let’s settle up. I gotta start back.” She caught a whiff of some fancy lotion or soap the doc had used on himself. Mmm, but he smelled good.
“Soon as I take care of the doctor,” Mr. Gallagher said.
She frowned. She’d been in town long enough and would have been long gone by now had it not been for Carl. “I got me a young ’un to watch out for. ’Sides that, Miss Petunia is in a family way and shouldn’t be left on her own too long.”
The doctor cocked his head. “Miss Petunia? I haven’t come across her in my outlying visits.”
He’d mistaken the name of her sheep for a woman! A chuckle nearly escaped before she clamped her lips tightly shut. She didn’t intend to correct him, seeing as how she probably wouldn’t run into him again.
Slowly, he took in the length of her down to her worn boots, before coming back to her face. With his chin, he pointed at her wrist—the one that Carl had gripped so hard. Only now that Carl was gone did she feel the sting. She hunched her shoulders to coax the end of her sleeve down over the reddened and scratched skin.
“Might want to put salve on that. I’ve got some back at my office.”
She moved away from him, covering her wrist with her other hand. Whether he did or not, she wasn’t going anywhere with him—no matter that he’d saved her basket of eggs. “I can take care of it myself.”
“I’m sure you can, Mrs....?” He let the word hang there. When she didn’t supply a name, he continued. “I’m Nelson Graham, the doctor here in town. The salve I have is made in Kansas City by a reputable apothecary.”
Maybe he was only trying to be helpful. Carl had put her on edge—made her realize all over again how foolish she’d been in her youth to get involved with the Caulder family. She’d learned her lesson, but there was no turning back, no undoing what had come about. She’d keep to herself and take care of herself and that was the end of it. “I thank you for catchin’ these eggs before that scallywag dropped them all on the floor. I needed them to finish this here piece.”
His brow furrowed. “Transaction?”
She frowned right back. Didn’t he know English? “That’s what I said.”
She waited while Mr. Gallagher transferred the eggs into a pail, all the while knowing the doctor watched her. It made her uncomfortable...more than it would had he been someone else from town. She knew where she stood with them. This Doc Graham looked down at her like she was a puzzle and he wanted to figure her out. Well, she liked her privacy and he’d just have to be satisfied with some disappointment.
“I find it odd that I’ve been in town for some time and never knew there was a midwife nearby.”
She stiffened. He just couldn’t keep his nose out of her business! “If you call helping my sheep in her time of confinement midwifing, then I guess that’s what I am.” She didn’t wait to see what his reaction would be but pointed out a twenty-five-pound sack of flour and another of oats that she needed. “That too, Mr. Gallagher.”
Henry hoisted a sack under each arm and carried them out to the wagon, and she followed with the second case of jars.
Her conscience pricked her. Maybe she had been a bit testy with the doc. After all, he had been a big help with Carl.
“Go on and get in the wagon,” she told Tommy. She waited while Tommy clambered up onto the wagon seat. She always had the impulse to help him, after all, he was only seven years old, but she resisted the urge. Her son liked to climb. Seeing that he was settled, she turned back toward the doctor.
He stood in the doorway, looking comfortable and relaxed and infuriatingly confident, with a half smile on his face. She’d like to ask him what was so amusing but didn’t figure she’d care for his answer. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Doc Graham.”
“Same here. Except I still don’t know your name.”
She had plumb forgot about that. Still, she hesitated, hating to reveal yet again to another person her marital state. He’d learn of it eventually. Carl had made sure of that years ago and the Gallaghers liked to gossip—at least Mable did. “It’s Marks. Miss Sylvia Marks.”
She hurried outside, deposited the box she held in the back of the wagon and climbed up next to her son. She didn’t care to gauge the doc’s reaction on learning who she was. She unwrapped the reins from the brake lever and called out softly to her mule. “Giddup.”
She couldn’t leave town fast enough. Nothin’ but trouble in town. Nothin’ but trouble.
* * *
After watching the wagon pull away, Nelson Graham turned back to the counter. He considered it his duty as the town doctor to know who lived in the area. Miss Marks was as backwoods as he’d ever seen and an interesting mix of spunk and pride. Not bad-looking either, and despite her small frame, not easily overlooked. He would have remembered her, had he met her before.
“Interesting woman,” he said when Henry returned from the storage room. He carried the two heavy medical books that Nelson had ordered a month ago.
Henry snorted. “Always seems to bring trouble with her when she comes into town.”
“As I saw it, she didn’t have much choice.”
“I don’t involve myself in the squabbles between folks. If I take sides, my sales go down.”
Nelson had been told nearly the same thing in medical school. “Don’t involve yourself in the politics or prejudices of your patients. Your job is to heal. You won’t always agree with your patient, but you’ve given an oath as a doctor to care for everyone.” Trouble with that was, in Nelson’s mind, he was a man first before he was a doctor.
The fact remained that Carl Caulder was twice as big as Miss Marks and a bully. Nelson couldn’t abide bullies. “I thought I met everyone in these parts when I first arrived.”
“Miss Marks stays to herself. And if you happen by and surprise her, you might get a load of buckshot in you.”
Nelson stifled a smile at the image of the small-framed woman with a big rifle in her hands. “Doesn’t encourage me to visit her anytime soon. Where’s the boy’s father?”
“I heard he took off a few months before the boy was born and never came back. Carl says he died, but knowing Carl, that’s not necessarily true.”
Nelson absorbed that bit of information, feeling more and more like he was prying instead of gathering facts that might help him provide better medical care for the pair. He withdrew a few bills from his inside vest pocket. “Well, what do I owe you here?” Once he’d paid, he picked up his books and headed for the door.
Henry followed him outside to the boardwalk. “This came for you too.” He handed him a letter.
Nelson glanced at the return address. Boston. His parents. A weight dropped in his stomach. What could they possibly want?
He tucked the letter inside his vest pocket. “Thanks, Henry.”
“The train is due in tomorrow from Bridgeport. More women wanting to marry are arriving. Are you going to the station to look them over?”
“I didn’t fare so well the first time.” By the time he’d made up his mind which bride he wanted from the first train, he was too late. Mary McCary would have been a suitable fit. She knew how to cook and she had displayed a caring attitude toward the injured cook out at Putnam’s ranch. It was too bad that spending all that time with Steve Putnam had turned her head toward the rancher. They seemed satisfied with each other. More than satisfied. He was happy for them. It was just that he was left high and dry.
He nodded a goodbye to Henry and started for his house.
Although he had sworn off matrimony after his short-lived engagement, he figured in a small town it was the only course to take. People here tended to trust a married family man more than they would a bachelor and he also needed the help in his medical practice.
What he really wanted was a nurse—not necessarily a wife. Yet he couldn’t very well advertise for one. Any woman would cringe at the thought of traveling so far from her home for a mere nursing position. And no marriageable woman of good character would agree to spend constant time at his side without a ring on her finger. Tongues would wag in this little town where there were so few women. Even if he did find one to employ as his nurse without making her a missus, it wouldn’t be two months before another man would woo, marry and whisk her away.
His only other option was to hire a widow twice his age. He’d been on the lookout for just such a woman. Unfortunately, in the two years he’d lived here, even the older women quickly became brides again or left Oak Grove.
No. His only choice was marriage—preferably to a woman who could look after herself and not throw a fit if he missed supper now and then. Doctoring was more than a job to him, more than a profession. It had become his passion, a calling as much as any parson’s call to the cloth was a calling, and it took as many or more hours in a day. He needed a wife who would understand and be of help to him. Someone practical.
He stepped up on the porch and entered his office. Passing through the front room that served as his parlor and waiting room, he strode back to his office and set the journals and the letter on his desk. He wanted to delve right into the journals, but the letter was another matter. Word from home was seldom happy. He wished he could leave it for another day.
The address was written in his mother’s script. Nothing unusual about that. His father had never written to him. He heard from his mother only when there was something important to pass on—once a year at the most. He broke the fancy seal and unfolded the letter, then paced the length of the small room while he read.
And came to a standstill.
His parents were coming to visit.
Stunned, he reread the letter. Not once before had they visited him. Once they had stuck him in boarding school, it was he who did the traveling to see them, not the other way around. Not even when he graduated from medical school did they make the effort. This was unprecedented. They would arrive in two weeks. He turned the letter over once more, inanely hoping he’d find more written somewhere else on the page. He wished he could read between the lines.
What was really going on?
