Kansas Courtship Page 3

  Pete’s brows snapped together. “I don’t like the Johnsons. I never will.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Zeb knew the history. After the tornado, Mrs. Johnson had accused Pete and Rebecca of immoral behavior in the storm cellar where they’d taken shelter together. She’d said hateful things about Rebecca until Pete proposed marriage to stop the talk. Still grieving Sarah and their child, the blacksmith had taken the high road when he’d done nothing wrong. Zeb admired his friend’s integrity and wanted to match it by providing a real doctor. Unfortunately, the only doctor within a hundred miles was female.

  The blacksmith looked Zeb in the eye. “If the lady doctor stood up to Abigail, she’s got my vote for staying.”

  “I don’t know, Pete.”

  “What’s the harm in giving her a chance?”

  Zeb shook his head. “What if she kills someone with her incompetence?”

  “She just might be a good doctor,” Pete replied. “Besides, Doc did that already.”

  Zeb looked beyond Pete through the open door and flashed back to the day of the tornado. Doc did his best, but people had died because he couldn’t move fast enough. Zeb’s gaze narrowed to the backside of Dr. Dempsey’s former office. The tornado had damaged the roof, so Doc had used a closet at the church as an infirmary. Zeb had a place for the new physician, but his plan wouldn’t work with a female.

  “You got any ideas?” he said to Pete.

  “Hire her for a month,” the blacksmith replied. “See how she does.”

  The idea had merit. Zeb could place another ad in the Kansas Gazette. While he waited for replies, the lady doctor could treat sore throats and hangnails. “It would buy time,” he said. But where could he put her for that time? No, his first instinct was right—the best solution would be for her to leave in the morning with the Crandalls.

  “Who knows?” Pete replied. “She might work out just fine.”

  Zeb doubted it. Thanks to Frannie, he knew all about women like Dr. Nora Mitchell. She was ambitious. She’d do anything—even twist the truth—to get her way.

  With sweat beading his brow, he recalled the day Frannie left him standing on the church steps, engagement ring in hand. Plain and simple, she’d jilted him for her career. Losing the love of his life had changed him the way Pete’s pounding had shaped the hoe. Like the iron, Zeb’s heart had been red-hot and pliable. He’d have done anything for Frannie. After being jilted, his heart had cooled to black.

  So had his soul. In Zeb’s opinion, the Almighty was either lazy or cruel. Zeb had no love for a God who ignored tornadoes and let children be snatched away. He feared Him, though. Who wouldn’t?

  He wondered what Dr. Mitchell would say about such matters, then decided he didn’t care. Aside from telling Pete about the lady doctor, he had other business with the blacksmith. With the need for lumber, Zeb was running the mill eighteen hours a day. Long hours meant more stress on men and equipment, but he had no choice. A half-dozen buildings needed major repairs before winter, and he’d vowed to finish the town hall in time for a summer jubilee. He had a month to go and needed the sawmill at full power. But with the long hours, there were equipment breakdowns at least twice a week.

  “A blade lost a few teeth yesterday,” he said to Pete. “Can you fix it?”

  “Bring it tomorrow.”

  Pete inspected the hoe, set it down and whipped off his heavy gloves. “How’s the town hall coming along?”

  “It’s framed,” Zeb answered. “I’ve got a crew working on the roof.”

  The men slipped into an easy conversation about wood and welding, things they understood. Women weren’t on that list. Zeb opened his pocket watch, a gift he treasured from Mr. Gridley, and saw he had two minutes to get to the boardinghouse. “I’ve got to go see that lady doctor.”

  The blacksmith put his gloves back on. “Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

  Zeb doubted it, but for his friend’s sake he’d give her a chance. For her sake, he intended to spell out what she’d be facing. Once she saw the tornado damage, particularly Doc’s old office, she’d be crazy to stay in High Plains.

  Considering she’d been crazy to become a doctor, the thought gave him no comfort.

  With her medical bag in hand, Nora knocked on the front door of the boardinghouse. No answer. She knocked again, more boldly this time.

  A middle-aged woman with a tight bun flung it open. “What is it, miss?”

  “I’m Dr. Mitchell. I believe you have a room for me?”

  “You’re not Dr. Mitchell,” she said. “You’re a woman.”

  “I’m both.” Nora tried to disarm her with a smile, but she had no expectations. In her experience, older women were as resistant to a female doctor as men, even more so.

  The woman appeared honestly confused. “Does Zeb know about this?”

  “Yes.” Nora spoke through tight lips. “You must be Mrs. Jennings.”

  “That’s right.” She buried her hands in her apron. “The room I’ve got is plain at best. You’re not going to like it, miss.”

  “All I need is a bed and a dresser.” Nora had had fine things in New York. She’d enjoyed them, but she didn’t need high-class furniture to be comfortable. She indicated the duster. “I’m meeting Mr. Garrison, and I’m eager to freshen up. Could you show me to my room?”

  The woman hesitated, then heaved a sigh. “I guess. You’ll need to sleep somewhere.”

  Nora followed her into the entry hall. To the left she saw a parlor with an upholstered divan, side chairs and tables decorated with lace doilies. The room could have been in a Boston town house except for the smell of Kansas dust.

  Mrs. Jennings indicated a row of hooks by the door. “Put your duster there.”

  Nora set down her medical bag, slipped out of the filthy garment and hung it up. Later she’d shake out the dust. Satisfied, she picked up her medical bag and followed the landlady up the stairs.

  Mrs. Jennings ran her hand along the railing. “I’ve got to warn you, miss. This town’s not expecting a lady doctor.”

  “I understand.”

  “Zeb must have had a fit when he saw you.” The woman looked over her shoulder, as if she still couldn’t believe her eyes. “I don’t know if you heard, but Dr. Dempsey died last week.”

  The doctor’s passing meant High Plains needed her more than ever, but Nora’s heart sank. One thing she’d discovered—male doctors didn’t like or trust her, but they never compromised their patients. Dr. Dempsey would have helped her, even if he’d had to hold his nose while doing it.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “He was a fine man.” The woman’s voice softened. “If you ask me, he worked himself to death after the tornado.”

  “It must have been awful.” Nora thought of the missing twins. How many people had been injured? How many lives had been lost? And the damage to homes and businesses…Repairs had been going on for weeks, yet she’d been staggered by the extent of the work still required.

  “At least the church is still standing,” Mrs. Jennings said. “It didn’t get a scratch. I can’t say the same about the town hall. There wasn’t a speck left except the foundation.”

  At the top of the stairs, the woman turned down a long hall. Nora saw four doors on each side of the corridor and a single row of wall sconces. A window at the end of the hall shot a beam of light to the carpet. Dust motes floated like fireflies.

  Mrs. Jennings opened the second door on the right. “Here’s your room, miss.”

  “Please,” Nora said, sounding friendly. “Call me Dr. Nora.”

  Mrs. Jennings looked over her shoulder and frowned. “That doesn’t seem right.”

  Nora knew she was objecting to the title and not the use of her first name, but she deliberately misunderstood to make a point. If she didn’t ask for respect, she’d never get it. “Nora’s my name, but if you’d prefer to call me Dr. Mitchell, that’s fine, too.”

  “Whatever you want, miss.”

  Nora
held in a sigh. If Zeb Garrison and Mrs. Jennings were typical of the folks in High Plains, she had a long road ahead of her.

  Mrs. Jennings unlocked the door. As Nora stepped inside, she saw a narrow bed, a rough-hewn wardrobe and a vanity with a metal pitcher and washbowl. A red-and-blue quilt decorated the bed, and a window let in fresh air. The room struck her as plain, functional and the loveliest place she’d ever lived because it belonged to her alone.

  She set the medical bag on the floor, then smiled at Mrs. Jennings. “This is perfect.”

  The landlady huffed. “It is what it is. With the storm, I’ve got guests in every nook and cranny. Six families are living up here, along with an orphan boy from the wagon train. Don’t expect too much quiet.”

  “I won’t.” Nora loved children, especially boys who couldn’t hold still.

  Mrs. Jennings looked grim. “You’re going to have a hard time, miss.”

  “How so?”

  “The Ladies Aid Society has certain ideas, especially Matilda Johnson at the mercantile.”

  “I met Abigail—”

  “Matilda is her mother.” Mrs. Jennings tsked her tongue. “Matilda thinks High Plains should be the next Chicago. She won’t like having a lady doctor.”

  “I’ll have to change her mind.”

  “It’d be easier to stop another storm.”

  Nora said nothing, but her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten in hours. Mrs. Jennings acknowledged the growling with a nod. “Supper’s not until six, but you can ask Rebecca for a bite to eat.”

  Nora recalled Mr. Crandall’s praise. “She’s the cook, isn’t she?”

  “That’s right. Head to the kitchen and she’ll fix you something.”

  “I will. But first I have a meeting with Mr. Garrison. If we could use the parlor—”

  “That’s what it’s for.” Mrs. Jennings looked her up and down, taking in the green dress with its fancy sleeves. Nora had worn her best gown to impress Mr. Garrison with her professionalism. Under Mrs. Jennings’s scrutiny, she worried that it made her look snooty.

  Nora indicated the skirt with a sweep of her hand. “I’m dressed for a job interview.”

  “You’re a pretty thing,” said the landlady. “What do you need a job for?”

  I love my work. It’s who I am. Nora wouldn’t change Mrs. Jennings’s attitude with an argument, so she bit her tongue.

  The woman’s face softened into a smile. “Judging by your looks, you won’t be a ‘miss’ for long. Just so you know, I’ve got rules. Supper’s at six. No muddy boots past the entry. And no gentleman callers after eight o’clock. There will be no improper behavior under my roof.”

  “Certainly not,” Nora agreed, though she had little experience with men and courtship. Growing up, she’d been intent on becoming a doctor. She’d attended social events at her mother’s urging, but she’d never mastered the art of flirting. As her father said, she was too outspoken, too bold. Even too smart. Maybe, but she still wanted a husband. Not just any man, but the man God made just for her, assuming He intended to bestow such a gift.

  As Mrs. Jennings turned to leave, two boys ran down the hall. One of them had golden-brown hair and reminded Nora of her brother. She guessed him to be eight years old.

  Mrs. Jennings called after them. “Alex! Jonah! Stop it! You’ll bother Miss Mitchell!”

  “Oh, no!” Nora protested. “I love children.”

  “Good, because with the families, I’ve got ten of ’em here.” She crossed her arms over her bosom. “Zeb’s a good man. He gave me a dairy cow so all these children can have milk.”

  “Mr. Garrison did that?”

  “He sure did.”

  Surely a man who took care of orphans wouldn’t leave High Plains without a doctor. Nora regretted Dr. Dempsey’s death, but his passing helped her position with Mr. Garrison. The town had a need, and she could fill it.

  Heavy steps broke into her thoughts. She looked at the doorway and saw Mr. Crandall with her trunk on his wide shoulder. Grunting, he set it at the foot of the bed. “There you go, missy.”

  Nora appreciated his friendly tone. “Thank you, Mr. Crandall.”

  Mrs. Jennings gave the room a final glance, then put her hands on her hips. “If you need something, ask.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “That’s it, Miss Nora.”

  She’d hadn’t been called “Doctor,” but she counted “Miss Nora” as progress. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Mrs. Jennings followed Mr. Crandall out of the room and closed the door. Alone for the first time in weeks, Nora opened her trunk and unpacked. She hung up her clothes, then filled the basin and washed her face thoroughly with her mother’s lavender soap. The scent took her back to New York and what she’d left behind.

  She loved her father and he loved her, but he’d spoken stern words the day she’d left. This is your last chance, Nora. If you come home, I’ll expect you to put aside that medical nonsense and marry Albert Bowers.

  Her father’s business partner was thoughtful, hardworking and generous. He was also fifty-nine years old and as modern as a powdered wig. She didn’t love him and never would. She had to succeed in High Plains. That meant impressing Zebulun Garrison with her abilities. As she washed her face, she prayed God would soften the mill owner’s heart, and that she’d find favor in the eyes of the town.

  “Be with me, Lord,” she said out loud. “I belong here. I know it. Amen.”

  Strengthened, she hung the flour-sack towel on the windowsill to dry. The opening had no glass, only two shutters spread wide to let in the light. To the right she saw the backs of the buildings on Main Street. Below her, she saw Mr. Crandall driving his empty wagon to the livery stable. As he rattled past her window, he tipped his hat to a man coming out of a low building with a new roof.

  Squinting against the sun, Nora recognized Zeb Garrison and his flashy vest. The man acknowledged Mr. Crandall with a stern wave, then removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve, not stopping for a moment. From the vantage point of the window, she saw the crown of his head. No bald spot there…just thick hair that needed trimming. Everything about this man, even his hair, was bold, strong and defiant.

  A smile played across her lips. She had the same traits. She also had an unshakable faith in God. As long as she stuck to her principles, she’d be safe from prejudice and cruel words. She’d treat Mr. Garrison the way she wanted to be treated. The Bible said to do unto others as you would have it done to you. That’s what she’d do now.

  When Mr. Garrison threw stones, she’d duck.

  When he criticized her, she’d smile.

  When he mocked her, she’d turn the other cheek.

  Nora knew all about loving her enemies. She also knew some enemies were more challenging than others. Mr. Garrison, she feared, would be the most challenging of all. With a prayer on her lips, she lifted the porkpie hat from her medical bag, pinned it in place and went to meet him in the parlor.

  Chapter Three

  Zeb caught a whiff of lavender. He hated lavender. It reminded him of Frannie.

  He’d been staring out the parlor window, thinking about all the work he had to do, when the scent reached his nose. Turning, he saw Dr. Mitchell in the doorway. Instead of the duster that made her look like a farm girl, she wore a green dress with fancy sleeves and a hat with a silly feather. He dipped his chin. “Good afternoon, Dr. Mitchell.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Garrison.” Striding forward, she offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, again.”

  “Once was enough for me.”

  She kept her hand extended. “I’m hoping we can start fresh.”

  Zeb smirked. “You can’t unring a bell, Dr. Mitchell.”

  “No,” she countered. “But you can ring it again if it strikes the wrong note.”

  She stood with her hand loose and ready, wearing a look that dared him to be civil. The moment called for formal manners, the ones he’d learned in Boston, except Zeb
didn’t want to be civil. He wanted to fan the air to get rid of her feminine scent. He answered her by indicating a chair. “Please, sit down.”

  Without a hint of defeat, she lowered her hand and sat on the sofa. Zeb dropped into a chair across from her, draped a boot over his knee and steepled his fingers. Her chin went up a notch. His went down.

  If she wanted an interview, he’d give her one. “Tell me, Dr. Mitchell. Why do you want to practice medicine in High Plains?”

  She smiled, but Zeb refused to be disarmed. Never mind her red hair and a dress that showed off her curves. She was female and not fit to practice medicine. She also smelled like Frannie. The scent brought back a rush of memories that gave him a headache.

  Dr. Mitchell laced her gloved fingers in her lap. “Thank you for using my title. Most people—”

  “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll call you.”

  He expected her to bristle at his tone. Instead, her eyes met his with a patience beyond her years. “Shall we skip the pleasantries and get down to business?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “In the past year, I’ve applied for fourteen positions and been turned down fourteen times because of my gender. I’ve come to High Plains for a chance to prove myself. Will you give it to me, Mr. Garrison?”

  Coming from a woman, the directness surprised him. “Why should I?”

  “Because Dr. Dempsey is deceased, and I have the skills to replace him.”

  Again, she’d been blunt. Zeb liked her style, but nothing could change her unsuitability. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, being female caused problems—including one he was about to introduce.

  “Suppose I give you this chance.” He tapped his index fingers together. “What will you do for an office?”

  “I’ll use Dr. Dempsey’s.”

  “I don’t think so, Miss—Dr. Mitchell.”

  “Why not?”

  “Doc’s office was damaged in the tornado. After the storm he used a room in the church.”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “A room at the church would do nicely.”