Her Healing Ways Page 12

  “Don’t you try anything,” Lon threatened.

  “Dr. Drinkwater,” Mercy said, still breathless from his assault on her, “no man has ever offered me physical violence merely because of my work.”

  “I’ll do more than that!” he raged, shaking free of Lon.

  Mercy put out a restraining hand, silently asking Lon for no violence. “I will see that you are run out of the Idaho Territory!” Drinkwater shouted. “Madam, either you stick to midwifing from now on or the next time I come to Idaho Bend, I will see you barred from doing even that. Territorial law does not permit women to hold professions such as physician.”

  “I believe that thee is making that up.” Mercy rubbed her shoulder where it had bumped the door behind her. “In no state is it illegal for women to practice medicine.”

  But Gideon Drinkwater was already stalking away. “I am going to seek payment for my services and then I will be riding back to Boise. You’ve not heard the last from me!”

  “Good riddance!” one of the men yelled after him.

  “Are you all right?” Lon asked her, drawing near.

  “I’m…I’m merely shaken.” She tried to smile. “Thank thee for helping me.”

  “I’m sorry you were subjected to such abuse. I was on my way to visit Digger.”

  “Good. He needs cheering.”

  Lon nodded his gratitude and headed away. Just before he disappeared inside, he glanced back. His gaze told her much. Lon, what am I going to do with thee?

  As she turned to walk away, a familiar voice stopped her.

  “I just don’t like that Boise doctor,” Ma Bailey said. “He thinks we’re dirt under his feet. If we’ve decided to let you doctor here, what business is it of his?”

  Surprised again by this unexpectedly complex woman, Mercy turned to her. Just the two of them remained.

  “And don’t worry,” Ma said, glancing around, “I won’t blab your secret all around.”

  “What?” Mercy asked.

  Flushed with obvious triumph and glee, Ma grinned with cat-in-the-cream-pot satisfaction. “About the gambler kissing you last night.” She chuckled. “It’s good to see nature taking its course. You and him make a good pair. And he’ll give you something more than doctoring to think about.” Ma winked, then walked off, chuckling to herself.

  Mercy stared after her, appalled. The most notable gossip in town would keep Lon’s kiss a secret? Mercy wasn’t a gambler, but she thought the odds of Ma Bailey keeping that secret were over a hundred to one.

  Chapter Nine

  Mercy tottered back inside the church, still reeling from Ma Bailey’s parting shot. She tried to think of a way to stop the news of Lon kissing her from becoming public knowledge. No idea came to her. It was only a matter of time before the juicy details of her first kiss would pass from gossip to gossip. And it didn’t help that at the mere mention of the kiss her lips had tingled and her face flushed with uncomfortable warmth.

  Lon sat on a chair beside the pew where Digger lay, speaking in low tones. Should she warn Lon?

  The church was nearly empty. All the men who had family had been taken home for nursing care. Later today, Mercy would make her rounds in the community, checking for infection and informing the families about the best ways to help the mine accident victims return to health. Mercy turned her mind to the present challenge—away from Lon.

  Indigo was sitting beside Pierre, who had regained consciousness yesterday. But he had said nothing, merely eating and drinking while looking at every one with the most peculiar expression. Mercy had an idea as to why Pierre wasn’t speaking, but she hoped she was wrong. Still, she had to test her theory, no matter how painful it might be for Indigo. The truth always became harder to face the longer one delayed in tackling it. Her sympathy for Indigo weighed on her heart. To avoid Lon, she paused to speak to Pierre and Indigo. Unable to stop herself, she tracked Lon’s every word and gesture. Finally, Lon departed.

  Unwilling still to confront Pierre’s condition, Mercy moved to Digger and touched his heated fore head. “Thy fever is expected,” she assured him.

  He touched her arm. “I don’t know if I can stand this.”

  She knew he was referring to the loss of his lower leg. She sat down in the chair beside the pew he was lying on. “It is hard.” She took his hot, dry hand.

  He stared at her, tears leaking from his eyes. “I came through the whole war, and now this.”

  She wiped his tears with her handkerchief. “Thee is a good man, Digger Hobson. Thee will recover. Thee will still be a good man and a capable mining manager.”

  “What woman will want me?” he whispered.

  Mercy took a small, dark bottle from her nursing apron pocket and poured a dose of medicine into the large spoon lying nearby on a square of white cotton. “A woman who loves thee.”

  He shook his head, suddenly chuckling. “I know it was a stupid thing to say. I haven’t even been thinking of looking for a wife.”

  Mercy smiled and held the spoon to his lips while he swallowed the medicine. The memory of Lon’s kiss fluttered through her. “From what I’ve observed of life so far, not many men need to go far to find a bride. ‘And a man who findeth a wife findeth a good thing,’” she quoted.

  Digger inhaled long and deep. “How will I walk?”

  “I have already ordered a prosthesis for you. Jacob Tarver made out the order form. Thee can pay him when thy fever has left thee.”

  “So they’ll call me Peg Leg Digger.” His attempt at humor failed as his voice broke on the words peg leg.

  She kept her tone matter-of-fact. This brave man needed calm understanding, not pity. “The new artificial leg will not show in public. Thee will have a slight limp. And remember, thee has much to be thankful for. Thee might have died.”

  His face flushed from fever and emotion, Digger nodded. “I’ll sleep a little now. I’m so tired.”

  She nodded. “The fever does that. Thy body is fighting for thee. And rest with regular food and drink is the best way thee can help thy body win this war.”

  He closed his eyes. “You’re the doctor.”

  Mercy sat, clinging to his words—his precious, truly heartwarming words. The route to this moment had been like scaling a cliff, handhold by handhold, while men and women had taunted her. Now she felt as if she’d swallowed the sun. Yes, I am the doctor here. Thank Thee, Father.

  Silently rejoicing, she rose and checked on several of her other remaining patients. Most were feverish. She had no weapons for fever except for the liquid infusion from the bark of the willow in the dark bottle in her pocket. And no one knew why this worked. The longing for better medicine, better science, twisted through her.

  She rose and walked to Pierre—no longer able to put off the inevitable. Indigo was sitting beside him. Mercy looked down at the tanned face that was still handsome in spite of injury. Near the hairline of damp chocolate-brown curls, his head wound had been cleaned. And his arm was in a splint and a sling.

  Pierre looked up at her with that odd expression.

  “Pierre, can thee hear me?” Mercy asked, wishing she could postpone or deny her hunch.

  He nodded, looking uncharacteristically sober.

  “Does thee know who I am?” Mercy asked.

  Indigo started at these words, her gaze switching back and forth between Pierre and Mercy.

  He stared at Mercy for several moments, his face twisted. “No. Why do you talk funny?”

  Eyes wide with shock, Indigo looked to Mercy. “What’s wrong, Aunt Mercy?”

  Her stomach roiling over the unappetizing truth, Mercy went on talking to the injured man. “Thee is Pierre Gauthier. Thee is a miner who was caught in an avalanche. I think thee is suffering what is called amnesia. It can happen after a blow to the head. This young woman is Indigo, my adopted daughter and someone who has been special to you over the past weeks.”

  Pierre looked at Indigo and then to Mercy. “Who are you?”

  “I am Dr. Mercy G
abriel. Thee must not worry. Thy memory will return soon. Just eat and drink as much as thee can and thee will recover thy strength and memory.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked, sounding relieved.

  “Yes, indeed thee shall.” Mercy hoped what she was saying was true. She had seen a couple of victims of amnesia in the war and they had all recovered in time. But there was no guarantee. Unwilling to face Indigo’s crestfallen expression, she walked outside, suddenly needing air.

  Back at her office, Mercy was cleaning her medical instruments after making rounds of a few patients with less dramatic ailments—a man with a case of gout in his foot, a little boy with a broken arm, a three-year-old with an earache. Hearing a timid knock, Mercy turned to see Sunny at her door. “Come in!”

  Dressed in the same faded blue dress Mercy had seen her in when she was nursing Lon, Sunny walked in and closed the door behind her.

  “How may I help thee, Sunny?”

  The girl looked at the floor. “I don’t need to tell you what’s bothering me, do I?”

  “Is thee referring to the fact that thee is carrying a child?” Mercy finished putting the examining instruments into a basin of wood alcohol. She turned and walked to her desk. “Why doesn’t thee take a seat and we will talk?”

  Sunny did so. Mercy waited, letting the quiet build between them.

  “I don’t want to raise a kid in a saloon.” Sunny continued to speak to the floor.

  “Is that where thee was raised?”

  “Yes.” The blunt word was said with a wealth of ill feeling.

  “I see.” One of the worst things about how women were treated in this world was the fact that there were no good options for someone like Sunny. She had been born into a situation there was little hope of leaving. Society was very unforgiving of women who weren’t deemed “decent,” even though the same stigma didn’t attach itself to the men who used these women. “Does thee have any family?”

  “No, my ma died a year ago. A few of her friends came here and I came along.” Sunny was slowly shredding a white hankie in her lap.

  “Sunny, I will be happy to deliver thy baby when thy time comes. Does thee want to give up thy child for adoption?”

  This question finally brought tears. Mercy took one of Sunny’s hands in hers.

  Sunny was finally able to speak again. “I don’t think anybody would want my baby. And it hurts me to think of giving it away. It hurts to think of it being raised like I was. So lonely. No decent mothers would let me play with their children…” Sunny couldn’t speak, her weeping was too strong.

  Mercy’s heart was breaking for this young woman and for her child. “I have a sister who runs an orphan age near St. Louis. If there is no one else to take thy child, I will write her.” Mercy squeezed Sunny’s hand. “But, Sunny, I would prefer to help thee leave the saloon and find a better life where thee can keep thy child.”

  Sunny rose, looking suddenly anxious to go. “I’m a saloon girl. I seen how it was with my ma. But thank you anyway, Doc.” Sunny gave her a fleeting smile and then hurried out the door.

  Mercy bowed her head and prayed for Sunny, her child and for this world that wouldn’t welcome this new life. God, how can I help her?

  The answer came quickly. Not only did she have Felicity, she also had her loving parents. Mercy pulled out paper and her pen, and began writing.

  For the first time since the mine rescue, Lon walked from the back room into the saloon where the lively evening was in full swing. The mining disaster had interrupted his routine. And he still felt strange, as if someone had taken him apart and then put him back together again wrong. It was like donning a shirt that didn’t fit.

  But tonight he’d get back to his normal routine. And stay that way. No more interruptions to his easy gambling life.

  “Hey!” the nearest man hailed him. “How’re you doing? My arms are still aching from moving all that rock.”

  Lon recognized him as one of the older men who’d helped with the rescue. The mention of the mine disaster made Lon feel as if he was walking barefoot on hot sand. But he managed a smile for the old guy who’d worked himself to exhaustion. “Fine. You’re looking in good fettle.”

  “Come on,” the man said, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Later, friend. I need to make a few dollars first.” Lon headed toward his chair at his usual table. Three more men hailed him with thanks and praise, so he was forced to shake several hands. Each kind word and smile pained him as if he were biting down on a cactus. Couldn’t everyone just let it rest?

  Finally, he got to his table and did what he always did while waiting for men to sit down for poker—he made a show of shuffling cards. He let the snap of the cards lull him, mesmerize him. The place wasn’t crowded, but conversations hummed at the bar. Laughter punctuated words periodically.

  Usually, the friendly sounds of the saloon lightened Lon’s mood, made him relax. Now each greeting or comment directed toward him tightened his nerves.

  Two men left the bar and walked toward him. Good. He smiled. Everything would go back to normal now. He’d spent the past night and day lying on his bunk in the back, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he hadn’t left yet. And ignoring the answer.

  Sunny had finally come and talked to him, asking if he needed the doctor. That had galvanized him. He’d realized that he had to start gambling again or everyone would think he’d gone strange. And no, he did not want to see Mercy Gabriel.

  The two men sat down across from Lon. One was a logger. The other was Slattery with his shock of gray hair.

  “We need one more, gentlemen,” Lon said, sending the cards back and forth between his hands.

  “How about me?” The voice came from behind Lon and the shocked expressions on the faces across from him made Lon swivel around fast.

  “Hello,” said the pastor, who had ferried injured miners to the churches. He slid into the remaining chair at the poker table.

  The cards flew out of Lon’s hands and scattered over the tabletop.

  The pastor chuckled. “Sorry if I surprised you.”

  Lon was aware that the saloon was quieting. No doubt not only because of the appearance of this unusual customer, but also because everyone wanted to hear what the tall, thin, blond pastor had come to say to the gambler. Disgruntled, Lon nodded to the pastor and began picking up his cards. “We need a fourth.”

  The pastor laughed, looking genuinely amused by Lon’s suggestion. “I’m Stephen Willis, and I won’t take much of your time. My wife suggested that I invite you to the community dinner this coming Sunday.”

  Of all the things Lon had imagined this man saying, that was not one of them. His scalp tightened with surprise. “What’s your angle?”

  Willis shook his head. “No angle. Just want to thank you for all you did during our recent—”

  “Don’t want any thanks.” The same anger that had pushed Lon to kiss Mercy into silence flamed inside him.

  The pastor nodded, still smiling. “We’re going to have a special service of thanksgiving on Sunday.”

  “What’s there to be thankful for?” Lon snapped. “We lost good men.”

  Willis’s face grew solemn. “That is quite true. But all the dead have been buried and properly mourned. And there are many who survived because of the good people of Idaho Bend.” The man raised his voice. “The whole town is invited. The churches are going to come together for the service. This service is for the living. To begin the healing of our broken hearts.”

  The man’s final words fired up Lon, boosted him upward. He stood up, knocking over his chair. He dragged in drafts of air, his face flaming. Words jammed and stuck in his throat. The anger washed through him in hot waves.

  Willis rose, squeezed Lon’s shoulder and then walked out of the saloon.

  There was silence in the large room and every eye turned to Lon. The heat drained from him. He reached down, picked up his chair and sat down. “We need one more player.” His voice betrayed him b
y cracking again. Another logger came over, gave Lon a cautious look and sat down.

  Lon nodded in greeting and picked up the remaining cards scattered on the table. Then he shuffled and dealt the first hand. The conversations at the bar began again, now buzzing. Lon tried to ignore the sound, knowing all the talk was probably about the preacher singling him out and about his curious and intense reaction to the man’s invitation. What had gotten into him? Why had this simple invitation wound him up so fast and so hot?

  And why was it that the only person he wanted to talk to about it was Mercy? But after his kissing her like that, how could he just go and talk to her? Maybe the kiss had set up a barrier between them. That would be for the best. Dr. Mercy Gabriel had proven to be dangerous to his peace of mind.

  In the evening of the tenth day after the avalanche, Mercy watched the pastor and another man carry Digger Hobson to the wagon. Pierre walked beside them, and they helped him to sit beside Digger. She and Ellen had agreed that Digger and Pierre would be moved to the Dunfield house where Jim had already returned for care. Mercy still visited the other recovering patients daily and would until they were well enough to care for themselves. She tried to keep her mind on the present, but she could not stop thinking of how Lon Mackey had once again vanished from her life. Could it be because of the astoundingly perplexing kiss? Was he full of regret? Or was it something about her?

  Mercy and Indigo walked beside the wagon as it bumped its way toward the far end of town.

  “You’re sure that Pierre will get his memory back?” Indigo asked, looking down.

  Mercy sighed, trying to hide her own worries about this. If Pierre didn’t, how would this affect her dear daughter? “I’ve seen other cases and those men did regain their memories. And if he fell in love with thee once, can’t he do so a second time?”

  “It’s hard to look into his eyes and know he doesn’t remember what he said to me,” Indigo confessed, her voice faltering.