Courting the Doctor's Daughter (6 page)

She stepped away from her father. “Never!”

He laughed and tweaked her chin. “You’re a stubborn woman, Mary Lynn Graves.”

In his humorous tone, Mary heard his approval and basked in its warmth. She laid a soft palm on her father’s cheek. “Like you, Daddy. Just like you.”

“Goes to show, the Good Lord knew what He was doing when He brought you to us.”

Moisture filled her eyes. Her father always made her feel special, loved. She’d expected all men to be like Henry Lawrence.

How wrong she’d been.

She craved the happiness her father had shared with her mother, happiness she’d never found with her husband.

At night with the boys tucked in bed, she ached with loneliness, reliving all those endless evenings she’d spent waiting for Sam, dreading his shuffling steps, his hands fumbling at the door, his blurry eyes resting on, yet not seeing, her. Even with him in the house lying beside her, he was lost to her. Alcohol took her place as his companion, as the love of his life. She couldn’t compete with a mistress that enabled him to forget the suffering of his childhood.

What had she become? A woman focused on regrets, instead of counting her blessings—her father and her sons. They were the only men she needed in her life.

What if she lost Ben? A shiver snaked down her spine. She met her father’s gaze. “I’m afraid of what Luke Jacobs could do to all of our lives.”

“I’m sorry. I know that peddler has you upset, but I suspect you’re overreacting.” He gave her a smile. “The Good Lord will work it out. Give Him time.”

Obviously, her father didn’t grasp the enormity of the situation. “Given enough time, Ben could be riding on the seat of that peddler’s wagon—on his way out of town.”

Her father frowned. “Guess I’ll have another talk with that fellow. See what I make of him.”

Henry Lawrence wouldn’t let anyone harm her or the boys. A load of worry shifted from her shoulders to his. With a lighter step, she scrubbed the surgery and then headed to her father’s quarters to prepare lunch.

After they’d eaten, Mary set about cleaning her father’s rooms. Michael and Philip had joined their grandfather out back, once again raking leaves but this time burning them in a barrel. Mary kept Ben inside, away from smoke, a
trigger for his asthma. Nearby her new son stacked the wooden blocks she’d loved as a child. Her parents saved everything she’d ever touched, no matter how insignificant. She soaked up that realization like a thirsty sponge. She owed them everything, God even more. She hadn’t come close to paying the debt.

When she became a doctor, she’d keep her father’s legacy alive in this town, long after he couldn’t care for his patients.

True, going to school and studying, taking care of her sons wouldn’t be easy, but she could and would manage it all, as soon as her father had help in the practice. She’d prayed for God to send a doctor. Surely one of the two remaining applicants would be His answer.

Finished with the cleaning, she strolled into the office and peered out the back window. The boys and her father had made progress but still had work to do. She might as well catch up with the accounts. Her work at home could wait another day.

She sat at her desk and delved into the sorry state of her father’s books. He rarely collected cash. Now Luke Jacobs picked her father’s pockets. As she recorded the payment of a bushel of apples, her hand shook and ink splotched the page. If only that man would leave town.

Right then, outside the window, Luke Jacobs strode past. Slowly, trying not to alert Ben, she rose and inched closer. At the sign alongside the path leading to her father’s office, he paused, reading Henry Lawrence, M.D. Then he glanced toward the entrance. Mary caught her breath, held it, her body unbending as steel, ready to spring into action to shield Ben. A second later, he moved on.

Mary sagged against the frame. Could he be looking for her home? Hoping to find Ben? Or merely searching for another place to sell his remedy?

Either way, Mary had a sinking feeling that he’d be back.

L
uke left the Whitehall Café, his stomach full and his mind grappling with a sense of responsibility toward Ben. As he strolled along the sidewalk, lost in thought, he wondered if he could find a way to see his boy without giving away his fatherhood. Would Miss Graves allow him within a mile of Ben?

Not likely. The woman had it in for him. She might be attractive, but she appeared tauter than an over-wound clock. Luke suspected more than his interest in Ben had her in an uproar. His medicine would probably do her good. But he didn’t want to get involved with her problems, whatever they might be. He had enough of his own.

This morning at the livery, John Lemming had turned down his request for a job. Mr. Hudson had done the same at the general store. His housekeeper had wired back that she had no place to go and wanted to remain in the house without pay. That didn’t sit well with Luke. He planned to take the train back to New York. No point in hanging on to his rig. He’d sell it and send his housekeeper the money. Once the local doctor recommended his remedy—

A whinny, then a blood-curdling scream sliced through
the air. Luke whirled toward the sound. A child, half lying in the street, half cradled in a woman’s lap. Screaming, she waved her hands over the child’s head. A dark stain spread across her skirt. Off to the side, a horse stomped. Bystanders stopped, frozen in place.

Luke broke into a run, dodging wagons and buggies, mentally preparing the next steps before he reached the child. He crouched at the mother’s side. “What happened?”

Wide-eyed with shock, she didn’t appear to see him. “The horse,” the woman said, tears running down her face. “Something spooked the horse. He kicked.” She rocked back and forth, holding her son in her arms. “Oh, Lord, my boy! My sweet boy!”

“Ma’am, let me.” His gaze met hers, firm enough for her to release the grasp she had on her son. A circle of people crowded around them. “Get the doctor. And get me some rags.”

“I’ll git Doc Lawrence!” A passerby sped off.

Luke guessed the injured boy to be seven or eight. He checked his pulse. Steady and strong. Good. He lifted one eyelid. The pupil dilated. He checked the other. A concussion.

“Oh, God, save my son!” the mother cried.

Luke eased the boy’s head to the side. The horse’s hoof had laid open a section of scalp, and a lump formed on his skull. Thankfully, the horse caught the child from the back, not at the temple.

A woman thrust material in his hand. “I bought it to make diapers.”

“Thanks.” Luke folded one cloth into a pad and laid it over the wound, then wrapped the other around the boy’s head and added pressure to stop the bleeding.

The mother wept over her son’s frame, her tears disappearing into his sandy hair. “My baby! My baby! Don’t let him die.”

Another woman dropped to her knees and hugged her close. “I’m praying, Martha.”

“We’re all praying, Mrs. Cummings,” a man from behind said with conviction and an affirming pat on her shoulder.

Hearing the whispers of prayers, Luke tried to imagine such support in a big city like New York and failed. He touched the mother’s hand. “Mrs. Cummings, your son is breathing. He’s got a concussion and he’s going to need some stitches, but skulls are tough. Except for a headache, he’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, God,” someone murmured.

Evidently, the boy’s mother heard Luke. She quieted and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Are you sure?”

Suddenly an older man, breathing heavily, his face ruddy with exertion, bent over them. “Let’s get Homer to my office and stitch him up.”

The boy groaned. “He’s coming around,” Luke said.

Dr. Lawrence patted Mrs. Cummings’s back. “It’ll take more than a kick in the head to keep young Homer down.”

Mrs. Cummings gave a weak laugh and let Luke take her son from her arms—yet kept a grip on his hand.

The boy opened his eyes. “Oh, my head hurts. Wh-What happened?”

Color returned to the boy’s cheeks. “You and a horse got in a kicking match, and the horse won,” Luke said. “You’ll be fine.”

Dr. Lawrence stepped alongside Luke. “My office is just down the street.”

Luke remembered seeing the cozy clapboard house with Dr. Lawrence’s shingle out front.

Inside the waiting room, Luke’s steps slowed. Mary Graves rose from behind the desk, alarm plain on her face, her gaze fixed on the small, quiet form in his arms.

At the sight of her, Luke’s heart hammered in his chest—the same rush of energy he’d experienced helping the boy. The realization sunk to the depths of his stomach with a thud. Careful, Jacobs. Don’t get involved.

Mary Graves lifted her gaze to him and her mouth thinned. Obviously the woman could barely stomach him. Perhaps the fact she worked for a doctor explained her intense mistrust of his medicine. Giving Ben that ball had only increased her hostility.

She followed the procession into the surgery, where Luke eased Homer onto the table, being careful of his head.

Taking one look at the matted blood on the makeshift dressing, Miss Graves hurried out. Within minutes, she returned, carrying a basin of water, a bar of soap and towels, the epitome of efficiency and calm.

His gaze collided with hers and held. A flush crept up her neck, and she quickly turned to the boy. In the moment before she’d looked away, something flared in her eyes. She might hate him, but she wasn’t unmoved by him. To his dismay, he found the insight appealing.

Miss Graves smiled at the boy and covered him to his chin with a blanket. “Trying to get out of school, Homer?”

The boy gave a lopsided grin. “No, ma’am, I like school.”

Then she looped an arm around Mrs. Cummings’s middle and pulled her close. “He looks good, Martha,” she said softly, easing the worry lines on the mother’s face.

Petite, with wavy chestnut hair and vibrant jade eyes, Mary Graves was more than equal to the task. She knew her way around a surgery, knew how to comfort a patient and his family. Nothing about her demeanor spoke of the woman who’d battled with him on the square. He shouldn’t be surprised. At their first meeting, this woman possessed an almost passionate concern for others,
though she hadn’t shared it with him. Odd how he’d called her Miss Nightingale, as if he’d sensed her medical training.

Dr. Lawrence smiled. “He’ll look even better with the new haircut I’m about to give him.” Easing Homer onto his side, he snipped a hank of brown hair, then cleaned the wound with soap and water, eliciting soft moans from the patient.

Luke couldn’t keep his eyes off Miss Graves, pleased by her calm demeanor at the sight of blood. Of course, he’d expect that of a doctor’s assistant. She glanced at him and caught him watching her, then lowered her gaze.

Dr. Lawrence finished cleaning the wound. “Mary, take Martha to the waiting room.” Before the mother could protest, Miss Graves led Martha Cummings away.

The older man met Luke’s gaze. “Mrs. Cummings is a wonderful woman but prone to fainting. If I let her stay, she’d be on the floor, and we’d have two patients on our hands.” He smiled, raising a questioning brow. “So, Doctor, would you like to stitch up that gash, or shall I?”

Luke had wondered how long it’d take Dr. Lawrence to uncover his profession. “I’ll hold him,” he mouthed, not wanting to alarm Homer.

Doc nodded just as Miss Graves returned to the surgery. She appeared surprised to still see him there. By the tension around her mouth as she prepared the needle, he half expected her to toss him out.

Before she could, Doc came around to meet the boy’s gaze. “This is going to hurt and I’m mighty sorry. But once we’re done, I’ve got a candy stick for you.”

Tears filled Homer’s eyes, but he managed a shaky nod.

Miss Graves handed Doc a bottle of antiseptic. He dabbed the wound. At the sting, Homer shrieked. Luke trapped his arms and legs so he couldn’t thrash, while Dr. Lawrence talked a blue streak about fishing, dogs, anything to take the lad’s mind off what came next.

While Doc stitched, Mary Graves kept her eyes on the boy, laid a gentle hand on his forehead, crooning that it would soon be over. She stood mere inches away. He couldn’t help noticing her scent, clean and starchy, with the faintest touch of something he’d smelled before. Where? Ah, in his grandmother’s garden on his parent’s estate. What was it? Honeysuckle?

Doc tied off the last stitch, and Luke eased his hold on the boy.

Miss Graves straightened and patted the lad’s hand. “You were very brave, Homer. The only thing left to do is bandage you up, and that won’t hurt at all.” She crossed the room, opened a drawer, brought out gauze and a fine-tipped pair of scissors and in minutes finished the task while he and Doc washed up.

Miss Graves gave the boy his promised treat and his mother a bottle of antiseptic along with instructions to keep Homer quiet but awake. Then she cleared away the mess with the competency of a trained nurse. His esteem for her raised another notch. Whatever needed doing, she did and did well. She and Doc’s motions meshed like they’d been orchestrated to music.

Dr. Lawrence tossed aside the towel and patted Mary’s hand. “Thanks for your help, daughter.”

Luke’s head jerked up. “
This
is your daughter?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone laced with pride. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.” He eyed Luke. “So, out with it, Doctor. Why aren’t you practicing medicine?”

Miss Graves whirled to face Luke. “
You
are a doctor?”

She didn’t look happy about the news.

Mary sagged against the table. This scoundrel, the man whose remedy she’d fought, was a physician? She’d supposed her father’s reason for allowing Luke Jacobs to
remain in the surgery had been to remove her burden of holding Homer. Never dreaming Luke Jacobs had earned the right.

Her stomach clenched. Worse, this meant his remedy probably had value. If so, he possessed skills of a pharmacist, and he’d attended medical school. Achievements she admired.

But why had he kept his identity a secret? What more did he hide?

“Where did you go to school, Doctor?” her father asked.

“Harvard.”

“Ah, Boston. Your accent told me you’re from out East. Harvard is a fine school, one of the best. Did you graduate at the top of your class?”

“Yes, not that it matters. I didn’t find practicing medicine gratifying. About a year ago, I turned my practice over to my partner and holed up in my lab, searching for cures.”

“I tried your medicine. Got the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages.”

A smile crossed Luke’s face, lighting up his eyes and softening the edges of his chiseled features. “Glad to hear it, sir.”

The man was serious about his work. But that didn’t mean he didn’t pose a threat to Ben. Still, she breathed easier, knowing he wasn’t a drifter.

Dr. Lawrence put his mug on the table. “I liked what I saw today. The gentle way you talked to the boy and his mother, the way you soothed Homer’s fear. All signs of a good doctor.” He glanced at Mary. “My daughter’s nagging me to get help with my practice so I’m sure she’ll have no objections. If you’re willing, the job is yours.”

Mary stifled the gasp rising to her throat. Just like that? Her father would take this man’s word, without seeing his credentials?

“I suppose I could remain in town awhile. As long as you understand it won’t be permanent.”

Her father smiled. “God may have another plan for your life, young man. But for now, that’s good enough for me. The pay isn’t much, but you’re welcome to use the apartment above my carriage house cost-free. And I have an empty stall for your horse.”

“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that. If it’s all right, I’d like to give your address to my housekeeper back home so she’ll know where I can be reached.”

A housekeeper implied wealth. Why was a doctor peddling medicine, staying in a cheap room instead of a fancy hotel? Why would he take this job? Too much about Luke Jacobs didn’t make sense.

“Mary, will you write down the address?”

She hesitated, unwilling to comply, but what could she do? Luke’s gaze turned on her. Doubtless her eyes conveyed her feelings. He gave an almost imperceptive nod. She scribbled on a slip of paper and thrust the address at Luke.

His eyes bore into her like augers. “Thanks.”

“I have a motive for my generosity,” her father said. “You’ll be close at hand for late-night house calls.”

Luke chuckled, but Mary saw nothing funny about her father’s offer.

The two men shook hands. “Come to church on Sunday. Ten o’clock. It’s a good way to get acquainted, let the town see the new doc—at least those patients who attend First Christian.”

Luke smiled, flashing that dimple. “Sounds good. I’m afraid my church attendance has been sporadic since I left New York.”

Luke Jacobs had been thrust into her world. The prospect flooded through her, filling her with foreboding and…worse, oh, far worse, with anticipation. Her gaze
darted to Luke. She found him looking at her, his eyes dark, penetrating as if he’d read her mind. He shot her a grin. Inside her chest, her heart tripped then tumbled. Mary sped out of the surgery, barely able to take it in.

Luke Jacobs would be working with her father.

With her.

In this office.

Every day.

She wanted to scream no, yet how could she protest when she’d badgered her father to slow down?

Mary’s stomach lurched. Luke Jacobs couldn’t be God’s answer to her prayer.

He was exactly the wrong man.

Josiah Kelly scuttled in, bent over, grimacing in pain. Mary took one look at his face and ushered him toward the surgery. As she passed the backroom, she glimpsed her father and Luke deep in conversation. The muscles in her neck stiffened. Even three days after entering the practice Luke’s presence in the office shook her. Her father looked up. “Be right there.”

Bent and gnarled, Mr. Kelly took a seat, cradling his dishrag-wrapped right hand like a newborn babe. “Burnt it trying to make myself some lunch,” he said, nodding and sending his wispy gray hair flapping. “Never cooked a day in my life until Betsy up and died on me. Now look what happened. She could’ve been more considerate.”