Ginny Aiken (11 page)

Eric followed her tear-filled gaze and caught his first glimpse of his son. The infant’s immobile face was a mottled dark blue. Dead.

“Nooo!”

Eric’s cry pierced the night, waking him as his chest heaved with familiar agony. Since they hadn’t haunted him in three or four months, he’d hoped the nightmares had gone for good. But, no, the guilt would follow him forever.

He had to stay away from Letty.

“Eric! Where are you?”

Eric dropped the newspaper. After last night’s nightmares, his reporter’s yell cranked the pounding in his head to a violent beat. “In here, Ford. What’s gotten into you?”

Shoving round spectacles up his nose, the reporter barged into the office. Eric shook his head and smiled at Fordham Giller’s boyish energy. As usual, the young man’s nose wore a smudge of ink and the knot in his tie had long ago resigned its position.

“Happened again,” Ford said. “This time to the Cramers. You know, the old folks just outside town with flowers in front of their barn.”

Eric’s anger propelled him from the chair. They’d been investigating a series of shady land deals for some time now. “I just reread that last story I wrote. The Cramers, huh?”

Ford’s spectacles dipped to the tip of his nose. “And the Swartleys paid them, but only a fraction of the land’s value.”

“We’ll never get them for theft. I must keep missing something, a mistake they’ve made that I haven’t noticed.” Eric stood and came out from behind his desk. He rammed his right fist in his pocket and ran thumb and index finger of his left hand over his mustache. “They can’t be perfect. No one is.”

“Only Jesus,” Ford added, tugging down his rolled-up shirtsleeves. He’d dropped his jacket on the floor, and his hat, caved in on one side, sat on the chair across from Eric’s desk. “So where did they slip?”

As Ford started to sit, Eric hollered, “Look out! Your hat.”

The reporter glared at the offending headgear, picked it up, smashed a fist into the squashed side, and slapped the sorry thing against his thigh. “Anyway,” he said, “do you want me to keep watching them?”

“It can’t hurt. I’ll keep asking questions, too.”

Ford rolled up his notebook, tucked his hat under one arm, and swooped to pick up his jacket. “On my way.”

“Be careful. The Swartleys will likely turn dangerous when thwarted, and our investigation threatens their pockets.”

Ford bobbed his head. Despite his careless appearance, not much got by the reporter. Eric valued him as an employee and knew that between the two of them, they’d get what they needed to nail the Swartleys.

Egbert and Jephthah Swartley were another “boon” brought on by Hartville’s sudden prosperity. Since their arrival, they’d bought a number of outlying claims for a pittance and planned to mine the properties. The swindled folk who subsequently tried to find jobs in town soon learned that the few dollars the canny brothers had paid them were all they had. Housing in town had become pricey.

When Eric had asked Douglas Carlson to draft documents to sell Letty the house on Willow, the lawyer grilled him on his reasons for selling so low. When Douglas learned who Eric’s buyer was, he plastered on a silly grin and nodded sagely.

He only wanted to help her. What was wrong with that? Not a thing, and he’d continue to help her no matter how angry the independent dove grew. Although, when riled, Letty resembled a woodpecker more than a dove. She hammered away with relentless intensity at whatever bothered her.

He smiled. Dr. Letitia Morgan hid fire under her professional surface, and Eric had been so cold since Martina’s death, frozen inside his cage of guilt. He had no right to want any woman, certainly not Letty. Love made him weak when he should have been strong.

Eric had always loved Martina. Their families were among the first to move to Hartville and had known each other well. Friendship first drew Martina and Eric together and then, with the passage of time, blossomed into love.

Marriage had seemed as natural as drawing breath. Their friendship had underpinned the affection that then built a strong marital bond. They’d talked for hours, preferring each other’s company to anyone else’s. Martina’s ethereal beauty had mesmerized Eric, a fascination to which he’d happily surrendered.

When he loved, he loved deeply. Too deeply. Love for Martina had blinded him that fateful day. He’d yielded when he should have stood firm and saved two lives.

He couldn’t care again as much as he had for his wife, certainly not for Letty. He already responded to her but had to stifle that response. If he’d been weak for Martina, he didn’t doubt he would be for Letty as well.

His weakness had caused Martina’s death.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—expose Letty to his love.

When Letty rose the next day, her resolve to help the Pattersons lent her actions a new sense of purpose. Not only was she in Hartville to improve the town’s health, but she now had a more personal mission. God had brought her to rescue cast-off children. Especially since she’d never be blessed with any of her own.

The looking glass over the washstand reflected her sadness. To dispel thoughts of Eric and their confrontation last night, she cupped her hands in the chilly water and splashed her face again and again. Teeth chattering, cheeks tingling, Letty studied her likeness. Yes, she was a doctor. She’d made her choice, and she was proud of it.

She donned a gray flannel skirt and white shirtwaist with navy stripes, braided her hair, and coiled it into her customary
coronet. Patting stray curls, she smiled. She looked efficient, just as she wanted.

The rose and white room brimmed with fanciful dreams, but downstairs she had patients to see. Many patients. One after the other, keeping her busy all morning long.

When the stream of patients dried up, Letty pulled out her heart-shaped pocket watch. Noontime had arrived. She lunched on fresh bread, good cheese, and a tangy apple.

Her chicks’ escalating peeps reminded her she had to find them a permanent home. As she bit into the fruit, a knock came at her back door. Surprised, since her patients used the clinic entrance out front, she hastened to answer.

Randy Carlson’s hair caught the sunlight beneath her bonnet and shone like polished copper. “Hello, Letty.”

“What a pleasure to see you, Randy. Please, come in.”

“I wanted to visit sooner,” she said, draping her wrap over a chair, “but I decided to give you time to settle in.”

Yet another person making a choice for her based on an imagined need.

“You’re always welcome here, and I haven’t been so busy I couldn’t spare time to chat.”

Randy’s eyes clouded. “Oh, dear. I hope you weren’t lonely. It must be unsettling to move as far as you did.”

“I can’t say I’ve been lonely, but I do welcome a friend.”

“And here I am.” The redhead settled into the chair, smug delight on her freckled face. “Oh, before I forget. I feel fine, even though the smell of supper cooking makes me ill. Why is that? I always heard the sickness came in the morning.”

“Not necessarily. As the day goes by, you get tired, and some women feel worse in the evening when they’re worn out.”

“That makes sense. Tell me, what have you been doing? Besides doctoring, that is.”

Letty laughed. Randy’s effervescence was contagious. “I’ve befriended the Patterson rapscallions.”

A frown shadowed Randy’s face. “It’s so sad. Their mother died not long ago, and Horace, never the best of fathers, stopped trying.”

“So I’ve heard. Tell me, Randy, why has no one done anything for them?”

“Oh, but, Letty, we’ve tried. Pastor and Mrs. Stone even offered to keep them so that Horace could work regularly. He refused.”

“That’s not what I meant. Why are they dressed so oddly? And why are they loose in the streets? Won’t anyone spare the time to care for them?”

“How can we spend time with them? We can’t even catch them. And the ladies’ guild did give them a trunk of clothes.”

“A trunk?” Visions of the games such unsupervised bounty must have inspired danced in Letty’s head. “So no one helped them choose proper clothing. It’s no wonder they look ready for a masquerade. Don’t you think that loving them, advising them, teaching them would help? The Lord does call us to feed the hungry and dress the poor.”

“Yes,” Randy answered. “But they ran wild even while their mother lived. She and Horace weren’t the best of parents.”

Letty digested the information and deemed it time to change the subject. “You’ll be the best of mothers, right?”

Randy beamed her pleasure. “I’ll sure try, even though I am a mite scared.”

Letty stood, crossed the room, and placed a hand on Randy’s shoulder. “That’s a normal part of expecting. You’re facing something new, and the unfamiliar brings anxiety with the excitement.”

“Is that how you felt about coming to Hartville?”

“Precisely how I felt in Philadelphia.”

“And now that you’re here?”

Remembering the past few weeks, Letty chuckled. “I’m not sure how I feel now that I’m here. Except that I know this is where God wants me.”

“Wonderful!”

Letty wondered at her friend’s glee but couldn’t fathom its meaning.

Randy went on, oblivious to Letty’s confusion. “This leads to my second reason for coming today. The ladies’ guild is holding a dinner social on Friday evening. We’d love to have you come.”

“Is it potluck? Shall I bring a dish?”

“Absolutely not. The guild members take turns cooking throughout the year. Just bring yourself.”

“Then I’ll look forward to Friday evening.”

“These parties are quite lovely,” Randy went on, her eyes sparkling. “We often play charades.”

“Delightful! I love charades.”

Grinning, Randy slipped on her dark blue wrap, looped the matching shawl over her red curls, and hugged Letty farewell.

“Until Friday, then,” Letty said.

“Friday,” answered Randy.

After the expectant mother whisked out of her home, Letty found herself at loose ends. No more patients came for treatment, and her house needed no further care. Even her chickens were content to peck at some corn a patient had brought in payment.

She sat at the scarred kitchen table, chin in hand, and scanned the room. An uneasy feeling lodged in her middle, brought on by the memory of her aimless existence in Philadelphia. A kaleidoscope of scenes spun through her mind.

The emptiness of her clinic and the silence that filled it, broken only by the weeping of the urchins who occasionally sought her help. And before the clinic, her life had only had room for studies and caring for Mother, who’d never been an easy sort. From earliest childhood, Letty knew she should be seen only when sent for. Mercifully, those times were few, as Mother loved running Father’s home, keeping it as calm and pleasant as the busy physician wished. Letty had known peace while Father’s needs occupied Mother.

After his death, Mother had directed her compulsion to organize and oversee toward Letty. Days became portions of turbulence, sliced apart only by the time spent at the medical college. Upon Letty’s return home each evening, Mother had done her best to disrupt any length of concentrated study.

“Why can you not be like other young women? All our friends’ daughters are busy with either wedding preparations or caring for young ones. Why must you pursue such an inappropriate interest?”

“Because, like Father, I’m called to heal.”

Mother never understood. She’d often bemoaned the men who wouldn’t choose Letty for a wife and all the chances she’d miss to become a pillar of Philadelphia society. Not even on her deathbed did Mother cease her efforts to persuade Letty to abandon her wish to practice medicine.

During the barren months when Letty had had virtually no patients, Mother’s voice had often echoed in her mind and made her wonder if Mother might have been right. Then she’d found the trampled boy. If ever she’d questioned her urge to care for those who hurt, all doubts vanished that night. A child had led her to the truth.

Then Steven Patterson narrowly escaped the same fate. Letty smiled. One had to admire the wit of the boy, of all the Pattersons. They were managing on wits alone.