Ginny Aiken (5 page)

When Eric remained silent, she plunged ahead. “I would also like a moment with you. In private.”

He lifted an eyebrow. Clearly, yesterday’s thoughtless question remained a fresh memory. She added, “It’s important.”

A long-fingered hand rose to Eric’s mustache and smoothed the brown hairs. This troubled widower attracted her in a most puzzling way. An impermissible way.

She reminded herself that a woman who dared practice a man’s career couldn’t yield to such an attraction, since attraction could grow into something deeper. She remembered Marcus. Another ill-fated infatuation might devastate her. Letty promised to keep a tighter grip on her imagination and asked God’s help in the doing.

“Follow me,” Eric said warily.

She set aside her foolishness and tried to relax but caught herself studying the golden hair that waved over the back of his head. Her gaze strayed to his back, and she noticed the impressive breadth of shoulders encased in navy serge. Following the line of his jacket, she admired the fine formation of his torso. Eric could have posed for any of the drawings in her textbooks. He embodied the ideal healthy male.

When he paused at a door in the hallway, she nearly ran into his back. He gestured for her to precede him into the room, and ducking her head to hide burning cheeks, she did just that.

“Please excuse the disorder,” he said as he closed the door. “I rarely let people in my office. When I get involved in an investigation, I often forget to clean up after myself. At least, I do until I have to find something in the mess.”

Letty smiled, certain he had no idea he’d given her an intriguing glimpse into his nature. “The clutter doesn’t bother me, Mr. Wagner. I came to apologize for my insensitive question yesterday. Do forgive me. I meant no harm, and I am sorry for the pain I caused you.”

Eric stiffened. Letty continued regardless. “Please accept my condolences as well.”

He closed his eyes momentarily, then cleared his throat. “It’s understandable. You had no way of knowing what happened. Apology and condolences accepted.” With obvious effort he smiled. “Was there something else you needed? Perhaps something with the house? Or did you just want typewriting lessons?”

Pleased by the return of even strained humor to his voice, she said, “I’d love to learn to use the machine, but I’ve no need for one. A physician doesn’t heal with clacking keys and printed pages.”

“True, but they’re interesting anyway.” He gestured to a machine nearly buried by masses of paper on his desk. “Our work here at the office has become much easier since I bought them.”

Instead of sitting in the worn leather wing chair across from Eric’s desk, Letty followed him for a closer look at the contraption. “May I?”

“Certainly,” he mumbled, shoving pages out of her way.

Letty fought a laugh. The tips of Eric’s ears glowed redder than apples in the fall. What an endearing trait in such a controlled man.

“Here, let me help,” she offered, putting papers into stacks and rescuing pencils and dried pens from where they’d landed.

“Yes, well, I do apologize, Dr. Morgan. There’s no excuse for making you work in my office. The least I can do is teach you to operate the typewriter.”

“Would you really? It’s not necessary, but I’m so curious about the machine . . . Oh, thank you. I will accept your offer.”

Eric smiled. Letty counted another victory.

“It’ll be my pleasure,” he said. “Why don’t you sit here and test it? You insert the paper around this cylinder and turn it until it comes out the front.”

As Eric leaned closer, she caught the scents of ink and bay rum and the warm, musky fragrance of a healthy man.

As he continued speaking, she lost track of his lesson. How
embarrassing. She had to stop acting like a spinster and start acting like a doctor.

“. . . just like so.”

As he spoke, Letty glanced at his long, strong fingers poised over the silvery keys. Somehow his arms had come around her without her noticing. Oh, dear. How should she handle this?

She decided to brazen it out. Mimicking the curve of his fingers, she positioned hers over his. “Like this?”

Eric slid his hands out from under hers and took hold of her wrists. He brought her fingers down onto the keys.

“Like so,” he said, his voice oddly rough.

Before Letty could ponder the change in timbre, a man called out his name. Hurried footsteps followed, there was a second yell, and then someone pounded on the office door.

Eric’s touch lingered on Letty’s wrists for a heartbeat before he released her. “What do you need, Michael?”

A tall man in denim trousers and a chambray shirt entered the room. “You said you wanted to know when Slosh was at it again.”

Eric groaned, took a black wool coat from a rack in the corner, and stuffed his arms in the sleeves. As he pulled leather gloves from his coat pocket, he asked, “At Otto’s?”

Michael shook his head. “On the street outside Otto’s.”

With a “wait here” for Letty, Eric ran after Michael. A stream of German words—curses, by the sound of it—trailed behind.

Letty fought her curiosity, but moments later she followed. She didn’t try to catch up with Eric’s long stride but made sure she kept him in sight. She dodged between two carriages, barely missed being hit, and for her efforts, got splattered with mud and melted snow. When Eric turned a corner, she saw they’d reached East Crawford Street. Dismayed to find herself in the seedy area again but dying of curiosity, she threw decorum to the wind and ran after the newspaperman, darting between heaps of snow and patches of ice.

Before long, she spotted the reason for the alarm. In front of what looked like a saloon, three men were slugging each other near senseless. Eric stood to one side, evidently hoping to end the fracas without being sucked in.

Onlookers watched with avid interest, none showing any inclination to stop the tussle. Eric had yet to do anything to end the fight.

Indignant, she ran up and yanked him around by the arm. “Watching the show, Mr. Wagner? Please get in there and do something before someone is injured.”

“How do you want me to stop three skunk-drunk men?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in a fistfight. You’re a man. You should know what to do.”

“Yes, I’m a man, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that I engage in drunken brawls, as you just insinuated.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You certainly did.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

Letty snorted. “This is getting us nowhere. Why are you picking a fight with me when there’s a perfectly good one in progress? One you really should stop, Mr. Wagner.”

“My name is Eric,” he said, unbuttoning his coat, “and I’m sick of you calling me Mr. Wagner.”

The intense quality of his voice stunned Letty. She gasped.

A second later she snapped her mouth shut. She swallowed, blinked, then noticed the spark of mischief in his eyes. What an absurd time for him to tear down his wall of reserve.

She smiled weakly. “Of course, Eric.”

“Furthermore,” he said as he folded his coat, “that lofty name Letitia might have suited your parents, but it doesn’t suit you. You aren’t some bookish schoolmarm. You’re like a bird, quick and cheerful.”

Eric’s words left Letty dumbfounded. He tugged off a glove.
“I know,” he said with a look at the battling trio, “I’ll call you Tish.”

Astonished, she shook her head. “No, it’s Letty. Please.”

“Fine. I’ll get used to Letty.” Off came the other glove. “From now on, that’s who you are.” He thrust his outerwear at her and strode away.

She clutched the items. His subtle essence again teased her nostrils, and she rubbed her cheek against the coat’s scratchy wool.

Eric approached the three ne’er-do-wells. Then he grabbed one by the scruff of his neck, dragged him to a watering trough, and sent him crashing through the ice.

3

She was nothing like what he’d expected.

Eric shook his head and laughed, remembering the image he’d formed of the homeopathic physician before meeting her. Letty Morgan was anything but a tough, professional battle-ax. Compassionate and optimistic, she would probably accomplish great things.

What she lacked in height, she more than made up for in gumption. She’d certainly challenged him at the fight, commanding him to intervene for the sake of three strangers. To his amazement, he’d done it.

All because of one look from her silver eyes.

When Martina died, grief had consumed him, and he’d vowed to avoid emotional entanglements. Although the Patterson children’s situation concerned him, he’d kept the rascals from stealing his heart while still providing for their basic needs.

Then an eastern bird flew into town. A small bird who was building herself a nest among the Patterson children, at the church, and in the thoughts of a certain Eric K. Wagner. That went contrary to his plans.

His newspaper and Hartville’s future had to suffice. He couldn’t afford to let that vivacious bird nest in his heart. It would
devastate him if one day the bird fell never to rise again. Losing anyone else would rob him of what remained of his heart.

He’d have to keep her at arm’s length, even while helping her set up the clinic at the house on Willow Lane. There he had enough to keep him busy, enough to help him avoid her eyes and cheerful smile.

He checked his pocket watch for the eighth time that day. He lifted the fat, orange tabby from his lap, stood, set her on the overstuffed chair, and rubbed her silky orange head. “I’ll be back later, Marmie. Another lady needs me just now.”

As he picked cat hairs from his old, comfortable jeans, he smiled, picturing Letty’s reaction when she saw him dressed this way. No suits for him here at the ranch; he had too much to do. Work helped him feel alive, something he’d needed since Martina died.

The simmering ache that always threatened to boil over rushed to the fore, but unwilling to spoil a day he’d waited for, Eric set the pain aside and remembered Letty’s interest in the Patterson children. He’d give her a hand with those scalawags as soon as he had her clinic running. The two of them should be able to improve the Patterson children’s lives without getting drawn in too deeply.

He walked the two miles to Willow Lane, enjoying the unexpected thaw that came with the last days of February. The snow gave way in spots to patches of mud, and everywhere the scent of earth—life itself—invited him to join the new world. The sky wore cottony clouds, and the sun bathed everything in golden light.

For the first time in two years, Eric felt glad to be alive, and when he arrived at Letty’s house, her welcoming smile increased his contentment.

“Please come in,” she said. “I began to open boxes, but I’m not strong enough to move them around. I’ll warn you, Mr. Wagner, I intend to put your height and strength to good use today.”

“I thought we agreed to stop the Mr. Wagner nonsense.”

Rose tinted her cheeks. She clasped her hands behind her back, evidently to conceal her nervousness. “We did,” she said. “But it will take time to get used to it.”

He conceded with a nod. “Where would you like to start?”

“Follow me.” She led him to the former dining room. “I was assured the examining table I shipped from Philadelphia would arrive by tomorrow at the latest, so it’s probably best to prepare this room first. How are you at making shelves?”

“Shelves? What for?”

The doctor pointed to a crate filled with amber-glass jars of pellets.

“Of course. Your remedies.” Eric removed his coat and gloves and dropped them out of the way in a heap. He gathered hammer, nails, saw, and a board Letty had found in the shed out back and then went to work on the shelves. Once he’d cut the wood, he called her to his side.

At her quizzical look, he explained. “I have to measure you, since it only makes sense to build the shelves to your height. Touch the wall at a convenient spot.”

“Thank you, Eric. That’s most considerate. My lack of height has occasionally inconvenienced others. Lower shelves will be a luxury.”

He wondered whom she had inconvenienced just by being small, but he didn’t ask, fearing that if he did, he’d be asking for more than just the answer to a question—he’d be asking her to share bits of herself. That could lead to caring, and he couldn’t afford to care again.

So Eric pounded nails in the wall, making braces strong enough to support Letty’s shelves, low enough to ensure her self-sufficiency. After a time, the urge to know her better overcame his prudence. “Why did you decide to leave Philadelphia?”

Uncertainty played over her face. Then she squared her shoulders. “The prejudice against women doctors made it impossible
for me to make a success of my clinic,” she said. “I tried for six months, but aside from a handful of poor street urchins, I had no patients. I’d worked too hard and studied too long to give up on my calling. Your letter came as a blessing. Not only was I running low on funds, but also a tragedy occurred days before.”

She paused, and Eric looked away from the brace he’d cut. Letty turned away, then said softly, “A patient’s sister called me to a birthing. Although Mrs. Forrest was clearly in trouble, her husband wouldn’t let me treat her because I’m a woman. He accused me of corrupting women’s attitudes. She died, as did the child.”

Her story brought his worst memories to life, memories he fought to control—to no avail. He again saw Martina lying in a pool of blood. And baby Karl—

Nein.

He fought to keep that memory from surfacing, but the image of a white face grew clearer. He could still feel Martina’s fingers on his cheek as she told him she hoped he would remarry soon.

Moving as if in a vat of molasses, Eric edged toward the window.

A gentle voice called to him from far away.

A hand covered his. The warmth of her fingers began to melt the darkness around him. Moments later, a sliver of light broke through.

Eric shuddered and ran his free hand over his eyes. Good heavens, it still hurt. How long would this pain last?

One by one, he cast off layers of guilt, grief, and loneliness, each made easier by the unexpected strength of that small hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t usually lose control.”