Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (18 page)

“And I know this is all so much babble to you, but it’s led me to feel like I can properly defend what I’ve decided.”

Hairbrush in hand, Ellen turned around to face him. “About?”

He stood up and started to unbutton his shirt. “About Vestal Jackson’s baby.”

Ellen’s heart lurched.

“Did you know Miss Dawson took the child down to the kitchen, and old Harry Butler offered to boil diapers?”

“Who’s ‘old Harry Butler’?”

“Friend of Martin Underhill’s.” Ian chuckled. “The two of them are hand-feeding an abandoned litter of kittens. With eyedroppers.”

“Can we have one or two? There’s evidence of mice in the pantry again.”

“I’ll ask. Anyway, Butler takes one look at what he calls ‘the lit-tle nubbin’—referring, of course, to Vestal’s baby—and between him and Underhill and Dawson they’ve figured a system for using the dumbwaiter as a diaper service.” He chuckled. “And so it seems that everything’s fallen into place.”

Ellen had disrobed and slipped into bed, but she was wide awake now that the conversation had turned from philosophy and toward practical things like mousers, diapers, and babies.

Ian slipped into bed and turned to face her. He stroked her temple in a gesture she loved, raking her hair back from her face and tucking it behind one ear. “I’ve got an argument all prepared if I need one, and it’s reasonable. I can defend my decision.”

“Which is?”

“The baby stays.”

Ellen gave a little cry of joy and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll tell Vestal before the chapel service in the morning,” Ian continued. “If she isn’t strong enough to come down, Manerva Dawson can let her know.” “Tell Jane Prescott,” Ellen said. “Let her carry the news.” “Why?”

“Because I think it would mean a lot to her.” Ellen slid closer and, with a sigh, put her head on Ian’s chest. He kissed the top of her head, and she fell instantly asleep.

On Monday afternoon, Max Zimmer stood on the capitol balcony overlooking Lincoln, his mind awash with conflicting emotions. He went back over his presentation to the governor on Friday, his conversation with the judge he’d just waylaid in the courthouse hallway, and the letter the warden had written. In the end, he blamed the warden’s letter. It was lukewarm at best. Oh, it said that Jane Prescott had been a model prisoner. She’d caused no trouble and “didn’t seem to be a danger to anyone.” There had been no complaints against her for the entire time of her incarceration. But that was the best Warden McKenna could come up with. He’d fallen short of personally recommending a pardon, and when Max pressed him about it, the warden had cut him off, almost angry.

“The state is indebted to you for stepping in during an emergency and performing admirably, Dr. Zimmer, but that does not mean you can tell me how to do my job. I don’t deny that you’ve made some interesting points, but none of those points erases the fact that a man is dead and Mrs. Prescott has owned responsibility for that death. My letter stands as written.”

And so, for want of a better letter—at least that was how Max saw it—the governor had “taken things under advisement” and “would respond after he had time to review the case.”

The judge Max had just talked to at the capitol building said there wasn’t anything more to be done. Max should be grateful for the promise that things were under review. He should advise the inmate of the status of things and go home. He should, under no circumstances, harass the governor, and at this point any further contact would be seen as just that—harassment.

Max looked out over the growing city. Walkways stretched away from the capitol building like the spokes of a wheel. Young trees had been planted on the grounds and here and there in town, but beyond the buildings, all was treeless plains. A body of water shone to the west, glimmering silver in the gray light of a day that promised rain. Lightning flashed along the distant horizon, but the storm was still too far away for Max to hear the resulting thunder. Off to the north, the red granite walls and green mansard roof of the one building that comprised the fledgling University of Nebraska rose up out of the prairie. From his place here on the gentle rise where the capitol stood, Max could see for miles… yet he felt trapped.

How was he going to face Jane? She’d told him she couldn’t bear false hope, but he’d been so sure that this time things would work out differently. He’d bullied his way back into her life and forced her to listen. He’d encouraged her to hope, and now what was he going to do?

Suddenly, he turned his gaze toward the east. It was only fifty miles to Nebraska City. A relatively short train ride compared to the ride back to Plum Creek.
I can still give her good news.
He might have to tell her the pardon wasn’t a sure thing, but he could find Rose. If Rose was happy and healthy, that would mean a lot to Jane. If he found something else, he would fix it. If he couldn’t fix it, Jane didn’t need to know. At least not now. What was the name of that Nebraska City doctor he’d run into at the Medical Society meeting last year? Bowen. That was it. Dr. Aurelius Bowen.

Hurrying back to the main level and out the front door, Max made his way past the picket fence surrounding the capitol grounds, past the livery where he’d rented that fine gray gelding, and toward the hotel. He extended his stay in Lincoln indefinitely and then ran for the train to Nebraska City. Just as the train pulled out of town headed east, the skies opened. Yet Max smiled as he looked out on the sodden landscape.

R
ain poured from the sky for the entire fifty-mile trip to Nebraska City, but just as the train slowed to a stop beside the station, the clouds parted and the sun came out. Max stepped onto the siding and ducked beneath the station overhang, looking off up the street. Steam rose from the teams hitched along the thoroughfare as the wind drove the aroma of soaked animals and wet wood through the air. Grabbing his hat before it blew off, Max ducked into the station and inquired as to the location of Dr. Bowen’s office.

“You feeling poorly?” the stationmaster asked.

Max shook his head. “No. I’m a colleague. I met the doctor at a Medical Society meeting last year.”

The stationmaster nodded, then surprised Max by coming around the counter and leading him outside to gesture as he spoke. “Straight ahead. You see that building that juts out from the rest? Well, that’s not it. But if you turn right just after that and go to the next block over, then take a left, you’ll see a yellow house with a nice rose arbor. That’s not it, either. But you keep going and up a ways on the left, you’ll see the doc’s office. On a corner. Door set under a black awning. The doctor’s name’s etched on the glass set in the door. Kinda fancy.” The stationmaster pulled a watch out of his vest pocket. “You might want to hurry. If he isn’t busy, Doc Bowen closes up around four o’clock. Usually has an early supper at the Monarch Hotel, now that the missus has passed.” He squinted over his spectacles at Max. “You knew the missus passed?”

“No. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Poor woman suffered something terrible. Now it’s the doc who suffers.”

“Dr. Bowen’s unwell?”

“Suffers from ‘widower’s plague.’ Plagued by every single woman within twenty miles wanting a husband.” He crowed with pleasure at his joke as he slapped Max on the back. “You married, Doc? No? Want to be? I can see you’re thinking on it by the way you hesitate. Must have someone in mind. Well, you take it from me. Beware the women of Otoe County. They are a persistent bunch.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Max said. The stationmaster retreated behind his counter, but the man’s talkative nature gave Max an idea. He followed him back inside. “Does Nebraska City have a directory? You wouldn’t happen to have a copy, would you? You know what I mean. It’s a printed listing of—“

Before Max finished the sentence, the man had slapped what appeared to be a small pamphlet on the counter. “Population seven thousand. Five doctors but always room for one more, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Max nodded. “As a matter of fact, my current situation is far from ideal. I’m hoping Dr. Bowen might have some words of wisdom.” While he talked, Max was flipping through the pages of the directory, trying not to be obvious as he located the name and made a mental note.
Flora Ward. 126 11th Corso.
“What’s a
corso?”
Max pointed to a name on the opposite side of the open page.

The stationmaster laughed. “Yeah. Can you imagine a better way to confuse the witnesses? Corsos and streets, all in the same place.”

Thunder rumbled. Max went back to the doorway. Gathering clouds had obscured the sun. “If I don’t finish my business before the last train out, what hotel—” “The Fisk.”

“But you said the doctor dines at the Monarch.”

“Monarch for supper, Fisk for rooms. And neither one pays me to say that.”

Max thanked the man and headed off. Halfway to the first boardwalk, his pants were spattered with mud. If boardwalks didn’t extend all the way to the doctor’s office, he wasn’t going to make any kind of professional impression.

Yellow house, rose arbor,
and the number
126
painted in black letters above the front porch steps. Could it be? The rain had been hard on the rosebushes climbing along the top of the picket fence, but the petals scattered all along the walkway wafted a welcoming aroma as Max made his way up the street, doing his best not to be obvious as he looked the house over. It could use a coat of paint, but otherwise it seemed fairly well tended. Ornamental railings and cornices made it almost seem like something out of a fairy tale. He was nearly past the house when the front door opened, and a girl stepped onto the porch. Max’s heart thudded. She was the right age. She had something rolled up under her arm, and when she settled on the swing, she unfurled it. A patchwork quilt. She tucked it around her legs and opened a book. From inside, a woman called for Rose.

“I’m out here on the porch, Aunt Flora. It’s stopped raining.”

Movement in the doorway sent Max on his way. Rose might not recognize him, but Flora might. He didn’t think Jane’s fears about her taking the girl and disappearing were reasonable. Then again, why test those waters? Turning his collar up against the damp, he continued on down the street, relieved when Dr. Bowen’s office came into view. He’d just stepped under the awning when it began to rain again. At least it was a gentle rain. The kind of rain where a good book and a porch swing could be especially inviting. He glanced back toward the yellow house, smiling at the notion that he would have some comforting news to soften the rest of what he had to tell Jane this week.

A bell attached to the back of the door announced Max’s arrival in Dr. Bowen’s office. The front waiting room was empty. Looking down, Max grimaced at the clods of mud dropping off his boots onto the worn, but spotless floor. The minute the doctor appeared in the doorway, Max apologized. “I’m afraid I’ve ruined your floor. I’m sorry.”

Bowen waved the apology away. “Thought I was finished for the day.” He removed his glasses, wiping them as he said, “You don’t look particularly sick. Can it wait?”

“I’m not here as a patient. I’m here for advice.” Max took his hat off. “Dr. Max Zimmer. We met last year.”

“I remember,” Bowen said with a nod. “You rather energetically defended a new treatment for compound fracture. Something developed in Germany. I told you it was unwise to so quickly replace tried methods with new-fangled ideas.”

“Yes, sir, you did.”

“And then you told me about some doctor’s wife who’d saved a rancher’s leg following the new protocol out in some county. I can’t remember.” He tilted his head. “And how is the West treating you these days, Dr. Zimmer?”

“Well enough.” Max shrugged. “I’m contemplating a change—but I hasten to clarify that I’m not contemplating setting up a competing practice here.”

“Why not? You have something against Nebraska City?” Bowen didn’t wait for Max to answer. “I suppose Simon over at the station gave you his ‘widower’s plague’ speech.” The doctor produced an overcoat from what must have been a hook just the other side of the doorway and began to shrug into it. “Don’t listen to him. Have you had supper? I’ve a regular table over at the Monarch since the missus passed. Don’t want to keep them waiting. Hate cold mashed potatoes. Care to join me?” He didn’t really wait for an answer, just headed out. Max put his hat back on and followed in the doctor’s wake.

“The stationmaster said I should eat at the Monarch but get a room at the Fisk.”

“Probably good advice,” the doctor muttered. “You could also hang your hat with me if you don’t mind a little dust. I’ve a housekeeper, but she’s farsighted and refuses to wear her spectacles.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“If it was an imposition, I wouldn’t have offered.”

And so it was that Max ended up seated opposite Dr. Bowen at the Monarch Hotel, savoring a plate piled high with roast beef and mashed potatoes and enough gravy to nearly float the biscuit riding atop the mess of food. Between bites, Dr. Bowen regaled Max with the merits of Nebraska City to the point that Max realized he really was thinking of moving to the eastern part of the state. “Plum Creek just doesn’t feel like home. I’ve been there for about six years, but I don’t feel settled. I don’t honestly know why. They’re good people—mostly.”

Bowen slathered butter on a biscuit. “You got any stories about late-night visits from Doc Middleton? Clandestine surgeries performed by lamplight to remove a lawman’s bullet?” He grinned. “I may be an old codger, but I like a good dime novel as well as any boy.”

Max smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, no exciting stories. I’ve been there—oh, wait—there was one case. But by the time I got to the scene, the rancher had passed on. The whole county was up in arms over it for a while.” He paused. “Violence in a family does that. Folks never forget. Especially when there’s a child involved.”

Bowen nodded. “Nothing worse than a tragedy that threatens a child.” He took a deep breath. “Those are the cases that make the job difficult. Not all of them have unhappy endings, though.”

“Now that you mention it”—Max hoped his casual manner was believable—“it seems to me there was a Nebraska City connection with the case I’m talking about. Rancher’s name was Marquis? The child’s aunt came to the rescue.”