Sweet Sanctuary (8 page)

As had happened frequently of late, thinking of children brought Nicky to mind. He pictured the little boy hunkered in the shadow of that bush, watching a shiny-backed beetle, hoping to make it his pet. A smile pulled at his heart. Tenderhearted little soul. He'd be good with a pet. Had his mama considered getting him a puppy or kitten?

He tried not to let Lydia sneak into his thoughts. She'd been doing that too much the past two weeks. Especially when the lights were low and it was time to be sleeping. Instead of sleeping, he'd be thinking. Thinking of Lydia's earnest, blazing eyes as she proclaimed her love for Nicky. Thinking of her determined vow to protect the little boy. Thinking of her shame-faced, penitent expression when he reminded her to pray. Thinking of her warm smile when they'd walked with Nicky.

He pushed his hand against the window casing, spinning himself around.
Knock it off, Hatcher.
You've got more important things to think about.
As if to prove it, the door to the clinic opened and a bearded man entered, cradling his arm against his rib cage. Blood soaked through his sleeve.

“Doctor, I have injured myself.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his face contorted with pain.

“Come with me.” Micah guided the man to the examination table in the back. His thoughts of Lydia were pushed aside. Again.

8

L
ydia stepped from the steel-and-glass hall encasing Pennsylvania Station onto Seventh Avenue. She clutched her purse tightly in one hand and her suitcase in the other. People jostled her, but Lydia was accustomed to crowds, and the milling throng didn't intimidate her. She moved with the masses until she reached the open sidewalk. There, she found a spot next to a three-story limestone building with advertising posters nearly covering the plate-glass windows. She placed her suitcase on the concrete as close to the building as possible, stepped in front of the case to guard it with her legs, then opened her purse. It took her only a moment to locate the folded paper with Micah's address on it. Her father had added a brief, terse message to the bottom:
Be careful.

Lydia shook her head. Father hadn't been happy about her boarding the train and coming to New York City to find Mrs. Fenwick. It had taken almost a week to convince him that if Nic Pankin showed up at the house, Father would be a better defense against the man than two women and a little boy. Eventually, Father had seen the truth of Lydia's statement. So, with his typical modicum of grumbling, he had purchased her train ticket and sent her on her way.

Now here she was, in Manhattan, and she needed to make her way to Queens. She glanced up and down the street, her gaze sweeping across buildings that nearly blocked the gray-blue sky from view. A niggle of apprehension attacked. Up close, the city was a rather intimidating place, after all—and so big! How would she ever find Mrs. Fenwick among the vast number of people who lived here?

She reminded herself of a Bible verse she'd read the morning before she'd boarded the Union Pacific train. The verse had stated that nothing is impossible for the one who believes. Well, it was too important for Nicky's safety for her
not
to believe. She
would
find Mrs. Fenwick. She was depending on God's help—and an earthly assistant, Micah Hatcher.

Two men walked past, their gazes roving openly from the toes of her sling-back pumps to the top of her freshly brushed hair. Their unabashed appraisals sent a tingle of trepidation down her spine.
Be careful,
her father had admonished, and it seemed good advice at the moment. She stood with her most confident bearing until the men had gone by, then slumped with relief. The sooner she found a taxi driver who could transport her to Micah's clinic, the happier she would be.

A boy rounded the corner. He appeared around fifteen years old and was rather scruffy in attire, but Lydia thought he had an honest face. “Excuse me!” She hailed the passing youngster with a wave of her hand.

He came to an abrupt halt, then looked up and down the street as if seeking someone before his focus came back to her. “Yes, miss? You callin' me?”

Lydia nodded. “Could you tell me the best place to catch a cab?”

The boy grinned. “You must be new in town, miss. You're
at
the best place in Manhattan to catch a cab. Comin' an' goin' all
the time from the station. Just step up on the curb an' watch. One'll be by.”

“Thank you.” Lydia retrieved a coin from her purse and held it out.

The boy looked at the coin, his eyes wide. His hand began to reach for it, but then he shrugged, shoving his hand into his pocket instead. He gave her a broad grin. “Nah, miss, keep yer change. No charge for common sense.” And he galloped on down the sidewalk.

Chuckling to herself, Lydia pinched her purse beneath her elbow, gripped the slip of paper in one hand, and grasped the handle of the suitcase with the other. She stepped up onto the curb. Just as the boy had claimed, within minutes a jitney screeched to a halt not twelve inches from her feet.

The round-faced driver hollered through the open window. “Needin' a ride, are ya?”

“Yes, sir. I need to go to Queens, the corner of Armstrong and Twenty-seventh.”

The man scratched his head. “That's a far piece o' drivin', miss. Goin' to cost ya a pretty penny.”

“Whatever it costs is fine,” Lydia said, then added, “within reason. I won't be taken advantage of.”

The man broke into a grin, revealing a broken tooth in the front. He jammed his thumb toward the backseat. “Climb in, miss. I'll git ya where ya want to go. An' I'll be fair an' reasonable in my charge o' the ride.”

“Thank you.” Lydia opened the backseat door, swung in her case, then settled herself beside it. The moment her door closed, the driver pulled from the curb, blasting his horn to warn others of his approach. Fear rose in her belly at his aggressiveness. Lydia grabbed the seat and held on tight as he wove through the other traffic. Closing her eyes for just a moment,
she whispered a quick prayer for safety. She wanted to get to Queens in one piece.

To Queens—and Micah.

The thought brought a rush of feeling that had nothing to do with fear. Micah would no doubt be surprised to see her, but she knew he wouldn't turn down her request for help in locating Mrs. Fenwick. His affection for Nicky, and his knowledge of their dire situation, would make it impossible for him to refuse. Guilt pricked as she considered taking advantage of Micah's kind heart, but she really had no choice. Nicky was too important to not use every advantage she could find.

“Mr. Jensen, you did a fine job on your arm.” Micah shook his head.

“
Ja,
was a stupid thing to do, I know.” The man grimaced as Micah forced the needle through his flesh. “I will be wiser than to put my arm through a window next time.”

“Let's not put anything through a window, okay? No arms, legs, heads . . .” Micah tried to make light of things. He knew he inflicted pain on his patient, but distraction was a good antidote to discomfort. “You know, my mama was in a quilting group when I was a boy. I used to stand by the frame and watch those needles go in and out, in and out, creating pretty patterns in the fabric. I just never figured I'd need the skill for myself. But look at this—I bet Ma would be proud of the stitch job I'm doing here.”

The man's face was white, but he managed a weak laugh. “Ja
,
I'm sure your mama would be proud. My own mama, she could make such tiny stitches. Fourteen to the inch, she would say. But I think I would rather you did not try so many on me.”

The cowbell Micah had hung above the clinic door clanged,
and a loud, wild wail filled the room. Both men jumped. Mr. Jensen said, “You better go see what is wrong.”

Micah placed a wad of bandages on Mr. Jensen's arm. “Keep that covered and hold still. I'll be right back.” He moved from the curtained examination area to find a mother and child standing just inside the door, both crying loudly. The child had several scrapes on the side of her face. Her hair was matted with blood, and she clung tenaciously to her mother, making it impossible for Micah to examine her. The mother's distraught wails did nothing to calm the child.

Where was Stan? Micah couldn't handle both patients unassisted. The cowbell clanged again, and Micah glanced up, expecting to see Stan rushing forward with an apology on his face. Instead, Lydia Eldredge, wearing a butter-yellow skirt and jacket and holding a suitcase, stepped through the door. He blinked rapidly, certain he was hallucinating, but the thud of her suitcase hitting the floor and the clack of her heels across the scuffed hardwood dispelled the theory.

“What's the problem here?” Lydia spoke with the lyrical yet determined tone Micah knew well. The howling of the distraught mother and child increased in volume. Micah had to raise his voice to be heard above the din.

“I'm not sure. The mother won't release the child to let me examine her.”

“Let me try.” Lydia placed an arm around the mother's back, patting her shoulder. She smiled in a warm, encouraging manner. “Ma'am, I want to help you. Are you hurt?”

The mother shook her head so hard she nearly dislodged her scarf. “My baby. My baby, she is hurt.”

Micah again reached for the child, but the woman snatched her back, and the child screamed in fear.

Lydia resumed patting the mother's shoulder. “Come sit over
here with me and let me look at your baby. I will help her.” Lydia gently guided the woman to some chairs in the corner. Micah watched, dumbfounded, as Lydia took over. She settled the mother on one chair, sat down next to her, and eased the little girl from the mother's lap onto her own. Lydia glanced up and met Micah's gaze.

She waved a hand of dismissal. “We'll be fine. Go finish whatever you were doing.” She looked pointedly at his bloodstained hands. “I wouldn't have let you touch my baby, either, with those awful hands. Clean up. By the time you come back, we'll be ready for you.”

Micah stood rooted in place for a moment, staring stupidly as Lydia turned her attention back to the mother and child and continued soothing both of them. The wails died down to mild, hiccupping sobs. He shook his head and returned to Mr. Jensen. While he finished stitching the man's arm, he kept an ear tuned to the other side of the curtain. An occasional giggle carried over low-toned conversation. The stitching done, Micah carefully bandaged the arm and fished in his supply cupboard for some aspirin. He found it difficult to stay focused on the task at hand with Lydia on the other side of that curtain, whispering with the frightened mother and child.

Micah assisted Mr. Jensen from the table, and the man gave him a knowing look.

“That lady who is out there, she is a pretty one.”

Micah straightened his spine. His ears went hot. “Well, yes, I suppose she is.”

“She is your friend?”

Micah considered the question. Then, somewhat uncertainly, he gave a nod. “Yes. She is my friend.”

Mr. Jensen winked. “You are a lucky man.”

Micah frowned. That waited to be seen. Then he smoothed
his forehead and handed the packet of aspirin to Mr. Jensen. “Take these when the pain is too much. You'll need to keep the wound clean and dry. Come back each day for a new dressing. In a week, we'll take those stitches out. In the meantime, no using that arm.”

Mr. Jensen's brows raised in alarm. “No using arm? No working? But I must to work. My family—”

Micah stopped the man's worried protests with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I will speak to your foreman and make sure he understands why you can't be there this week. And when you come tomorrow, I'll have a box of food for you to help your family through until you're working again.”

Mr. Jensen's jaw clenched. Micah held his breath, waiting for the man to refuse his help, but then tears appeared in the man's eyes. Brokenly, he said, “You are a good man, Dr. Hatcher. I thank you for your kindness.”

Micah squeezed Jensen's shoulder. “You take care of yourself. Watch out for windows.”

The man managed a smile, and then he headed out, holding his wounded arm against his rib cage. Micah returned to Lydia and the other patient. Although the child's cherubic face was tear-streaked and apprehensive, she sat quietly on Lydia's lap.

Micah squatted down next to Lydia's chair, smiling at the little girl. He asked Lydia, “What have you determined to be the problem here?”

Lydia stroked the child's hair. “She fell from the stoop of her apartment. She has several scrapes and one minor cut above her ear. It bled a lot, as head wounds are prone to do, but I don't think it requires stitches.”

Micah checked. The child whimpered softly when he placed his hands on her head to part the grimy hair at the site of the cut, but Lydia soothed her, and the little girl remained still.
Micah sagged in relief when he determined Lydia was right. He could hardly bear to think of pressing a needle into this little one's scalp.

Micah turned to the mother. “She'll be fine. We'll clean her up and put some bandages on her wounds. Come with me.” The mother stood and Micah reached for the little girl, but the child wrapped her dimpled arms around Lydia's neck.

Lydia stood. “I'll bring her.”