Tempest in the White City (3 page)

“You frightened Nurse Findley.” She approached the cot, yet only the swish of her petticoats gave her away.

He looked at her hem. Was she barefoot? Why didn’t her boots make any noise?

“I won’t stand for that kind of behavior,” she said. “Not even from a Columbian Guard.”

Easy for her to say now that she had him flat on his back. “Go away.”

She removed a thermometer from her chatelaine and began to shake it. “What happened between this morning when you stopped me and now?”

“I’ll tell the doc when I see him.”

“I am the doc. Now, open up.” She held the thermometer poised.

Pushing her wrist aside, he gave her an exasperated look. “His diploma’s right there on the wall. You tell Billy Jack to come in here and quit sending me his nurses.”

“I’m Billy Jack Tate. Now open up, and let’s get a read on your temperature.”

She couldn’t be serious. His stomach began to spasm. “Look, lady,” he breathed. “I’m not much longer for this world, so if you’ll just get the doc and let him say a few words, I’d be grateful.”

Her entire countenance changed. She put the thermometer in its case and reached for his cap.

He caught her wrist.

“Something’s happening,” she said. “You’re experiencing pain somewhere. I can see it in your face. Let’s not waste time. I was named after my granddaddies on both sides. I graduated cum laude from the University of Michigan. I’ve been practicing for seven years. And I can help you. But you have to tell me where it hurts.”

“You’d lie to a dying man?”

“Nobody dies on my watch. Not if I can help it. And I’m not lying. I’m Dr. Tate. I really, really am. Now, you need to tell me what’s going on while you still can.”

His grip on her wrist had weakened to a point where she simply pulled free and removed his cap. From there, she went straight to the brass buttons holding his jacket together. Shoving the jacket open, she started on his shirt. Maybe dying in the Woman’s Building wouldn’t turn out to be so bad after all.

“Where does it hurt?” she asked.

“The gut.”

“Did something happen? Did you run into anything?”

A sharp pain lanced through him. Sucking in a breath, he gave a quick shake of his head.

“What did you have for breakfast?”

“A grizzly.”

“I hope you’re joking.” She shoved open his shirt, then wrenched his undershirt from his trousers and scrunched it up to his armpits with quick strokes. Without missing a beat, she swept her gaze from his torso to his eyes.

Jaw clamped against the spasm, he managed a wink. “Not bad for a dying man, huh?”

Her expression was all business. “Point with one finger to where it hurts the most.”

He drew an upside down
U
from his hip bone up over his belly button and down to the other hip bone. If she wanted to see it, though, she’d have to undo his belt. Instead, she simply pressed her fingers against the indicated area.

He jumped, forgetting about everything but the pain, and shoved her hands away.

“I know it’s tender. I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

This was why he hated doctors. Instead of taking his word, they prodded him to see if they could get a holler. Well, he’d be dad-blamed before he’d give her the satisfaction of a holler.

She finished her exam, then, quicker than he could spit and say howdy, she released his belt, unbuttoned his fly, mumbled an “excuse me,” and slipped a hand down to his hip bone. He registered a flash of shock until she pressed down. Agony arched his back.

He gripped the edges of the cot. She continued her inspection, hands kneading the path he’d drawn for her.

“Have you been on any long train trips recently?” she asked.

He opened one eye. Was she trying to distract him? Even without the pain, he’d be hard-pressed to dismiss the fact that she had her hand inside his pants. “Rode up from Houston last month to—” He winced as she pressed a spot just to the right of his belly button.

“Sorry.” Still, she didn’t let up on the pressure. “What did you do before you became a Columbian Guard?”

He tightened his hold on the cot, but forced his spine to relax. “I’m a Texas Ranger.”

“I see. I assume life as a Ranger is quite a bit more active than life as a Columbian Guard?”

“Yes’m.”

Head cocked, eyes closed in concentration, she kneaded the area up over his navel, then back underneath along his right side.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes. Diploma or not, she was female, and clearly felt the need to fill the awkwardness with chitchat.

“We stay in some barracks here on the grounds,” he answered.

At least her eyes were closed, allowing him to grimace undetected. It also allowed him to study her. He surveyed the tendrils of hair still loose from this morning. The lashes resting against smooth cheeks. The pulse at her throat. The curves so close to brushing him, but not quite making contact.

She must bathe in a basket of apples, peaches, and summer berries. Whatever it was, it smelled mighty good. The boys back home could put whatever they wanted on his tombstone. He couldn’t imagine a better way to die.

“When’s the last time you defecated?” she asked.

All thoughts went up in a powder. “What?”

She opened her eyes, her creamy brown finding his dark brown without even having to search.

“When’s the last time you had a bowel movement?”

Warmth crept from his chest to his neck. “I am not about to discuss that with you.”

The eyebrow again. “I’m a doctor, Mr. . . . What’s your name?”

That was quite a question, all things considered. “Hunter Scott.”

“Well, Mr. Scott, if you want some relief from this pain, you need to answer my question. When’s the last time you defecated?” She removed her hand and began to button him up.

He swatted her away, doing the job himself. “I’m not discussing it with you.”

Unwrapping the stethoscope from her neck, she hooked the earpieces into her ears and set the other end against his gut.

“My heart’s up here, Billy.”

“I’m listening to your stomach, and you may call me Dr. Tate.”

“Where I come from, we’d definitely be on a first-name basis.”

“Where’s the commode located in your barracks?”

“For the love of Peter.” His nausea began to rumble again. Sweat collected beneath his arms and along his forehead.

Straightening, she took the earpieces from her ears and allowed them to catch against her neck. “Do you have privacy issues, Mr. Scott?”

The nausea peaked, then receded a bit. “I wouldn’t want to do what we just did with an audience present, if that’s what you mean.”

Pink suffusing her cheeks, she wrestled his undershirt back down to his waist. “We didn’t
do
anything. I simply examined you the same as any other doctor would. And what I meant was, is the toilet in your barracks in close proximity to the sleeping area? Close enough for others to hear awkward sounds and detect smells?”

If this wasn’t the darnedest conversation he ever did have. “It is.”

“And have you ever used it?”

“No.”

She nodded. “When’s the last time you defecated?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are we back to that?”

“Answer me.”

Sighing, he let his arm fall over his eyes. “Coming up on three weeks.”

“Good heavens. You must have an extremely high tolerance for pain. I can’t believe you haven’t sought help before now.”

He said nothing.

After a few seconds, the door opened. “Nurse Findley, put together a pouch of psyllium tea leaves, please.”

He glanced toward the door. Billy had her head poked through the opening, causing her white skirt to drape over a curvy backside.

Straightening, she shut the door.

“Are you barefoot?” he asked.

She blinked in surprise. “Of course not.”

“Then what’s on your feet? You don’t make a sound when you move.”

A smile lifted her cheeks and brightened her eyes. “It’s my hygienic shoes. They have steel springs over the insteps and rubber heels, rendering them noiseless. They were invented by a woman and are marvelously comfortable.”

He stared at a line of frilly white trim along the bottom of her skirt. He figured after all they’d been through he ought to at least be allowed to have a glimpse beneath those hems, but she didn’t offer to lift them, and he didn’t ask.

“A woman’s invention, huh?”

“Yes. A woman by the name of Mrs. Fenwick.”

The nausea began its ascent once again. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to keep it down this time. “Get me a dustbin, Billy.”

The animation fell from her face as she rushed to accommodate him.

He tried to roll onto his side, but was as helpless as a cow in quicksand.

Digging under his back, she rolled him onto his shoulder, then propped him against her while she reached over and held a bowl beneath his mouth. When he was finished, she eased him back, took the bowl out of the room, then returned with a cool cloth.

Wiping his mouth, she gave him a soft smile. “Better?”

“I’m not dying, am I?”

“No.” She folded the rag inside out and ran it across his forehead. “You’re constipated.”

He slid his eyes closed. “That can’t be right. How could something like that knock me so low?”

“It’s not something to trifle with. Has it ever happened before?”

“No.”

“Well, I can give you some immediate relief today, but until you’re defecating at least three times a week, there are a few things you’ll need to do.”

“Like what?”

“I have a tea I’d like you to drink every morning. And so you know, this came on in part because of the inactivity of your new job, not to mention sitting on that train from Texas to Illinois. I suggest you begin performing calisthenics in your room or in a gymnasium. Chicago has several I can recommend. You’ll also need to eat a nutritious diet that is easily digested. Last, you’ll need to come in for daily massages.”

He studied her. “Massages? As in, the kind of massage you gave me a few minutes ago?”

“No, that was an exam. I needed to see if I could feel your colon through the abdominal wall, which I could. That’s a sure sign it’s much too full. Your massage will be in the same area, but it can be done through the fabric of your trousers.”

“More’s the pity.”

Though her expression remained stoic, a blush crept into her cheeks.

“Who gives the massages?” he asked. “You, or a nurse?”

“Me.”

He pursed his lips. “What does your husband think about your job?”

“I’m not . . . that’s none . . .” She swept a hand up the back of her hair, but the loose tendrils floated back down the minute she lowered her arm. “You also need to quit being shy about attending to your needs. Everyone defecates. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do.”

A slow smile lifted one corner of his lips. “You’re not married, are you?”

“Mr. Scott, you need to be paying attention to my instructions. They are very important.”

“Hunter. My name’s Hunter.”

Spinning around, she whisked a sheet from a nearby chair and plopped it onto his stomach. “Remove everything from the waist down and roll onto your side.”

His jaw slackened.

She opened a glass-fronted cabinet with shelves full of surgical instruments and withdrew a large wooden box. Inside nestled a syringe for the likes of Paul Bunyan, along with tubes and a long ivory pipe.

“If that’s what I think it is,” he said, “you can just put it right back in that cabinet.” But his brief respite had passed, and the pain began to build again. It didn’t matter. No way would he sit still for this.

She turned to him, back straight, face set. “You’re having an enema, Mr. Scott. It’s the only way. Afterward, you’ll have immediate relief, and then you can do the three things I’ve recommended for a period of three months. Otherwise, it will happen again.”

“I’m leaving.” With a Herculean effort, he pushed himself to a sitting position. The room wobbled, the blood drained from his head. Billy handed him a bowl.

This time, she didn’t stay by his side. Instead, she wrenched open the door. “Go find the Columbian Guard who brought Mr. Scott in here and bring him to me immediately.”

Even as he retched, her words brought relief. Carlisle would get him out of here. He’d never let this woman do what she planned. By the time he’d finished, his arms trembled, his head spun, and he could hardly remain upright.

She carried off the bowl and returned with Carlisle.

“Get me outta here.” Hunter still sat upright, barely.

Carlisle scratched his chin. “The doc says you’re giving her some trouble.”

“She tell you what she plans to do?”

Carlisle’s gaze touched the instruments strewn across the counter. “She did.”

“Then let’s go.”

But his friend did nothing. Just stood there. Finally, he turned to Billy. “Would you give us a minute, doc?”

“Certainly.” She left, her woman-invented shoes making no sound.

The door clicked shut. Carlisle rubbed the back of his neck. “Did I ever tell you my dad’s a doctor?”

“I don’t care. Get over here and help me up.”

“I think you ought to do what she says.”

“You either help me out of here, or I’ll knock your ears down so they’ll do you for wings.” A spasm curled him up like a scorpion’s tail, robbing his breath.

Carlisle sighed. “Listen, this isn’t so bad. Lots of people have had one. And if you don’t do it, then I’ll have to work all your shifts. Besides, you’re acting as scared as a rabbit in a wolf’s mouth. It’s embarrassing.”

Embarrassing? Carlisle wanted to talk to him about
embarrassing
?

Holding Hunter’s gaze, Carlisle removed his hat and jacket, then rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’m going to call her in here. And when she comes, you hunt up something you can use for a backbone, because if you give her any trouble, I’m going to knock you out cold as a meat hook.”

This could not be happening. “I’ve got more backbone in my little finger than you have in your entire spine.”

“Then let’s get this over with.”

But it wasn’t Billy who came back in—it was the nurse. Hunter did as he was told, and when all was finished, Carlisle kicked the nurse out while the treatment took effect. Finally, Carlisle led him back to the cot. Hunter collapsed into an exhausted sleep.