Tempest in the White City (4 page)

When he woke, he was alone, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. Once he did, he threw an arm over his eyes. Death and the deuce, but he hated doctors. Still, he had no pain and didn’t hear any harp music, so the purgative must have worked.

He tapped his ribs, looking for his watch, but his jacket and shirt had been removed, leaving him in nothing but trousers and undershirt. There was no window, so he had no way of gauging the time.

Someone had cleaned the exam room, lit a flowery-smelling candle, and set a fresh bowl within reach on his invalid’s table.

The diploma on the wall snagged his attention. Billy Jack. What kind of parents named their daughter Billy Jack? And what kind of woman went to college to take up a man’s profession?

But the more he thought about it, the more he admitted to himself that Billy Jack Tate was no quack. She’d managed to diagnose his problem in a matter of minutes and to cure it without sawing, leeching, or administering electric currents. Not that he was happy with the solution she’d come up with—but still, he’d seen an awful lot worse.

As if his thoughts had conjured her up, she opened the door and stuck her head inside. “You’re awake.”

He didn’t reply, not sure whether to thank her or strangle her.

Stepping into the room, she shut the door and leaned against it. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been riding the rough string with a borrowed saddle.”

She pushed away from the door. “What does that mean?”

“Means I’ve felt better.”

“Does your stomach still hurt?” Approaching the bed, she glanced at the sheet twisted about him and tugged it loose, then brought it up to his chest. “Well? Does it?”

“I’m all right.”

She folded the lip of the sheet over and smoothed it across him.

“You tucking me in?”

“You still sleepy?”

“I need to get up. What time is it?”

“Around eight o’clock.”

His eyes widened. “At night?”

“Yes.”

Throwing off the covers, he pushed himself to a sitting position. “I’ve got to go. My shift started three hours ago.”

She placed a hand against his arm. “Not so fast. Mr. Carlisle said he’d work your shift for you.”

“He should have woken me.” Swinging his legs over the side, he paused. The room only spun for a few seconds, and his stomach made no objection at all.

“You’re too weak to be doing any guarding, Mr. Scott. If something were to happen, you’d be in no shape to take it on. I have some dinner for you. Then my orders are for you to return to your barracks, drink your tea, and head right to bed.”

He studied her. “You always work this late?”

“If a patient needs me.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Bananas and creamed potatoes.”

He cringed. “Not much of a cook, are you?”

Smiling, she removed the bowl and rolled the invalid’s table to him. “Your stomach’s had a traumatic day. We’re going to feed it something easy to digest.”

The potatoes were cold and he hated bananas, but he cleaned his plate all the same.

Finally, he pushed the table aside and stood. “Where are my clothes?”

She craned back her neck to look up at him. “I didn’t remember you being so tall.”

“All the guards are tall. Now, where’re my clothes?”

“Right over here.” She retrieved them from a lower cabinet, then handed them to him.

“Somebody brushed these for me,” he said.

Glancing down, she shook out her skirts. The chatelaine no longer hung from her belt.

He shrugged on his shirt and adjusted it against his shoulders, then began buttoning it. “Thank you for brushing them.”

“Yes, it was, I only . . .” Looking up, she swallowed. “You’re welcome.”

Her discomfort surprised him. She’d not so much as hesitated when she’d undressed him. But that had been different. He’d been a patient on a cot in a great deal of pain. Now, he was a half-clothed Columbian Guard, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, she was an unmarried lady doctor.

She cleared her throat, fiddled with her hair, tugged down her sleeves, and crossed her arms.

He pulled on his jacket. “My boots?”

“Oh!” She shot off to another corner of the room and came back with them. “So, you’re from Texas.”

“That’s right. Where are you from?”

“Right here in Chicago.”

“But you went to school in Michigan?”

“Yes. They're the first state medical school to formally admit women.”

With his jacket gaping open, he pulled on a boot.

She reached out to steady him.

“Cum laude, huh?” he asked.

Again, she blushed. “Did I say that?”

“You did.” He pulled on his other boot.

The minute he finished, she released him and took a step back. “What about you? Did you go to school?”

“I did.” Lifting his chin, he began securing the brass buttons on his jacket. “Only I graduated ‘praise the laude.’ ”

Her laugh changed her entire face. Bright eyes. One dimple. Straight teeth. Rounded cheeks.

“Is your home far from here?” he asked.

Her laugh tapered off, but her smile remained intact. “It’s about a ten-mile train ride, so I’m staying at a women’s hotel built for the accommodation of the unprotected during the fair. That way, if there’s an emergency, I can be easily reached.”

Nodding, he secured the last button and tugged down on the hem his jacket. “How do I look?”

Her smile dissipated. She handed him a pouch of tea leaves. “You look very charming, Mr. Scott.”

He tucked the pouch into his pocket. No sounds from outside penetrated their room. There was only her breathing, his breathing, and the sudden rushing of his blood.

“May I walk you home?” he asked.

“Under the circumstances, I thought perhaps I should walk you home.”

He lifted the corner of his mouth. “Despite what you may think, I never get sick. Most of us boys from Texas have been raised with a gun in one hand and a milk bottle in the other. So, no need to worry. I’ll be fine. I feel a hundred times better already. Thank you . . . I think.”

Her smile returned. “You’re welcome . . . I think.”

“Are you ready to go?”

She shook her head. “I have some paperwork yet. I don’t usually leave until a little bit after nine.”

Nine. Good to know. That’s when his second shift of the day ended.

He placed a hand on the doorknob. “I’ll see you tomorrow, doc.”

“Tomorrow?”

“For my massage.” Winking, he stepped through the door and gently pulled it shut behind him.

For more from the World’s Columbian Exposition, read an excerpt from Deeanne’s April release,
It Happened at the Fair
, on the next page!

C
ullen’s eyes swelled to mere slits, his roughened cheeks itched, and a sharp line separated the raw skin on his neck from
the skin protected by his shirt. It had happened every planting season for his entire twenty-seven years, and it would happen for the next.

He yanked off his gloves, shirt, and undershirt, worked the pump, then stuck his whole head beneath the water. The icy stream stung and soothed all at the same time. He dare not dither, though. Those cotton seeds rode on the breeze and any exposed skin would begin to itch within a day’s time.

Rearing up, he combed his fingers through his hair. Water drizzled down his back, mingling with the sweat collecting between his shoulder blades. The hinges on the back door screen squeaked. His stepmother clomped out, her plump body listing with the weight of the pail she toted.

“You ready to throw that out, Alice?”

She nodded, dirty water sloshing over the sides of the bucket. “I’ve got it,” she said. “You get on inside. You know better than to be out here without a shirt on.”

“A few more minutes won’t hurt.” Taking it from her, he retraced his steps, tossed the pail’s contents, and pumped fresh water into it.

She stood at the door, her back holding the screen open. Her auburn bun sagged, as streaked with muted white as a song sparrow’s wing. “Come on,” she said. “Ya look a fright.”

Pulling off a boot, he glanced inside. His father already sat at the head of their hand-hewn table, shaking out his napkin. Three plates balanced across its slightly slanted surface. The table had been Cullen’s first attempt at making a real piece of furniture. He’d presented it to his mother on his eleventh Christmas, prouder than any rooster in the hen house.

By the time he realized her other table was not only level but nicer, she’d already passed away. She’d never let on, though—just stroked it as if it were made of mahogany and asked Dad if he didn’t think it was the grandest table he’d ever seen. Dad would give Cullen a wink and agree that it surely was. To this day, Cullen didn’t know what had happened to their good table.

“Ya gonna stand out there all day or
cm
in so we can eat?” Dad tucked a napkin into the collarless neckline beneath his bushy black beard.

“Coming.” Dropping his boots outside, he stepped in, plucked an undershirt from the wall peg, and pulled it over his head. At least his arms and chest still held a healthy glow. Two strips of startling white skin dissected his coppery torso, delineating the spots where his suspenders rode. Going shirtless during the plowing was not a problem, it was the planting, weeding, and harvesting that bothered him most. “Smells good, Alice.”

The door banged shut behind her. “Made ya some bean
kttl
soup.”

He suppressed a cringe. Bean kettle soup. Again. It was the third time in as many weeks.

Shrugging into a shirt, he secured the buttons, snapped his suspenders into place, scraped back his chair, and froze. A letter from the National Commission of the World’s Columbian Exposition sat beside his plate. “What’s that?”

Dad scratched the back of his head, fluffing his wiry curls, the same black color as Cullen’s.

“Yer the reader in the family,” he said.

Cullen jerked his gaze to Dad’s. “Why’s it addressed to me?”

Alice plopped a cast-iron pot on the table. Dad handed her his bowl.

“It’s been opened.” Cullen lowered himself into his chair, being careful to keep his hands clear of the table and envelope.

“I had Luther read it to me,” Dad said.

If the store clerk had read it, then the whole county would know of its contents by now. Everybody but Cullen, that is.

“What did it say?” he asked.

Alice served up bowls for the three of them.

“Accordin’ to
Lthr
, it said you’ve been accepted as an exhibitor at the World’s Fair.”

He wheezed in a breath, his swollen airways in as bad a shape as his face. “An
exhibitor
? Of what?”

“An automatic fire sprinkler system.”

A prickling sensation began behind his eyes. “How did they find out about my sprinkler system?”

“I told ’em.” Dad took a spoonful of soup, chewed the ham, and swallowed.

“Told them? How?”

“I sent in an application fer ya.”

The headache that had danced along the edges of Cullen’s skull began to make inroads. “You can’t read or write well enough to do that.”

Dad shrugged. “Got me some
hlp
from the preacher.”

Cullen started to rub his forehead, then stopped when he encountered tender skin. “And why would you do a fool thing like that?”

“Watch yer mouth.”

“I want to know why, Dad.”

He leaned his chair back on two legs. “I found the World’s Fair ad for exhibitors underneath yer mattress last spring when I took it outside fer Alice to beat clean.”

Moisture began to collect on Cullen’s neck and hairline. “So what? The entire world’s been reading about the fair since it was awarded to Chicago in ’90.”

“The entire world ain’t hiding it under their mattress.”

“I wasn’t hiding it. I just, I don’t know, didn’t have anyplace else to put it.” Even to his own ears, his excuse sounded feeble. “Besides, I forgot all about it.”

“I looked at it again when I got
hm
today. Its edges are frayed and it’s been opened and closed so many times the paper is splittin’ along the creases.”

Cullen placed his arms on both sides of his bowl. “Look, Dad. I’m a farmer, just like you. Just like Granddad. And just like Great-Granddaddy before him. A little boy who mourned the loss of his mother rigged up that stupid thing.”