That Certain Spark (11 page)
The coal in his forge didn’t burn as hot as Karl’s thigh. With the doctor standing there, he wasn’t going to admit it, though. By moving in increments, he was able to look casual, and easing his weight over onto the other leg helped significantly. One more bent. Twenty more joints to strike into place.
“We’d best leave the men alone, Hope. I’m interested in hearing more about how you’ve given the men pickles at harvest. It’s an excellent way to replenish the salt they lose, and it helps them hold water better. Can you tell me how much salt you use in the brine?”
The two women walked off—a pair of complete opposites. The doctor was tall, stately, and beautiful. Well educated and from a privileged upbringing, she’d never known want. A hat rested on her sleek dark hair, and she was dressed in expensive clothes. By contrast, Hope was average in height and appearance—though her joy for life always gave her a special brightness. An illiterate, itinerant cook, Hope had breezed into Gooding with nothing more than two cans of food. Even now, like all of the other farm wives, she wore dresses made of feed sacks. Everyone loved and accepted Hope—but she didn’t upset their lives. The doctor had barged into town, taken over a man’s job, and expected people to adjust to the change she forced on them. She and Hope got along. Then again, Hope got along with everyone. . . .
“The doctor—there is a fineness about her.” Phineas spoke from across the bent to no one in particular. “Easily it came to her, to make Hope look smart. A woman like her with so much education and money could act uppity, but she opened her heart to Jakob’s wife and didn’t consider herself any better.”
“Hope—she is a good woman and deserving of such regard.” Karl voiced as much praise as a man should give another man’s wife. “I wonder how many of us watched, worrying that she would hurt Hope’s feelings. She didn’t judge Hope at all, but we judged her and found her wanting—all without reason.”
“It’s something to think on,” Adderly said, scratching his side. “Seems more sweet than sassy.”
THUMP.
The post tenons slid into the sill pockets, and the men started hammering a temporary brace into place. The fleeting respite was over. Two more bents for the barn. One apiece for Piet and him. Karl swallowed a last gulp of water. He’d rested as long as he could.
“Broeder!” Piet called as he swaggered over. “I thought to finish knocking these last two bents together all by ourselves, but some of the young wolves want to bark and howl.”
“We’ll be here all day if I’m supposed to have a go at it,” Enoch called out.
Everyone shouted with laughter.
“As the elder brother, I claim this next one, Karl. You can organize the ones doing the last bent.”
“You and I will each do half of this one.”
Piet said under his breath in Dutch, “Your leg cannot take more.”
Pretending he didn’t hear him, Karl continued, “As the elder brother, you’re used to being bossy—you organize them.”
“As the elder brother, I will do two of the three braces on the bent, and I will eat twice as much dessert.”
Karl gave his brother a shove. “When did you start losing your appetite?”
Until the second bent was up and secured to the first with a girt spanning laterally between them on each side, the original bent was unstable. Only three men stayed to help assemble the fifth. A particular piece was too long, so they had to borrow the identical one from the sixth set and assign someone to saw down the incorrectly sized one.
“Karl! Get that beetle over here.” The second piece now slid into place with a resounding thump. Having slammed girts in place and relinquished the mallet, Karl figured he could ease off.
Skyler trotted over, yipped, ran away about ten yards, then turned to look back. It was his way of saying, “Follow me.”
“Okay, boy.” Karl saw his collie go around a clump of shrubs.
“Ow! Stop it!” The sounds of shouting from up ahead caused him to speed up. Rounding the greenery, Karl halted.
A half-dozen boys crowded around the doctor. She was kneeling on the ground, one hand loosely curled around one of the younger Smith boys’ wrists. “I’m not doing anything at all. Here. Turn your hand this way so everyone can see what a splinter you’ve gotten.” She rotated it slightly so the light angled off the heel of the boy’s hand.
“Let go of him or I’m going to tell my dad!”
“The men won’t take kindly to being disturbed while they raise that barn. You’ll have to go get your mama and have her fetch her sewing basket so she can find a needle in order to get this ugly old thing out of here. Mmm-hmm. That’s what she’ll most certainly do.”
Karl bent his arms akimbo and watched. She’d chosen her words shrewdly. Few things could be worse for a boy than to have to go to his mama in front of everyone as if he were a helpless baby—and know full well that when she did take a needle to him, he’d probably act like a baby, too.
“I ain’t going to my ma. You take it out.”
Skyler chose that moment to bark.
All the boys scrambled backward. One of the older Smith boys said, “Pa don’t cotton to no woman doctor.”
Slowly and carefully, the doctor set the little boy’s hand down in his lap.
Leaning over, Karl made a dismissive sound. “It’s just a stupid old picker. Go on ahead and yank it out, Doc.”
“That’s not possible. Now that I know the father wouldn’t approve of my rendering care, I cannot do so. It would be against my canon of ethics.”
“You got a cannon?!”
“The book kind, not the gun kind,” Lloyd Smith said, tousling his kid brother’s hair.
“Shouldn’ta told ’em.” Ozzie White elbowed him. “We coulda joked on that for days!”
Doc rose and tilted her head to the side. “Mr. Van der Vort, may I speak to you for a moment, please?”
He gave a curt nod. Why did she have to stand on some dumb rule? It was just a splinter. They made it off to the side, and she dipped her head. When she started opening the five-inch-square leather purse hanging from the silver chatelaine he’d repaired, Karl’s irritation evaporated. It pleased him that she wore the chatelaine clipped to the waist of her skirt every day. The extra effort he’d put into repairing her family heirloom had been well spent. There was something wholly feminine about how she’d go about the town with this pretty leather purse and often gloves, a hanky, or her slender three-inch sterling pencil dangling from the chain alongside the silver etched square notepad barely larger than a postage stamp.
And now the poor woman was probably fishing out a handkerchief because she didn’t want the boys to see her getting teary eyed and upset. Especially after Ozzie had just confessed to a plan to be a tease.
Opening the mouth of the purse to an unexpectedly yawning expanse, she skimmed her fingers along one side, delved down, and produced a pair of tweezers. “These will serve nicely. You’ll have to do the task.”
Karl pushed aside the tweezers and stared down at the neatly arranged medical supplies filling the purse. “What do you think you’re doing, carrying those around? Do you think I repaired your chatelaine so you could use it to—”
“The tweezers.” Her voice sounded as hard as the iron he would work tomorrow.
Wide-eyed, the children looked from him to the doctor and back. Realizing his gaffe, Karl chuckled as he accepted the tweezers. “I should have known better than to wonder what a woman had in her purse. My moeder—she kept everything in hers, from a ribbon and feathers for hat repairs to a pocketknife!” He motioned the Smith kid over.
All of the kids formed a circle off to the side around him, clearly avoiding the doctor. Since he couldn’t hunker down, Karl pulled the boy’s hand upward and quickly yanked out the splinter. “There. Easy as pie.”
Dr. Bestman looked at Lloyd. “He ought to wash his hands.”
Cramming his hands into his pockets, Lloyd shrugged. “Dad said dirt don’t hurt nothin’. Farmers oughta be proud to have it on their hands.”
Ozzie started snickering. Karl shot him a stern look. “If you boys aren’t clean, you’re not eating dinner.” Once they left, Karl found he couldn’t lambaste her about her medical bag. Instead, he held his temper. “Why? Why do you carry this with you?”
Wiping the tweezers, then tucking them back into a precise location, she simply said, “I took an oath.”
“No one takes an oath to carry a bag.”
“Why do the men of Gooding wear guns when it’s a peaceful, God-fearing town?”
“It’s not the—”
“Yes, it is the same—to save lives in cases of emergencies.” She opened the purse as wide as it would go, which was only about two inches. Even so, she’d managed to put in a small array of things. “A pocketknife, tweezers, scissors, a tourniquet, four surgical clamps, three containers in which I have needles already threaded with suturing silk, gauze, pain medication, iodine mixture, soap, a handkerchief, a finger rosary, and a package of gum.”
“Are you Catholic?”
“No, but some of my patients are, and I deeply respect their beliefs and needs. As for the gum—I make it a practice to give children a sweet after treating them.” Clicking the purse shut, she looked at him. “It’s enough to handle most emergencies. I can always use clothing for bandaging and slings.”
“Men have pocketknives and the other women have needles and thread,” he told her. “Soap and whiskey—”
“Are you suggesting that I eschew all moral and ethical responsibilities, hoping supplies might be on hand in an urgent situation? I’d certainly hope not. Diligence and preparedness often avert disasters, and life is sacred.”
“Life is sacred.” He reached down and batted at her purse. “This isn’t.”
“Quoting from my oath: ‘I will follow that system of regimen which, according to my ability and judgment, I consider for the benefit of my patients.’ I am able to carry these supplies about, and it is my judgment that it is best to have them on hand. Therefore, I’m honoring the professional oath I took when I became a physician. Normally, I wouldn’t justify such a thing to anyone, but since you were so kind as to repair my chatelaine, I felt it only right to give you credit for assisting me.”
Karl put his hands on his hips and assessed the doctor. He couldn’t help but notice the way her cheeks had pinked during her speech. “If you’d stop chattering, we could go get lunch.”
“You’re the one who started the conversation by asking why I wear my purse.”
“How was I to know you’d give me a full inventory of what you carry? Other women keep that a secret.”
“I’m not like other women.”
There’s an understatement.
“I have noticed.”
“Stupid, childish stunt.” Taylor threw yet another utterly filthy “sterile” wrap into the boiling washpot. Coming home before lunch to pick up some clean tweezers, she’d discovered muddy footprints all over her surgery. Worst of all, whoever had been there dumped some wet, loamy soil laden with worms, germs, and mold into the drawer containing the sterilized, carefully wrapped and ready-to-use surgical instruments. All that work for naught. She sterilized and rewrapped the instruments and finally gave the floor a final sweep. Now in case she needed to give care, she’d be able to.
She turned away from her instruments and shook her head at the incessant clucking from the chickens in the yard. Taylor found the combination of stink and noise had her wishing for the chickens’ demise. Unless . . . A grim smile tilted her lips. She scooped up the bucket containing the dirt with the worms in it and headed to the coop. She had chickens to fatten up—the sooner, the better.
Wrists pecked unmercifully, Taylor finished feeding the hens. But as she turned to go, the hair on her nape tingled. It had nothing to do with her plans for fried chicken. Someone was watching her.
F
eigning that all was well in the midst of a crisis? Doctors honed that skill, so Taylor drew upon it now. She went back to the washpot, pulled out some cloths, and rinsed them. Clear and straightforward as could be, some men had let it be known they didn’t want her in Gooding. With time, she would change their minds. In the meantime, no one was going to scare her into budging from her home.
“Hey, Doctor.” Hope tromped over, and Taylor let the breath she’d been holding slowly escape. “Remembered me this place had a coop. Jakob and me—we don’t wanna be owin’ to nobody, so I though maybe you’d let me clean out the coop for credit.”
Just before she agreed, an idea shot through Taylor’s mind. “Actually, I’d rather barter something different.”
“ ’Kay. We can talk on it, but we’d better get back. The men’re gonna start workin’ again any minute, so I need to mind EmmyLou. I got me a funny feeling something’s a-brewing. Just you remember righteous, almighty God ain’t respecting persons who don’t follow His Golden Rule.”
“Romans 2:11.” Taylor gave Hope’s hand a squeeze. “I needed to be reminded that there is no respect of men with God.”
“You and me’ll think on that, but plenty of these knotheads are gonna try to tell you it don’t say nothing ’bout women. Don’t let it bother you none. They just wisht they was as smart as you. Now, what is it I can do to build me up some credit?”
You already have.
Taylor kept that to herself. “When it comes to those chickens . . .” Hope accepted the plan with alacrity, and once they got back to the barn raising, they sealed the deal with a slice of pie.
A few minutes later Gustav Cutter stood before everyone and rubbed his hands together. “The barn’s going up right quick, and we’re mighty proud to have us a veterinarian. Toomel, White, Sawyer, and a few others have already used Doc Enoch and vouch for him being topnotch. As he said, he and his kid sis want to thank you for showing up and helping out.
“There were problems with the last doctor, and we all want to be careful this next time.” Cutter smiled like a shark. “It’s understandable. We need someone competent. Capable. There’s no use having a town physician if folks won’t use her.”
Some pockets of folks went completely silent; others nodded and called out agreement. Piet shouted, “My broeder—among us he walks! There should be no questions. In Dr. Bestman, we have a fine doctor.”
“I second that.” Velma bustled over to Cutter. “You counted on me to know what we needed to set up that surgery, and you’re going to count on my judgment about the doctor.”
“You are just one person.” Cutter curled his hands around his lapels. “I have made a decision. A very fair decision. There are one hundred twenty-three people in Gooding. According to Edna Mae, in the next three months, it’ll jump to one twenty-five. On the first Monday of March, Doctor Taylor MacLay Bestman will provide me with a list of at least one hundred locals who commit to using her as their physician. Fathers can sign for their children. It stands to reason that if a substantial percent of Gooding’s citizens hold confidence in the doctor, the burden of competence is, in part, demonstrated. Surely Dr. Bestman will agree this is a most reasonable arrangement.”
Everyone turned to stare at her.
“Of course she won’t!” Enoch’s voice shook with rage. “She signed a four-year contract in good faith. So did I. Stand behind your word.”
“You waited until the barn was half built before saying anything?” Toomel shook his head. “Was this to force Doc Enoch to stay?”
stay?” Taylor refused to allow everything to spiral out of control. “Mr. Mayor.” She addressed him with chilling politeness. “I cannot agree with the arrangement—” People started talking, so she held up a hand to silence them. “My professional oath guarantees confidentiality between me and my patients. By providing you with their names, I deny them that right and break the sacred bond I pledged.”
“Not only that,” Mercy added, “someone could use the doctor and not sign the list. It wouldn’t be honest or fair.”
Like Karl Van der Vort?
That thought shot through Taylor’s mind, leaving a trail of pain. She shook her head. “I won’t dictate another’s actions. They are accountable to the Lord. I am, however, accountable for my own. I will not compromise my standards.”
“Perhaps I could offer to stand in the breach.” Parson Bradle stepped forward. “I’d be willing to maintain the list and merely report the number to the mayor, if we can all agree to that.”
“Yes!” Cutter beamed. “That way, if anyone wants to remove their name, they can have you strike it off, too.”
“You better have brought plenty of paper, Cutter.” Enoch scanned the crowd. “Because my sis is the best doctor you’ll ever meet. And if that’s not enough for you, then you’re missing out. But I won’t. Blood’s thicker than water. She and I’ll go—”
“Nope,” Cutter broke in. “You’ll still be bound by contract.”
Taylor thought of Enoch and his dream practice. His made-to-order barn. Mercy and her little daughter and Enoch’s love for them and his happy future . . . Everything was imperiled. Taylor spoke loudly. “Parson Bradle, I appreciate and accept your offer to keep the list.”
It had taken almost two years of medical school before approximately half of her classmates tolerated her; the others never accepted her. In four years she’d built up a highly successful practice in Chicago, but most of it consisted of women and children. Now she had three months to win over a preponderance of men and a pain-in-the-neck mayor. “I always did like a challenge.”
Long after everyone else had left, Enoch remained at the barn. Entirely lining the longest two walls—with the exception of doors—were stalls, awaiting patients. Bins filled with oats and barley had been placed up front. From the roof, the pulley and rope hung ready to pull the bales of hay beside him up to the sizable loft. Concrete flooring jutted from the back wall for a distance of ten feet. The last stall’s partition was a full-length wall, turning it into a room for him when he needed to spend nights at the clinic. He’d already unfolded a cot and tossed a few thick wool blankets on it. Off in the opposite stall were a boot brush and a pair of knee-high mucking boots, a leather apron, and rope tied into halters, leashes, and other uses hanging from ten-penny nails. Men could store tack there when they brought their animals in.
But Enoch’s pride and joy rested against the back wall in the center. He’d shipped his instruments and medications in one-foot deep custom-made maple cabinets that hinged together face-to-face. Lipped shelves on both sides of one of the cases kept the larger instruments in place. Dozens of different sized, varying colored bottles and jars of an appreciable apothecary lined the shelves of the top half of the second case. Below them, drawers held everything from the smallest surgical instruments to blinders for horses. The final side of the second case would have looked like a jumbled mess had Taylor not arranged it: A narrow cupboard awaited his surgery apron or jacket, depending on the need of the moment; five reference books; lye and castile soap boxes; a set of nested aluminum washbowls; and four dozen folded towels.
First thing tomorrow morning, he would open the cases and Gooding would sport the best veterinary infirmary money could buy. And until Gustav Cutter had opened his big mouth after lunch, everything had been perfect. Now the barn represented not just a future full of dreams, but also one fraught with a heartrending separation should most of these men stay narrow-minded. A toothpick measured wider than many of their minds.
Taylor can do it. She can prove herself. All she needs is the opportunity.
Piet was right—seeing Karl walk ought to be all the testimonial necessary. Only it wasn’t. It wasn’t even close. So far, seventeen names limped down the list. He’d considered announcing a Bestman Plan, whereby he’d give a thirty percent discount to anyone on Taylor’s list whose animals needed care. And he still would—if that’s what it took to prevent her from being run out of town. But not now. Not until she’d had the opportunity to dazzle them with her skills. She deserved the dignity of proving herself.
Time. We have time.
Three months. Enoch inhaled deeply. The sweet smell of hay mingled with the aroma of sawdust. Enoch let out a rueful laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Orville Clark asked as he sauntered in.
“I was appreciating the smell—likely for the last time.”
Smoothing back his sparse hair, Orville forced a laugh. “Suppose you got a point, but grand as we made the place, you can keep it aired out. I can help with that.”
“It doesn’t take much to shove open a few doors.”
“Once you open those doors, you’re not going to have time to close them. Mark my words: You’re going to be so busy, you’ll be running from head to tail.” Orville jammed his thumbs under his suspenders and rocked back and forth with a big grin on his face. “Yes, sir. Folks’ll come from far away, and you’re going to need help. Someone to feed your patients. To walk them and to curry the horses.”
“If I hire someone, their first and foremost chore would be to muck the stalls and pens.”
Orville’s lips thinned to a narrow white line. “You’re the boss. The boss has the say.”
“When I have all those patients you’re predicting, I’ll give the matter due consideration.”
“You don’t give yourself much credit, do you?”
“Animals can be treated in the field or in the owner’s barn. The very sick or those requiring surgery will be brought here, as will those requiring temporary boarding.”
Crossing his arms as if to hold in heat and scuffing the ball of his right boot on the concrete foundation, he muttered, “Winter’s nigh unto here. Gonna be cold.”
“True. Which is the reason the town council gave for building the barn—it saves me making extra house calls, and farmers can rest easy, knowing their sick beast is under constant watch. That, and the bad freeze that happened southwest and southeast of here in March this year. I heard animals drifted and froze. This way we’ll have somewhere to shelter them.”
Orville cast a glance toward the back corner as the wind let out a howl. “Barn’s big as any around here. Might be, you could convince me to live here. Mind the creatures at night, keep an eye on things.”
And I’d spend all my time keeping an eye on you.
“I’m a vet, but I don’t count my chickens. Should the day arrive when I’m as busy as you predict, I’ll post the job.”
Orville’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Post it.”
“At your cousin’s mercantile.” Enoch clapped his hands and rubbed them to stir up some circulation in them. “You’re right about one thing—cold season’s coming on. Nice as it is, a barn’s always drafty. Let’s get on out of here.”
Orville dogged his every step until he’d locked the barn. Enoch headed toward the boardinghouse; Orville went toward the saloon.
The parlor light shone brightly through the swagged back curtains that framed Mercy as she sat crocheting.
Her head lifted at the sound of his footsteps on the boarding house steps. Her smile would have warmed his entire barn through the worst blizzard.
He motioned her to stay seated and let himself in. By the time he’d stepped foot inside, she’d popped up and scurried toward the kitchen. Lounging against the doorframe, Enoch said in a low tone, “Now, how did I know I’d find you in here?”
Mercy turned toward him with a cup of coffee and a plate. “Pumpkin pie.”
“You didn’t need to do this.”
Sweet pea.
He caught himself before he said it.
“I didn’t do anything at all.”
Enoch eased the cup from her hands and drank a big mouthful of the scalding brew. “Mmmm. Hits the spot.”
“Mr. Michaelson says it’s just above freezing again.” She set down the pie. “Let me top that off for— Oh my!” she said, looking down upon the empty cup.
“You do make a fine cup of coffee, ma’am. Perhaps you ought to join me and have one.”
He drank another cup while she went to the cupboard for a tray. She looked over her shoulder and laughed. “I suppose the tray is unnecessary now.”
“Guess again.” He grinned. “Good thing you have a boardinghouse-sized pot. There are going to be times when you wonder if you shouldn’t just pour directly from the pot to my mouth.”
“You’d have to sit on one of Heidi’s little chairs for that to work—I’d never reach otherwise. You’re far too tall.”
Enoch had never had a woman call him tall; he wasn’t. And he couldn’t help being disappointed in Mercy’s statement. Honesty had to bind them together; any such falsehood would make another easier . . . until the cracks would make their love crumble Pretending someone was something they weren’t invariably led to discontent.
“Let’s be candid, Mercy. I’m not tall at all. I’m only five eight.”
“That is tall! I’m only five feet. I barely come to your shoulder.”
“Other men . . .”
She put down the tray. “I don’t appreciate being compared to other women. I presume men don’t like being compared to other men. If this is your way of asking about Hamilton, he was touchy about his height, so I never knew precisely what it was. My eyes lined up with his nose.”