The Heirloom Brides Collection (46 page)

Darla rested her elbow on the chair arm in her bedchamber. Pen in hand, she tapped the writing desk on her lap. In her wildest dreams, she wouldn’t have imagined her first weeks on the job unfolding as they had. And to think she’d been upset with her assignment as a visiting nurse.

It felt particularly rewarding to see a patient in his or her daily environment putting forth effort to recover, to take part in the process. Especially a man like Mr. Zanzucchi, who had suffered a devastating trauma and had three daughters witnessing his struggle and recovery. After nearly three weeks of visiting his home at least every other day, she wasn’t sure she could abide being confined to working in a stark hospital ward.

She glanced down at the stationery and the few words she’d managed to pen:

Dear Mother,

Cripple Creek is thriving.

That was as far as she’d gotten, and her ability to concentrate on the letter hadn’t improved a whit. The letter would just have to wait. Her mind seemed set on replaying various scenes in the Zanzucchi home: Mr. Zanzucchi’s lighthearted teasing about a possum being under their floor when he was clearly in much discomfort. Watching the girls tend to chores or school lessons with the same determination she’d seen in their father.

She needed a distraction, something that would capture her imagination. A good book. She’d seen several books on a shelf in the parlor, including
Pride and Prejudice.
That would surely remove her thoughts from her hesitant and intriguing patient, his sweet and motherless little girls, a diary that was too forthcoming, and the parsonage—and twelve days to wait.

Darla set her writing desk on the chair and stepped out onto the second-floor landing.

She watched as Cherise ascended the stairs, the girl’s footfalls creating a lively cadence on the oak steps. Lace accented the flounced collar and cuffs on her pink two-piece dress. She wore her nearly black hair pulled back from her face and secured with a matching bow. Looking at the girl now, Cherise didn’t seem to have a care in the world. But Darla knew better, and hers was a touching story, which Hattie had shared with her over a cup of coffee after supper one night.

Mr. Sinclair had worked with Cherise’s father on the railroad in Paris. Cherise’s mother was sickly most of her daughter’s life and had succumbed to her illness when Cherise was seven. Cherise’s father had already booked their passage on the boat to America with Mr. Sinclair when a riveted seam on a boiler burst and scalded him. He’d died within the week.

When Cherise caught sight of Darla, she paused on the landing and gave her a polite nod. “
Bonne nuit,
Miss Taggart.”

“Good night, Cherise. And, please, call me Miss Darla.”

Light from the sconce on the wall accentuated Cherise’s round cherubic face. “
Oui.
Mademoiselle Darla.”

Darla smiled. “Sleep well.” She watched the girl slip into the room just beyond her own bedchamber. At ten years old, Cherise was the same age as the eldest Zanzucchi girl, Jocelyn. Both had suffered loss and heartache. But for Cherise, God had provided a new family through Harlan and Hattie Sinclair. Perhaps he’d give Mr. Zanzucchi and his daughters a fresh start, too.

She sighed. How was it that her mind kept drifting back to Nicolas Zanzucchi and his family? She was his nurse. That was all she was to him. She needed to go downstairs and get that book.

The parlor door stood open, and the warm glow from the fireplace drew Darla inside. Bent over the checkerboard set up between her and her husband, Hattie moved her hand feverishly in an apparent avalanche of jumps.

“Hah!” Her expression triumphant, Hattie looked up. “Darla, dear, you’re just in time to hear me gloat.”

Mr. Sinclair rose from his chair and stood behind it, a smile tipping his mustache. “Trust me, it’s not one of her many charms.” He gestured toward the game board. “Perhaps you’d have better luck.”

“I came in to borrow a book, if you don’t mind.”

Hattie waved bent fingers toward the bookshelves. “I don’t mind at all. But I see no reason why you couldn’t do both. Play a game
and
borrow a book.”

Playing would afford her a little companionship. She’d been so busy these first three weeks in town, she’d done no socializing, although her time with the Zanzucchi family felt more like companionship than work.

“You don’t play?” Hattie asked.

“I haven’t played for more than three years. My aunt liked to play, but once I sank into my studies, I never found time for games.”

“Well then, that settles it. It’s high time you had a little fun, dear.” Hattie arched a thin eyebrow. “You know what they say, ‘One who neglects pastime amusement forgets how to play altogether.’ ”

Darla didn’t know that anyone else had ever said that, but her landlady was persuasive. And a little recreation wouldn’t do her any harm.

“One game, then.”

Hattie’s smile bunched her cheeks. “Splendid! I have the black pieces.” Her landlady began positioning her game pieces on a printed board. “This will give me a chance to hear more about your house visits.”

Darla settled herself at the table and finished setting up the red game pieces.

“You make the first move, dear. Harlan says it’s only fair that I let guests go first.” Hattie glanced at the deep leather chair where Mr. Sinclair sat with a newspaper. “But I’d hardly consider you a guest. You have a job, and this is your home now.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Darla slid a checker forward. “But I don’t intend to stay here forever.”

“And neither do I.” Chuckling, Hattie matched Darla’s move. “I have a home on the other side of this life, don’t you know.”

Nodding, Darla moved a piece two spaces. Her time here had dispelled any doubts she’d had about returning to Cripple Creek or lodging at Miss Hattie’s. It wasn’t the parsonage, but she
was
beginning to feel at home here.

“It sounds like nurse’s training was a lot of work.” Hattie slid another piece forward. “You said that with your studies you never found time for games.”

“That’s right. Between the classes, the homework, and all the medical books on my reading list—”

Hattie blew out a long breath. “No wonder you’re still single. I doubt you found a spare minute for romance, either.”

The newspaper rustled, and Mr. Sinclair peeked out from behind it. “Go easy on her, dear. Miss Taggart has only been back in town a short time. Starting a new job can be all-consuming.”

“
Tsk tsk,
Mister.” Hattie shook her head, dislodging a wisp of gray hair from her bun. “Don’t you have some stock market to read up on?”

“Yes. I was too busy.” Darla studied the game board. “And believe it or not, I wasn’t interested.”

Her lips pressed together, Hattie stared at the board like a hawk seeking its prey.

“Romantic notions seemed to control every aspect of my life at seventeen, I know,” Darla said.

“Like I said when you arrived, dear, that was then, and this is now.”

Perhaps it was that easy. Dr. Cutshaw was happily married. By this time, Zachary and Emily probably were also wed. If so, she could let go of the notion that she and Zachary should marry and move on from her past. And she would, as soon as she held her diary, certain it was safe from discovery. As soon as she could be sure her written words didn’t see light and cost her her job.

“I dare say, Darla dear, you won’t have any trouble finding a good husband in Cripple Creek.” Hattie made the first jump of the game and smiled at her. “Not with all the new business owners and bankers moving into our fair city.”

Darla studied the board, hoping her concentration would derail her opponent’s train of thought.

“You knew Emily Updike, the banker’s niece, didn’t you?” Hattie asked, undeterred.

“We’d met.” Darla braced herself for the inevitable news. Not that she had any real claims on Zachary. Just because he said he’d wait for her didn’t mean he was obliged to do so.

“Well”—Hattie jumped another of her game pieces—“did you know that Emily married a couple of years ago?”

“I hadn’t heard.” Darla focused on a game piece that was in jeopardy. “Since my friend Betty moved from Cripple Creek shortly after I did, I stopped hearing the local news.”

There was the answer to that question. Zachary’s father had gotten his way, and so had the banker. Zachary and Emily
were
married. Since Zachary had been compliant, he likely co-owned the haberdashery with his father by now. Emily was a better choice of wife for him, anyway, especially if the banker’s niece had proven to be chaste.

“Like I said, there are a lot of businessmen moving in from all over the country. And beyond. Emily married a bookkeeper from Chicago.”

Not Zachary.
Her finger pressed to a red game piece, Darla looked up at her landlady. “I remember talk that Zachary Pfeiffer might marry her.”

“Yes, well, she was spending a generous amount of time at his father’s haberdashery. Some of us—”

Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat.

Hattie leaned toward Darla. “Let’s just say I thought maybe she and Zachary Pfeiffer might marry, but it seems he’s not the marrying kind.”

Mr. Sinclair poked his head out from behind the newspaper. “Just because he isn’t married yet doesn’t mean he’s not the marrying kind. Some of us just have to work a little harder to find the right woman.” He winked.

Zachary wasn’t married. For some reason, that fact didn’t seem as important to her as it had when she’d first set foot off the train in March.

The question now was whether he still had any feelings for her.

D
arla pulled the stethoscope from her bag and turned back toward the bed where Mrs. Baxter lay recovering from pneumonia. The silver-haired woman hadn’t stopped coughing in the five minutes Darla had been there.

“She insisted the doctor let her come home.” Mr. Baxter stood on the other side of the bed. “The only way he’d agree was to have someone from the hospital come check on her.”

Darla nodded without looking at him. She’d heard the same story on Wednesday, just hours after her patient arrived home. Yesterday, Mrs. Baxter was sitting in a chair and seemed to be feeling fairly well.

“Them mules that roam our streets aren’t as stubborn as my woman.”

Darla had a wind-up monkey that didn’t chatter as much as this man did. Darla swallowed her retort and came up with an idea to distract him. “Mr. Baxter, would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of hot tea?”

“I suppose I could, if you need one.”

“I do. Thank you.” When he nodded and shuffled out of the room, Darla drew in a deep breath and bent over her patient. She placed her hand on Mrs. Baxter’s forehead. “I don’t feel a fever.”

“He does like to hear himself talk, don’t he?”

Darla nodded as she donned the stethoscope. Pressing her lips together so she couldn’t add a comment, she placed the bell on Mrs. Baxter’s chest and listened. The woman’s heart sounded strong. “I need you to sit up for me. Can you do that?”

Mrs. Baxter huffed a bit while bending her legs and raising up, and Darla detected wheezing that hadn’t been nearly as pronounced during her first visit. She pressed the bell to Mrs. Baxter’s back and listened to the woman’s lungs. “I still hear some congestion in that left lobe, but it doesn’t sound much worse.” Yet.

Darla removed the earpieces and returned the stethoscope to her bag. “Something has definitely made you feel puny today. I suppose it could be the exertion from the wagon ride home, but the shortness of breath and wheezing have me a little concerned.”

Mrs. Baxter flopped back onto her pillow.

“You took the laudanum last night? Did you rest well?”

“I don’t like taking anything, but I did.” Her patient sighed. “Truth is, it helped a lot. I didn’t even hear the mister’s snoring.”

“Thelma!” Darla and Mrs. Baxter both glanced toward the open doorway where Mr. Baxter balanced a steaming teacup on a saucer in one hand and held a smoking pipe in the other. “Don’t be boring this poor girl with our secrets.”

“Trust me, Henry. Your snoring is no secret.” Mrs. Baxter paused, her breathing shallow. “Not on this street, it isn’t. You’re the only one who don’t seem to hear it.”

Her husband huffed, then set the teacup on the bedside table.

Darla gave him a nod. “Thank you.”

He raised the pipe to his mouth and took a puff, sending a cloud of smoke over the bed. That was it!

“Mr. Baxter, have you been smoking around your wife?”

“Not while you was here, I haven’t,” he said. “But today’s a different day.”

Darla sighed. “That explains a lot.”

“It does?” Her patient choked on a cough.

“Mr. Baxter, I believe your wife may be sensitive to your pipe smoke.”

“Nonsense. I been smokin’ a pipe for all the twenty-three years we been hitched.”

Darla did her best to swallow the frustration tensing her shoulders. “Has your wife had pneumonia before?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I haven’t. This is my first time.” Mrs. Baxter straightened in the bed. “You’re saying it is Henry’s fault I’m having trouble breathing?”

Darla took her medical bag from the chair. She had no intention of lingering in the middle of their debate. “Since we don’t want a relapse of the pneumonia, Mr. Baxter, you’ll need to refrain from smoking in the house or anywhere near her until her lungs are clear.”

“I always smoke in my house.” He jammed the mouthpiece into his face and took a deep puff, exhaling toward the ceiling. “You women will say or do anything to rob a man of his limited pleasures.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his insolence. “I assure you, Mr. Baxter, Dr. Cutshaw would be just as concerned about you blowing pipe smoke around Mrs. Baxter when her lungs are this compromised.”

Mr. Baxter ambled to the door. “I suppose he would.”

“That’s settled, then.” Darla tugged the sleeve on her uniform straight. “I’ll stop back by late this afternoon to check on things.” She’d added the last part for Mr. Baxter’s benefit.

Some home visits weren’t as pleasant as others.