Courting the Doctor's Daughter

Glad to be useful, Mary smiled. “It won’t take but a minute.”

He hugged her. “You’re like your mother. Susannah could make a feast out of an old shoe.”

Pleased by the comparison, Mary laughed. Even five years after her mother’s death, she missed Susannah Lawrence every day, wanted to be like her serene, unflappable mother. But failed. In her mother’s north-facing kitchen, the walls painted the hue of sunshine, Mary’s spirits lifted. Her mother always claimed she never had a gloomy day working here, but she’d surely be amazed by the condition of her workspace now.

Mary might not know how to fix the problems around her, but she knew what to do here. She donned one of her mother’s bibbed aprons and tackled the mess.

Once her advertisement brought in the ideal doctor to help in the practice, she could go to medical school, knowing someone young and capable would help her father oversee the health of his patients. That is, assuming she got accepted. No guarantee for anyone, especially a woman. Months had passed without word. At twenty-eight, would her age work against her?

She finished clearing a spot on the counter, washed it down and then poked around in the icebox, emerging with a slab of bacon and a bowl filled with eggs. Once she’d fed and helped her father with his patients, she’d complain to Sheriff Rogers about the dark-eyed stranger. Maybe he could find a way to retract the permit. Surely he didn’t want that swindler taking advantage of people’s worries.

Taking advantage of her.

Her hand stilled, and a wave of disquiet lapped at her. The dark stranger had thrown her off balance with that outrageous wink…but only for a moment.

She wouldn’t let that happen again.

Chapter Two

Luke Jacobs snapped the padlock into place on the back of his enclosed wagon and gave it a yank. The last straggler had gone about his day, leaving Luke alone, that meddling woman who’d opposed him heavy on his mind. He’d run into do-gooders like her before.

True, Miss Nightingale happened to be more attractive than most, with glinting green eyes, chestnut hair and a stubborn jaw—shoving into something she knew nothing about. A royal pain who fought what he’d worked hard to achieve.

The remedy stashed inside this wagon had taken him months to formulate. He’d spent untold hours experimenting in a small lab in his house, using himself to test his product. He took pride in what he’d accomplished. The remedy contained good medicine, meant to help people, not to separate them from their money.

That sassy woman probably wanted to drive him back to New York herself. Well, he had no intention of going. Not yet. Not until he learned if the boy lived here.

A band tightened around Luke’s throat, remembering the guilt and shame of his misspent life. If only he could go back and relive all those wasted years—

His eyes stung. Sin brought consequences. He’d gotten off scot-free. Lucy had paid with her life.

His son might still be paying.

Without question, he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood. He had no experience at the job. No stable home. No hope of having one. But he couldn’t leave the boy’s survival to chance.

If only he’d find the boy here.

Amongst thousands of children, somehow his son’s guardianship paperwork had been lost. All Luke knew for certain was the child had ridden west on a train full of orphans. He’d followed the trail for weeks, first riding the train, then buying this wagon and moving from town to town, selling his medicine and searching for the boy. Every lead had come up empty, every clue pointing to another town until he’d landed here in Noblesville, Indiana.

Another town. One more out of dozens. Would this town hold Ben?

If not, he’d move on tomorrow, though the prospect pressed against his lungs. He was tired, bone tired.

But his comfort didn’t matter. Finding his boy did.

God, help me find my son.

“How’s business?”

Luke whirled to face the sheriff, a big man with a friendly face and keenly observant eyes. From his trek across the country, Luke had learned the importance of getting on the right foot with the local lawman. It appeared Rogers had decided to keep an eye on him. “Can’t complain, Sheriff.”

Rogers patted his midriff. “That remedy of yours is easing my touchy stomach.”

Luke smiled. “Glad to hear it.”

“I’ll want to stock up before you move on.”

“I’ll set some bottles aside.”

The sheriff thumped the side of his wagon. “You drove this clear from New York City?”

“I rode the train as far as eastern Ohio, bought the rig and then followed the route of the Erie line.”

The sheriff shoved his Stetson higher on his forehead. “Same route that brought them orphans last year.”

Luke’s pulse leapt. “Orphans?”

“Yep, I’ll never forget the sight of that train. Youngsters poking their heads out the windows, squeezing together on the platform. Why, some had crawled on top of the cars.”

“How many stayed?”

“Twenty-eight. Eleven of ’em live in town. The rest are scattered ’cross the countryside.”

Luke hoped one of the eleven was his son. If so, he’d likely come across the boy without having to make inquiries that would raise suspicion. Or force him into an action he didn’t want to take. “Finding them homes must’ve been lots of work. Did you have to do it?”

“Nope. Fell to a committee.”

Luke forced himself not to push for information. Fortunately, the sheriff was in a chatty mood.

“The committee did its best, but the guardian of two of those orphans physically abused ’em.” Sheriff Rogers shook his head. “Ed Drummond will spend the rest of his days in state prison.”

Luke’s blood ran cold. “Did the children survive?”

“Yep.” The sheriff smiled. “Emma and William Grounds got themselves a fine home now.”

A gentle breeze carried off the breath Luke had been holding. “Good to hear. Sounds like a brother and sister.”

“Yep.”

Which meant Luke’s son wasn’t one of the abused orphans. Thank God.

The sheriff gave him a long, hard look and then slapped Luke on the arm. “Don’t forget to save me them bottles.”

“Sure will.” Luke hadn’t missed Roger’s piercing stare. Had he unwittingly revealed too much interest in the orphans and raised the sheriff’s suspicions? “Say, can you suggest a place to stay while I’m in town?”

“The Becker House’s food is second to none. Classy accommodations, too.”

“Sounds expensive.”

The sheriff rubbed his chin, thinking. “Last I knew the room over the Whitehall Café was empty. Try there.”

“I will. Thanks.”

Whistling, Sheriff Rogers moseyed off, hopefully overlooking Luke’s concern about the orphans. Early on, Luke had learned asking too many questions made folks wary, even led them to ask some questions of their own. He’d have to be more careful.

Pocketing the key to the padlock, Luke headed for the Whitehall Café. Someone waved to him; it was probably one of the morning’s customers. Along the way, he passed prosperous brick buildings, gas streetlamps, paved avenues. Trees on the lawn of the impressive three-story courthouse had changed to hues of gold and orangey-red. A crispness to the air hinted at the approach of winter, but on such a sunny day, winter appeared a long way off.

Noblesville looked like a good place to pause. He’d had an arduous trip, exposing him to the elements—rain, cold, heat. It was hardly his existence back East. In most ways, he’d found the journey good, even pleasurable. The towns where he’d stopped in the past weeks may have blended in his mind, but he’d enjoyed seeing the middle part of the country, meeting everyday people living everyday lives.

Mostly he’d found hard-working, good people who understood what mattered. He’d been glad to give back, to offer them a medicine he believed in. And yet, always searching, seeking that one last piece of his family puzzle.

No matter what that aggravating female thought of his remedy, of him, she wouldn’t thwart his quest to find the boy.

He wasn’t here to ruin a child’s happiness, or get involved. Life had taught him to hold people at arm’s length. He’d learned the lesson well.

If Ben had a good home and was happy with a family, Luke could return to New York and his lab.

Yet he couldn’t help questioning how it would feel to leave his flesh and blood behind. To forsake his responsibility to Ben as his parents had to Joseph.

Could Luke leave and repeat the family history he despised?

Geraldine Whitehall was dying. Again.

Mary bit her tongue, searching deep for a measure of patience, then greeted the café owner with a smile. All afternoon, the office had a constant parade of patients. Hoping to leave when the Willowbys arrived, Mary sighed, resigned to the delay.

Geraldine leaned close, her eyes wide with fright, her face creased with worry. “I need to see Doc.”

“He’s with a patient.”

“I have this cough. It’s worse at night. I’m sure it’s consumption,” she said, her tone hoarse like the words scraped her throat raw on their way out.

Mary patted the woman’s hand. “Have a seat. I’ll get you in as soon as I can.”

The patient collapsed into a nearby chair. Within seconds she flipped through a magazine, stopping at an article. Even back at her desk, Mary could read the title, “Tumors of the Eye.” Soon Geraldine would find enough symptoms to keep her tossing tonight with yet another worry. Awareness thudded in Mary’s stomach. She had no right to criticize.

Mary rose and eased the magazine out of the woman’s clutches. “How’s your daughter?”

“Oh, my poor, darling girl.” Tears welled in Geraldine’s eyes. “What will Fannie do without a mother to help plan her wedding?”

“Fannie’s engaged?”

“No, but she and James are madly in love. It can’t be long until he asks.”

Frances Drummond walked into the waiting room. Another woman saddled with a man who’d hurt her. Fortunately Ed would spend the rest of his life behind bars for the years of abuse he’d heaped on Frances. Not nearly long enough for murdering Frances’ mother last year and all but killing Frances and Addie too. The short time the children lived in the Drummond house had taken a toll on Emma and William. Thank God those orphans were out of Ed’s clutches—and thanks to Frances—in the loving hands of Addie and Charles. God had shown there was hope, even amongst all that pain.

Frances paid her bill, exchanging a few words with Mary, who struggled to keep her mind on the task with Geraldine hovering nearby, coughing into her handkerchief and then examining it, most likely looking for the telltale blood of consumption.

With Frances out the door, Mary led Mrs. Whitehall into the examining room. The woman shadowed Mary so closely she could feel Geraldine’s breath on her neck. At any moment, Mary expected to feel tracks on her back.

Her father greeted Geraldine, keeping his expression blank and emitting only the faintest groan. After his short night, Mary admired his self-control.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Whitehall?”

Mary ducked out the door and returned to her desk. Her father could handle this latest malady alone.

Within minutes, Geraldine returned, having regained the spark in her eyes and the spring to her step. “I’m not dying! Hay fever is giving me this cough. It’ll disappear with the first hard frost.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mary said, but wondered when the café owner would be back wearing a panicked expression, ticking off new symptoms on her fingers.

Geraldine dug through her purse. “With these doctor bills, it’s a good thing I’ve got a renter for the room over my café.”

Mary smiled. “Oh, to whom?”

“To that traveling salesman. He’s taking his meals at the café, too.” She beamed, then paid the fee and scooted out the door.

Mary’s mouth drooped. That peddler was staying, as he’d said.

The door opened and the Willowbys entered. Mary gave them a hug, then gestured for them to follow. Judge Willowby leaned heavily on a cane, his gait unsteady and shuffling. Although it was still a huge improvement from when he’d first had his apoplexy.

In the weeks since the stroke, Mrs. Willowby had devoted herself to her husband’s recovery. If anything, his illness had brought out her gentler side. An outcome appreciated not only by Mary and her father but by everyone who had dealings with Viola Willowby. Mary had come to admire the woman—something she couldn’t have expected a few months ago.

“How’s our…grandson?” Judge Willowby asked.

The Willowbys had wanted Mary to have custody of Ben, but the judge’s tongue still tripped over calling Ben his grandson, rather than his son. Mary smiled. “Fine. No asthma episodes as of late.”

Oh, how Mary enjoyed Ben’s presence. Shy at first, the youngster had taken a few days to adjust but soon settled into the family. He adored her sons, and Michael and Philip loved playing with him and reading him stories.

Mary smiled. “Ben prays for your recovery every night. By the looks of you, God’s answering his prayers.”

Viola’s eyes misted. “We’re so grateful, Mary, for your willingness to raise Ben as your own. Tell Carrie how much we appreciate her watching Ben so you can work in the office. The generosity of the people in this town amazes us. Food brought over, help with chores—we’ve been blessed in countless ways.”

When needed, folks in this town pulled together. Mary loved living here.

Her father appeared in the doorway, scrutinized his patient for a moment and then gave an approving smile. “You’re looking spry, Judge.”

“I’m thinking of trying the new cure, Doc,” the judge said. “Maybe it’ll loosen me up.”

“You’re the second patient to mention that remedy. Guess I’d better buy a bottle.”

Mary could understand the Willowbys looking for answers, but surely her father didn’t believe that nonsense too. “If you don’t need me, I’d like to leave now.”

“Sure.” Her father turned and handed her a capped bottle. “Would you stop by the livery and deliver this medicine to Mr. Lemming? He’s been without it for several days. Make sure he realizes the importance of taking it correctly.”

Mary nodded, tucking the bottle in her purse. “See you at supper.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said with a forced gaiety belying the weariness in his movements. He didn’t fool her.

Before she delivered the medicine, she intended to talk with Sheriff Rogers. See what could be done about that peddler.

Chapter Three

Mary passed the town square and didn’t see that rogue, but his wagon remained where it had that morning. He’d probably gone to the saloon, spending his morning profits on liquor to fill more bottles and, more than likely, himself.

A hand-lettered sign boasted in bold letters: CURATIVE FOR HEADACHE, STOMACHACHE AND INSOMNIA. What some people would do to make a dollar—uh, three dollars.

Though her father’s rebuke stung, his words held a smidgen of truth. She did tend to get wrapped up in worry. But didn’t the Bible instruct her to help others? Surely that meant protecting them from this bloodsucker.

By the time she’d reached her destination, the imposing limestone structure housing not only the jail but also the sheriff’s quarters, she’d envisioned the charlatan tarred and feathered, or at least run out of town.

Inside, Sheriff Rogers turned from tacking up a wanted poster and tipped his hat. The sheriff’s gray-streaked hair and paunch belied the strength of his muscular arms and massive shoulders. Not a man she’d care to cross. But then again, she needn’t fret; she wasn’t the criminal in town.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Graves.”

“Hello, Sheriff.” Mary walked to the wall and checked the poster to see if it held the medicine man’s picture. Not seeing the peddler’s face, she sighed and turned back to him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I hope you know a way to rid the town of a swindler bilking our citizens out of their money.”

He chuckled. “Reckon you’re talking about Luke Jacobs.”

That vile man carried the first name of the doctor in scripture, the follower of Christ? The similarity didn’t sit well with Mary. “I don’t know his name, but the man I’m talking about is selling home-brewed medicine.”

“Jacobs convinced me of his product’s value.” He gestured to his desk. There, as big as life, sat a bottle of that remedy. “I gave it a try, and it’s eased the pain in my gut.”

No doubt the result of wishful thinking. Hadn’t she seen that outcome before?

“Either way,” Sheriff Rogers said, taking a seat behind his desk, the springs whining in protest, “he obtained a permit to sell on our streets, so he’s within his rights.”

“For how long?”

“Believe he said a week.”

“In that length of time, he can filch everyone’s money.” Still, it could be worse. “At least he’ll be gone by week’s end, maybe before, if we’re lucky.”

The sheriff laced his fingers over his chest. “His eyes lit when I mentioned those orphans who came to town last year. Wonder if he’s here for more than peddling.”

A lump thudded to the bottom of Mary’s stomach, and she sucked in a gulp of air. Ben, along with Emma and William, Charles and Addie’s two, had ridden on that train. “Did he ask about any of them?”

“Nope. Reckon I could be wrong, but in my work, I make a point of reading people.”

Mary paced in front of the desk, then spun back to the sheriff. “He can’t come to town and wreak havoc on our children’s lives.”

“Now simmer down, Mrs. Graves.” Sheriff Rogers rose. “I’m not going to let anyone harm our citizens, much less those youngsters.”

Ever since Ed Drummond had beaten Frances, William and Emma, the sheriff took special interest in the orphans, becoming a protective grandfather of sorts. She couldn’t discount his well-honed instincts about Luke Jacobs.

Mary shivered. “Did he say anything else?”

“Nope. Jacobs is closemouthed.” The sheriff gave a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye out. But if he’s half as good as his medicine, we’re fortunate to have him.”

Fortunate? The man meant trouble. Why couldn’t anyone see that?

Mary said goodbye to the sheriff. She hadn’t gotten anywhere with him. What reason would a traveling salesman have to concern himself with the orphans? Could he be a relative of one of them? Surely not to Charles and Addie’s two blond, blue-eyed youngsters, not with the man’s dark looks.

She pictured Ben’s impish grin and dark-brown curls—

She bit her lip to quell its sudden trembling, refusing to finish the thought. She didn’t like what she’d heard at the sheriff’s office, didn’t like it at all. She had to make sure Luke Jacobs did nothing to upset the peace of the children, especially Ben, the little boy who’d staked a claim in her heart.

Charles would know what to do. Before she could talk to him, she had to deliver the medicine to John Lemming over at the livery. To save time, she cut across the courthouse lawn and rounded the corner of the building—all but colliding with her adversary.

Luke Jacobs. Again. The man hovered over her life like crows over a cornfield.

“Well, well, Miss Nightingale.” He gave her that lazy smile of his. For a moment, their gazes locked. “We meet again.”

At her side, Mary’s hands curled into fists, ready to protect the whole town if need be from this man, his smile and his phony charm. “Yes, Mr. Jacobs, we do.”

His brows rose to the lock of dark, wavy hair falling over his forehead. Why didn’t the scoundrel wear a hat like any decent man? “Appears you’ve learned my name, but I don’t know yours,” he said.

A team of horses couldn’t pull the information out of her—any information for that matter. “I believe you do, Mr. Jacobs.” She planted a hand on her hip. “Florence Nightingale.”

“So, Miss Nightingale,” he said, mocking her—teasing her, “will you tell me where I can find the livery?”

That cocky grin he wore affected her. It was like waving a red cape in front of a bull. And he knew it. From the gleam in his eyes, he enjoyed it too.

“Have you a remedy for horses? Or looking for some manure to add to your spiel?”

He chuckled, apparently not at all upset by her words. “I need to bed down my horse.” He put a hand to his chest, feigning distress. “Surely even you wouldn’t want to put an innocent animal at risk.”

“True, but I wouldn’t mind putting a guilty beast at peril.” She eyed him, making no secret of which beast she meant.

A deep belly laugh escaped him. If he’d been any other man, the laugh would’ve been contagious. “You give me too much credit, dear lady.”

Uninvited humor bubbled up inside Mary, but she tamped it down before it reached her lips. She might as well give him directions. He’d find out soon enough, with or without her help. She motioned to the opposite corner. “The livery is at Ninth and Clinton.”

Instead of leaving, he took a step closer. Mary inhaled sharply.

“I can see my presence in this town unhinges you. I assure you that I’m quite harmless.”

Mary pulled every inch of her five-foot-two frame erect. “Nothing unhinges me, Mr. Jacobs. Not even the prospect of a charlatan in town.” She folded her arms. “How long are you staying?”

“Hard to say.”

Her gaze darted to the wagon, loaded with his tonic. Could his claims be valid? The sheriff thought the remedy had value. Even her father wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand. If so, what ingredients made up his concoction?

No, this man had no training qualifying him as a pharmacist. His bottles contained nothing of worth. Still, in an unguarded livery, who knew what could happen to his tonic.

He looked at her with an intensity suggesting he could see right through her skull and into her brain. “Planning mischief, Miss Nightingale?”

Mary’s face burned with shame. For the briefest moment, she’d actually considered dumping the contents of his bottles and breaking the commandment not to steal. She couldn’t meet his gaze.

His laughter lifted her chin. “Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but my remedy will be bunking with me.”

“Not even a reprobate like you could push me into breaking God’s law.”

He flashed a smile. “Wish I had more time to chat, but my horse needs water and feed.”

Without a backward glance, he walked to his wagon, scrambled up, released the brake and pulled on the reins, backing onto the street. Then giving her a jaunty wave, he turned in the direction of the livery.

Mary let out a gust. The man took pleasure in irritating her. Still, Ben remained her chief concern. At the thought of the little boy, Mary only wanted to pick him up at the Foleys’. Talking to her brother-in-law could wait.

Then she remembered the bottle in her bag. The errand would take her to the livery. She’d prefer to deliver the medicine tomorrow, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to shirk the responsibility. She despised having to be anywhere near that peddler, but more than likely she’d find Mr. Lemming in his office and wouldn’t have to set eyes on that no-good.

Or so she hoped.

Outside the livery, Mary waved to Red, the freckle-faced hired hand, dumping a wheelbarrow of manure he’d mucked from the stalls. As the odor reached her nostrils on the brisk breeze, she wrinkled her nose and hurried inside.

Mr. Lemming wasn’t in his office. Mary set the bottle on his desk, tempted to leave. But, her father had asked her to stress the importance of taking the medicine. Her heart skipped a beat. Searching for the owner could bring her face-to-face with that peddler. As she hustled past stalls, the horses’ gazes followed her progress with large doleful eyes, probably hoping for a treat or a pat.

Up ahead, Luke Jacobs filled a bucket from the trough. Mary skidded to a stop, her heart tap-dancing in her chest. The sight of all those muscles rippling beneath his shirt held her transfixed, powerless to move.