The Surgeon

“Sarah, please, can we talk about this?” John dabbed at his nose. He swore when he saw blood. Served him right. Fixing a bloody nose was easy. Traveling eight days across the country for nothing wasn’t!

Well…She’d return to the railway station to collect her luggage and make plans. That’s what she’d do. Maybe at the boardinghouse, she’d locate the two women she’d met on the train. They might help her. Through a haze of distress, she realized she’d then have to explain that her marriage to the dashing John Calloway was a joke. Oh, and could they please pass the marmalade?

And how long could she get by, with only five dollars in her pocket? She’d done everything she could to speed her journey here, to pay the back rent she owed, to pay the creditors for her mother’s funeral.

Much to her irate displeasure, John Calloway wouldn’t let her escape. His long, limber body swung into step with hers. Blocking her path, he propped his hands on his lean hips. “Are you planning to ignore me?”

“Darn right! Maybe you’re not used to being ignored at the fort, but I’m not one of your subordinates!”

She clamped her lips and stalked by him. In the adjacent pasture, plump brown-and-white cows peered at them over a dilapidated cedar fence, munching loudly, gazing as if they could understand the argument.

John raced along, stepping into her blasted path again. His massive shoulders blocked out the sun’s dying rays, so she couldn’t see his face. It was an etched block of darkness. “Let’s talk about this, about what you’re going to do.”

She shifted her heavy bag from hand to hand and hip to hip. The future tumbled around her. Nowhere to go. Her dreams dashed. The utter shame of being fool enough to fall for this prank. Thank God her folks weren’t alive to witness this. “Leave me alone.”

She kept walking, her high-heeled boots echoing off the creosote railway ties of the bridge, but he shouted after her.

“I can’t!”

She pivoted around to glare at the stubborn man at the other end of the bridge. “Why not?”

“Because…goddammit! I feel responsible!”

Her nausea took over. If she didn’t get something into her stomach soon, she’d collapse. Slumping to the cement wall of the bridge to steady herself, she lost the satchel. It slipped out of her grasp, thudding onto the boards. She cradled her temples in the palms of her hands. When she opened her eyes again, John’s boots were standing on the ground before her.

“Go away,” she commanded the boots.

“I’m sorry. It’s awful what the men did. There’ll be hell to pay when I get my hands on them.”

“It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“But I’m still sorry.”

She didn’t move. Two strangers walked by, an older man and woman headed toward the fort. John nodded hello, squeezing his bloody nose. He had no handkerchief so the blood dripped on his boot. Sinking down beside her, he stretched his legs out in front of him. His white sleeve brushed hers.

Since it seemed she couldn’t escape him, she opened her satchel, removed her lace handkerchief, then threw it at him. “Here!”

“Thanks.”

She squinted up at him to assess the damage she’d done. There was no swelling, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop.

“Don’t worry,” he said, with those glistening brown eyes that had almost been hers. “Luckily, I know what to do.” He leaned forward, pinching his nostrils with her hanky, resting his elbows on his thighs.

“You’re not supposed to lean forward and pinch your nose, you’re supposed to lean back.”

“I think I know what I’m doing.”

She snorted in anger.

They sat like that for minutes, absorbing the awful reality of her situation.

“You honestly didn’t write the letters?”

He shook his head. “Honestly.”

She sagged back. In her gut she knew he was telling the truth. He’d been tricked, too, and his indignation was palpable. But his stakes were nowhere near hers.

“How many did I write?” he asked.

“Four. Oh, my God,” she said, thinking of her letters.

“What is it?”

“Oh, my God.” She clamped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment.

“What?” John’s broad shoulders twisted to her direction.

A long groan escaped her. “When I wrote to you in my last letter, I disclosed something quite private.”

“What?”

“Something I wrote in a hasty moment of honesty. I thought…you’d discover it on your own soon enough and thought I might as well confess.” In truth, she’d thought if he discovered it on his own when she arrived, he might send her packing. There was no way she’d be able to hide it on her wedding night. It had been much easier to disclose at a distance, when she had so little to lose. What a practical woman, she chastised herself. “You’ll no doubt hear it from your men….” She lowered her head and toyed with her hands. “I told you that I wasn’t—” she lowered her voice to a whisper, reminding herself that he was a surgeon comfortable dealing with all sorts of subjects “—a virgin.”

“You aren’t?”

“You wrote back that you didn’t mind.”

“I didn’t?” He paused with sudden comprehension. “Oh, my God.”

She shook her head weakly. Thank God, she hadn’t gone the full distance to disclose the how and why, or she wouldn’t be able to look at him.

“Maybe it won’t get out,” he said. “Maybe you can trust them—”

“Who? Your band of merry men?”

When John rose slowly, he rubbed the growth of dark stubble along his firm jaw, and she knew he was affected. This was more devastating than any prank the Mounties could have imagined. This was her reputation.

Darkness surrounded them. When had it crept in?

Although she couldn’t see his eyes, she felt John’s heated stare as she rose and began walking. Shivering, she looked to the lights and sounds of the approaching buildings. There was a huge brewery to their left, a saloon across the road and stores lined up to their right. They passed a large sandstone building.

“How old are you, Sarah?”

She was twenty-eight but it was none of his business. “What difference does that make?”

“You’re a little…different than I expected.”

“How?”

“You remind me of a lot of friends I left back home in Toronto.” He studied her intently. “And you’re a bit older. Is that why you answered the advertisement? Because you weren’t having any luck on your own?”

“For heaven’s sake! I can’t believe you’re a doctor! You’re not helping matters by saying aggravating things like that!”

A streetlamp flickered above John’s dark head, weaving warm shadows around the two of them. When she started off down the boardwalk, John grabbed her gently by the arm. “Maybe not. Have there been any previous marriages?”

She tugged free, surprised at the impact of his grip, and his question. “No.”

“Any children?”

She gasped. “How can you ask that?”

“Well, it happens.”

“No!” She took a step toward him and turned the questioning around. “Have you had any previous marriages?”

He swallowed. “No.”

“Any children?”

“For God’s sake. No.”

“Well, it happens.” Ignoring the curious looks of passersby, Sarah scanned the signs above the buildings, looking for a boardinghouse. “Your questions come too late.”

“Do you have a place to stay? Where will you stay tonight?”

“I haven’t really had a chance to make any plans,” she said with cold humor. “Seeing that it’s only been ten minutes.”

“Right. Of course.”

She put down her bag. “Do you know…I mean, of course you’d know…Is there a pawn shop around here? A jeweler’s?”

“What for?”

“I’ve got two fine watches…I might sell.” The ones passed down from her grandfather in Ireland, the ones she’d vowed she’d never sell. Her stomach knotted as he appraised her.

After a moment of silent deliberation, he seemed to come to some sort of decision. “I’ve got a place you can stay.”

“Where?”

“In my town house until we figure this out. I’ll pay for your return ticket and anything else you need till you get home.”

Home? Where was home?

“I’ll see that the men responsible reimburse you extra for your troubles.”

She scoffed. How much extra should she charge for a life turned upside down? She didn’t recognize anyone or anything in this town. The noises were strange—tinny saloon music, eerie howls coming from the prairie grasses, the tap-tap-tap of cowboy spurs behind her. Glancing at the cold faces of strangers milling by on the boardwalk, Calgary suddenly seemed like a very lonely place.

John was the only person she sort of knew, and he was a doctor. Could she trust him to stay in his home? What choice did she have? Insecurity trembled down her spine.

As John picked up her bag, amusement lit his brown eyes. Was a smile hovering on his lips? “Did you tell me how you lost it?”

“Lost what?”

He leaned in next to ear and whispered. “Your virginity.”

He didn’t seem bothered by the news as many men would be, but then she no longer meant anything to him. She never had.

She wasn’t ready to forgive him for the situation, and gave him a cutting glare. “No, but I felt sure you’d understand.”

“Too bad you missed the party, John,” his neighbor called over the fence from the wooden swing on her porch, greeting him and Sarah as they strode up his stairs to his weather-beaten door.

Heavy-set and in her early fifties, Mrs. Polly Fitzgibbon sat among a menagerie of pets. Her beautiful Irish setter panted at her wide-boned feet, the Siamese cat slinked behind her and her knotted black bun, the two newest kittens sitting on her lap pounced at her stubby fingers, and that irritating nuisance of a monkey was hopping along the handrail, eating an onion.

John groaned, wishing Polly would be inside her door for a change when he walked through his.

“Good evening, Polly,” he hollered in the warm evening air. “What party are you talking about?”

“You remember, I told you two weeks ago my young nephew David was arriving from New York City. I know you’ve been awfully busy, but we had a birthday party for him last night. I baked an apple pie and George found streamers at the general store. We hung them all over. David’s a nice kid, you’ll like him.”

“How old is the boy?”

“Just turned thirty-six.”

“Oh.”

“Who’s your friend?”

John slid Sarah’s satchel to the ground and, with his hand tucked around Sarah’s slim waist, led her forward. She jolted at his touch and lurched away. It irked him. He was only being hospitable.

“Mrs. Polly Fitzgibbon, meet Miss Sarah O’Neill.”

He watched Sarah nod slowly. A smile finally lit her face as she followed the movements of the scheming monkey over the fence, up one wall of John’s house to peel off a piece of cedar roofing, then back to the ground. If the monkey kept this up, he’d soon have enough stripped pieces of the house to build one of his own.

“Now cut that out,” John said, hiding his temper for Sarah’s sake, diving for the shingle and grabbing it out of the pesky, hairy paws.

“Is that a monkey?” Sarah called over the fence.

“A chimpanzee, actually. There’s a difference, you know.”

He was still a scheming monkey in John’s mind.

“I’ve never seen one before,” said Sarah. “Where did you get him?”

“He followed us home from the carnival. ’Course, he hid in the trees for a couple of days, so by the time we noticed he’d flown the coop, it was too late to return him. His people were halfway to Minnesota.”

“What’s his name?” Sarah asked.

“Willie,” said Polly. “He’s our wee little Willie.”

Sarah laughed softly but John rolled his eyes.

“Polly is my housekeeper,” John explained to Sarah. “I’m glad I caught you, Polly. Looks like I’ll be needed at the barracks for a bit longer still. Sarah’ll be staying here for a day, maybe two. I’d appreciate if you kept your eye on her.” And be the proper chaperone, he added silently.

“Be mighty glad to. Maybe I’ll send David over to say hello. He’s an accomplished photographer, you know. I’ll ask him to bring one of his cameras and take your picture.”

Polly’s tendency for matchmaking never stopped. “Sarah prefers to rest.”

Sarah shot John a quizzical look.

Now why had he said that?

“Well, I didn’t mean tonight,” said Polly. “Maybe me and George and David will all come callin’ tomorrow, after I wash your floors. I’ll make them nice and shiny for company—for us,” she added with a laugh.

Sarah called, “That would be lovely.”

John shook his head in exasperation. Why should Sarah bother to get to know the neighbors when she was leaving on the next train?

Polly stared at John. “What happened to your nose?”

John pushed the hanky into the pocket of his breeches. Looked like it’d stopped bleeding. “Someone punched me.”

Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her boots—guilty—while he shot her a smile of satisfaction.

Polly clicked her tongue with a noisy clatter. “What you men go through in your line of duty.” She focused on Sarah. “You feelin’ all right, miss?”

Sarah pressed her hand against her stomach. “A bit of motion sickness is all. I spent eight days on the train.”

John noticed the pallor beneath her eyes. Why hadn’t she told him she wasn’t feeling well?

Why hadn’t he noticed?

“Where are you from?” asked Polly.

“Halifax.”

“Land sake’s, I had the same thing happen on that steamer we took from Nova Scotia to New York two summers before last. You’ll never get me to sea again. I was heavin’ so much, by the end of it I was beggin’ them to tie the bucket permanently around my neck.”

Sarah nodded then stumbled. John quickly unlocked the front door and led her into the front foyer.

“If I’d known you weren’t feeling well, I would’ve…”

“Would’ve what?”

“…been a bit easier on you.”

She looked at him through cool gray eyes.

He lit the kerosene wall lamp. The glow spread. He watched Sarah glance up the curved staircase, then through the doors into the parlor. Wide oak planks shimmered beneath Turkish carpets, linen curtains adorned the sidelights of the door, and several fine pieces of Victorian furniture that John had ordered from a catalog salesman adorned the hallway, parlor, and upstairs landing.

He felt fortunate that his, and the other officers’, high pay scale allowed them to transport a great deal of personal goods and luxuries not only to their private homes, for those who had them, but to their quarters at the fort. Unlike himself, most commissioned officers were descended from wealthy Eastern families, and had obtained their positions through influential connections. Many were second sons of wealthy Europeans who, having no rights of inheritance, had come to North America to seek their fortune.

Even Charles Dickens’s third son, Francis, up until recently, had been a Mountie; John had worked with him once in passing. John, however, being from a modest family with no connections, had earned his position through hard work and a university education.

His home wasn’t completely furnished yet, but it was comfortable, clean and spacious.

Looking at her ashen face, he realized she must be exhausted. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“On the train sometime around noon.”

John muttered under his breath. “Would you like a bite to eat now?”

“I’m not very hungry, but I should eat something, I suppose. Thank you.”

She wavered on her feet. He lunged forward to catch her, but he’d overreacted. Her brows shot up and a flash of humor lit her face as she steadied herself.

Why did women wear those damn things, anyway? Corsets. As soon as they started breathing hard, the straps tightened around their ribs until they couldn’t catch a breath. No wonder so many of them fainted. It was obviously part of her problem. He had a mind to tell her so, but didn’t feel like getting punched again.

She followed him into the kitchen and sat at the table while he prepared the food. Ham from the icebox, two plums, a loaf of heavy rye from the bread bin and all the butter and preserves she could want.

He got so caught up in the meal preparation that ten minutes later, when he turned proudly to the table to lavish the food on her, she was in a deep sleep. She’d placed her head on the table and was out cold.

He watched her for a moment. Was she unconscious?

Setting down the plates of food, he checked her breathing and her radial pulse. Only sleeping, thank goodness.

What was he supposed to do? Leave her here? Wake her up to eat? Carry her to bed? He pulled out a chair and sat down, staring at her. The hair at her temples gently framed her fringed lashes and the rosy curve of her cheek. The neckline of her red suit dipped low to her curves, and her long red skirt swirled about her heels. She was far from being a spineless mail-order bride that he’d once described to Wesley.

When John had first signed with the force fifteen years ago, he was sent to the forts in Alberta before any settlers had arrived. He’d counted thirty-seven-and-a-half months before he’d set eyes on a woman. Then another eighteen months after that one. Even now, with Calgary’s population hovering around four thousand, women were scarce and mail-order brides were not uncommon. Over the past ten years John reckoned about six or eight had arrived and passed through the area.

What were Sarah’s reasons for responding to the ad? What dreams had she had in meeting him today?

God, the truth must have hurt.

She’d had a very difficult day and his men were to blame. As soon as she was settled, he’d return to the fort and speak to the guilty parties.

With the sting of exhaustion behind his eyes, he knew it’d be another long night. When would John’s pleas for additional medical personnel be answered? Dr. Waters, the town doctor, was useless; his whiskey had gotten in the way of his profession. The man was a hindrance because he couldn’t even help the townsfolk—they were bypassing him and seeking John directly. In the past six months John had been caring for civilians as well as wounded police in the only hospital for hundreds of miles—the fort’s.

But before John went anywhere tonight, he had to take care of Sarah. Slipping one arm beneath her soft thighs and the other beneath her shoulder blades, he lifted her yielding body and carried her up the stairs. When she moaned and settled against his chest, he sighed. Although he’d had his share of women, it’d been a long time since he’d held one in his arms.

When they reached his wide bed, he lowered her down.

The corset wouldn’t do her any good. It impeded her respiration and surely hadn’t helped her motion sickness on the train. How could she feel better if she couldn’t breathe well?

And so, tugging in a breath of air to give himself confidence, wondering if he’d pay for it tomorrow, he did what any good doctor would.

He lowered his hands beneath the covers and, his fingertips brushing against her warm skin, he used his pocket knife to remove her corset.

Chapter Three

“How the hell could you do that to her?” Standing in the stables—the most private place to talk—while his good friend the veterinary surgeon, Logan Sutcliffe, groomed his stallion, John blasted the group of five men. He outranked them all.

The six o’clock sunrise peeked over their shoulders, flooding in from the open doors. They were dressed in their everyday working uniforms—white shirts, suspenders and dark breeches.

“We thought she might go over well, that you wouldn’t mind,” said one of the men.

“You heard my objections to Wesley when he placed his ad. What on earth would make you think I’d feel different now?”

The group was silent. Some kicked at the straw, some fidgeted with the sleek California saddle and the wool blanket slung over the stall.

“Well?” John bellowed. “I want an answer from each of you!”

They glanced uncomfortably at each other. Corporal Reid spoke first, playing with the brim of his wide brown hat. “We thought you’d see the humor.”

“You thought I’d be amused?”

The veterinarian shrugged as he brushed the stallion’s mane. In his mid-twenties, the youngest man here, Logan was being trained by John to help in surgery because John was so short staffed. Logan had been shot in the face by the Grayveson gang more than two-and-a-half years ago and left for dead. His cheek was bandaged from his own recent surgery to fix his droopy eyelid and to minimize the scarring left behind by the bullet wound.

Sid Grayveson, the man who’d shot Logan, was serving twenty-five years for attempted murder of an officer, but two of his vicious brothers were still at large.

Logan’s young wife, Melodie, was carrying their first child. John liked them both. But it didn’t change the fact that Logan was a goddamn horse doctor. John’s wounded men deserved better. They deserved to be cared for by a trained surgeon.

“I tried to stop the prank but I should have said something more…the prank got out of hand,” said Logan. “Wesley was so happy with the thought of his mail-order bride.”

John scowled. “Don’t keep using Wesley as an excuse. I know all about Wesley and his bride. I was the one who sent his fiancée the telegram telling her the news that she no longer needed to come.” He turned to the two other men, the sergeant and corporal. “What are your excuses?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir,” said Sergeant O’Malley, nervously patting his dark mustache, “but we can’t forget about Wesley because the whole thing was Wesley’s idea.”

“What?”

“Wes said you always see things in such black-and-white terms, Sir. That maybe if you’d just meet a woman we picked out for you, you might…see things from another angle.”

John leaned against the boards. The bulge of his shoulder flattened against wood. Wesley’s doing?

How many hours had they spent working side by side in surgery, on the fields and in the hospital? Wesley, with the white-blond hair and friendly blue eyes, who was always ready for a good laugh. Such a damn good sport about everything. Even when he’d lose in cards, or when the men had secretly oiled his saddle with molasses that had later stained his breeches beyond repair, or when he’d gotten his paycheck and spent half of it on rounds of Scotch for the men.

They’d been so close that Wesley had given him the friendly nickname of Black-’n-White.

Because you never tear your hair out makin’ a decision, Wesley had said. When the cook was caught stealin’ money, you said get rid of him. When the rest of us were only suspecting old man Dubrowski was beatin’ up on his wife, you had him thrown in jail for seven days. When I crushed my baby finger last year, you said cut it off right away, but I said no, and with the infection wound up losin’ two instead.

John didn’t mind the name. Being able to see things clearly had gotten him far in the police force. But with women…cripes…with women….

Wesley had been behind it. What was John supposed to make of that?

“What’s she gonna do, Doc?”

John rubbed the kink at the back of his neck. Two hours’ sleep hadn’t been enough. “She’s going home. But before she does, I want each of you to make restitution.”

“How?”

“An apology for starters. And then you’ll take up a collection, so she won’t go home empty-handed. I don’t know what her circumstances are, but it’s the least you can do.”

“Where is she stayin’, Sir?”

John was about to tell them, then decided against it. “I’ll let you know later today. I’m headed there now.”

He’d see her as soon as he’d shaved and bathed. He should warn her to expect the men, to ask if she wanted to see them. He’d also stop by the train depot to ask for the schedule. There were two daily trains headed East, but he wasn’t sure if both of them went all the way to Halifax.

The men edged toward the door, eager to escape his glare.