The Drifter

Her father had insisted on a driver, claiming it bolstered his image of importance. The thought of her father took Leah back in time. She was nine years old again, done up in ribbons and bows, seated stiffly in the parlor of their Philadelphia house while he drilled her on her sums. Even now, she could recall the scent of wood polish, could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Could see the chilly glare of her father growing colder when she stumbled over a number.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she’d said, her voice meek. “I’ll study harder. I’ll do better next time.”

And she did do better the next time. She perfected everything he demanded of her, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Edward Mundy had done a splendid job of convincing his daughter that no matter how hard she studied, no matter how hard she tried, she would never please him.

He’d wanted her to be a doctor, yes, because he had no son to carry on in the profession. But he’d also expected her to marry, and marry well. There had been an endless parade of suitors arranged by her father, but they never stayed. The men she met had no idea what to do with a woman like her. They wanted someone who laughed and danced and gossiped, not someone who studied anatomy and voiced opinions that raised eyebrows.

Lulled by the creaking rhythm of the buggy wheels, Leah thrust aside the dark memories. Her father was gone. The past was gone. It was up to her to keep it at bay.

She watched the roadway unfold between the horse’s brown ears and thought about the Winfields. The birth had been an easy one; the baby had emerged healthy and whole into her eager, waiting hands. She would never tire of the warm, slippery feel of newborn flesh. The look of wonder from the father, the triumphant tears of the mother. But most of all, she loved the first gasp of breath as the baby inhaled, the lusty cry that said, “Here I am, world, alive and hale,” followed by the glorious rush of crimson as the child took on the flush of life.

Each time you save a life, Sophie had told her, you yourself are reborn.

On spring mornings like this, a week after Mrs. Underhill’s miscarriage, Leah could believe it. She had been called from her bed at five to attend Mrs. Winfield. Just two hours later, the baby had made his appearance, and Mr. Winfield, overjoyed, had paid Leah—immediately and well, a rare surprise since most of her patients tended to procrastinate when it came to settling fees.

So with pride in delivering Coupeville’s newest citizen and carrying a gold double eagle in the pocket of her smock, Leah was in excellent spirits.

She practiced the most glorious profession of all, that of healing, saving lives, relieving suffering. She had been an exemplary student, studying harder than her male counterparts, performing better than her father’s expectations for her, and in the end knowing the triumph of succeeding against all odds.

Yet inevitably as always, a shadow crept in on her, dimming her elation. Because even as she stood holding a newborn, the time always came for her to surrender the child to its mother. To watch the father gather them both in his arms while a glow of radiance surrounded them.

Some might claim the notion pure fancy, but Leah had seen that glow again and again. She wondered if she was the only one who recognized the magic, who realized what love and family could do. They could transform a plain woman into a vision of loveliness, could light the dark corners of the meanest lean-to hovel.

Perhaps it was her fate to be an observer, but dear God, there were times when she yearned to experience that joy for herself. Love and family. At quiet moments like this, with the clopping of hooves punctuating the silence, she could feel the fear growing inside her. It was like a fistula, a cancer. It was the horror that she would never know that kind of love. That she would grow old alone and lonely.

She released a pent-up sigh and turned the buggy down Main Street, clucking to the horse. The mare picked up her pace, but with a reluctant blowing of her lips.

Lined with shops and churches, the gravel road cleaved the hilly town in two and descended to the waterfront. Across the Sound, the rising sun burst with a dazzle over the jagged white teeth of the distant Cascade mountain range.

Some activity at the harbor caught her eye, mercifully distracting her from her thoughts. Peering through the light layers of mist, she saw Davy Morgan, the harbormaster’s apprentice, come out of the small, low office at the head of Ebey’s Landing. The youth stretched as he yawned to greet the day. The first rays of sunshine shot through his vivid red hair.

Davy shaded his eyes in the direction of the dock where Jackson Underhill’s schooner bobbed at its moorage. The disabled rudder hung askew like a broken arm.

An unpleasant wave of guilt swept through Leah. The steerage was damaged because of her, and apparently repairing it was quite a task. Though it was none of her business, she knew Mr. Underhill had been sleeping on the boat rather than at the boardinghouse with Carrie. Perhaps he’d taken his vow to avoid having more children very seriously.

Seized by a perverse curiosity, she went to check out the boat, pulling up the buggy at the end of the dock.

“Morning, Miss Mundy.” Davy Morgan bobbed his bright red head in greeting.

She nodded back. Like most people, Davy neglected to address her by the title “Doctor,” but in his case, there was no malice intended. Yet when his employer, Bob Rapsilver, stepped out of the office, Leah’s defenses shot up like a shield.

The harbormaster made no secret of his dislike for her, ever since she’d advised him that the liver ailment he was always complaining about would abate once he gave up his daily pint of whiskey. Instead of giving up drink, however, he’d turned on her, openly questioning her morals, her intentions and her skill to anyone who would listen.

“Mr. Rapsilver,” she said with cool politeness.

“Miss Mundy.” He lifted a battered sailor’s cap. “You’re out and about bright and early today.”

“The Winfields had a fine, healthy son this morning.”

“Ah. Midwifing is a proper business.” He checked his pocket watch with a bored air. “Good to hear you weren’t out trying to do a man’s job.”

“I never try to do a man’s job,” she countered. “I do better.”

Davy snickered. Rapsilver pointed with a meaty hand. “Boy, weren’t you supposed to be testing the steam engine on Armstrong’s La Tache?”

“Already done, sir,” Davy said. “And it’s not safe. Almost burned my hand off trying to shut it down.”

“Are you all right?” Leah asked, concerned.

Davy nodded. “Yes, thank you, ma’am. But Mr. Armstrong’s not going to be too happy about his engine.”

“Be careful, then.” She jumped down, buggy springs squawking, and wound the reins around a cleat on the dock. She frowned at the rusty noise of the decrepit buggy. Another task to see to. Another problem to solve. Some days she felt like Sisyphus rolling a rock up a hill only to have it roll down again before reaching the summit.

Not today, she thought determinedly. She had brought a new life into the world and there were no other calls to make. She wouldn’t let worries drag her spirits down.

Lifting the hem of her skirts away from the damp planks, she walked to the end of the dock and peered at the schooner. It looked to be perhaps sixty feet in length. Its once-sleek hull had dulled, the paint peeling. Jackson had told her the boat was called the Teatime. Some long-ago optimist had painted the name on a fancy scrollwork escutcheon affixed to the stern. Now all that remained were the letters eat me.

Leah walked down the length of the boat. Even in its state of disrepair, the schooner had the classic stately lines of a swift blue-water vessel. Seeing it all broken and peeling made her a little sad, reminding her of a favored patient succumbing to the rigors of old age.

She wondered who had commissioned the ship. Had it called at exotic ports in distant lands? And how had it wound up in the possession of Jackson T. Underhill? What sort of man was he anyway? Where were he and his strange, beautiful wife going in such a hurry? North to Canada, she guessed, maybe to lose themselves in the wilderness.

The fact was, they were already lost. She could see that clearly. She wondered if they knew.

She hesitated on the dock. She did need to speak with Mr. Underhill. Her patient was agitated. She knew no easy way to tell him what Carrie said during her lucid moments. Perhaps she could ease into it.

There was a danger, too, of being alone with him. He was, after all, a man who had tried to abduct her. The harbormaster would be of little help if Jackson attacked her. But why would he? He needed her. From the first moment, even holding a gun to her head, he’d needed her.

Steadying herself by grasping a ratline, she stepped onto the boat. A gentle listing motion welcomed her. Moving across the cockpit, she went up a small ladder to the midships. The deck glittered with glass prisms set into the planks to provide daylight for the rooms below. In the middle of the deck was a skylight hatch angled open to the morning.

Bending, she leaned down to see inside.

“G’damned chafer,” said a furious male voice. “Chicken-bred bastard from hell—”

She clapped her hands over her ears. “Mr. Underhill!”

The hatch swung open and his head popped up. His face was flushed a dark red, brow and temples damp with sweat. “Hey, Doc.”

She cleared her throat. “I’m sure whoever you’re speaking to below would prefer that you keep a civil tongue in your head.”

To her surprise, he gave her a crooked grin. “I’m alone, Doc. Just having a little argument with this repair.”

To her further surprise, she felt her mouth quirk in amusement. “And is it working?”

“What?”

“Cursing. Is it helping to fix the boat?”

“No, but I feel better.”

She eyed a part of the rudder lying across the main deck. Ropes and pulleys lay scattered about. She had never done a destructive thing in her life until she’d sabotaged his boat, and despite the circumstances, she felt guilty.

“I’ll help you.” Without further ado, she clambered down the hatch. The heel of her boot caught the bottom rung of the ladder, and she lurched forward.

“Careful there.” Strong hands gripped her waist, thumbs catching just below her breasts.

He held her only a second, but it seemed like forever. Leah stopped breathing. It had been so long since anyone had touched her. His handling was impersonal, yet she couldn’t help acknowledging that no one had ever held her this way before.

She saw his eyes widen.

“No corset, Doc?” he observed. His frankness embarrassed her.

“Binding is terrible for one’s health.”

He lifted his hands, palm out, in a conciliatory gesture. “You won’t hear me objecting to a ban on ladies’ corsets.”

Self-consciously, she straightened her shirtwaist.

“Watch your step.” He indicated a tub of pitch and masses of coiled rope on the floor. He moved back and regarded her. His attention had an odd effect on her composure. Her face grew warm, her pulse quickened, and she felt completely foolish.

“So,” he said, his grin slightly off center. “You’ve come to help.”

“You look as if you could use it.”

“You’re not too busy?”

“I’ve already made one call today. If no emergency comes up, I’m free for the time being.”

“Well, thanks. That’s real nice of you, Doc.”

She shrugged. “I thought it was the least I could do, since…” She let her voice trail off.

“Since you’re the one who broke the steering,” he finished for her.

“You’re the one who tried to kidnap me,” she shot back.

He nodded. “You’re not one to own up to things, are you?” He handed her a wood spanner.

She snatched the tool from him. “And you’re not one to apologize for your actions.”

“Here, hold this steady. Yeah. Just like that.” He put a peg into a freshly drilled hole and tamped it tight with a mallet. “Some landlubber used iron bolts on this mast stepping and they rusted. I have to replace them with wood fastenings or the aft mast could come down.” He repeated the procedure several more times, but each time he tamped down a peg, the opposite one came up. He cursed fluently and unsparingly through gritted teeth.

She watched him for a while, holding the pegs and holding her tongue until she could stand it no more.

“May I make a suggestion?”

The mallet came down squarely on his thumb. He shut his eyes, jaw bulging as he clenched it. “Shoot.”

“Why don’t you cut the pegs a longer length, then after they’re all in, trim the wood flush with the deck?”

He stared at her for a long moment. She thought he was going to argue with her or ridicule her. That was what men always did when a woman dared to comment on their work. Instead, he said, “Good idea. We’ll do it your way.”

She still had to hold the pegs for him, and he had to lie on his side to reach all the fittings, but his mood lightened as the work progressed. He had a long frame, lean and sinewed, and appeared to be remarkably healthy. The human body was her calling, her obsession, and it pleased her to watch him.

More than it should have.

“So,” he said at length, and she started guiltily, certain he knew she’d been studying him. “How is it you came to be a female doctor?”

She let out a relieved breath. “How I came to be a female is by accident of birth.”

He laughed. “I guess I deserved that.”

“How I came to be a doctor is by reading, hard work, a rigorous apprenticeship, and ward study in a hospital.” And how did you become an outlaw? she wanted to ask—but she didn’t dare.

His eyes narrowed as he sealed one of the pegs with glue. “You sure talk a lot and say nothing.”

His observation startled her. “I suppose you’re right.”

“So what’s the real story?” He stood and brushed off his leather carpenter’s apron. She liked it better than the gun belt.

“Why do you want to know?” Why on earth would it matter to you? she wondered.

“Just curious, I guess. Is it some big secret?”

“No. I’m just not used to being asked.”

He swept a mocking bow, the tools in his apron clanking with the movement. “So I’m asking.”

She caught herself smiling at him.

“You ought to do that more often,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Smile. Makes you look downright pretty.”

“Looking pretty is not important to me.”

“That’s a new one on me. You didn’t have the usual kind of mama, I guess.”

“Actually, I was raised by my father. Since he had no son, I suppose you could say he pinned his aspirations on me.” She paused, gazing out a portal as she collected her thoughts. In the faraway past, she heard a voice calling, “Dr. Mundy, can you come?”

Leah, no more than ten at the time, went along with her father, holding the lamp in the buggy and then squashing herself into a corner of the sickroom at the patient’s house.

She could not bring herself to admit to this stranger, this friendly man with secrets of his own in his blue-gray eyes, that her father had been the worst sort of doctor, a quack, a purveyor of questionable potions that often did more harm than good.

“I learned much from being in practice with him,” she said. It was not quite a lie. She’d learned there was nothing more precious than human life. That people needed to look to a physician for hope. That a good doctor could do much to ease suffering while a bad one got rich from it. Her father had given her one gift. He had made her determined to succeed where he had failed.

She made herself remember the pain and the horror and the fact that even as he was dying, Edward Mundy had withheld his love. She swallowed hard. “He died of complications from an old gunshot wound.”

He gazed at her thoughtfully. “I take it that’s why you’re not real fond of guns.”

“A gun is the tool of a coward,” she snapped. “A tool of destruction. I’ve seen too often what a bullet can do.”

“Touché, Doc, as the Three Musketeers would say.” He changed tools, selecting an awl. “So you became a doctor just like your papa.”

“Not like my father.” She flushed and looked away. “We disagreed often about courses of treatment.” For no reason she could fathom, she added, “We disagreed about everything, it seemed.”

“Such as?”

The proper way for Leah to dress. And talk. And behave.

The way to snare a wealthy husband.

Where they would flee to each time one of his patients expired due to his incompetence.

“Well?” Jackson prompted.

She already regretted the turn the conversation had taken. Yet it was surprisingly easy to talk to him. Probably because she knew that he was only here for a short time; then she’d never see him again. He couldn’t use the things she told him to hurt her.

“He never quite understood my insistence on practicing medicine for the good of humankind rather than to make money. He thought I should spend my leisure time pursuing drawing-room etiquette. He was disappointed when I failed to marry well.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean—marry well?”

“My father thought it meant marrying a man who’d settle his bad debts for him.”

“And you? What do you think it means?”

“Finding a man who will l—” she didn’t dare say it “—esteem me.”

“So why haven’t you done it yet?”

“Because such a man doesn’t exist.” The old ache of loneliness throbbed inside her. “I’ve yet to meet a man who would give me the freedom to practice medicine. Men seem to want their wives to stay at home, keeping the hearth fire stoked and darning socks instead of healing the sick.”

“It all sounds like a damned bore to me.”

“Healing the sick?”

“No. Stoking the hearth and darning socks.”

She laughed. “Did your mother never teach you a woman’s place is in the home?”

All trace of pleasantry left his face. “My mother never taught me a goddamned thing.”

His tone of voice warned her not to probe an old wound. We both have our scars, she thought. We work so very hard to hide them.

“So who taught you about the Three Musketeers?”

“Taught myself.” His voice had gone flat, uninviting. Then he brightened, reaching up to lean the heel of his hand on a cross beam. Light from the deck prisms fell across him, striking glints of gold in his hair. “Now that I’ve got the Teatime, I can go anywhere.”

“Where do you plan to go?”

“Wherever the wind takes me.”

“It sounds rather…capricious. Do you never think of staying somewhere, settling down?”

He got back to work, swirling his brush in a bucket of glue. “I never think of much at all.”

Letting the wood glue set around a loose bolt, Leah fell silent for a time, thinking. She wanted to ask him so many things: what he had left behind in his past, why he never spoke of the baby Carrie had lost, what he expected of the future. But she held her tongue. At an early age, she had learned caution. Watch what you say to another person. Watch what you learn about him. Watch what you feel for him.

Once in her life, she had given her whole heart and soul to a man, and he had crushed her flat. That man had been her father. He was a charlatan, but he was all she knew, all she had, and she’d given him enormous influence over her choices. Now she had nothing but broken, bitter memories.

Wishing she could forget the past, she worked in silence alongside Jackson Underhill, studying him furtively. In her profession she had seen men from all angles, yet she regarded Jackson as uniquely—and discomfitingly—interesting.

Despite a demeanor she found more charming than she should, he seemed to be a man who expected—and usually got—the worst life had to offer. Yet he still clung to hope in a way that was alien and intriguing to Leah.

“I’m curious, Mr. Underhill,” she said, unable to stop her incautious questions in spite of herself. “How is it that you came to be in possession of this boat?”

“What makes you think I didn’t commission her?”

“Somehow I can’t picture you christening a boat Teatime.”

“It said ‘eat me’ last time I looked.”

“Then at least fix the lettering on the stern,” she advised. “If you didn’t name her, who did?”

He thought for a moment, no doubt weighing what it was safe to tell her. “Some English guy I met in Seattle. I won her in a card game. Her owner was down on his luck, but I’m told in her day, she sailed the Far East, plying the waters around the island groves, looking for rare teas. I mean to go there someday,” he said, almost to himself.

“Go where?”

“I’m not sure. Someplace far. Exotic. Maybe I’ll just follow the sunset until I find what I’m looking for.”

The gruffness in his voice caught at her. “And what’s that, Mr. Underhill?”

“Paradise. Like that picture in your office.” His ears reddened after he spoke. “I guess. Just something I’ve always wanted to do.” He shrugged dismissively. “Pass me that mallet, will you?”

She handed it to him, frowning a little.

“What’s the matter, Doc?”

“I find you quite hard to understand,” she admitted. “My profession is the motivating factor of my life. It’s what gives me direction and purpose. Yet you have no plan for your life beyond sailing to the next port. You’re like this ship, Mr. Underhill. You’ve got no fixed rudder. No fixed course. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I’m a dreamer. You’re a planner. Who the hell are you to say your way’s better?”

She felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I apologize.”

“You don’t need to.” He picked up a sanding block and got to work.

“How long will these repairs take?” she asked, eager to leave the topic of planning and dreaming.

He blew out his breath. “Weeks, according to Davy Morgan who claims to know such things. He was amazed I was able to get here from Seattle. He gave me a list of repairs a mile long. I can do the work myself, but I’ll have to go back to the city to earn enough money to pay for supplies.”

“How will you earn the money?”

He winked. “I’m a gambling man.”

“Is that why you’re on the run?” she asked.

“Who said I was on the run?”

“You didn’t have to.” She pressed her mouth into a wry smile. “I guessed it as soon as you tried to abduct me. You confirmed it when you warned me not to alert the sheriff.”

He squinted menacingly at her. “And did you?”

She forced herself to hold his gaze. “No. But if you give me a reason to, I shall.”

“I’m not looking for trouble.”

“I know.” And she did. She’d briefly considered a visit to Sheriff Lemuel St. Croix, but she hadn’t actually done it. St. Croix was a tough, humorless man who seemed out of place in Coupeville. A bachelor of middle years, he had a taste for fine things; even on his modest lawman’s salary he’d managed to acquire a Panhard horseless gasoline carriage. Keeping law and order in the town did not seem to concern him overly much. This was not a problem since crimes in the area tended to be petty and few.

Lost in thought, she watched Jackson work. When he spoke of the sea, a dreamer took the place of the gunfighter. There was something compelling in his intent manner. Passion burned brightly in his gaze; she was caught by it. She couldn’t remember the last time such a powerful desire had burned inside her. The rigors of everyday life had dulled her heart to dreaming, it seemed.

When had it happened? she wondered. When had all her dreams died? And why hadn’t she felt the loss until now, until she looked into the eyes of a stranger and saw the lure of possibility?

She shouldn’t probe into the life of this drifter. He was clearly on the wrong side of the law, clearly had much to hide in his past. The less she knew about him, the better. It was time to tell him what she’d come to say in the first place. “Your wife seemed troubled when I checked on her yesterday evening.”