Chapter 22

Rupert was a mystery. Despite thoroughly examining his leg, Gideon could find no reason for the boy’s limp. Miriam had taken Rupert onto the porch to watch the stage come in.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Gideon admitted. “His leg has healed, and, watching him walk, he seems to be limping with both legs. I can’t account for it.”

She wrung her hands. “Neither can I.”

Gideon scanned the paper containing Rupert’s medical history. “He seems in perfect health. He’s energetic and growing as he should.”

Mrs. Fletcher looked as bewildered as he felt. “He’s had such a difficult few months. My heart aches seeing him still hurting.”

“Has he complained that he’s in pain?” The boy hadn’t seemed overly uncomfortable.

“He seldom complains about anything.”

Gideon hated not being able to help. First Miriam and now Rupert. What good was he if his list of suffering patients only grew?

“That deputy, Andrew, is some kind of checkers genius.” Father entered the parlor with no more introduction than that. “Hasn’t lost a game all morning.”

“He’s also an excellent tree climber,” Gideon said. “You should challenge him to that.”

Father laughed. “I’ve not climbed a tree in years. I ought to give it a go while your mother isn’t around to grow faint at the sight.”

“Father, this is Mrs. Fletcher. Her boy, Rupert, came in for an exam today.”

Father greeted her, a farmer’s wife in drab clothing, with the same bow he would have given a fine lady. “Your boy is the one on the porch, I’d guess. He and the nurse seem to be good friends.”

“Yes, Miss Bricks is wonderful with him.” Something of Mrs. Fletcher’s tension dissipated. “Between her and Dr. MacNamara, this town is well cared for.”

“Dr. MacNamara.” Father spoke as though he was feeling out the words, getting the taste of them. “Your grandfather would have thought that a fine thing. A doctor in the family.”

If only Father had come to visit on his own. Mother was a harder medicine to swallow.

Miriam stepped inside. “I believe I can begin demanding a higher wage.” Her gaze settled on Father and lingered a moment before jumping to Gideon, then back again a few times. “Good heavens, the two of you look alike.”

Father pretended to pluck a bit of lint from his cuff. “Gideon always was a fine-looking lad.”

Miriam’s mouth shot upward on the instant. “You must be his father.”

“I must be.” Father gave her his usual deep-waisted bow. “And you are Nurse Bricks, I understand.”

“At the moment, I am a solver of mysteries.” She turned to Gideon. “I have discovered the reason for young Rupert’s limp.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I asked him.” She cocked her head to the side in an overdone show of pride. “I told him he walked as though his feet hurt, and he said that they do, but only when he wears his shoes.”

“Oh, what a fool I am.” Gideon slapped his hand against his thigh as the entire picture became clear. “He has grown quite a lot since spring. It’s right there in his history. Of course his shoes are pinching.”

Miriam nodded. “Meaning, there’s nothing truly the matter with him.”

“I am so relieved.” Mrs. Fletcher embraced Miriam, though she was careful not to disturb her arm hanging in its sling. “We’ll not have the money for new shoes for some time, but before winter, certainly.”

“He can go barefoot until then,” Miriam reassured her. “Most children prefer that anyway.”

“I’m so glad this was something simple.” Mrs. Fletcher gave Miriam one more hug, then gave Gideon one as well. “I won’t impose any longer.”

“You are never an imposition,” Gideon said. “And please don’t ever hesitate to come see us if you are ever concerned about anything.”

“Come see us.” I hope I can keep saying that.

He saw Mrs. Fletcher out. When he returned to the parlor, Father was seated beside Miriam on the sofa, already deep in conversation.

“And they all love Gideon that way?” Father asked.

He ought to have slipped back out, but he wanted to hear Miriam’s answer.

“Everyone loves your son. I don’t think they can help themselves.” Miriam seemed at ease in Father’s company. It was a MacNamara talent, one Gideon had hoped would serve him well in gaining the confidence of his new nurse. “And, in turn, Gideon cares for and worries about them. He loses sleep and works all hours of the day and night. He travels for days at a time to reach towns even more remote than this one because he knows if he doesn’t, there won’t be anyone to help them.”

She made him sound like a saint.

“Gideon was always like that,” Father said. “He never was content to sit idly by. He always had to be doing something. He was exhausting.”

“He still is,” Miriam said.

That pulled a laugh from his father.

“He never stops moving,” Miriam said. “He doesn’t sit down for more than a moment, not even for the length of a meal. Always moving or talking or thinking. Even watching him think is tiring.”

Father patted Miriam’s hand. “I am happy he has you, Miss Bricks. Too many of the women in his life haven’t understood him.”

“Please, call me Miriam. And don’t give me too much credit. I am convinced your son is not understandable.”

It was time for Gideon to join the discussion. “That is a fine thing to say about a man you’ve asked to increase your wages.”

Miriam turned wide eyes to Father. He gave Gideon a warning look. “Miriam, here, is my newest friend. You be nice to her, son. I hold the ear of the leaders of this nation, you realize.”

“Not from this far away, you don’t.” Gideon sat on a nearby ottoman. He would rather have sat by Miriam. Truth be told, he would rather be holding her hand and caressing her face again. He didn’t know where the impulse had come from, but the feeling had been too strong to ignore.

“Has he played his cello for you?” Father asked Miriam. “He is very talented.”

“He played ‘Gentle Annie’ the other day. I think it was the loveliest version of that tune I’ve ever heard.”

He hadn’t realized she was familiar enough with Stephen Foster’s work to have recognized the melody. Something about her unabashed praise was a little embarrassing.

“Mother always felt I should have concentrated on more refined music,” Gideon said. “She was probably right.”

“Nonsense,” Father said. “You learned to play both styles of music, so you should be permitted to choose what you keep playing.”

“I’ll go make us some lunch.” Miriam rose from the sofa. “Don’t get your hopes up, Mr. MacNamara. There is a reason I am a nurse and not a cook.”

Once Miriam had left the room, Father said, “I like her.”

“Miriam is wonderful,” Gideon acknowledged.

“Is that why you wanted to marry her?”

“I had been looking for a woman who would be comfortable living in the middle of nowhere as well as who could be a helpmeet with my patients. Everything I had learned of Miriam told me she fit that mold perfectly. It was to have been a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Marriage isn’t supposed to be mutually beneficial—” Father held up a finger. “That came out wrong. Do not tell your mother I said that.”

Oh, how he’d missed talking with his father. “It’ll be our secret.”

“What I was trying to say is that you don’t pick a wife because she’s the most convenient option. You choose a woman who lights you up every time you see her, who makes your heart lodge itself in uncomfortable places.”

“Such a woman is not as easy to find as you seem to think.”

“How difficult is it to walk into your own kitchen, Gideon?”

“My kitchen?” There was only one woman in his kitchen at the moment. “You mean Miriam?”

“I didn’t mean the stove, lad.”

Gideon sighed. “Ian, apparently, left out the part of the story where Miriam refused to marry me.”

“Why did she refuse?” Father’s calm question didn’t set Gideon’s back up the way Mother’s demands for information always did.

“Because she didn’t know. The agency that arranged the match told her she was coming here for a job.”

“Oh, dear.” Father shook his head. “Is that why you contacted Ian? To determine what legal recourse you had?”

Gideon shrugged. “I suppose. Mostly I was embarrassed, I think. And I would like the money back that I paid to the bureau.” He winced at how mercenary that sounded.

“If you ask me, Miriam was wiser about this than you were. A marriage based on anything other than mutual affection and respect will never truly be convenient.” Sadness touched his words, something Gideon seldom remembered hearing or seeing from his father. He was ceaselessly cheerful, sometimes to the point of seeming foolish. “But in the few moments I saw you together, I saw both respect and affection.” Father stood. “Don’t discard that.”

He left on that declaration. Gideon remained behind, dumbstruck. He had never, in all his life, heard his father speak that way.