Chapter 4

Miriam spent a half hour the next morning attempting to tame her tresses. She tried a bun, a knot, the front pulled back with the back left loose, all of it tied with a ribbon. In the end, only a tight braid would keep it in submission. Curly hair, she’d learned quite young, was not for the faint of heart.

It was not the best day to be fighting with her hair. Starting a new job was always nerve-racking. New people. New schedules. This time “We were almost accidentally married” and “I have reasons for being here that I am not being forthright about” contributed significantly to her discomfort.

She reached the front porch of Dr. MacNamara’s house with only a minute to spare. His house was the largest she’d seen outside of New York. It stood three stories high, with a bay tower and a covered porch, the roof of which served as a balcony for the room above. Flowers grew along the short front walk. This was far more welcoming than the facade of Blackburn Asylum, which had resembled a prison on the outside. Inside, it had quite literally been one. No matter how awkward working with Dr. MacNamara might prove, it could not possibly be worse than her two years at the asylum had been.

She tightly held her sketchbook, kept securely closed by a thin strap of leather. New beginnings were always unsettling. Heaven knew she’d had too many “new beginnings” to count. But what choice did she have?

She climbed the steps to the front porch and crossed to the door. Her courage didn’t desert her. After a deep, reassuring breath, she knocked. The door opened.

“Right on time.” The doctor even seemed happy to see her.

She stepped across the threshold, unsure what to expect. The interior was no less impressive than the outside. The banister and wood paneling could, perhaps, use a polish, but taken as a whole, the entryway was very fine. She hadn’t expected anything like it in the wilds of the West.

“We’ll be in here.” Dr. MacNamara motioned her through a doorway to the left. “The parlor also acts as my medical office.”

A sofa and two armchairs flanked the nearby fireplace. A desk and examination table sat at the far side of the room, where the windows formed the rounded bay tower. A tall, glass cupboard and shelves held vials and jars and tins of powders and ointments. She would wager that the drawers of the lowboy held bandaging and medical implements.

It was a nice arrangement, with plenty of space for both of the room’s functions.

“There is a small room just past the staircase with a bed where patients can go for a little extra rest or recovery.” Dr. MacNamara next pointed at the ceiling. “The two upper floors are all bedchambers awaiting patients.”

“You have room enough for an epidemic,” she said.

He assumed a look of overdone pride. “That is the MacNamara medical method: over-prepare for when things go incredibly wrong.”

“‘When,’ not ‘if’?” That seemed an important differentiation.

His mouth twisted in thought. “‘When,’” he said after a minute. “I’m going to stick with ‘when.’”

There was enough humor in his tone to tug a tiny, fleeting smile to the surface, despite her continued nervousness. He smiled as well. It was an unexpected moment of lightness between them. It helped.

He waved her over to the doctoring side of the parlor. “The vials and powders and such are all labeled. In the bottom drawers of the desk are the patient files. Anyone I’ve ever seen or treated has a file with everything anyone might need to know about their medical history.”

He clearly kept meticulous records, and his workspace was tidy and organized. She would wager he was equally particular about medical matters. Dr. Blackburn had been the most fastidious doctor Miriam had ever known. The moment of connection she’d felt with Gideon disappeared. That he shared any characteristic with a man like Dr. Blackburn was reason for wariness.

“Over here is the washstand,” he said, “the most important part of the room.”

“The washstand is the most important?” She thought he was kidding, but a quick look at his expression told her otherwise.

“I would be ridiculed by most of my colleagues for my opinion on this, but I’ve extensively studied the writings of Semmelweis and Lister. They postulate a connection between the lack of cleanliness and a prevalence of disease and infection.” He tapped the spine of a book in the bookcase behind his desk. “Semmelweis’s proof isn’t entirely conclusive, even combined with Lister’s observations, but since the nearest hospital is days away, and I am the only help anyone in this area has, if there is any chance that washing my hands and instruments will help, I’ll do it.”

There was wisdom in that. “It couldn’t do any harm, at least.”

His sigh was one of relief. “I thought I’d have to spend the entire morning convincing you of that.”

“To wash my hands?” How uncooperative did he think she was going to be?

“People aren’t always receptive to new ideas,” he said. “Or even ‘different’ ones.”

“Believe me,” she answered, “I know.”

The front door squeaked, and footsteps approached. “Your patients walk in without warning?” She had never seen that before.

“One thing a small-town doctor gives up is any degree of privacy. Every moment of my day, and an exhausting number of my nights, belong to this town.”

She couldn’t tell if he happily made that sacrifice or if he was complaining. Dr. Blackburn at the asylum had never stopped complaining about his patients. Never.

Mrs. Wilhite stepped into the parlor. Miriam undertook a quick assessment. Though the woman didn’t move agilely, she didn’t seem to be truly struggling. Her coloring was pale, but not in a way that indicated illness. Miriam heard no labored breathing.

“Mrs. Wilhite.” Dr. MacNamara greeted her. “What brings you around?”

“I have a tickle in my throat.” Her voice didn’t seem affected, though. And her eyes continually darted to Miriam, a look of shock and distrust on her face.

“You seemed well yesterday.” Dr. MacNamara set to washing his hands straightaway. “When did your throat begin bothering you?”

“Last evening.” Mrs. Wilhite’s gaze settled on Miriam. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

A dozen different responses sprang immediately to Miriam’s mind. After yesterday afternoon, neither did I. Or If not for Dr. MacNamara’s odd matrimonial notions, there would be nothing unusual about my presence here. Or perhaps an abject apology, though what she would be begging pardon for, she wasn’t at all certain.

In the end, she only nodded.

Dr. MacNamara returned to his patient’s side, motioning for her to sit on the examination table. Once she was situated, he began feeling her neck. “Does swallowing hurt? Or speaking?”

“Swallowing, a little.”

He raised his examining lantern and checked her mouth. “Have you experienced any coughing? A blocked nose?”

She shook her head.

He set the back of his hand against her forehead. “You aren’t feverish.”

A lot could be learned about a doctor by watching him with his patients. Dr. MacNamara was forbearing, calm, and thorough.

“How have you been sleeping?” Dr. MacNamara asked Mrs. Wilhite.

“Not well. Even before the sore throat.” She sighed deeply. “I don’t know what is the matter with me. Perhaps I’m simply old.”

That might very well have been the difficulty. But extreme exhaustion in a woman was sometimes interpreted by the medical community as a sign of madness. Did Dr. MacNamara share that view? She truly hoped he wasn’t one to jump quickly to that conclusion.

He pulled up a stool and sat facing Mrs. Wilhite. “What enjoyable activities have you indulged in lately?”

“I have my ribbons.”

He shook his head. “That is your livelihood. I am speaking more of a hobby.”

Her brow furrowed. “I like tatting, though I haven’t made lace in ages.”

Dr. MacNamara nodded with approval. “I suggest you take it up again.”

“How will that help my throat?”

Miriam wondered the same thing.

He gave Mrs. Wilhite a look of such compassion that it momentarily stole Miriam’s breath. “I suspect you are feeling unwell because you are a little unhappy.”

Without warning, Mrs. Wilhite began tearing up. Miriam was immediately on alert. Excessive melancholy was also a reason some women were deemed mad. She had seen far too many women locked away at Blackburn who should never have been there. She’d learned not to trust that any member of her sex was entirely safe from that fate.

“Mrs. Wilhite does not seem overly unhappy to me,” Miriam interjected.

She immediately received looks of censure from them both. Apparently, she was meant to be a silent helper.

“Forgive me,” she said, though she wasn’t truly repentant. “I won’t interrupt again, Dr. MacNamara.”

“That would probably be best,” he answered. “And I have asked you to call me Gideon.”

“I will endeavor to do so from now on,” she said.

His attention returned to his patient. “Take up your tatting again, see if it lifts your spirits, even a little. If by week’s end you aren’t feeling better or, heaven forbid, are feeling worse, please come back and see m—us.”

Mrs. Wilhite’s horrified gaze—it truly was horrified—flew to Miriam at once. “She will still be here?”

Gideon smiled, but the gesture was noticeably strained. “That is the plan. We are in need of a qualified nurse in this town.”

“But she jilted you before all your friends and loved ones.”

If Miriam wasn’t already quite accustomed to hearing herself discussed as though she weren’t present, she might have felt self-conscious. She’d grown up with the experience, however. Her mother and father had often discussed her at length, within her hearing. She’d learned to listen without comment.

“If it does not bother me, it need not bother the town,” Gideon said.

“I know you too well to believe for a moment that this doesn’t bother you a great deal.” Mrs. Wilhite looked Miriam up and down, dignity rolling off the older woman in waves.

Gideon caught Miriam’s gaze. “I did warn you this would be awkward.”

“Yes, you did.”

By the time noon rolled around, Gideon’s use of “us” had proven itself to be terribly premature. Every person who came in the door treated Miriam as though she’d arrived in Savage Wells for the sole purpose of causing their beloved doctor misery. She seemed to have been deemed their mutual enemy, all because she hadn’t agreed to marry a stranger on a few seconds’ notice.

This was far more like her usual luck: quick judgment, followed by almost instant dismissal. Perhaps it was for the best, though. While she would have liked to have made friends in her new town, the degree to which Savage Wells invaded Dr. MacNamara’s privacy did not bode well.

She had far too many secrets.