Chapter Five

The mid-day sun painted the two-story farm house with a welcoming glow. Seaton House Home for Children. This was home. This was safety and unconditional love. After enduring several days of Dr. Locke’s scowls and constant scrutiny, she needed some cheerfulness.

A bearded man wearing faded coveralls rounded the side of the house. Retired from ministering the Lord’s word to a flock in Kentucky, Joseph Hoggard had become the groundskeeper and spiritual mentor for the orphanage. He dispensed Bible verses and advice with equal amounts of compassion and wisdom. Not to mention bits of peppermint tucked in his pocket for soothing scraped knees and wounded egos.

Moira unhooked her leg from the side-saddle and slid to the ground. “Good morning, Mr. Hoggard. How is everyone? Meredith sent a note saying you had all survived the earthquake just fine, but I had to make sure.”

“No need to worry. The only casualties were a few cracked windows and some frayed nerves. Other than that, everyone is doing fine, just like Mrs. Booth said. How about you, Miss Moira? How are things at the doctor’s office? I heard some folks were injured during the quake. I pray everyone is all right.”

“Some were hurt, yes. But they are all recovering nicely.”

He gave her a wink. “Thanks to your wonderful gift of healing no doubt.”

Mr. Pardue might agree, if he knew the true reason for his miraculous recovery. The sawmill foreman had returned to work after only a week of recuperation. A miracle from Heaven, many had said. She was no angel, but she did thank God for a gift that saved lives.

She tucked her riding gloves into the saddle pouch and retrieved a burlap sack. “Is Mrs. Campbell around? I need to speak with her.”

“She’s out back with the children. They’re taking advantage of the temperate weather and having lessons under the old oak.”

“It is a nice day for that. Won’t be long before cold weather keeps everyone indoors.”

He held out his hand. “Let me see to your horse while you visit. Miss Dolly looks like she could use a handful of oats.”

She handed over the reins. Dolly would be well cared for and would probably gain another layer of belly fat. Mr. Hoggard treated his animal friends just as kindly as he did his human flock, if not better.

At the back of the house, five children ringed a woman sitting on a stool beneath a tall oak tree. Salt and pepper colored hair framed a face that radiated with love and encouragement. Moira fingered the pendant dangling from a silver chain around her neck. St. Sophia, patron mother of orphans. Mildred Campbell had given her the necklace on her sixteenth birthday. It was a reminder that she would always be watched over. Always be loved.

“Good, Timmy. Very good.” Mrs. Campbell held a turnip, balanced in her palm. “Now one more time. Try to hold it concealed for a little longer. Concentrate.”

The turnip shimmered and then disappeared in a flash of blue light. Moira counted off the seconds. At twenty, the turnip reappeared in Miss Campbell’s hand. Moira smiled. Timmy was progressing well with his talent. Before she left to take over the medical practice in town, he’d only been able to keep objects cloaked for a few seconds.

Seaton House wasn’t an ordinary orphanage. Mildred Campbell rescued children with special talents from all over the country. She helped them learn to control their gifts so they could assimilate back into society. It was a special place full of special people.

A squeal rent the air and a pink ball of ruffles rushed toward her. Arms trapped her legs. “Moira. You’re back. It’s so good to see you.”

She brushed fingers over soft red ringlets. “Good morning, Anna. It’s good to see you. I’ve missed you. All of you.”

“We missed you, too.” The girl tilted her head back, a twinkle sparking her green eyes. “’Specially Gabe. He’s been moping around like a dog that lost his last bone.”

Thirteen-year-old Gabe Hunt had a tendre for her. He was sweet, but a bit over-zealous. He had used his special skills to send her possets of flowers or an apple fresh from the orchard. He’d once sent her a pie pilfered from the pie safe. It was a bit disconcerting to see objects floating across the ground of their own accord. But that was life at Seaton House.

A woman bulging with child and holding the hand of a toddler approached the group. Meredith Booth. Her savior. Five years ago, Meredith and her husband had saved her from a posse of angry vigilantes and brought her to Seaton House. She owed Meredith and Mrs. Campbell a huge debt.

Meredith sent her daughter to play with the other children and joined her under the tree. “Moira. It’s lovely to see you. What brings you out here? Didn’t you receive my note?”

“I received it, but I had to come see for myself. I also wanted to harvest some Angelica root. Much of my stock was ruined during the quake, and I need to replace it.”

“As you can see, everyone is doing fine.” Meredith laced her arm with Moira’s. “Come. I’ll walk with you to the garden.”

Moira fell into step beside her friend, following a well-worn path leading to the barn. “How’s the baby? Is everything progressing as expected?”

Meredith settled a hand on her belly. “The little jackrabbit kicks and rolls constantly. I think he’s eager to get out and take on the world.”

“He was unusually difficult to examine. Never would lie still.” Moira had probed Meredith’s belly when complications cropped up early in her pregnancy. She’d discovered the little wick that told the baby’s gender.

“The child isn’t the only one eager to get out. Preston must be beside himself with impatience.”

Meredith laughed. “Indeed. He won’t leave my side for more than an hour. I’m lucky to have these few minutes to myself. So, tell me about yourself. How is everything going in town? Are folks coming to see you for medical care?”

“Some have. I think I earned more of their trust after helping with the quake victims. All was well until…well, until Dr. Locke arrived.” Just saying his name brought forth images of a gaze that drilled into her very core.

“Dr. Locke?” Meredith asked. “Who is he?”

“He just arrived from Pennsylvania. He was asked by the Wentworths to come and take over Dr. Troutman’s practice. He was married to their daughter, Alice.”

They reached the fenced area at the side of the barn. Moira pushed open the gate and stepped into the garden. Rows of late summer vegetables stood in precise formation. Off to one side, closest to the barn where they were protected from harsh weather, were the herbs she had planted in early spring. The cold-tolerant ones were still doing well. Those that required more warmth were withering…the perfect time for harvesting.

Meredith trailed her through the gate and leaned against the side of the barn. Protective hands cradled her belly. “I remember hearing about Alice. She moved to Pennsylvania to live with her grandparents. She never liked living here in Mineral. To uncivilized for her tastes. She met a man, a doctor if I recall, and they married. After a year, she became pregnant. Both she and the baby died during the birth.”

The unexpected deaths of his wife and child explained some of Dr. Locke’s behavior. Some, but not all. “How sad. The Wentworths must have been devastated.”

“They were. Alice was their only child. Mrs. Wentworth took her death especially hard. She locked herself in her bedroom for weeks and refused to come out.”

Moira rolled her skirts into a pad and sank to her knees near a mounded hill of dirt. “I can understand such grief. No mother should have to bury her child. Least of all her only child.”

“Indeed.”

Tall lanky plants spiked the mound. Angelica. A versatile herb, good for curing a myriad of ailments when used properly. Deadly when not. Meredith was wise to keep her distance, else she could harm her unborn child.

Moira plucked a stalk out of the ground, roots and all, and stuffed it into the burlap bag. The dried seed pods would produce new plants come next spring.

“Alice’s death appears to have affected everyone close to her,” she said. “Dr. Locke left a prosperous medical practice in Philadelphia. I suspect he needed to get away from all the reminders.”

“Will he allow you to continue to work at the office?”

That was the question of the century. “I don’t know. He calls my potions snake oils. He’s almost fanatical about their evil. He’s given me a month to prove myself. A month. I barely got my foot in the door with the townsfolk in the month before he arrived.” She yanked another stalk from the mound, sending dirt clods flying.

“That’s unfortunate.”

Very unfortunate. She sank back on her haunches, her energy uprooted. “I want to stay, Meredith. For Mrs. Campbell. For the people of Mineral.” She couldn’t keep despair from muddying her voice. “For myself.”

“Then you should do all you can to make that happen.”

“I wish it were that simple. As if his distrust isn’t enough, I find myself attracted to him. If I have any hope of staying on, I must squash those feelings. I get the impression the last thing Dr. Locke wants is a romantic entanglement, especially with someone like me. I don’t even come close to his standards of acceptance.”

Meredith pushed away from the barn, clucking like an agitated hen. Her forehead bunched with furrows. “Don’t you dare put yourself down, Moira Devlin. You are kind and caring and loyal to those you care about. You would make any man a wonderful wife.”

She laughed but without any humor. “I doubt the starchy Dr. Locke would want me as a wife. Once he finds out about my ability to heal, he’ll toss me out on my backside without a second thought.”

Meredith’s expression softened. “If I may offer some advice…?”

She owed Meredith her life. Anything her friend had to say was worth listening to. She brushed dirt from her hands and pushed to her feet. “Certainly. I always take great stock in your advice. You and Mrs. Campbell mean the world to me.”

“And you mean the world to us. We want you to be happy, Moira. Don’t let anything get in the way of that. If you want something, go after it, without fear or restraint. Whether it’s to continue with your healing or finding the love of a good man, don’t give up on your dreams.”

“I’m not sure Dr. Locke will believe in me, even if the proof smacks him in the face.”

“Is he a good man?”

Deep down, she knew he was. He behaved irascibly only because of his desire to protect people from harm. She understood that. She would stand up against an army of evil to keep her patients safe.

“I can see by that wistful expression he is. Don’t let a chance at something amazing slip away.”

“What if he isn’t ready or interested in finding love again? I could ruin my chances of staying at the practice.”

“Don’t try to be something you are not. Shutting down your feelings will only make things worse. If Dr. Locke is half as perceptive as you say, he will pick up on your charade quicker than a duck pounces on a June bug.”

“Indeed.”

Meredith smiled. “You’ll know soon enough if you and Dr. Locke are meant to be. Once you cross over the threshold to love and passion, nothing will break that bond. Not your misgivings. Not his. Believe me, I know about such things.”

“But you and Preston are perfect together.”

“We are now. However, we had a long road to travel and many obstacles to overcome to get where we are. But that’s a story for another time. I can only hope my advice will make your journey to happiness much shorter and a lot less taxing.”

She always thought her happiness would come from administering to those in need as her mother and grandmother had…without the need for a man in her life. What if she was wrong? Was she letting fear get in the way of the chance at something wonderful?

****

The bureau drawer wedged halfway open. Anson tugged harder. The ornery thing wouldn’t budge. Not one inch. Damnation. Had the woman put an enchantment on the furniture too?

He wriggled and pulled. The drawer refused to cooperate. It looked up at him with a half-gapped grin. Infernal oak.

Giving a growl of frustration, he leaned back and leveraged all his weight into the effort. The stuck drawer screeched open, sounding like a banshee screaming for a victim. He stiffened and listened. Only a soft snoring drifted in from the bedroom across the hallway. Lucky for him, Miss Devlin’s companion slept like the dead.

He poked under the neatly folded stacks. Nothing but handkerchiefs and women’s underthings. Simple cotton garments. She wasn’t a frilly woman. Not in clothing. Not in life. Yet she exuded grace and refinement. It poured from her like perfume from a rose, captivating any who drew near.

He thrust the drawer closed with a grunt. He would not be captivated. He needed answers. Not silly romantic notions.

He tugged open the next drawer. A small wooden box sat beside a stack of woolen stockings. He slid open the lid. Inside there was a folded piece of paper, some beads, and a dried flower. Gifts from a lover? Guilt stung him. He shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts, much less going through her personal belongings. Yet the welfare of the townsfolk trumped a little indelicate snooping.

He unfurled the paper and read the neatly scrawled missive. May St. Sophia guide and protect you. Never give up on your dreams, Moira. They are the lamps that light the way. Love always, Mildred Campbell.

What dreams did she hope for? In his experience, most women wanted a husband, a family, and a place to call home. Miss Devlin seemed to desire more from life. Helping folks and administering to the sick and injured took precedence over her own needs. Just like him. The connection wrapped around him like a comforting blanket.

He returned the note to the box and closed the lid. Where to next? There wasn’t much left to search in the sparsely furnished room. He’d already gone through the armoire. It held the same plain cotton garments as the bureau. She would look stunning in a satin ball gown, the material hugging her curves and perfectly showcasing any exposed skin…silky creaminess a man could drown in.

He ground his teeth around a curse. He had to put such lustful thoughts out of his head. Miss Devlin was forbidden fruit. One taste and he’d be lost.

He shoved the drawer shut and stalked to the bed. Perhaps she had secrets hidden under the mattress. One of his classmates from medical school had stashed a bottle of whiskey under his mattress, an expensive Scottish malt shared only with a select few chums. It stayed concealed until the whale Henry Buckley flopped onto the bed. The bottle shattered and spilled precious spirit all over the floor. Some treasures were simply not meant to be hoarded.

Dropping to his knees, he pushed back the bedcovers and thrust his hands between the downy mattress and the webbing. The soft scent of vanilla and lavender nuzzled him. It was a pleasant scent. Her scent. He closed his eyes, unable to stop the image of the two of them on the bed, naked, his fingers twined in that silky mane, his lips tasting hers. She would writhe beneath him, calling his name. It would be heaven on earth.

He doused the image with a grunt. What the devil was wrong with him? He was a man of medicine. A man of refinement and self-restraint. Not a low-bred rogue allowing free rein to his carnal cravings.

He thumped onto his belly and ducked his head under the bed. No more distractions. He had a job to do. Perverse thoughts would only slow his search.

The space under the bed was bare except for a pair of slippers and a dog-eared lady’s magazine open to a page displaying stylish bonnets and lavish gowns. Interesting. The single-minded Miss Devlin did have dreams and desires like other women.

The thud of the front door rammed into the room. He jerked, and his head struck the wood bed frame. Pain blasted down his neck. Cripes. Either a patient had arrived, or Miss Devlin was returning. Whichever, his investigation was over. For now.

He backed away from the bed and pushed to his feet. A quick scrub revealed a slightly raised and very tender spot at the back of his skull. The lump would recede after a few days. Until then, it would be a reminder to keep his mind on his mission.

He crept to the door and craned his neck around the jamb. In the bedroom across the hall, Mrs. Lidle dozed in a chair by the window, warming herself like a cat in a slash of sunlight. Perfect. He stole into the hallway and down the stairs. Near the bottom, he slowed and angled to one side. There was a loose tread waiting to herald his presence. He heard it often enough from his office, squealing most annoyingly and breaking his concentration.

He made it safely to the landing. A quick tug set his contortion twisted jacket back to rights. Doctor turned burglar. He never imagined such a thing of himself before Miss Devlin. He also never imagined craving another woman after his failure with Alice.

He let his heels click loudly down the hallway. The need for stealth was over. Instead of Miss Devlin, he found a patient had arrived. Part of him was relieved. He’d never been good at concealing his emotions. Henry had often chided him for his inability to bluff at cards. His recent foray into the criminal would surely be written all over his face.

In the waiting room stood a short, squat man wearing a plain suit of brown tweed, a brown necktie, and a brown shirt. The only coloring breaking the drabness was the man’s face. He was greener than a summer frog.

Anson extended his hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Dr. Locke. What can I do for you, sir?”

The man took his hand in a weak grasp. “John Hammock, Doctor. I’ve been meaning to come by and welcome you to town but…” The man grimaced and rubbed his stomach. “I haven’t been feeling well lately. Thought it might just be a passing illness, but it seems to be getting worse.”

John Hammock. The owner of Hammock Savings and Loan. He’d caught a glimpse of the man inside the bank as he walked past on his way to the mercantile. So far, he hadn’t the need for a bank or a banker, considering his only payment since arriving had been a salted quarter of venison from the Smithers.

Anson motioned to the doorway across the hall. “Please, come into the examination room and have a seat on the table. I’ll see if I can figure out what’s plaguing you.”

He followed the banker into the room. Although a good dose of sunlight poured through the window, he turned up the flame on the lantern. The brighter, the better for examinations.

He moved to the table and gave his patient a quick assessment. Mr. Hammock sat slightly slouched, his eyelids and jowls droopy. His green-tinted skin was dry, and his lips slightly chapped. Something had him out of sorts.

Using his thumb, he lifted an eyelid. The white vitreous of the eyeball was shot with tiny red veins. The iris was pale and cloudy. All symptoms pointed to some sort of malaise.

He released the eyelid. “What ailments have you been experiencing, Mr. Hammock? And for how long?”

“It all started about a week ago. Had a throbbing in my head that wouldn’t go away. Then the trots to the outhouse began. I have no pep a’tall.”

“Have you been feverish?”

“No. No fever.” The man’s face buckled, and he cupped his stomach. “But it feels as if my gut is being ripped in two.”

Definitely something going on. He collected his stethoscope from the counter and set it on the table. While a little outdated, the instrument had been a gift from Dr. Giles and did the job required.

“I want to palpate your stomach, Mr. Hammock. Check for any abnormalities. Then I’ll use this listening device to see if I can detect anything amiss. Is that all right with you?” An explanation of what was to come often eased anxious minds. As did putting control back into the patient’s hands.

The banker nodded. “Do whatever you need, Doc. I just want to feel better.”

“Very well. Unfasten your jacket and lie back.”

His jacket undone, Mr. Hammock sank onto the table. Anson gently probed the upper quadrants of the man’s fleshy abdomen. Plenty of give. No rigidity. He moved his examination to the lower section. Soft and pliable. Nothing to indicate a trauma.

He picked up the stethoscope and placed the bell on the banker’s belly. He then leaned over and set his ear to the earpiece. Gurgles and soft rumbling filtered up the tube. No stoppage. That was good.

He straightened and held out a hand. “You can sit up now, Mr. Hammock.”

The bank pulled upright. “What did you find, Doc?”

“I didn’t feel or hear anything irregular. You could just be experiencing a touch of the stomach ills. Have you eaten anything unusual or tainted recently?”

“Not that I’m aware of. The pretty young lady who took over from Dr. Troutman gave me a tonic for a scratchy throat week before last. It cured my discomfort almost immediately. Then all this nonsense started.”

Could Miss Devlin’s potion be the cause of the man’s illness? It was too coincidental to dismiss. “Has anyone else in your family experienced the same problems?”

Mr. Hammock shook his head. “The missus and the children are doing just fine.”

So, it wasn’t something being passed among family members or tainting their drinking water. “What about your neighbors?”

“Claude Gunderson complained he was off his feed a bit. He runs the livery just down the street. Do you think we have the same sickness?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” He replaced the stethoscope on the counter. “For now, I want you to consume only weak broths and gruel. Give your stomach a rest from any heavy foods. Come back if you’re not feeling better or if the symptoms worsen.”

“What about whiskey? That seems to help with the pain.”

Restricting a man’s spirits could cause a rebellion. Best to offer a compromise. “Whiskey is fine; just keep your consumption to small doses.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’m feeling better already.”

He wished he was. Suspicion fumed in his gut. Miss Devlin could very well be the source of a developing pandemic.

Was it by accident or by choice?