2

You’re fools, all of you.” Sherman Enright looked at the four men standing in front of him. These were his most trusted minions, the men he could depend on to obey his commands as if their lives were on the line, which, of course, they were. Never before had they failed him, but never before had the stakes been this high.

This morning their faces were pale, befitting the gravity of the situation. They kept their eyes fixed on the floor, as if staring at the Persian rug rather than him sitting behind the oversized mahogany desk would somehow lessen his anger. Nothing short of success would do that, and they’d failed to deliver it.

Shorty was shaking, and though Tucker tried to hide it, the beads of sweat forming on his forehead told Sherman just how much he feared what was to come. The other two stood like stone statues in the vain hope that he would not notice them.

“A man and a child can’t simply disappear,” Sherman said, his voice as cold and firm as steel. Anger, he had long since learned, was best delivered without fanfare. “They can hide,” he told the men, pointing out what should have been obvious, “but they cannot disappear. Finding them ought to have been easy. A man who’s carting his whelp with him can’t move as quickly as one who’s unencumbered.”

As he looked from one man to the next, Sherman realized that only Tucker understood his final word. True, he’d hired these men for their brute strength and their intense loyalty, not their brains, but perhaps that had been a mistake. His quarry wasn’t dumb; he knew what was at stake. The man his minions had failed to locate claimed his scruples wouldn’t let him do what Sherman needed. Scruples! Though Sherman kept his face impassive, inside he scoffed at the idea. The man would see just how much protection those highfalutin scruples provided. Once he’d done his job, he’d be as dead as the others who’d dared cross him. But first they had to find him.

“We looked everywhere, sir,” Shorty said. Though Tucker seemed to agree, he said nothing when Shorty offered the flimsy defense.“Obviously, you did not look everywhere, or you wouldn’t be standing here without the man.” If there was anything Sherman hated, it was feeble excuses. “Now, get out, all of you, and start looking again. I expect a better report next time.”

As the men filed out of the room, he saw the fear they’d tried to disguise. He didn’t have to spell it out for them. They all knew the consequences of failing Sherman Enright.

Austin Goddard was looking at her as if she were crazy. Catherine could see it in the skeptical expression he didn’t bother to mask. She wasn’t crazy; she was simply cautious. “Seth does not need a doctor,” she said firmly. “Not Doc Harrington or any other physician.”

The reason she kept a box well stocked with medical supplies here in the schoolhouse was to ensure that none of her students had any reason to consult the town’s sole physician. Catherine could not prevent their parents from taking them to Doc Harrington, but while they were under her care, they would not be subjected to his barbaric treatments.

“The boy is ill.” The expression in Mr. Goddard’s blue eyes said that his resolution was as strong as hers.

Opal had not exaggerated when she’d told Lydia the new rancher was good-looking. He was more than that. He was handsome. Though he was blond, blue-eyed, and approximately the same height as Nate, that was the extent of their similarity. Mr. Goddard’s hair was more golden than Nate’s, his eyes a darker blue. While his shoulders were broad, he lacked Nate’s heavy muscles, and his hands bore none of the calluses that Nate’s did. If she hadn’t known otherwise, Catherine would not have imagined him to be a rancher.

The man was handsome, but he was also wrong. Seth had no need of Doc Harrington’s ministrations. Turning her attention away from Austin Goddard, Catherine laid her hand on Seth’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure her pupil. “I can see that he’s ill.”

She looked at the boy who was the center of the discussion. “Have you been vomiting?” He nodded. “Are you dizzy?” Another nod. “I know how you feel,” she said softly, not wanting her words to carry to the other students. Though they appeared to be engrossed in their own conversations, she knew some were curious about Seth’s presence in the side chair as well as the appearance of a strange man in the classroom.

“I felt the same way over the weekend,” she told Seth. “When did you start feeling ill?”

“Saturday.”

She nodded as she did the mental calculations. “Then you should be much better by tomorrow.” Though the ailment was unpleasant, at least it did not linger.

Catherine looked up at the man who’d questioned her diagnosis. “What Seth needs is a bit of ginger root, some chicken soup, and lots of rest. He can get that at my house.”

When Mr. Goddard raised an eyebrow, Catherine continued. “It won’t be the first time a pupil spent a day or two in my spare room.” Admittedly, it would be the first time Mama wasn’t there to care for the child while Catherine was teaching, but she would find a way to make it work.

Seth shook his head. “I can’t do that, Miss Whitfield.” His voice was weak, betraying both his illness and his fears. “Pa’ll be mad. I gotta milk the cows.” His left hand covered his cheek, as if to prevent another blow from landing on the already bruised skin.

Before Catherine could respond, Mr. Goddard did. “You’re in no condition to milk cows. Miss Whitfield is correct. You need rest.”

Though Catherine appreciated his support, she did not like the slightly officious tone of his voice. In that moment, he sounded like Doc Harrington making a pronouncement.

“I can take care of Seth,” she told him. Removing her hand from Seth’s shoulder, she nodded toward the rear of the schoolroom. “I want you to lie down in the cloakroom until recess. Then we’ll go to my house.”

Though she hadn’t thought it possible, the boy’s face lost even more color. “But Pa . . .”

“I can take his horse with me and explain the situation to Seth’s parents.”

Catherine gave Mr. Goddard a grateful smile. Though Boone Dalton wasn’t much of a father, he needed to know why his son wasn’t coming home today. “Seth walks to school, so you don’t have to worry about a horse, but I’d appreciate your talking to his father. He’s a widower like you.” Though she would say nothing in front of the boy, she knew that Boone Dalton made Seth’s life difficult and that he was quick to inflict physical punishment when Seth did something to displease him.

Mr. Goddard merely nodded, but the way his eyes narrowed at the sight of Seth’s bruises told Catherine he’d suspected their cause.

“Thank you, Mr. Goddard. The Dalton farm is next to your ranch, so you won’t have to go out of your way.” She gave him directions. “Now, Seth, let’s get you to the cloakroom.”

As the boy rose, Catherine addressed her students. “Please take your seats, boys and girls. Seth is ill today, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. He’s not contagious.”

Though Catherine hoped that was true and that he’d passed the communicable stage, she was not completely certain. The medical book she’d consulted for her own symptoms had been of little help. Still, she did not want to alarm the other children.

Once she’d situated Seth on a pallet of blankets in the cloakroom, Catherine walked to the door with Mr. Goddard. His expression told her he wanted to talk, and so she followed him outside, standing on the top step while he descended to the ground.

“The boy could benefit from a doctor,” he said bluntly. “He looks malnourished to me.”

Catherine wouldn’t dispute that, nor would she tell this man that she often brought extra food from home to share with pupils like Seth who came without lunches. Instead she focused on Mr. Goddard’s first statement. “How would bleeding or purging help with malnutrition?”

He seemed taken aback by her question. “It wouldn’t.”

“That’s all Doc Harrington knows. When my mother was ill, he kept bleeding her, even though it made her so weak she couldn’t get out of bed. Then he administered purges. That made her even weaker.” Catherine tried not to shudder at the memories of her mother’s final months on Earth. “And then he put those horrible patches on her, saying blistering was the only way to help her.”

She looked at Mr. Goddard, whose eyes were now a few inches below hers, willing him to understand. “If it hadn’t been for that doctor, my mother would still be alive. There was a lesson in that, and believe me, I learned it well. No pupil of mine will ever go near a doctor if I can help it. Doctors kill people just as surely as men with guns.”

She was wrong, Austin reflected as he headed out of town. He’d finished his shopping, and with his wagon loaded with supplies, he was on his way to the Dalton farm and then home. All the while he’d been in the mercantile, buying everything from nails to ribbons for Hannah’s hair, he’d replayed the pretty schoolmarm’s comments.

She was wrong. Oh, she was right about how to treat Seth’s most pressing symptoms. Austin had overheard several women at church say their husbands were suffering from a stomach malady. The only thing Austin might have added to Miss Whitfield’s plan was willow bark tea to help lower the boy’s fever. She was right about the ginger root to settle his stomach, and chicken soup had cured more patients than bleeding ever did.

She was right about Seth’s immediate needs, but the boy still needed a doctor to address his malnutrition. A doctor—a good doctor—would sort through the quack medicines that had become so popular and choose the one that would help build up Seth’s strength. A good doctor would counsel the parents—in this case, the parent, singular—about the foods a growing boy needed: eggs, milk, meat. Unfortunately, if Catherine Whitfield was correct, Cimarron Creek did not have a good doctor.

Austin tightened his grip on the reins as he thought of what she’d said about the local physician. It sounded as if he was stuck back in what Austin thought of as the Dark Ages, practicing what some called heroic medicine: bleeding, purging, and blistering. No modern physician would employ those techniques. Austin never had and never would. Catherine was right. Heroic medicine had resulted in many unnecessary deaths. Surely this Doctor Harrington knew that.

If he could have, Austin would have visited the town’s doctor and done his best to educate him. But he could not. Though he wished it were otherwise, his days of practicing medicine were over. That part of his life had ended.

No one, especially the schoolmarm who so obviously distrusted the entire medical profession, could know that he had graduated from one of the foremost medical schools in the East and had studied with renowned surgeons in Europe.

Dr. Goddard was his past, a past that could never be revealed. For as long as Sherman Enright lived, he was simply Austin Goddard, Texas rancher.