Colorado Spring, 1879
Everything was perfect.
Grace Perkins stepped back from the dessert table with a satisfied sigh. A frosted, two-layer cake on a porcelain stand awaited cutting, alongside vibrant-pink strawberry punch mixed in Ma’s crystal bowl. Ma’s finest linens covered the rough-hewn tables in the parish hall, and vases of wildflowers added color to the rustic space. Preparations for the party took some effort, true, but Grace didn’t mind. This party was for Bess, and she deserved the best. After all, she was the bride-to-be, and she should have a faultless, memorable party—
A soft swoosh sounded behind her.
Grace’s shoulders fell. “Not again.”
But it had. The grommet-perforated sign she’d tied to a ribbon streamer slipped for what must be the fourth time. The banner folded in on itself so the outer letters were legible, but the middle crinkled into a mess.
Instead of reading Congratulations Bess and Elmer, it said Congralmer.
Upending the wood crate she’d used to transport the cake to the parish hall, she eyed the asymmetrical sign. She set the crate on its side and clambered atop. It wobbled with her weight, but this would only take a moment. She stretched to push the ends of the sign taut.
The parish door opened. She’d best hurry, since guests were arriving—
The box leaned with her. Gave way, spilling her sideways.
Strong arms caught her around the waist and shoulders, preventing her from landing on her backside. Being caught didn’t hurt as much as falling on the floor would have, nor was it quite as embarrassing, but it still jolted her bones and stung her pride. Why did people think a man catching a falling woman was romantic?
Besides, it was just Mitchell Shaw. Nothing romantic about her father’s medical partner, whom she recognized by his soapy bay smell a half second before she looked up to his face. Such a nice face, square-jawed and framed by a thick shock of unruly, dark-blond curls. A nice face to see every day.
“You hurt, Grace?” Mitch set her on a chair at one of the tables then dropped to his haunches to look her in the eye.
“Fine, thank you. My, you were quick.” Were his green eyes always flecked with gold? She’d never noticed before. Then again, he’d never looked at her like this, as if he were checking her pupils for signs of trauma.
“You know how we doctors are about prevention. We’d prefer no one get injured or sick in the first place.” He peered down at her black half-boots. “That ankle twist?”
She rotated her foot. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Shock can forestall pain, you know. And your eyes are kind of bright.”
“That’s because this party must be perfect for Bess, and I need to fix that sign.” That explained the jittery feeling in her abdomen, too. Too much to do, and Mitch prevented her, gently squeezing her ankle through her boots to see if she’d wince. She didn’t.
“Bess will love the party, sign or no sign.” With his usual gentleness, Mitch lowered her foot to the floor. For such a big man, he was mild as a lamb, except when it came to that punching bag he kept in his basement. Unlike Pa, Mitch believed exercise played a role in good health. She should be glad of his habits today, since he’d been strong enough to catch her. Mitch rose to his full height. “You don’t have to impress her, you know.”
“Honor her,” Grace corrected. “I almost lost her, you know.”
“To a teaching job in Denver. That’s a dozen miles, Grace. You could’ve visited plenty.”
“It’s not the same. I know it’s selfish, but I wanted her to stay in Emerald. For her pupils, and for me. And now that I’ve found her a husband, she will.”
“You found Elmer? I didn’t know he was lost. The man sits two pews behind you in church.” Mitch helped her to stand.
Her eyes rolled. “You know what I mean. I played matchmaker.”
“I didn’t know that.” Mitch still eyed her feet. “Does it hurt now?”
“No, but if my ankle swells, I’ll wrap it.” It wasn’t like she didn’t know how. Since Ma died eight years ago, Pa had allowed Grace to help the sick folks of their town of Emerald. Mitch joined Pa’s practice five years ago, fresh out of medical school, and had never treated Grace as anything less than an essential part of the practice. She may not be a doctor, but she made a fair nurse, and like Pa, Mitch respected her opinions and appreciated her assistance. He’d also come to be one of her two best friends.
Now that Bess was staying in Emerald to marry Elmer, everything would stay just as it should. She patted Mitch’s arm.
Mitch scooped up the crate then glanced at her saggy sign. He perched on the toes of his long shoes and pushed the grommets apart until the sign was taut again.
Grace fisted a hand on her hip. “Must be nice to be tall.”
He grinned and handed her the crate. “Don’t use it as a stepladder again. I’ll be right back.”
Where was he going? To find her a stepstool? “Mitch, we don’t need one now—”
He was out the door. Then Bess and Elmer arrived, along with their families, Bess’s students, and half the congregation of Emerald Church. Not Mitch’s mother, Mrs. Shaw, though. The damp weather must be troubling the widow’s joints.
Grace stowed the crate under the dessert table. Mitch or no Mitch, she had punch to serve.
“Everything’s beautiful.” Dark-haired Bess Ellis, pretty in a simple gown of blue calico, left her fiancé Elmer’s side to hug Grace. “And strawberry punch? My favorite.”
“I used the final bottle of last year’s strawberry syrup.”
Bess smiled. “Elmer planted strawberries at the farm for me. We’ll have plenty to share with you this summer.”
“He’s a thoughtful fellow.” That was part of why Grace chose him for Bess.
“Speaking of considerate men, is your father coming?” Bess asked.
“He’s at the clinic keeping an eye on Mrs. Dooley.” No need to add that Pa, who hadn’t stepped on church property since Ma died, wouldn’t even enter the parish hall. Not even for Bess’s party.
“Poor Mrs. Dooley.” Bess sighed, but before she could comment further on the widow with a mysterious malady, she was swallowed up by a crowd of well-wishers. Grace turned back to the punch bowl.
All the hard work had been worth it. The smiles in the room, the laughs and teasing. Bess and Elmer looked so happy.
She’d ladled a dozen cups of punch when Mitch returned, her pearl-inlaid sewing box in his hand. She kept it at the clinic so she could mend during slow times, as Mitch well knew. Earlier today, she’d repaired a rip at the hem of the yellow dress she now wore. With its sunny hue, pleated layers, and silk draping, it seemed the most fitting dress to wear on such a happy occasion, and Pa said it didn’t clash with her reddish-brown hair. That was Pa’s way of offering a compliment.
Mitch plopped the sewing box on the table and she cast him a quick grin. “Why didn’t I think of sewing the sign in place?”
“Because you’re busy with other things.” He pulled needle, thread, and scissors from the box and got to work. A few precise stitches, and the bows tying the grommets to the ribbon were stitched in place.
“I always said you were handy with a needle.” Elmer Kohl, the future groom, pointed at the thin white scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
Mitch had sutured that particular laceration a year ago. Deep and ugly, the wound was a challenge to close neatly. That experience showed Grace yet again how talented a physician Mitch was, and exemplified Elmer’s long-suffering character. The trait was a good complement to Bess’s impatience. “Punch, Mitch?”
He took the cup with a nod of thanks. “Anyone can learn to stitch, Elmer.”
Elmer laughed. “Buttons, maybe, but I couldn’t put a person back together if I tried.”
“You did me.” Bess pinked.
“Aw, sweetheart, we helped each other. Now neither of us is lonely.”
Grace lowered her head to hide her grin. Bess and Elmer made a perfect match. And it had all been her doing. It was difficult to snuff out a sense of pride at her accomplishment.
“To the bride and groom!” Elmer’s younger brother Lou lifted his cup in toast. Grace ladled a cup so she could join in.
“And to Grace, who played matchmaker.” Bess raised her cup in Grace’s direction.
“Really?” One of the young ladies present, blond Flossie Hawkins, popped to her tippy-toes. “You did that, Grace?”
Grace nodded. “I saw potential for a good match.”
The conversation carried on, away from Grace, but she didn’t mind being left to observe the others enjoy themselves. The room’s volume dipped when the children dashed out to the churchyard, led by Mitch. A rousing game of tag began, and the children’s happy shrieks carried through the open windows. Mitch was good with little ones, which had served him well as a doctor.
Smiling, Grace sliced the remainder of the cake.
She looked up from her task. Mitch ambled back into the parish hall, his ascot tie rumpled and his cheeks flush from exertion. As he joined her at the dessert table, he brushed back a shock of hair that had fallen over his brow.
“I liked it how it was.” She poured him another cup of punch.
“All right.” He mussed his hair, making her laugh. But she did like it, curly like that. She’d told him a time or two ‘twould be a shame to slick away those curls with Macassar oil.
Mitch took a long draught of the punch. “So you played matchmaker for Bess and Elmer? Because you’re a marriage expert?”
Saucy man. “I may be twenty-five and never courted, but I know a thing or two.”
“Do you, now?” His brow quirked. “How’d you figure it out, then?
She spun to him, too excited not to share. She’d been sitting on this for weeks, and Mitch would be sure to approve. “Using something I’m good at.”
“You’re good at blueberry pie,” he teased. “Singing. Pulling splinters. Strawberry punch, too. You’re good at a lot of things.”
“You forgot something, silly.” She stood on tiptoe so he wouldn’t miss it. “Science.”
Mitch leaned against the wall so he could better look Grace in her lovely hazel eyes. “Scientific matchmaking?”
“Remember that journal article we read a few months back appealing to the procedure of scientific experimentation? The author said it should be done systematically, concerned with the process of fact gathering over instinct or imagination.”
“The author called the process the scientific method, although the practice has been in place a long while.” For centuries, in one form or another.
“Well, I used the scientific method described by the author. The first step is identifying a problem, which I had: Bess wanted to be married, hadn’t been courted in Emerald, and intended to take the job in Denver in hopes of finding a husband.”
Oh boy. “So you conducted an experiment to find her a husband here?”
Bess dashed around the table, preventing Grace’s answer. “Thank you, Grace. What a wonderful party.”
Elmer shook Mitch’s hand, and after the usual talk about the party and wedding, folks started leaving. Mitch pulled down the sign, eager to have enough privacy to ask Grace about her science experiment.
Love didn’t work according to formula. At least, not in Mitch’s experience. He’d only loved one woman, but marriage wasn’t in their future, so he’d determined to be a good friend and appreciate every day he spent with her at the clinic. He grinned at her now.
His Grace.
When everyone had gone, they finished cleaning. Then Grace took up her baskets. “Ready?”
Nodding, he hoisted two of her crates and dipped his knees so she could plop the soiled linens on top. That was one of the things Mitch liked best about his relationship with Grace. They didn’t always have to talk to know one another’s minds—but he’d sure like to know what she was thinking now. “So tell me how you created a science experiment to find Bess a husband.”
Grace passed him out the door. “Not just for Bess. The results can be applied to anyone.”
He moved to her far side, protecting her from the street traffic as they made the short walk to her house. The sun was beginning to dip behind the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains, casting Grace in a pinkish light that made in her auburn hair shine. Why hadn’t anyone else in Emerald noticed how pretty Grace was?
Then again, Mitch was glad they hadn’t. He wanted her all to himself. “Go on.”
“Once I identified the problem, I asked the question, what traits comprise a successful match? To find answers, I conducted research by observing happy couples—adults, mind you, not addlepated youngsters—and came up with four criteria they share. Next I hypothesized that I could apply those four principles to create matches. I tested the hypothesis through experimentation.”
“How?” This was fascinating. Mad, maybe, but fascinating.
“I observed Bess’s reactions whenever she encountered an eligible male. Church. Saturday night group. The general store, even.”
“And you took notes, I assume.”
“In that green leather journal you gave me for Christmas.” She grinned. “Then I assessed the data, drew a conclusion, and informed Bess of my findings.”
“That Elmer was the one for her.”
She nodded. “My hypothesis was proven correct. Matchmaking can be achieved scientifically using my four principles.”
“Sir Francis Bacon and Sir Isaac Newton would be pleased by your methods.” They turned the corner to her street. Her brick, Italianate-style house was first on the left, flanked by the small, two-story former house on the northeast edge of the lot that now served as the town’s medical clinic. As they’d done countless times before, he and Grace took the narrow walkway between the two buildings around the back of her house to the kitchen. Balancing the crates, he opened the kitchen door for her. “So what are those four principles you mentioned?”
She lowered her parcels to the oak table and nodded that he should do the same with the crates. “First, the man and woman should be similar minded, spiritually and in willingness to commit to a marriage.”
“Sounds right.” He dumped the soiled linens by the back door. That way he’d remember to put them with the clinic’s outgoing laundry for Nell Vaughn, Emerald’s laundress. “And the second principle?”
“They are attuned to one another. They show interest or sympathy.” She reached around him to grab a clean dish towel off the shelf.
“Some might call that attraction.” Like what he felt right now, when she brushed his sleeve.
“No, it’s more compassionate, intellectual, and lasting than physical signs of attraction. Those are important, however, so I included attraction as the third observable trait I looked for—as far as can be measured by science, that is. When the potential beloved is near, one feels giddy, nervous, or excited. He or she might experience flushed cheeks, a racing pulse, the propensity to babble or, its opposite, be tongue-tied.”
He’d never distilled the craziness of falling in love to a checklist of indicators. Took all the fun out of it. “Let me guess. Bess babbled. Elmer’s lips were clamped like he had lockjaw.”
“It was funny to watch.” She laughed and wrapped the dish towel over a pie plate of cake, dessert for him and Ma, probably. Ma had hated to miss the party.
“And the fourth principle?” He held up the kettle to heat wash water in a silent question.
“Complementary personalities.” She nodded at the kettle. Funny how they could have two conversations at once.
“Opposites attract, then?” He pumped water into the kettle while she unpacked the dirty dishes into the dry sink.
“Not quite. The partners in the successful marriages I observed were different from one another in key, defining traits. For instance, one is shy, the other outgoing. Elmer is patient, Bess is not. In this manner, they strengthen one another’s weaknesses, care rather than compete.” She flaked dish soap over the stack.
“Like a team. They fit one another.” Seemed like a good way to describe a husband and wife. At least, that’s what he’d always thought it should be. His parents hadn’t been like that at all, though.
She hummed a response. “Based on my findings, I think Elmer and Bess will be happy.”
Mitch lit the stove. “Marriage is about more than happiness, though. It takes work.”
“Of course. I wanted to create a system of matchmaking with the strongest hope of matchkeeping, if that’s a word. Building a foundation on which to withstand the storms of life. Remember my first principle?”
“Mutual commitment in faith and life.”
“Every marriage has its share of trials and troubles. And even then, there are no guarantees. Your father passed on. My ma, too.” A shadow crossed her features. Grace missed her mother, but she also grieved how her pa’s heart hardened after her ma died.
“Your mother would have loved you using her dishes and punch bowl for the party, I’m sure.” Mitch squeezed her arm, a friendly gesture. Just like catching her when she fell off that rattletrap box, although he’d been tempted to hold her to his chest and run away with her. It wasn’t always easy to keep things friendly when he wanted so much more. Even if it could never be.
She smiled. “She’d be glad Bess is staying in town, too. Almost as glad as I am. Nothing’s going to change.”
“Bess is marrying. I’d say that’s a change.”
“But she’ll be here. Everything will stay just as it is. Perfect.”
Mitch exhaled. Maybe this was the time to tell her. He’d planned to wait until things were definite, but—
“Mitchell Shaw!” A familiar male voice carried through the open window. “That you in the kitchen?”
So much for telling her anything. Mitch turned and stuck his head out the window to greet his mentor, friend, and boss, Dr. Sidney Perkins, who, likewise, leaned out the window of the clinic’s former kitchen. The form of communication had served them fairly well the past five years. “Hello, sir. Do you need me?”
Sidney’s balding head shook. “No. Mrs. Dooley just left. She won’t stay for observation, despite her pain. Just wondering if you’re staying for supper.”
Grace leaned over Mitch’s shoulder, smelling of strawberries and dish soap. “Haven’t asked him yet.”
“Since when does he need an invitation?”
“I should get back to Ma.” Mitch knew she was waiting for details of the party. And he had some praying to do. “I’ll check in with you, Sidney, once I finish helping Grace.”
“Suits me fine.” Sidney disappeared and shut the window.
“I wonder why Mrs. Dooley won’t stay.” Grace chewed her lip.
“Maybe she’ll tell you her reasons, since she won’t enlighten me or your father.” Steam swirled from the hot kettle. Mitch shed his coat, wrapped the kettle’s handle in a towel, and poured the hot water over the dishes.
“It’s always the same, isn’t it?” Grace grinned. “I wash, you dry.”
He smiled, except she was wrong.
Things wouldn’t—couldn’t—stay the same. Everything was about to change.