Victoria Bylin - Kansas Courtship

As Mrs. Jennings turned to leave, two boys ran down the hall. One of them had golden-brown hair and reminded Nora of her brother. She guessed him to be eight years old.

Mrs. Jennings called after them. “Alex! Jonah! Stop it! You’ll bother Miss Mitchell!”

“Oh, no!” Nora protested. “I love children.”

“Good, because with the families, I’ve got ten of ’em here.” She crossed her arms over her bosom. “Zeb’s a good man. He gave me a dairy cow so all these children can have milk.”

“Mr. Garrison did that?”

“He sure did.”

Surely a man who took care of orphans wouldn’t leave High Plains without a doctor. Nora regretted Dr. Dempsey’s death, but his passing helped her position with Mr. Garrison. The town had a need, and she could fill it.

Heavy steps broke into her thoughts. She looked at the doorway and saw Mr. Crandall with her trunk on his wide shoulder. Grunting, he set it at the foot of the bed. “There you go, missy.”

Nora appreciated his friendly tone. “Thank you, Mr. Crandall.”

Mrs. Jennings gave the room a final glance, then put her hands on her hips. “If you need something, ask.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“That’s it, Miss Nora.”

She’d hadn’t been called “Doctor,” but she counted “Miss Nora” as progress. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Jennings followed Mr. Crandall out of the room and closed the door. Alone for the first time in weeks, Nora opened her trunk and unpacked. She hung up her clothes, then filled the basin and washed her face thoroughly with her mother’s lavender soap. The scent took her back to New York and what she’d left behind.

She loved her father and he loved her, but he’d spoken stern words the day she’d left. This is your last chance, Nora. If you come home, I’ll expect you to put aside that medical nonsense and marry Albert Bowers.

Her father’s business partner was thoughtful, hardworking and generous. He was also fifty-nine years old and as modern as a powdered wig. She didn’t love him and never would. She had to succeed in High Plains. That meant impressing Zebulun Garrison with her abilities. As she washed her face, she prayed God would soften the mill owner’s heart, and that she’d find favor in the eyes of the town.

“Be with me, Lord,” she said out loud. “I belong here. I know it. Amen.”

Strengthened, she hung the flour-sack towel on the windowsill to dry. The opening had no glass, only two shutters spread wide to let in the light. To the right she saw the backs of the buildings on Main Street. Below her, she saw Mr. Crandall driving his empty wagon to the livery stable. As he rattled past her window, he tipped his hat to a man coming out of a low building with a new roof.

Squinting against the sun, Nora recognized Zeb Garrison and his flashy vest. The man acknowledged Mr. Crandall with a stern wave, then removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve, not stopping for a moment. From the vantage point of the window, she saw the crown of his head. No bald spot there…just thick hair that needed trimming. Everything about this man, even his hair, was bold, strong and defiant.

A smile played across her lips. She had the same traits. She also had an unshakable faith in God. As long as she stuck to her principles, she’d be safe from prejudice and cruel words. She’d treat Mr. Garrison the way she wanted to be treated. The Bible said to do unto others as you would have it done to you. That’s what she’d do now.

When Mr. Garrison threw stones, she’d duck.

When he criticized her, she’d smile.

When he mocked her, she’d turn the other cheek.

Nora knew all about loving her enemies. She also knew some enemies were more challenging than others. Mr. Garrison, she feared, would be the most challenging of all. With a prayer on her lips, she lifted the porkpie hat from her medical bag, pinned it in place and went to meet him in the parlor.

Zeb caught a whiff of lavender. He hated lavender. It reminded him of Frannie.

He’d been staring out the parlor window, thinking about all the work he had to do, when the scent reached his nose. Turning, he saw Dr. Mitchell in the doorway. Instead of the duster that made her look like a farm girl, she wore a green dress with fancy sleeves and a hat with a silly feather. He dipped his chin. “Good afternoon, Dr. Mitchell.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Garrison.” Striding forward, she offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, again.”

“Once was enough for me.”

She kept her hand extended. “I’m hoping we can start fresh.”

Zeb smirked. “You can’t unring a bell, Dr. Mitchell.”

“No,” she countered. “But you can ring it again if it strikes the wrong note.”

She stood with her hand loose and ready, wearing a look that dared him to be civil. The moment called for formal manners, the ones he’d learned in Boston, except Zeb didn’t want to be civil. He wanted to fan the air to get rid of her feminine scent. He answered her by indicating a chair. “Please, sit down.”

Without a hint of defeat, she lowered her hand and sat on the sofa. Zeb dropped into a chair across from her, draped a boot over his knee and steepled his fingers. Her chin went up a notch. His went down.

If she wanted an interview, he’d give her one. “Tell me, Dr. Mitchell. Why do you want to practice medicine in High Plains?”

She smiled, but Zeb refused to be disarmed. Never mind her red hair and a dress that showed off her curves. She was female and not fit to practice medicine. She also smelled like Frannie. The scent brought back a rush of memories that gave him a headache.

Dr. Mitchell laced her gloved fingers in her lap. “Thank you for using my title. Most people—”

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then that’s what I’ll call you.”

He expected her to bristle at his tone. Instead, her eyes met his with a patience beyond her years. “Shall we skip the pleasantries and get down to business?”

“Absolutely.”

“In the past year, I’ve applied for fourteen positions and been turned down fourteen times because of my gender. I’ve come to High Plains for a chance to prove myself. Will you give it to me, Mr. Garrison?”

Coming from a woman, the directness surprised him. “Why should I?”

“Because Dr. Dempsey is deceased, and I have the skills to replace him.”

Again, she’d been blunt. Zeb liked her style, but nothing could change her unsuitability. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, being female caused problems—including one he was about to introduce.

“Suppose I give you this chance.” He tapped his index fingers together. “What will you do for an office?”

“I’ll use Dr. Dempsey’s.”

“I don’t think so, Miss—Dr. Mitchell.”

“Why not?”

“Doc’s office was damaged in the tornado. After the storm he used a room in the church.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “A room at the church would do nicely.”

“It wasn’t exactly a room,” Zeb said dryly. “It was more of a closet. Besides, a family took it over the day Doc died. We’re that short of space.”

“I see.” Her eyes dimmed, but nothing else betrayed her surprise. “You must have had plans for the new physician. Whatever you arranged will be fine.”

“I don’t think so, Dr. Mitchell.” Zeb didn’t bother to hide a smirk. “I had planned to invite the new doctor to use part of my house for his practice. The offer was to include room and board in my home.”

Zeb expected a gasp at the news, maybe hysterics or a fluttering hankie. Dr. Mitchell said nothing for a solid minute, then she stood up. “We obviously need an alternative. I’d like to see Dr. Dempsey’s office.”