Cheryl St.John - Cowboy Creek Christmas - Mistletoe Reunion

“I’m fine, thank you.” But she moved to perch on a chair, and her formal manner drove his discomfort up another notch.

The air crackled with more than the snap of the kindling in the stove. There were years between them, and he didn’t know her anymore. He had never truly known her.

She glanced behind him and back to meet his eyes. “Are you the editor?”

Perfunctory as always. “I am.”

“A piece on my new practice would help spread the word and let people know I’m ready for business.”

No small talk or girlish chatter. Her blunt and businesslike manner didn’t surprise him, nor did it offend him. Perhaps he knew her better than he thought. Sam tilted his head and went to gather paper and pencil before settling on a chair across from her. “I guess you’re the lady doctor who built on Second Street?”

“I am.”

“We lost touch quite a while ago,” he said, the first one to mention their previous relationship. “And we maintained no mutual acquaintances, so you’ll have to fill me in on your background, and we’ll make the piece interesting.”

“Will you interview me right now?”

He spread his fingers in question. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees.

“I recall you’re fluent in several languages. That’s an interesting fact. Four, is it?”

“Latin, French, German, Portuguese, passable Chinese, and I can communicate somewhat in Choctaw, Chickasee and Cherokee.”

“More than I thought.” He added a note on the paper. “And your education?” He kept his voice studiedly neutral as he mentioned the reason she’d called off their engagement.

“I attended the Philadelphia School of Eclectic Medicine.”

His pencil paused. He glanced up. “Did you learn conventional medicine there?”

“If by conventional you mean cutting, purging, administering harmful chemicals, and adding tar to drinking water, I did not.”

He sensed he’d opened a can of worms. “By harmful chemicals, you mean...?”

“Mercury, arsenic. Even in small doses they are harmful at their worst and placebos at best.”

The pieces he’d read about reformers and botanical physicians had not been favorable. The majority of the population looked upon them as quacks. “So you studied the teaching of...” He’d read the news from all major cities for years, and he had perfect recall. “Wooster Beach?”

“As well as John King and John Milton Scudder.”

He nodded. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that she’d followed their practices. She’d always had unconventional ideas and questioned everything.

“Eclectic medicine promotes botanical therapies with the belief that the body heals itself. I studied medicinal plants of European and American origin to learn remedies. I was encouraged to explore how medicine should work with nature to harness its intrinsic healing capabilities.”

Marlys was passionate about her studies, about her practice. He didn’t doubt for a moment she believed her methods could help people. She was as caring and compassionate as she was strong-willed and outspoken. She was also the same woman who had broken off an engagement with him, left him to explain to friends and his social circle, wounded his masculine pride and left a crater in his self-respect.

Sam kept his expression neutral. He was a journalist, and no matter their history, it was his job to report the news in an impartial manner. He offered up a silent prayer for guidance to handle this situation without emotion or prejudice. “Do you have any followers yet?”

When she didn’t reply immediately, he glanced up. She was eyeing him with a guarded expression. “Don’t you mean patients?”

“I do mean patients,” he answered firmly.

“Yes, I do.”

He held the pencil at the ready.

Any previous warmth had fled her gold-flecked eyes. “I sense your hesitation to shed a positive light on this subject.”

“It’s my job to report the news impartially, Miss Boyd.”

“If you can’t call me Marlys, it’s Dr. Boyd. I don’t expect you to endorse my practice. Your concern is not unfounded—you haven’t seen the effectiveness of this type of medical practice firsthand. A lot of people don’t understand the benefits, but education is power. I can educate them.”

“You’re not wrong. I am definitely interested in an article. Maybe more than one. It could give you a chance to share information. I’ll choose language carefully to inform readers without insulting Doc Fletcher’s practice.”

“That sounds fair. It’s not my intention to insult anyone. I’m more interested in education and advanced medicine.”

He asked her several more questions, and she supplied answers.

“What was your first impression of Cowboy Creek?” he asked.

She thought a moment. “The town is laid out efficiently. I had no problem finding my property or locating help to work on my building. The stores are more than adequate, and the boardinghouse is sufficient for my needs until my quarters are ready. I’ve spent all my time and energy on my office and supplies.”

“What about people? Have you made friends?”

She flushed a little, which made Sam frown. Had people been unkind to her? He could understand if the townsfolk preferred to continue going to Doc Fletcher rather than trying something new, but that was no excuse for rudeness. She seemed to be struggling for an answer, so he hastened to say, “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. You spoke of locations and not of the people. I was attempting to interest the readers who like to hear about their friendly town.”

Her posture relaxed, and she faced him. “A lot has happened since we were last...together,” she said. “You know me well enough to know I’m socially awkward. I’m no good at inconsequential chatter—which can make it hard for me to make friends in a new town.”

“You’re good with patients, I assume.”

“I try to be.” She stood. “And now, I really should go.” She took her coat from a hook, and he stepped to hold it as she slid her arms into the sleeves. Her shiny waves didn’t touch the collar. She turned and faced him. He didn’t back up, so only two feet separated them.

He never had the slightest idea what she was thinking behind those golden-flecked eyes, one of the things that had intrigued him from the first. He’d never been certain if she’d broken his heart or injured his pride.

“I read some of your articles during the war,” she said. “You were in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Maine?”

“And Virginia, too. I pretty much saw it all.”

“And your parents? How did they fare?”

“My father died shortly after I enlisted. Mother is well. She’s currently traveling abroad. And your father?”

She absorbed the information. “My father is alive.”

Her lack of further information spoke volumes. “He disapproved of your aspirations.”

“Along with everyone else.”

Did she mean him? “I suppose that was a strain on your relationship.”

“We no longer have a relationship.”

“I’m sorry.”

She turned to watch Pete edge the letters of Sam’s name with a neat gold line, giving him a moment to study her profile. She looked less girlish, of course, but even though she wore no jewelry and her hair lacked sophistication, she was as lovely as he remembered. She still fascinated him, but he’d learned the hard way she wasn’t carved out to be a wife. Even if she’d changed her mind about that—which he doubted—he’d know better than to trust her with his heart again.

Her gaze wavered, and she lifted her brows in curiosity, drawing his attention to the door where Hannah Johnson and a shivering August peered in. Pete stepped back to allow them entrance, and Sam’s eight-year-old son shuffled in ahead of their neighbor, Hannah, ushering in a gust of cold air.