Kate Bridges - The Proposition

“I’ll deliver your broodmares,” the farrier had said, winking while making a final check of the horseshoes. “A man could always use pretty female company.”

She was pretty and she was female, but Travis could pass on her company. Standing back in the brightness of the moon, he watched her.

Although he fought it, a glimpse of the smooth side of her cheek played with his thoughts. Jessica lowered herself to the rushing river. Her braids dipped below her shoulders. Beneath her fresh, white blouse and trousers, her youthful body contrasted against the century-old, twisted trees behind her. Glowing skin in its prime versus rough, mossy bark. Yet both images brought a strange comfort to him. Did all women use lotions on their face as Caroline had, mint powders on their teeth and vinegar to rinse their hair?

It was a silly thought, he acknowledged, so he turned away to concentrate on his task. He dipped the bucket into the moving mass of water.

Victor’s death had surprised him. He had no idea she’d had such turmoil in her life. Maybe it was one of the reasons she’d left for finishing school—to get her mind off Victor.

He cleared his throat. “Is Dr. Finch expecting you?”

The question seemed to rattle her. Fumbling, she laid one clean tin plate upon a boulder, the clanging echoing over the river. Dipping a dirty plate into the water, she scrubbed a sliver of soap against it.

“No,” she said softly.

“Then how do you know he’ll have the time to be interviewed?”

Her lips drew together. “He’ll listen to my request.”

“You may not find him. He’s needed in several towns and travels quite a bit, from what I hear. Doctors are hard to come by in this part of the country.”

“I suppose that’s why people are so ready to trust him. Because they need to. They want to.”

“Why don’t you like him?”

She started at the observation. The fabric of her blouse billowed, accentuating jutting breasts, narrow waist and full hips.

He turned away, his gaze settling on the flowing river and trees lining the distance. “It’s obvious you don’t. Every time his name is mentioned, you stiffen like a fishing rod that’s snagged an unwanted catch.”

Even in the golden light, he saw defiance in her eyes.

“He charges a lot of money for his cures,” she countered.

“There’s no law against a man turning a profit.”

“Some of his cures don’t work.”

He watched her long fingers sweep the inside of a cup. “Some of them do. I imagine when you’re dealing with the health of a patient, unfortunately, there’s no answer for everyone.” He scrutinized her. “Why did you want to pay me so much to get you to Devil’s Gorge? Two hundred dollars, if I recall.”

The lines of her shoulders hardened. “The money’s still open, if you like.”

He scoffed. “That’s not why I brought it up. Why is it so important that you speak to Dr. Finch?”

“I need him for my article, to give it authenticity.”

There was something more to her position; Travis sensed it.

“Why do you like him so much?” she asked.

He anchored one boot between two rocks and rebalanced his weight. “He helps a lot of folks. He helped me get a conviction in the trial against Pete Warrick.”

“What trial?”

“The huge one that just finished.” He noticed her pause. “I forgot—you were out of town.”

Her gold necklace shimmered around her slender throat. “Was it a medical case?”

“No.”

“Then how did he help you?”

“He was the sole eyewitness in a string of unsolved robberies that happened across southern Alberta and B.C. over the course of the past two years. He placed Pete at the scene of a store crime one hundred miles due south of here, the only person ever captured.”

He watched her digest the information.

She frowned as if something didn’t make sense. Then she rose, her expression fiery, her body challenging. “There are two other doctors in town. Are they friendly toward Dr. Finch?”

He studied her critically. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

She shrugged, but seemed flustered by his scrutiny. “Journalists are supposed to ask questions.”

Maybe, but she seemed to have a bigger stake in this. His gaze again fell to her creamy throat. “The fort’s surgeon, John Calloway, joined us for dinner once after the trial and seemed to like Dr. Finch just fine. And Dr. Virginia Bullock says she and Dr. Finch shared the same physiology professor in medical college.”

“What?” Jessica’s plate clattered to the pile, the bang surprising them both. A flock of geese fluttered fifty feet away then tore off into the sky. Quickly recovering, Jessica scooped the plate and continued washing. “How’s that possible?”

He stepped back from her to catch a breath. “Dr. Bullock attended the university in Toronto, but she told me her professor emigrated from Glasgow twelve years earlier. That’s where Dr. Finch went to school. During the trial, they compared notes about their quirky professor. He used to write lists and lists of anatomical glands, organs and bones. He made his students reorganize them according to their placement in the body, starting from the head and working down.”

She rubbed the back of her neck, looking very disturbed.

“Glasgow,” Travis repeated. “That’s where Dr. Finch earned his medical degree. He’s Scottish.”

She slumped down on a protruding boulder.

“You have done some digging about his background for this interview, haven’t you?”

“The University of Glasgow,” she whispered, incredulous.

“What’s this interview about, exactly? What’s the topic?”

The breeze whirled around her hair. “There’s a man,” she said. “A man I’ve been tracking in Montreal. His name is Dr. King. My topic is about charlatans and their influence in modern society. How their practices have sparked the current laws for licensing of legitimate doctors. Up until recently, almost anyone could call themselves a doctor.”

“And you think Dr. Finch knows something about Dr. King?”

“I thought…But his attendance at the University of Glasgow places him in a different…” She flushed. “You’re a policeman. Do you know anything about medical con artists and charlatans?”

He shook his head. “Not medical. We’ve had our share of passing carnival men who’ve duped folks out of money. We’ve had store owners and bankers who’ve been apprehended with their fingers in the till. But no run-ins with dubious quacks.”

The animation in her face distracted him again.

He shoved a hand into a pocket. “I’ve heard about charlatans, though, in the big cities out East—in both Canada and the States. I’ve heard that in Philadelphia they have these medical museums. Innocent folks go in thinking they’re going to see something unusual, but many are cornered and led to believe they’re dangerously ill themselves. They’re taken to a backroom and sold expensive treatments.”

“There was a museum like that in Montreal. The police disbanded it.”

“And Dr. King knew something about it?”

“I’m convinced he was involved, although he was never caught.”

“Well, if Dr. Finch can help you locate this charlatan, I’m sure he will. Because of him, I won a major trial. Pete Warrick’s doing seven years’ hard labor.”

Devastation fell across her face. “A doctor’s word is sacred, isn’t it? I mean, no one goes against the word of a doctor.”

“Not without powerful proof. Do you have any against Dr. King?”

Her lashes swept downward. “No…”

“That’s a big accusation with no proof. You could be brought in front of a judge yourself for slandering the doctor’s reputation.”