Janet Dean - Courting the Doctor's Daughter

Noblesville looked like a good place to pause. He’d had an arduous trip, exposing him to the elements—rain, cold, heat. It was hardly his existence back East. In most ways, he’d found the journey good, even pleasurable. The towns where he’d stopped in the past weeks may have blended in his mind, but he’d enjoyed seeing the middle part of the country, meeting everyday people living everyday lives.

Mostly he’d found hard-working, good people who understood what mattered. He’d been glad to give back, to offer them a medicine he believed in. And yet, always searching, seeking that one last piece of his family puzzle.

No matter what that aggravating female thought of his remedy, of him, she wouldn’t thwart his quest to find the boy.

He wasn’t here to ruin a child’s happiness, or get involved. Life had taught him to hold people at arm’s length. He’d learned the lesson well.

If Ben had a good home and was happy with a family, Luke could return to New York and his lab.

Yet he couldn’t help questioning how it would feel to leave his flesh and blood behind. To forsake his responsibility to Ben as his parents had to Joseph.

Could Luke leave and repeat the family history he despised?

Geraldine Whitehall was dying. Again.

Mary bit her tongue, searching deep for a measure of patience, then greeted the café owner with a smile. All afternoon, the office had a constant parade of patients. Hoping to leave when the Willowbys arrived, Mary sighed, resigned to the delay.

Geraldine leaned close, her eyes wide with fright, her face creased with worry. “I need to see Doc.”

“He’s with a patient.”

“I have this cough. It’s worse at night. I’m sure it’s consumption,” she said, her tone hoarse like the words scraped her throat raw on their way out.

Mary patted the woman’s hand. “Have a seat. I’ll get you in as soon as I can.”

The patient collapsed into a nearby chair. Within seconds she flipped through a magazine, stopping at an article. Even back at her desk, Mary could read the title, “Tumors of the Eye.” Soon Geraldine would find enough symptoms to keep her tossing tonight with yet another worry. Awareness thudded in Mary’s stomach. She had no right to criticize.

Mary rose and eased the magazine out of the woman’s clutches. “How’s your daughter?”

“Oh, my poor, darling girl.” Tears welled in Geraldine’s eyes. “What will Fannie do without a mother to help plan her wedding?”

“Fannie’s engaged?”

“No, but she and James are madly in love. It can’t be long until he asks.”

Frances Drummond walked into the waiting room. Another woman saddled with a man who’d hurt her. Fortunately Ed would spend the rest of his life behind bars for the years of abuse he’d heaped on Frances. Not nearly long enough for murdering Frances’ mother last year and all but killing Frances and Addie too. The short time the children lived in the Drummond house had taken a toll on Emma and William. Thank God those orphans were out of Ed’s clutches—and thanks to Frances—in the loving hands of Addie and Charles. God had shown there was hope, even amongst all that pain.

Frances paid her bill, exchanging a few words with Mary, who struggled to keep her mind on the task with Geraldine hovering nearby, coughing into her handkerchief and then examining it, most likely looking for the telltale blood of consumption.

With Frances out the door, Mary led Mrs. Whitehall into the examining room. The woman shadowed Mary so closely she could feel Geraldine’s breath on her neck. At any moment, Mary expected to feel tracks on her back.

Her father greeted Geraldine, keeping his expression blank and emitting only the faintest groan. After his short night, Mary admired his self-control.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Whitehall?”

Mary ducked out the door and returned to her desk. Her father could handle this latest malady alone.

Within minutes, Geraldine returned, having regained the spark in her eyes and the spring to her step. “I’m not dying! Hay fever is giving me this cough. It’ll disappear with the first hard frost.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mary said, but wondered when the café owner would be back wearing a panicked expression, ticking off new symptoms on her fingers.

Geraldine dug through her purse. “With these doctor bills, it’s a good thing I’ve got a renter for the room over my café.”

Mary smiled. “Oh, to whom?”

“To that traveling salesman. He’s taking his meals at the café, too.” She beamed, then paid the fee and scooted out the door.

Mary’s mouth drooped. That peddler was staying, as he’d said.

The door opened and the Willowbys entered. Mary gave them a hug, then gestured for them to follow. Judge Willowby leaned heavily on a cane, his gait unsteady and shuffling. Although it was still a huge improvement from when he’d first had his apoplexy.

In the weeks since the stroke, Mrs. Willowby had devoted herself to her husband’s recovery. If anything, his illness had brought out her gentler side. An outcome appreciated not only by Mary and her father but by everyone who had dealings with Viola Willowby. Mary had come to admire the woman—something she couldn’t have expected a few months ago.

“How’s our…grandson?” Judge Willowby asked.

The Willowbys had wanted Mary to have custody of Ben, but the judge’s tongue still tripped over calling Ben his grandson, rather than his son. Mary smiled. “Fine. No asthma episodes as of late.”

Oh, how Mary enjoyed Ben’s presence. Shy at first, the youngster had taken a few days to adjust but soon settled into the family. He adored her sons, and Michael and Philip loved playing with him and reading him stories.

Mary smiled. “Ben prays for your recovery every night. By the looks of you, God’s answering his prayers.”

Viola’s eyes misted. “We’re so grateful, Mary, for your willingness to raise Ben as your own. Tell Carrie how much we appreciate her watching Ben so you can work in the office. The generosity of the people in this town amazes us. Food brought over, help with chores—we’ve been blessed in countless ways.”

When needed, folks in this town pulled together. Mary loved living here.

Her father appeared in the doorway, scrutinized his patient for a moment and then gave an approving smile. “You’re looking spry, Judge.”

“I’m thinking of trying the new cure, Doc,” the judge said. “Maybe it’ll loosen me up.”

“You’re the second patient to mention that remedy. Guess I’d better buy a bottle.”

Mary could understand the Willowbys looking for answers, but surely her father didn’t believe that nonsense too. “If you don’t need me, I’d like to leave now.”

“Sure.” Her father turned and handed her a capped bottle. “Would you stop by the livery and deliver this medicine to Mr. Lemming? He’s been without it for several days. Make sure he realizes the importance of taking it correctly.”

Mary nodded, tucking the bottle in her purse. “See you at supper.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said with a forced gaiety belying the weariness in his movements. He didn’t fool her.

Before she delivered the medicine, she intended to talk with Sheriff Rogers. See what could be done about that peddler.

Mary passed the town square and didn’t see that rogue, but his wagon remained where it had that morning. He’d probably gone to the saloon, spending his morning profits on liquor to fill more bottles and, more than likely, himself.

A hand-lettered sign boasted in bold letters: CURATIVE FOR HEADACHE, STOMACHACHE AND INSOMNIA. What some people would do to make a dollar—uh, three dollars.