Janet Dean - Courting the Doctor's Daughter

Philip, his hazel eyes shining with mischief, followed on his brother’s heels. He grabbed Ben and tickled his belly. “We’re going to pick flowers, Ben. Wanna help?”

“Yes!”

That morning she and the boys had planned their monthly trek to the cemetery. “Before you do, how about some cookies and milk?” All three boys slid onto the kitchen chairs. “Wash your hands first.” They scrambled down, racing toward the sink, jostling for first in line, reminding Mary of playful puppies. If only she had their energy.

Back at the table, they gobbled her molasses cookies and slugged down the milk.

Swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Michael removed his milk mustache. “I recited the preamble to the Declaration of Independence,” he said. “I got it the first time.”

Mary smiled at her older son. “I’m proud of you. All that practicing helped.”

“I cleaned the erasers,” Philip said, then reported the highlights of his school day, none of which had anything to do with his lessons. Philip would rather play than study.

Ben listened, wide-eyed, hanging on to every word. “I wanna go to school.”

Philip drained his glass. “You aren’t old enough.”

Ben puffed out his chest. “I’m four!”

“You have to be six. That’s two more years.”

The little boy’s face fell.

Always the peacemaker, Philip jumped from his chair and put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “But you get to play with the preacher’s kittens while we’re in school. That’s lots more fun.”

All smiles now, Ben finished the last bite of his cookie while Michael, always aware of what needed to be done, cleared the glasses from the table.

Mary dug under the sink, retrieved two canning jars and filled them with water. “Michael, get the shears. Cut the flowers for Ben and Philip.”

She set the containers on the back porch. The boys hurried past on the way to her garden. Within minutes, they ambled back clutching asters in their now grubby hands, and stuck the stems into the jars.

The boys enjoyed tending their father’s and grandmother’s plots. Mary encouraged their efforts, hoping the activity would help them remember Susannah and Sam. Not that she wanted her boys to dwell on the past. She’d tried to show them that even after losing a loved one, life went on. Doubt nagged at her, tightening the muscles in her neck. Had she always lived that example?

They set off with Ben in the wagon, two flower-filled fruit jars wrapped in a burlap bag hugged to his chest. The water sloshed over the top, dampening Ben’s shirt. His giggle told her he didn’t mind.

When they reached Crownland Cemetery, Michael and Philip each carried a jar with Ben tagging along behind. They put their offerings on the graves. Then they gathered the dried, crackling leaves blown against the headstones, their solemn faces eager to help, and stuffed them into the burlap sack to dump on the compost pile at home.

Finished with the task, Michael and Ben leaned against the trunk of a tree, studying the clouds overhead. Philip ambled over to where Mary knelt pulling the tall grass away from her mother’s headstone, his mouth drooping.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Could you…” He studied his hands. “Find us a new dad?”

Mary’s heart plunged. She enfolded her son in her arms. “I know you miss your dad, but we’ll be fine, Philip. Just fine.”

He sighed, then pulled away and plodded to his brothers. His words lingered in Mary’s mind, gnawing at her peace. Philip wanted a dad, but she knew a bad choice was far worse than living alone.

Eleven years ago on this very day in October she’d married Sam. The raven-haired stranger who’d come into her father’s office one sultry afternoon in August, his thumb split open from an accident at a factory in town. It’d been his first day on the job. “A dumb accident,” he’d said, but then with a smile that captivated her, added, “A lucky one.” She’d asked why he called his gaping wound requiring six stitches lucky and he’d said, “If I hadn’t torn up my thumb, I might never have met the prettiest filly in these parts.”

Samuel Graves had been a smooth-talking, charming man. She’d fallen for him on the spot. They married in a matter of weeks, long before she had any idea of her husband’s terrible past. And of his compulsion.

Sighing, her thoughts turned to Luke Jacobs. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase him from her mind. Maybe a dip in White River would cleanse that man from her system.

Regardless, she would not make the mistake of giving her heart to another handsome, persuasive man.

Mary stepped into the backroom of Addie’s millinery shop and the monthly gathering of the Snip and Sew quilters. Five pair of inquisitive eyes lifted from basting the Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt to the frame and focused on her. Mary loved these ladies and they loved her, so why did she feel like a rabbit caught in the sights of a cocked rifle?

Her sister-in-law smiled. “Glad you could make it this afternoon.”

Addie’s baby girl slumbered in a cradle a few feet away, her little mouth making sucking motions as she slept. Mary placed a kiss on the top of her niece’s fuzzy blond head. “Lily gets more adorable every time I see her.”

“I can’t keep her awake during the day. But in the middle of the night, she’s all smiles and coos. Fortunately for me, Charles can’t resist walking the floor with her until she falls asleep.”

Sally Bender poked Mary’s arm. “What kept you? Still trying to chase that handsome peddler out of town?”

Had everyone heard about her encounter with that reprobate? “I wish. How could you call that troublemaker handsome?”

“What woman wouldn’t notice, right, Sally?” Martha Cummings pulled a length of thread from her mouth, her eyes twinkling with amusement. At Martha’s feet, her youngest sat on a blanket gnawing on a bell-shaped rattle. “I may be happily married for ten years, and have five children eight and under, but I can appreciate a fine-looking man.”

A flash of dark eyes, muscled forearms and a dimpled cheek sparked in her memory. Averting her face, Mary opened her sewing box and took out her needle, avoiding the question, but her stomach tumbled. She had noticed and didn’t like it at all.

Raising her head, she met Martha’s stare.

“By the look on your face, Mary, I’d say you’ve noticed too.”

Once again the women turned toward her, their expressions full of speculation. Heat climbed Mary’s neck, but she forced a calm, indifferent tone. “His looks are unimportant. He’s pilfering hard-earned money out of our neighbors’ pockets.”

Martha poked the damp end of the thread through the eye of her needle. “Are you sure you’re right about that? I bought a bottle myself, and the sheriff’s wife claims that tonic eased his sour stomach after only one dose.”

With all this talk about the peddler and his remedy, Mary barely kept her hand steady to thread her needle. “The sheriff’s probably getting relief from the peppermint I smelled in that bottle.”

“Peppermint never helped the sheriff before. No reason it should now,” Martha said.

Successful at last, Mary knotted the end of her thread. “I’ve read about people believing in something so much the concoction works—for a while.”

Sally guffawed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Whether his potion works or not, you’re wasting your energy, Mary, trying to run that peddler out of town. Men don’t have any inkling when they’re not wanted.”

How could he not? Hadn’t Mary made her feelings abundantly clear?

Fannie Whitehall moaned. “More like, men don’t have any inkling when they’re wanted.”