Kate Bridges - The Surgeon

When he was a younger man, he’d envisioned himself in the future with a wife and children, maybe grandchildren in his retirement years. But he hadn’t had the time or the inclination to look for a wife. There wasn’t much choice, unless he went for a fifteen-or sixteen-year-old daughter of one of the ranchers, or the occasional European immigrant, or a daughter of one of the Metis Indians. And the years kept passing by.

John was forty years old today. Like most of his private affairs, he kept his birthdate to himself. But what had happened to his vision of family?

He sifted through the medical journals that he’d picked up from the train depot. He leafed through them with disappointment. It looked like this month’s British medical journals wouldn’t supply any answers to his other problem, either. During the twelve months he’d been treating the blacksmith on Angus McIver’s ranch, John hadn’t been able to pinpoint the man’s illness. The blacksmith was only thirty years old yet sometimes he walked with a shaking palsy, like an old man.

Rubbing the back of his neck, John looked up at the wall clock. Six-fifteen. Sarah would be having dinner soon.

She could be a major distraction. Hell, she was already.

If marriage was what she wanted and why she was here, he was certain she’d soon find a husband. With her pretty smile and ready attitude for hard work, she’d have suitors begging for her company. Some men might consider her to be a handful, but her amusing tongue lashings reminded John of his younger sister. He and Beth had been closest in age and they’d argued night and day. After she’d passed away so suddenly, he’d felt guilty for years about their constant bickering, but as he’d matured, he’d realized they had only been children and the arguments hadn’t meant he’d loved his sister less.

He missed Beth. And his younger twin brothers, Hank and James…Much to his mother’s annoyance, John had been the only child who hadn’t eaten any of the food at the fairgrounds that Sunday. He’d had an upset stomach and couldn’t eat, but wouldn’t admit to the nausea or his ma wouldn’t have allowed him to ride the carousel. The rest had stuffed themselves with sausage and bread and vegetable soup and corn on the cob, then licorice and walnuts and mints. And lots and lots of water. Contaminated water. That’s how they’d contracted the typhoid that had killed them. He and his ma and pa had been the only ones left standing. Ten other children had died that week, as well.

The wall clock chimed six-thirty. Why hadn’t Sarah married before this? Why had she been so desperate to answer a newspaper advertisement and why so far away from home? Or was she simply as alone in the world as he was?

His stomach growled with hunger. Rising out of his chair, he strode to his closet. Donning a newly ironed dress shirt and his Sunday pair of pants, he headed out the door. It was his fortieth birthday, and what did he have to lose?

“Mrs. Lott, here I am!” Sarah rushed down the carpeted stairs, hoping to catch Mrs. Lott and her sister before they escaped into the milling crowd. The boardinghouse owner had established a reputation as an excellent cook and there was often a lineup for her dining room.

Lifting the fabric of her finest blue twill skirt so she wouldn’t trip down the stairs, Sarah waved again but the two women ignored her as they headed to the front door. They were going in the wrong direction.

Sara shouted louder. “Mrs. Lott! Mrs. Thomas!”

Weaving past a gentleman in a bowler hat, Sarah squeezed along the stair wall. When her sleeve brushed an oil painting, it jarred and she lunged to straighten it.

A hallway full of people stared. Some women averted their eyes and whispered to their friends. Sarah was struck by self-consciousness. She’d created a stir because she’d been too zestful in her shouting and clumsy with the painting.

However, the elderly sisters turned and waited for her. Like Sarah in her white mutton-sleeve blouse and cameo brooch clipped to her throat, the ladies were dressed in their finest.

Sarah squeezed past a man with a walking stick. Puffing to catch her breath, she felt herself flush with enthusiasm as she peered into the wrinkled green eyes of dear Mrs. Lott. “I’ve come to join you for dinner.”

Ten feet past their shoulders, the stained-glass door opened. Dr. John Calloway strode through it.

With a quickening of her pulse, Sarah slunk into the corner, hoping he wouldn’t catch sight of her. What brought him here? He’d said he was on duty this evening, so he must be on a doctor’s call. In a glance, she didn’t see a medicine bag, only an annoyingly handsome man with slicked-back hair and a white silk shirt. He loomed a good ten inches above the crowd.

Mrs. Lott had her back turned, so didn’t see him. She wasn’t smiling at Sarah as she had been that morning. “But we’ve already eaten.”

“Oh—” Had Sarah made an error? She pivoted on her high-heeled black boot to glance at Mrs. Thomas. “But…”

Mrs. Thomas brought her leather gloves to her nose and sniffled. Her shock of white hair, pinned in billowing curls atop her head, shook with disapproval.

“But I thought you said seven o’clock. I’m five minutes early.”

“Dr. Calloway declined, remember?”

“Yes, but I thought I’d mentioned I would join you alone.”

“Sorry, there must have been a miscommunication.”

A burning heat slapped Sarah in the face. Polly Fitzgibbon had obviously done her work. She likely spread the gossip of Sarah’s nakedness in John’s arms and God knew what else.

John spoke beside her, causing her pulse to leap again. “Good evening, ladies. I see I’ve arrived in time. I’d like to join you for dinner if I’m still invited.”

Trying to hide her disgrace, Sarah spun around to weave back up the stairs to the solace of her room. “It seems we’re both late, Dr. Calloway.”

He grabbed her wrist firmly and held it to his side, but smiled at the other women. “Late? It’s not seven yet.”

Sarah tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he held her strong. A silent turbulence roared between them. Had he overheard that the sisters had declined Sarah? What was he doing? People were staring, and he was making the situation worse. It didn’t help that his touch flustered her thoughts.

The two women puckered their lips. “We’ve already eaten, Doctor. Good evening.” They strolled away.

Another couple brushed by John and Sarah. They mumbled, inaudible to most, but not to Sarah, which was the effect she knew they were seeking. “…caught red-handed with her clothes off. Phony mail-order bride. Wonder how much she charges…”

“Now just a minute,” said John, red beneath his collar.

The sisters hesitated near the door, glanced back and fanned their faces with their gloves. Dead silence filled the hallway. Not a person in the crowd moved.

“John, don’t—” whispered Sarah.

“Come back here, ladies,” John commanded. “I’d like to explain something to you.”

The women clicked their tongues. Someone held the door open and they slinked into the blue evening sky.

With a heated look of fury, John glared at the staring faces. He must have realized they were gauging his possessive hand on Sarah’s wrist, because he dropped it quickly.

His absence left a cold spot on her wrist. She hadn’t been touched like that for a very long time. It’d been a raw act of control, of possession. She fought the unwanted feeling of satisfaction it brought her.

“Good night,” she said softly, rubbing her wrist, turning up the stairs, afraid to draw more attention to herself.

“Wait.” John pressed his warm hand into her sleeve and held her back by the arm. Heat arced between them.