July's Bride Page 2

  No one else was disembarking, and the platform was empty. Immediately, she rushed to the baggage car to wait for the conductor who pulled out her trunk and two large wooden crates. He looked around. “You gonna have some help, young lady?”

  She feigned indifference. “Uh, yes, of course. My—uh—cousin will be here. He—he often runs a little late,” she added lamely.

  “That’s good. Can’t hold up the train, so we’re on our way. Good luck to you,” he added as he blew a large whistle and waved to the train’s engineer.

  ▲♥▲

  Abe slapped the rear of the mule. “Come on, you fool. She’s probably standing there on the platform waiting for us, sure she’s been forgotten.”

  Still a mile from the train station, he wished he had asked July for one of his stout horses. Only what would he say? That he was going into town to pick up his—his bride-to-be?

  He still hadn’t figured out how to tell him about Gabe’s ridiculous plan.

  He slapped the reins again. “Stubborn old fool,” he mumbled, then sighed and resigned himself to getting to the station late.

  Hopefully the poor woman was not forlorn. Wouldn’t do to have her be a wilting violet. Only the toughest women could survive the miserly conditions that living in the West produced.

  Like his Emma. The hard life had not bothered her—but then, Emma Stamford Harrison had been anything but ordinary. Even after three years, it seemed impossible that she wasn’t here, by his side.

  And she would’ve had plenty to say about the arrangement Gabriel had devised. Still, she’d have stepped in to help the woman, too. Perhaps that’s why he decided to help this stranger who’d agreed to travel hundreds of miles without knowing who it was that might meet her at the other end. She would certainly need someone to help her get started, and for sure, it wouldn’t be July Chandler!

  Especially now, with Davie in bed after being thrown from his horse. Still unconscious he was—poor lad.

  They found him some four miles downstream, thrown into a brush patch, the horse nowhere to be seen. It had taken Tom Walker less than an hour to find him after he sniffed out that little filly’s scent.

  As he pulled up to the station, Abe frowned. There was no stranded woman pacing the boardwalk or seated beside the stationmaster’s window. Hells bells, he certainly hoped she hadn’t hired a buggy to take her into town. Not that there were many places for her to run to: the doc’s house; three saloons; the general store; the bank and telegraph office; and Sheriff Ferguson’s office. Sadly that was the extent of Marian Creek’s bustling community.

  That, and the—well, Madame Lenore’s house.

  He clicked and hollered at the old mule to step-to.

  ▲♥▲

  Amanda walked on, surveying the sparse and rather ugly town. She had had no idea Marian Creek would be so small. Her aunt had not said anything about it being such a god-forsaken place.

  As if knowing would have changed anything.

  She frowned. This was her life now. There was no turning back. And there could be no regret or bitterness; that would only lead to despair.

  She straightened and headed across the dry, dusty main street to the sheriff’s office, which stood not far from a whitewashed, clapboard building with lace curtains at its only window. Perhaps that was a boarding house.

  Just as she reached the sheriff’s office, however, she heard a commotion and turned, just as two men stumbled out of the saloon and into the street. They immediately began punching each other, their curses and shouts deafening in the hubbub of the raggedly dressed men who had raced out after them and were already encircling them.

  Amanda’s gloved hand flew to her face, and she felt the hot rush of color flood her cheeks, but when the sheriff’s office door flew open, she shrieked and nearly fell to her knees. “Ach!”

  The big man pushed past her, unaware of her presence, a pistol in his hand. “Stop it, you good-for-nothin’s!” He marched over to the pair and pointed his gun at the head of the man who had pinned the second man to the dirt. “I got a mind to pull the trigger, no matter what,” he growled.

  The man on top hesitated. The lapse, however, gave his opponent the opportunity to flip him over.

  “I said, stop!” the sheriff boomed, and, without waiting for a response, he leaned over and pummeled the man with the butt of his pistol stock.

  The man flopped to the ground, unconscious.

  “You want some of this, too?” he hissed, taking aim at the second man.

  The man shook his head.

  “Then help me get this fool over to Doc’s. He’s gonna need tendin’!”

  Amanda, straightening the edge of her shirtwaist, stepped forward. “Let me look at him,” she said.

  The sheriff spun on his heel. “Wha-what?”

  Amanda took a slow, steadying breath. She refused to be intimidated by a small-town officer. After all, if this was going to become her town, she might as well step up and make her presence known. “Let me look at him,” she repeated. “I am a nurse.”

  “What?” returned the sheriff. “Where’d you come from?”

  She exhaled. “I’m Amanda Hoffman, and I’m from Decatur. Just arrived.” She exhaled. “I’m also a nurse.”

  “I’ll be. But this man needs a doctor.”

  “Yes, most likely. Is he nearby? If not, I can at least look him over.”

  The sheriff nodded in the direction of the clapboard house Amanda had noted earlier. “That’s his house. Doc Ashcraft. But he ain’t usually up and around this time of day—” He hesitated. “He—uh—he has a bit of a drinkin’ problem. Ever since his wife died, he ain’t been quite right in the head.”

  Amanda frowned. Good grief. So the house wasn’t a boarding house, after all, but the home of a drunk, who passed himself off as a doctor?

  What would she do now?

  Of course, she reminded herself sternly, she’d come out west to be married—not to find employment as a nurse. But if this potential husband couldn’t even bother to arrive on time, she may well have to find some kind of work before day’s end...

  ▲♥▲

  July sat down beside his son’s bed. It’d been four days now and Davie had not stirred from the deep sleep he’d fallen into. He pressed his forehead to his open palms. Not a praying man—or at least not in the last couple of years—now, all he could do was pray. But how could God forgive him?

  And why should he?

  He raised his eyes and peered down at his son. Was there any hope at all? Doc Ashcraft had not given him much. It was all in God’s hands, the old man had said.

  July struggled against despair.

  How foolish he’d been! He was obviously a terrible father, thinking an eight-year old boy was man enough to ride an untried horse. It seemed so careless now, looking back, while at the time it had seemed just a small gesture—the gift of confidence his son had yearned for.

  He wiped angrily at the tears that wanted to flow. Davie slept so peacefully it was hard to think that he was caught somewhere between life and death. There was no one to blame but himself, he knew that. He knew he’d brought this down on Davie.

  He reached out and stroked the damp, blonde curls pressed flat against his son’s fair scalp and pink cheeks. He touched his forehead; it was warm. Perhaps he was fighting a fever. Immediately, he got up and rushed into the kitchen where he found a rag. Dipping it into the pail of water he’d brought in earlier, he wrung it out and returned to Davie’s side. He folded the cloth across his forehead.

  ▲♥▲

  The doctor closed the door to the room where the wounded man rested. A superficial wound, the man was more drunk than injured. “He’ll be fine,” he said. He ushered Amanda into the front parlor. “Sit?” he asked.

  Amanda nodded and took a seat on the small settee near the only window. She’d seen this window from the street, hoping it indicated a boarding house. Now, she realized there was probably no boarding house anywhere in Marian Creek.

&n
bsp; The doctor took a seat on a stool next to a small spinet that sat against the far wall. He ran a hand through his red hair, which resembled porcupine’s quills, and smiled. He had a kindly face, she thought, almost like a robust cherub. His cheeks were plump and rosy, and his pale eyes, albeit bloodshot, seemed to smile, too.

  The good doctor had welcomed her in when he learned she was a nurse, and the sheriff had been only too happy to palm her off, saying that any doctor ought to have himself a nurse. With that, he’d left them, saying he had other drunks to deal with before the day was over.

  “I’m Doctor Ashcraft,” the plump little man said. “I understand you’re new to town. You came all the way from—where?”

  Amanda folded her hands, suddenly remembering that she’d left her gloves in the patient’s room. “From Decatur,” she said. “Illinois.”

  The doctor chuckled. “Of course. I’m from Iowa myself. Came out west to set up practice more than ten years ago, just after the war. Wanted to start over,” he said then sighed. “What brought you to Marian Creek? It’s not everyone who has heard of this place.”

  Amanda hesitated. What could she say? After the long day she’d endured, she had no idea if she were indeed going to become July Chandler’s bride, or anyone’s bride. Saying something about the man might only bring ridicule. “I’m not sure,” she began. “I mean I came out to visit—visit my—uh—cousin.” The ploy had worked for her on the train; perhaps it would work again.

  “Your cousin? Who is your cousin?”

  Once more Amanda hesitated. Of course the doctor would know July Chandler. Good grief, he’d been the talk of the town, from what she’d learned, and certainly the good doctor, even one who was little more than a drunk, would know of July’s infamous wife.

  She scrambled for some response. “Well, as a matter of fact,” she sighed, feigning disappointment, “he—my cousin—does not live here. I mean, he wrote that he’d stopped in Marian Creek and that’s why I assumed he lived here. In fact,” she added, pausing for effect, “he isn’t here. His name? Rudolph Van de Water.” She looked away. How had she come up with that name?

  The doctor frowned. “Certainly never heard of him. Would’ve remembered someone with a name like that. So, what are you to do now? Do you have family?”

  Amanda shook her head. “No. That’s why I came out west. My family is gone. I had little to go on back home, and—uh—Rudolph is—is the last of my kin.”

  The doctor scratched his head. He was obviously a kind man, thought Amanda—with relief—for he was truly upset by her circumstances, or lack of them.

  “Well, Miss Hoffman, I don’t have much to offer in the way of a job. But you are a nurse, and I am a doctor. I have this house and I could offer you a place to stay. At least until you locate your cousin. It would be a proper arrangement. I have a small room attached to the kitchen. It even has its own entrance, and Mildred, my late wife, has a trunk full of bed linen and the sort. You could dress it up a mite?”

  Amanda’s pulse quickened. Without any other recourse, had Providence actually shone its face on her, after all?

  She bit her lip and then caught the old man’s warm glance. “I would—I would be quite beholden,” she said quietly. “And I would be happy to work as your nurse. It’s the only work I know. And to have my own room? I don’t know what to say, except thank you.”

  Doctor Ashcraft slapped his thighs with his fleshy hands. “Then it’s settled. We should move you in immediately.”

  Amanda nodded. “If at all possible, sir, my baggage is at the station. Would there be someone who could deliver it?”

  “Of course. Not to worry. In Marian Creek, my dear, we take care of our own.”

  ▲♥▲

  Abe paced back and forth. He was more stirred up than he’d been in a long, long time. After missing the train’s arrival on account of his poor old crippled mule, he’d circled through town twice. But it wasn’t until he’d returned to the station for one last look, that he’d seen the blacksmith, O’Connell, loading up Doc Ashcraft’s buggy with a trunk and other crates and figured out what had happened to the young woman he’d come to rescue.

  O’Connell was full of gossip. “Yessir,” he said, “the doc’s got himself a nurse. She arrived this mornin’,” he added, “but her cousin—some bloke who probably don’t give a damn, I reckon—never arrived. But I’ll be damned if Doc ain’t got a smile on his face. Says she’ll be an asset—that was what he said—an asset to the community.”

  Abe had stood, dumbfounded. At the same time, he was somewhat relieved. Relieved! Gabriel had gotten him into this mess and Doc Ashcraft had gotten him out of it.

  Still, there was the question of July. Had the girl mentioned she was—in effect—betrothed to July Chandler, that he wasn’t her—her cousin? That she’d come with the notion she was to marry him? To poor July who, this very night, was sitting vigil over his beloved son?

  Oh, what a mess, thought Abe. What a mess. He’d have to find a way to corner the young woman, and, if possible, get her to release July from this ridiculous situation. The fact that Doc was ready to hire her, give her a room, too—perhaps that would be recompense enough for Gabe’s ridiculous arrangement.

  He looked over at the only framed photograph he had of his dear Emma. “My dear,” he said, stepping close. “I would give God’s own to have you here, right now. I have no idea what to do next. Were that I had the keen mind you had. Help me, Emma!”

  ▲♥▲

  “Amanda?”

  Amanda moved quickly from the kitchen into the parlor. “Yes, Doctor Ashcraft?”

  Doctor Ashcraft raised his hand. “Just Doc,” he said. “Just call me Doc.”

  Amanda flushed. “I don’t think I could do that, sir.”

  The doctor smiled, his cheeks drawn up into plump pink apples. Amanda had never known such a sweetly countenanced man before, she thought. All the men she’d known had been arrogant or pugnacious, or just plain mean. “Well, in time,” he said.

  She smiled and nodded.

  “We have to head out of town,” he said. “I have a young patient we need to look in on, and I think you may be the very thing he needs.” He pulled his long coat off the rack near the door. “You may need a wrap, my dear. It does cool down in the evenings, even in July, and we may be gone most of the day.”

  Amanda nodded and rushed to the small room that was now her own. She gathered up her gloves and hat and wrap. She also picked up her small medical bag. It wasn’t much, she knew, but she did carry a few incidentals that she often found useful—smelling salts, suture and needle, bandages, a small vial of whiskey.

  Doc smiled as she returned. “Good girl,” he said, noting her bag. He picked up his own—a much larger valise. “I’ll tell you more about the lad on our way out. O’Connell has the buggy ready.”

  The ride was pleasant and Doc was good company. Amanda had noticed that he seemed quite sober this morning. Freshly groomed and energetic, too.

  “He’s only eight years old, our little Davie,” Doc began as he clucked at the horse, which seemed more anxious to amble and graze than advance at a steady pace. “He’s the apple of his father’s eye,” he continued. “And a good boy. Well-behaved.”

  Amanda listened. “What happened?”

  “Fall from a horse,” he said. “After which he lay for a couple hours without rescue. It took July and Tom Savage an hour to find him after they located the runaway horse.”

  Amanda’s heart lurched. “July?”

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, the boy’s father. July Chandler. Quite a name, that, eh? Apparently he was born on the Fourth of July and his parents felt obliged to name him after such an auspicious occasion. Which,” he added quickly, “is coming up now, in what? Hmm, little less than three weeks. Normally, July rides one of his most beautiful horses in the race. He’s quite the breeder. Best in these parts, actually, and he usually wins. Doubt he’ll have the heart to enter this year.”

  The pounding in Ama
nda’s ears rose to a numbing level as she listened and pondered this man’s history. She fretted; no wonder the poor man had neglected her at the station. No wonder he’d not even remembered the date of her arrival. Would he recall his proposal now—when she arrived at his doorstep with the doctor? Overcome with grief, perhaps she had to forgive the man any irrational response at this point.

  She pulled at the threads of her wrap. She had never been so nervous in her life. What if he turned on her in his agony? Would he see her arrival as an intrusion now and rail against her? What would she do if he humiliated her publicly? Good grief, he’d been the one to send for her...would she have to find a way to defend herself for having come all this way on just a—a promise?

  She chided herself. He wouldn’t be that unkind. Would he?

  Oh, she sighed, life had taken such a turn in the last couple of days, she had no idea what to expect now.

  ▲♥▲

  July opened the door. “Doc,” he said, in the next breath. “There’s been no change. He just—sleeps.”

  Amanda, her heart pounding foolishly—she knew—followed the doctor into the small, but tidy front room. She had a long moment to take in her surroundings; soft, lace curtains hung from two long windows that brought significant light into the room, and a table and four chairs filled one area, a settee and rocker filled another. It was a woman’s room, for sure, she thought. No doubt decorated by July’s notorious wife.

  “Please, Doc,” July continued, “what can I do?”

  Doc Ashcraft removed his coat and tossed it over the back of one of the chairs. “Let me see the boy,” he said, his voice full of promise. “Sleep is good; remember that, July. Sleep is good.”

  They entered the bedroom, which, also bathed in light from the nearby window, smelled of lavender and rosewater. July drew close to the bed and then, as if for the first time, turned and noticed Amanda. He raised his brows.

  Doc smiled. “My nurse, Amanda Hoffman, July Chandler.”