“You tricked me.”

“You tricked yourself,” Nora said mildly. “You jumped to a conclusion.”

“A logical one,” Zeb said.

“A biased one.”

“You knew I’d think you were male.”

“You’re right.” She wrinkled her nose like a little girl. “I apologize.”

She looked downright cute. Zeb wanted to kiss her. The thought made him crazy. What was he thinking? She was an uppity know-it-all woman. She had too much education and too much ambition. The next woman he kissed would be his future wife, whoever annoyed him the least. Dr. Mitchell annoyed him the most.

“You’re hired for one month. Make it work or get out.”

AFTER THE STORM:

THE FOUNDING YEARS

A tornado can’t tear apart the fabric of faith and love in a frontier Kansas town

Kansas Courtship—

Victoria Bylin, March 2010

VICTORIA BYLIN

fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were each reading the Bible.

Five months later they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michael’s career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. She’s living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, “I want to tell stories.” For that gift, she will be forever grateful.

Feel free to drop Victoria an e-mail at VictoriaBylin@aol.com or visit her Web site at www.victoriabylin.com.

Kansas Courtship
Victoria Bylin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Victoria Bylin for her contribution to the AFTER THE STORM: THE FOUNDING YEARS miniseries.

Thanks be to God who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and manifests through us the sweet aroma of the knowledge of him in every place.

—II Corinthians 2:14

For my grandmothers,

Ethel Kennedy Bylin and Cecille Jewel Vickers

Nana Bylin bought me books

And Grandma Vickers gave me a love of writing

Eternal love to you both!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

June 1860

High Plains, Kansas

Zeb Garrison didn’t think much of church or preachers. Still, he had to give Reverend Preston credit for striking a chord that hadn’t stopped echoing since Sunday morning. Zeb had been sitting in the back pew, alone because he’d overslept and his sister, Cassandra, had left without him. He’d been half asleep when the reverend jarred him awake with a single statement.

If you died tomorrow, what would you leave behind?

The reverend hadn’t shouted the words. He hadn’t even raised his voice. He’d made a statement, but the question had stayed in Zeb’s mind for five solid days as he went about the business of running Garrison Mill. It hung there now, dangling like a ripe apple ready to drop.

Positioned at the standing desk in his mill’s office, a custom piece of furniture built to match his height, Zeb dragged his hand through his dark hair. He needed a haircut, badly. As always, he’d put it off to the point of rebellion. A glance at the wall clock told him the town barber would be open, but a look out the window confirmed what he’d noticed earlier. Bad weather was coming. Fast. Through the window, he saw clouds racing across the grasslands, picking up speed like a runaway horse.

He had no desire to get stuck at the mill in a storm. His workers had finished early and he’d sent them home to their wives and families. Zeb had no such obligations, beyond his responsibility to his sister. It was better that way. Females, he’d learned, were treacherous. Frannie, his former fiancée, had taught him that painful lesson.

Instead, he’d poured his soul into building Garrison Mill. Along with his friend Will Logan, Zeb had founded High Plains eighteen months ago. Someday the town would be a hub for farms and businesses. Once the wheat crops became plentiful, he’d turn the sawmill into a gristmill. Eventually he’d be shipping flour all over America.

The thought humbled him. Who’d have thought a poor kid from Bellville would ever own a mill? Zeb owed everything to Jon Gridley, a renowned Boston millwright. Pleased to have a protégé, Gridley had filled Zeb’s head with the mechanics of gears and water power. When the old man died, he’d left everything to Zeb, making him a rich man in spite of his humble beginnings. With wealth came a burden Zeb hadn’t expected. If Garrison Mill succeeded, High Plains would prosper. If it failed, the town could turn to dust. Not an hour passed that he didn’t feel responsible for the families he and Will had brought west.

Zeb walked to the window and studied the sky. If he hurried, he could get home before the storm struck. Frowning, he lifted his broad-brimmed hat from a wooden peg, locked the door behind him and stepped into the yard. What he saw sucked the air from his lungs. Funnel clouds were reaching down from the sky like bony fingers. Twisting. Turning. White and gray, they looked like a hand ready to snatch innocent victims from the earth. Zeb froze in amazement. He’d heard about twisters, but he’d never seen one.

In a blink, the storm turned and picked up speed. The fingers were coming for him. Blood rushed to his brain and he ran back to the mill for cover.

Will had cautioned him to build a cellar for such an event, but Zeb had been arrogant. He had only one place to hide, his office, and he’d locked the door. Fumbling for the key, he heard a roar unlike anything he’d ever heard. The wind grabbed at his coat. Twenty feet away, a stack of shingles exploded into a flock of birds.

Fumbling, he found the key and turned the knob. As the door opened, the wind ripped it from its hinges and shoved him to his belly. He couldn’t breathe. He could only lay sprawled on the floor, twisting to put his back against the wall as he watched the chaos of the wind.

One thought came to him, only one. If he died today, who would care? What would he leave behind? A pile of rubble, that’s what. Loneliness whipped through his soul with the force of the wind. Cassandra would miss him, but someday she’d marry.

And he himself? He’d have sawdust and splinters. A black wind hurled debris past the open door. No sons or daughters. A wagon somersaulted and broke apart. More shingles flew by, a hundred of them. Hail pounded the roof, and the window blew out. The mill groaned as it fought to stand. He heard the waterwheel going berserk and the clatter of gears.

As suddenly as the tornado struck, the wind stilled. In the silence, he heard the soft echo of Reverend Preston’s question and thought of that dangling apple. The storm had knocked the ripe fruit to the ground, forcing Zeb to admit to a need. If he died tomorrow, he wanted to leave behind more than splinters. He wanted a son to carry on the Garrison name. If it meant putting up with a wife, so be it.

Chapter One

August 1860

High Plains, Kansas

“Look over yonder, missy,” said the old man driving the freight wagon. “That’s where the twister snatched up those children.”

Dr. Nora Mitchell turned on the high seat. With the dusty bonnet shielding her eyes, she looked past Mr. Crandall’s gray beard to a lush meadow. A breeze stirred the grass and she smelled loamy earth. With the scent came a whiff of the mules pulling the three freight wagons the last miles to High Plains. In her black medical bag she had the precious letter from Zebulun Garrison inviting her to interview for her first position as a paid physician.

If, that is, he’d overlook that she’d signed her letter to him as “Dr. N. Mitchell.” Her gender made no difference when it came to practicing medicine, but it mattered terribly to men with old-fashioned ideas.

She’d lived with that prejudice since the day she’d entered Geneva Medical College, the alma mater of Elizabeth Blackwell, the first female doctor in America. The prejudice had become even more challenging once she graduated. She’d interviewed for fourteen positions in the past year and received fourteen rejections, all because of her gender.

You’re female, Dr. Mitchell. That makes you unqualified.

Women shouldn’t be subjected to the vulgarities of medicine.

Perhaps you can find work as a midwife. That would suit you as a woman.

She’d been close to despair, when a cousin wrote to her about an advertisement in the Kansas Gazette.

Wanted: a licensed physician for a new Kansas town. Compensation dependent on experience. Contact Zebulun Garrison, High Plains, Kansas.

She’d posted a letter to Mr. Garrison immediately. Not only had he offered “Dr. N. Mitchell” an interview, he’d sounded enthusiastic. “Our current doctor is retiring,” he’d written back. “We are a growing community in need of a skilled practitioner with an adventurous spirit.”

Nora had pictured bustling shops and a busy church. She’d imagined delivering babies, setting broken bones and treating croup and sore throats. Those expectations had changed as she’d traveled with the Crandalls. She’d split the riding time between Mr. Crandall and his wife, a buxom woman who’d birthed nine children and never stopped talking. As they’d traveled from Saint Joseph to Topeka, south to Fort Riley and on to High Plains, the woman had told horrific tales about Kansas weather. Two months ago, a tornado wiped out half of High Plains and devastated a wagon train. Most frightening of all, it had snatched away a set of eight-year-old orphan twins, traveling with one of the families on the wagon train. According to Mr. Crandall, the last person to see the twins, a young girl named Bess Carter who now lived in High Plains, had been so horrified by what had occurred that she hadn’t spoken since.

Nora knew how it felt to have someone taken without warning. When she was ten years old, her younger brother died of asthma. Grief-stricken, she’d looked at the stars and told God she wanted to be a doctor. When a meteorite shot across the sky, she’d taken it as a sign of His blessing.

She still felt blessed, but the road to this moment had been harrowing. At Geneva Medical College, she’d endured pranks ranging from crass to cruel. She’d tolerated ridicule from professors and mockery from fellow students. She’d also lost friends. Women with whom she’d grown up called her unladylike and turned their backs. Hardest of all, she’d lost some of her father’s affection.

Is it worth it, daughter? You should be attending dances and teasing young men. You should be seeking a husband.

She had, but the search for a spouse had been as futile as her hunt for a position as a doctor.

Nora wanted a husband and family as much as any woman, but the men who courted her hadn’t respected her career. To her father’s chagrin, she’d turned down two proposals including one from his business partner, a man named Albert Bowers, when the men had insisted she stop practicing medicine after she was wed. Mr. Garrison’s letter had arrived two days after Nora refused Albert’s offer. She’d danced around the room, waving the letter under her father’s nose while her mother wrung her hands with worry. With her life in pieces, much like the devastated wagon train, Nora had written back immediately to confirm the interview.

Now here she was…perched on a splintery wagon seat next to Mr. Crandall, facing the aftermath of a tornado. No physician in the world could have stopped the suffering. The Lord alone gave life and took it away. Whatever gift Nora had for healing, she never lost sight of the one true Healer.

Mr. Crandall shouted “whoa” and reined the mules to a halt. As the wagons rattled to silence, he removed his hat and held it over his heart. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed to the other wagons. “Let us pray.”

As Nora bowed her head, Mr. Crandall spoke to the sky. “Father God, we pray for mercy for the injured and the lost, especially those two children, Mikey and Missy. We pray they would be found. We pray for Your hand on their tender lives. Amen.”

“Amen,” she whispered.

A chorus of “amens” echoed from Mrs. Crandall and the four children she had with her. As Nora looked again at the empty meadow, Mr. Crandall jammed his hat on his balding head, gave the reins a shake and shouted at the mules. The wagons rolled forward, creaking as they stumbled in ruts. Awed by the vastness of the land, Nora contemplated the next step in her journey.

Within the hour, she’d meet Mr. Garrison. The tone of his letter had been terse, his penmanship bold. As she’d traveled from New York, enduring grime and crowded trains, she’d imagined their meeting. Judging by his responsibilities, she pictured him as a man in his middle years, perhaps portly with a balding head like Mr. Crandall. Her belly churned as she contemplated their first encounter. If necessary, she’d fight for her right to be a doctor, but the battle would take a toll.

She’d had little experience with Westerners until meeting the Crandalls. They were decent folk but unschooled. She figured Mr. Garrison came from the same hardworking stock. He could read and write, but she doubted he’d appreciate the book of poetry in her satchel, or the oil painting she’d brought to remind her of home.

“There’s Garrison Mill,” Mr. Crandall called in a booming voice. “That’s the start of High Plains.”

Nora sat higher in the seat. Straining her neck, she saw a two-story building on the river. Half the shingles were new, a sign of the tornado’s damage. On the river side, she saw a waterwheel turning with the lazy summer current. Mr. Garrison may be unschooled, but he clearly had a keen intelligence to build a mill. It also took money, a sign he was older, as she’d imagined.

As the wagons rolled closer to town, she saw more signs of devastation. Along the river, families were living in tents and wagons. A few had constructed shacks from storm-damaged boards of different colors. Down the road she saw a whitewashed school, miraculously untouched. Farther in the distance, she saw a steeple pointing to the bright blue sky.

At the edge of town, a rough sign identified a dirt road as Main Street. Back east, main streets were cobbled and alive with business. This one looked haggard, but she sensed pride in the sign. Soon she’d meet the people she’d come to serve. Would they accept her? Not at first, but she could win their hearts. She felt sure of it.

First, though, she had to win over Mr. Garrison. She wanted to look professional, so this morning she’d put on her New York best. Under the duster she’d bought for the wagon ride, she wore a bottle-green jacket with pagoda sleeves, a white shirtwaist and a narrower-than-usual skirt. She’d gladly left her crinolines in New York, along with the navy suits she’d worn in medical college. In her satchel she had a porkpie hat with a feather. When Mr. Crandall stopped the wagon, she’d whip off the bonnet, slip out of the duster and pin the hat to her red hair. Then, with her medical bag in hand, she’d go in search of Mr. Garrison.

When they reached a mercantile, Mr. Crandall reined in the mules. As the wagon lurched to a halt, Nora lifted her hands to unbutton the duster. She’d worked the first button, when she spotted a tall man with dark hair striding in her direction. Dressed in black trousers, a white shirt and a brocade vest, she judged him to be a local businessman. As he neared the wagon, he looked at her, not once but twice.

She didn’t believe in love at first sight, but she believed God had someone special for her. Looking at the tall stranger, she felt a hitch in her belly and wondered…Could he be the one? When the man slowed his steps, she wondered if he’d offer to hand her out of the wagon. She imagined her gloves growing warm at his touch, the strength of his hand as he’d guide her to the street. She’d never been shy, but neither did she want to be considered brazen. Her father’s words rang in her head.

Mind your tongue, Nora. You’re too outspoken for a lady.

Maybe, but some things had to be said. Some risks had to be taken.

As the man neared the wagon, she smiled.

He tipped his hat in reply. “Good afternoon, miss.”

“Good afternoon,” she answered.

Mr. Crandall greeted the man with a nod. “Howdy there, sir. How’s it going for ya?”

“Excellent. I trust you had a good trip?”

“The finest,” Mr. Crandall replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a wagon to unload.”

The freighter, more concerned with his delivery than social graces, hopped off the seat without introducing her.

The man in the vest propped an arm on the edge of the wagon and planted a boot on the wheel. His green eyes held a mix of mirth and intensity.

Nora’s cheeks flushed pink.

He smiled at her. “You’re new in town.”

“I am.” She wanted to know this man, but she didn’t want to introduce herself to anyone—especially not as Dr. Nora Mitchell—until she met Mr. Garrison. She hoped to see this man again, but she needed to be on her way. She indicated the step down from the wagon. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“Allow me.” With a roguish smile, he offered his hand.

Nora saw a spark of fun in his eyes. The pale green reminded her of waving grass, but the rugged line of his jaw testified to his boldness. So did the strength of his hand when she gripped his fingers.

“Thank you, sir.”

As she dropped to the street, the duster caught on her medical bag and she stumbled. He caught her waist with both hands, steadied her and stepped back. Rugged or not, he had the air of a gentleman.

“Welcome to High Plains,” he said. “I’m—”

“There you are!”

They both turned to the mercantile where a petite blonde was coming through the door. Clad in a royal-blue gown with snow-white piping, the woman wore a porkpie hat that matched the one in Nora’s satchel. She couldn’t have been lovelier…or more feminine. In the duster and bonnet, Nora felt drab.

Her gaze drifted back to the man. In his eyes she saw an aloofness that reminded her of her professors in college.

“Hello, Abigail,” he said.

“Oh—Oh no!” The blonde swayed on her feet. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her knees buckled in the start of a swoon. Nora rushed forward to catch her. So did the man. He reached her first and caught her in his arms. As he lowered her to the planking, Nora grabbed her medical bag and charged to her side, whipping off her bonnet when it impeded her vision.

She checked the woman’s pulse and found it to be normal. She looked for perspiration and saw only a summer sheen. Next she glanced at the bodice of the blue dress. In New York she’d seen women faint because of too-tight corsets. Nora loathed fashion that harmed a woman’s health. She suspected this woman had submitted to such an indignity, but a quick run of her fingers along the woman’s rib cage revealed no such encumbrance.

The blonde had swooned for no apparent reason…or had she? Nora looked at the man crouched next to her. His dark hair brushed the rim of his collarless shirt, a linen garment that clung to broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. Black boots, scuffed but made of fine leather, tightened on his calves as he crouched. Gone was the charming stranger. In his place was a man with a smirk, a look she associated with arrogant men…handsome men. Had the woman swooned to get his attention? It wouldn’t have surprised her.

The blonde stirred, blinking as if she couldn’t focus until she found the man’s face.

“Zeb?” she murmured. “Is that you?”

Nora gasped. How many Zebs could there be in High Plains? Please, Lord. Don’t let this man be the one. Knowing she couldn’t hide from the truth, she lifted her chin. “Are you Mr. Zebulun Garrison?”

His eyes traveled to her medical bag, and back. He frowned. “I am.”

“I’m—”

“You’re Dr. N. Mitchell,” he said coldly. “And you’re a liar.”

“I am not!” She wanted to settle the matter now, but the blonde needed her attention. Nora turned to her patient. “I’m Dr. Nora Mitchell.”

“Get away from me!” the woman declared.

“I’m a doctor.”

“You’re a woman,” she complained. “You can’t be a doctor.”

“I’m fully trained, Miss—?”

“Miss Johnson,” she said coldly. “Abigail Johnson.”

Nora gripped the woman’s wrist, retook her pulse and detected no change. “Did you eat breakfast today?”

“Of course.”

Nora surmised the woman to be single. She wouldn’t ask about pregnancy directly, but it had to be considered. “Have you been ill, perhaps nauseous on occasion?”

The blonde glared at her as she sat up. “That’s a rude question to ask. Zeb, would you help me? I want to go inside.”

“Of course.” He sounded gentle, even sweet.

Nora surmised they were close and wondered if they were courting. She also recalled the way he’d looked at her. Zebulun Garrison was either weak willed or a womanizer. Either way, she didn’t like him.

As he stood, so did she. Their gazes slammed together at an angle, reminding her of his height. In addition to wide shoulders, he had a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. Her professional eye told her his nose had never been broken. Her female eyes noticed he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He was not middle-aged, portly or balding.

His frank gaze reminded her of her own lackluster appearance, and she became acutely aware of what he was seeing…a woman with red hair in a dirty coat. She didn’t appreciate his critical stare, especially after the way his eyes had initially sparked with male interest. As dusty as a prairie dog, she stared back to remind him of his manners.

His gaze narrowed with disgust. As he lowered his chin to speak, Abigail waved for attention. “Zeb?” she murmured.

Looking irked, he gripped the blonde’s gloved fingers and lifted her, steadying her as she swayed. Abigail Johnson didn’t fool Nora for a minute. The woman had faked a swoon to gain Mr. Garrison’s attention. Judging by his demeanor, he knew this as well.

After steadying the blonde, he turned back to Nora. His lips thinned to a line. “The interview’s over, Miss Mitchell. You’ll be leaving with the Crandalls.”

“No, sir,” she answered. “I will not be leaving. You promised me an interview. I expect a chance to prove myself.”

“You just did, Dr. N. Mitchell.”

“I never said I was male. You assumed—”

“You didn’t say you weren’t.”

“When you sign a letter, do you tell people you’re a man?”

“Of course not.”

Nora fought to stay calm. “Do you sign your letters, ‘Zebulun Garrison, Member of the Human Race, Male’?”

His stare could have boiled water.

The blonde tugged on his sleeve. “Zeb, please! I want to go inside.”

“Wait here,” he snapped at Nora.

She hadn’t taken orders since medical college, not even from her father. She wanted the respect of her title, but she did not want a public scene when they discussed the terms of her employment. Neither did she want to have that talk wearing the duster, with dirt on her face.

“I’ll be at the boardinghouse as we arranged,” she said to him. “I’ll expect you this afternoon. Is two o’clock acceptable?”

He stared at her for five long seconds. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“I have as much nerve as you.”

His mouth curved into a bitter smile. “I doubt that, Miss Mitchell. I’ll be at the boardinghouse at one o’clock. I have work to do.”

He’d changed the time to make a point. She’d have to hurry to get ready, but she’d manage. “Fine,” she said.

“Fine,” he replied.

The blonde gave Nora a nasty look, then gripped Mr. Garrison’s arm and steered him into the mercantile. As they passed through the door, Mr. Crandall came out. “How ya doing, missy?”

“Just fine,” she answered. “I thought I’d walk to the boardinghouse. Would you deliver my trunk when you’re done here?”

“Sure thing, girl.” He held out his big hand. “It’s been a pleasure hauling ya.”

Nora clasped it in both of hers. “The pleasure was mine. And remember, if you or the missus need a doctor, I’m here.”

His gray eyes turned serious. “I will, miss. But I’m worried about ya. Mr. Garrison’s a mite bent out of shape. If you need a ride back to Saint Joseph, just holler. The wife and I leave in the morning.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I hope so.” He shook his head. “That man doesn’t think much of females. Might be different if he had himself a wife like mine.”

Nora had enjoyed the older couple, bickering and all. “You and Mrs. Crandall were very kind to me.”

He tipped his hat. “Good day, miss. I’ll see to that trunk of yours.”

As he turned to leave, Nora realized she needed directions. She called back to Mr. Crandall. “Would you point me to the boardinghouse?”

“Go that way.” He jerked his thumb down the dusty street. “Turn right at the end and you’ll see it. Mrs. Jennings runs the place. She’s on the crabby side, but you’ll like her cook, Rebecca. She makes the best meals in Kansas.”

“Thank you.”

Gripping her medical bag, Nora paced down the street, avoiding the broken boardwalk as she took in buildings with boarded-up windows. Some of the structures were brand new. Others were a mix of wood weathered by time and fresh lumber. At the end of the street she saw a whitewashed church with glass windows and a perfect roof. A cross topped a bell tower and pointed at the sky. The sight of it gave Nora hope. She refused to be shaken by anything—not tornadoes and not Zebulun Garrison. Before she left New York, she’d prayed for God’s will to be done in her life. Surely the Lord wouldn’t let her down.

As for Mr. Garrison, he’d met his match. When he arrived at the boardinghouse, she wouldn’t be wearing a duster. She’d look her best and be armed with her medical degree, a quick wit and her good intentions. She’d been asked to come for an interview, and she intended to hold him to his word. If he thought he could disrespect her, she’d be glad to set him straight.

Chapter Two

Zeb handed Abigail off to her mother, who ran the mercantile along with Abigail’s father, and left the store. Ever since he’d let it slip that he wanted a wife, he’d felt like a rabbit in a hunt. Abigail had been the most obvious, but he’d received supper invitations from half a dozen families with daughters, including Winnie Morrow and her mother. Either Winnie or Abigail would do for a wife. He just had to choose one over the other.

As he crossed the street, he saw Mr. Crandall driving to the boardinghouse. In the wagon sat a trunk that had to belong to Dr. Nora Mitchell. A woman! Of all the fool things…If Doc Dempsey hadn’t died last week, Zeb wouldn’t even speak to her. As things stood, the town desperately needed a physician. At Doc’s funeral, Zeb had taken comfort in knowing Dr. Mitchell was on his way.

Her way, he corrected himself.

Stifling an oath, he headed for the livery to tell Pete Benjamin the news. Of all the people in High Plains, the blacksmith surely understood the need for a physician most personally. A year ago, Pete’s first wife, Sarah, had died in childbirth, and the baby had been lost with her. Dr. Dempsey, a gentleman in his eighties, had done his best, but his methods were old-fashioned at best and lethal at worst.

At the funeral, the first in High Plains, Zeb had set his mind on finding a skilled physician. He’d received a dozen letters and had interviewed four men. He didn’t think the choices could get any worse, but he’d been wrong. No way would he hire a woman. Zeb dreaded giving the bad news to Pete. The livery owner had remarried and found happiness with Rebecca Gunderson, the boardinghouse cook. One of these days he’d be a father again.

Pete knew the need for a good physician most personally, but Zeb had strong feelings, too. As long as he lived, he’d be haunted by the aftermath of the tornado. How many people had suffered because Doc Dempsey couldn’t keep up? Some had died instantly. Others had lingered for days with festering wounds. Doc had done his best, but he’d lacked the skill and stamina to treat all the injured. On that horrible day, Zeb had renewed his vow to find a skilled physician for High Plains.

As he neared the livery, he gritted his teeth against a flare of temper. Not only had Dr. Mitchell lied about her gender, she’d left him with egg on his face. Just last week, he’d bragged to Will Logan that he’d found the perfect man for the job. Dr. Mitchell had impeccable credentials, including a letter of reference from Dr. Gunter Zeiss, a name Zeb recognized from his cavalier days in Boston. Dr. Zeiss, a famous German neurologist, had praised Dr. Mitchell as a skilled diagnostician and a brilliant clinician. He’d described his “colleague” as talented, dedicated and a true humanitarian.

In Zeb’s opinion, Dr. Zeiss had more brains than common sense. No way could a woman handle the rigors of doctoring.

As he neared the livery stable, he backhanded the sweat off his brow. The day, already warm, turned insufferable as he neared the forge. Heat spilled in waves off the brick table where Pete was pounding a glowing piece of iron. Between caring for horses and making everything from plow blades to door latches, the blacksmith was the busiest man in town.

The men had known each other for years. Zeb saw no need for small talk as he peered into the gloom. “I’ve got bad news.”

Pete kept hammering. “What happened?”

“Dr. Mitchell arrived.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I’m not.”

The blacksmith grunted. “Another dud?” He looked as glum as Zeb felt about the situation.

“Remember when that letter arrived? You said nothing could be worse than the last fellow, and I said you were wrong. It could be worse.”

“I asked how, and you said the new doctor could be a woman.”

“That’s right.”

Pete kept hammering. “Are you telling me—”

“I sure am,” Zeb said with disgust. “Dr. N. Mitchell isn’t Norman or Ned. Her name’s Nora.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Pete murmured.

“I’m sending her back. She can leave with the Crandalls.”

Pete’s hammer pinged in a steady rhythm. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s the only answer.” Zeb took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat off his neck.

The blacksmith kept working. “With Doc’s passing, maybe you should give the woman a chance. You said yourself she’s qualified.”

“I said he was qualified. This isn’t a job for a woman and you know it.”

Pete held up the piece of metal, inspected it with a sharp eye then put it back in the fire. “Seems to me a female doctor’s better than no doctor at all.”

Not in Zeb’s opinion. “You know as well as I do she won’t last. Either she’ll get fed up and go back to New York, or she’ll get married and quit the medicine business. No woman is cut out for that kind of work.”

“I don’t know,” Pete said. “Rebecca’s talking about opening an inn. I’d be a fool to try and stop her.”

“That’s different.” Zeb frowned at the object in Pete’s hand. “She’ll be cooking and cleaning like she always does. It’s woman’s work.”

Pete huffed at him. “I wouldn’t say woman’s work with that tone if you want to keep enjoying my wife’s good cooking. Rebecca works as hard as I do.”

“I’m sure she does,” Zeb drawled. “But it’s not the same as what you do.”

“Maybe.” Pete sounded wry. “She’ll also be keeping the books, ordering supplies, hiring folks and bossing everyone around.”

“So?”

“Isn’t that what you do?” Pete argued. “Especially the ‘bossing’ part?”

Zeb faked a scowl. “Are you picking a fight?”

“No.” Pete’s voice lost its humor. “I’m asking you to give the lady doctor a chance. Aside from being female, how does she seem?”

Beautiful. Kind. Brave.

Before he’d seen the medical bag, he’d felt like a love-struck adolescent. Her blue eyes, wide and innocent, had a spark of daring he admired. When she’d lifted her lips in a smile, he’d thought of kissing her and wondered if his search for a wife had come to an end. Then Abigail had faked another swoon and the woman had grabbed that heavy case.

“Zeb?”

“What?”

“You didn’t answer the question.” Pete’s lips turned up. “What is she like?”

“Normal, I guess.” Except for that hair. He’d never seen anything like it.

Pete pulled the metal from the fire, inspected it and went back to hammering. “Normal is more than I can say for that last fellow.”

Zeb had to agree. Not one of the four men he’d interviewed had met his standards. They’d nicknamed the last one “Dr. Gruesome” when he’d talked about exhuming graves for his “research.” No way could Zeb see him birthing babies.

He could see Dr. Mitchell at a birthing, but did she have the grit to cut off a man’s leg? Of course not. Zeb had seen mill accidents in Bellville, including a mistake that had cut off Timmy Cooper’s hand. A woman wouldn’t have the stomach for such things. Most men didn’t, either. He didn’t, though he’d witnessed his share of injuries.

Pete held up the piece of iron and looked again at the color. The orange had cooled to red, so he put aside the hammer, lifted a chisel and began to shape the edge of a hoe blade. His eyes twinkled with mischief.

“So,” he said. “Just how normal does the lady doctor look? Is she pretty?”

Zeb scowled. “She’s pretty enough, not that it matters to you. You’ve got Rebecca.”

“And no woman’s lovelier,” Pete replied. “I was thinking about you.”

“Don’t.”

Pete chuckled. “The whole town’s in on it, you know.”

Last month Zeb had let it slip to Pete he was considering marriage. Abigail’s mother, Matilda Johnson, had overheard and started pushing Abigail in his path. The Ladies Aid Society had started buzzing and Zeb had received six supper invitations in two days. The attention irked him. “I wish I’d kept my mouth shut,” he said to Pete.

With his arms crossed over his chest, he told his friend about Abigail faking another swoon, how the lady doctor had jumped to her rescue and how Abigail had taken her down a peg.

Pete’s brows snapped together. “I don’t like the Johnsons. I never will.”

“I don’t blame you.” Zeb knew the history. After the tornado, Mrs. Johnson had accused Pete and Rebecca of immoral behavior in the storm cellar where they’d taken shelter together. She’d said hateful things about Rebecca until Pete proposed marriage to stop the talk. Still grieving Sarah and their child, the blacksmith had taken the high road when he’d done nothing wrong. Zeb admired his friend’s integrity and wanted to match it by providing a real doctor. Unfortunately, the only doctor within a hundred miles was female.

The blacksmith looked Zeb in the eye. “If the lady doctor stood up to Abigail, she’s got my vote for staying.”

“I don’t know, Pete.”

“What’s the harm in giving her a chance?”

Zeb shook his head. “What if she kills someone with her incompetence?”

“She just might be a good doctor,” Pete replied. “Besides, Doc did that already.”

Zeb looked beyond Pete through the open door and flashed back to the day of the tornado. Doc did his best, but people had died because he couldn’t move fast enough. Zeb’s gaze narrowed to the backside of Dr. Dempsey’s former office. The tornado had damaged the roof, so Doc had used a closet at the church as an infirmary. Zeb had a place for the new physician, but his plan wouldn’t work with a female.

“You got any ideas?” he said to Pete.

“Hire her for a month,” the blacksmith replied. “See how she does.”

The idea had merit. Zeb could place another ad in the Kansas Gazette. While he waited for replies, the lady doctor could treat sore throats and hangnails. “It would buy time,” he said. But where could he put her for that time? No, his first instinct was right—the best solution would be for her to leave in the morning with the Crandalls.

“Who knows?” Pete replied. “She might work out just fine.”

Zeb doubted it. Thanks to Frannie, he knew all about women like Dr. Nora Mitchell. She was ambitious. She’d do anything—even twist the truth—to get her way.

With sweat beading his brow, he recalled the day Frannie left him standing on the church steps, engagement ring in hand. Plain and simple, she’d jilted him for her career. Losing the love of his life had changed him the way Pete’s pounding had shaped the hoe. Like the iron, Zeb’s heart had been red-hot and pliable. He’d have done anything for Frannie. After being jilted, his heart had cooled to black.

So had his soul. In Zeb’s opinion, the Almighty was either lazy or cruel. Zeb had no love for a God who ignored tornadoes and let children be snatched away. He feared Him, though. Who wouldn’t?

He wondered what Dr. Mitchell would say about such matters, then decided he didn’t care. Aside from telling Pete about the lady doctor, he had other business with the blacksmith. With the need for lumber, Zeb was running the mill eighteen hours a day. Long hours meant more stress on men and equipment, but he had no choice. A half-dozen buildings needed major repairs before winter, and he’d vowed to finish the town hall in time for a summer jubilee. He had a month to go and needed the sawmill at full power. But with the long hours, there were equipment breakdowns at least twice a week.

“A blade lost a few teeth yesterday,” he said to Pete. “Can you fix it?”

“Bring it tomorrow.”

Pete inspected the hoe, set it down and whipped off his heavy gloves. “How’s the town hall coming along?”

“It’s framed,” Zeb answered. “I’ve got a crew working on the roof.”

The men slipped into an easy conversation about wood and welding, things they understood. Women weren’t on that list. Zeb opened his pocket watch, a gift he treasured from Mr. Gridley, and saw he had two minutes to get to the boardinghouse. “I’ve got to go see that lady doctor.”

The blacksmith put his gloves back on. “Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

Zeb doubted it, but for his friend’s sake he’d give her a chance. For her sake, he intended to spell out what she’d be facing. Once she saw the tornado damage, particularly Doc’s old office, she’d be crazy to stay in High Plains.

Considering she’d been crazy to become a doctor, the thought gave him no comfort.

With her medical bag in hand, Nora knocked on the front door of the boardinghouse. No answer. She knocked again, more boldly this time.

A middle-aged woman with a tight bun flung it open. “What is it, miss?”

“I’m Dr. Mitchell. I believe you have a room for me?”

“You’re not Dr. Mitchell,” she said. “You’re a woman.”

“I’m both.” Nora tried to disarm her with a smile, but she had no expectations. In her experience, older women were as resistant to a female doctor as men, even more so.

The woman appeared honestly confused. “Does Zeb know about this?”

“Yes.” Nora spoke through tight lips. “You must be Mrs. Jennings.”

“That’s right.” She buried her hands in her apron. “The room I’ve got is plain at best. You’re not going to like it, miss.”

“All I need is a bed and a dresser.” Nora had had fine things in New York. She’d enjoyed them, but she didn’t need high-class furniture to be comfortable. She indicated the duster. “I’m meeting Mr. Garrison, and I’m eager to freshen up. Could you show me to my room?”

The woman hesitated, then heaved a sigh. “I guess. You’ll need to sleep somewhere.”

Nora followed her into the entry hall. To the left she saw a parlor with an upholstered divan, side chairs and tables decorated with lace doilies. The room could have been in a Boston town house except for the smell of Kansas dust.

Mrs. Jennings indicated a row of hooks by the door. “Put your duster there.”

Nora set down her medical bag, slipped out of the filthy garment and hung it up. Later she’d shake out the dust. Satisfied, she picked up her medical bag and followed the landlady up the stairs.

Mrs. Jennings ran her hand along the railing. “I’ve got to warn you, miss. This town’s not expecting a lady doctor.”

“I understand.”

“Zeb must have had a fit when he saw you.” The woman looked over her shoulder, as if she still couldn’t believe her eyes. “I don’t know if you heard, but Dr. Dempsey died last week.”

The doctor’s passing meant High Plains needed her more than ever, but Nora’s heart sank. One thing she’d discovered—male doctors didn’t like or trust her, but they never compromised their patients. Dr. Dempsey would have helped her, even if he’d had to hold his nose while doing it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“He was a fine man.” The woman’s voice softened. “If you ask me, he worked himself to death after the tornado.”

“It must have been awful.” Nora thought of the missing twins. How many people had been injured? How many lives had been lost? And the damage to homes and businesses…Repairs had been going on for weeks, yet she’d been staggered by the extent of the work still required.

“At least the church is still standing,” Mrs. Jennings said. “It didn’t get a scratch. I can’t say the same about the town hall. There wasn’t a speck left except the foundation.”

At the top of the stairs, the woman turned down a long hall. Nora saw four doors on each side of the corridor and a single row of wall sconces. A window at the end of the hall shot a beam of light to the carpet. Dust motes floated like fireflies.

Mrs. Jennings opened the second door on the right. “Here’s your room, miss.”

“Please,” Nora said, sounding friendly. “Call me Dr. Nora.”

Mrs. Jennings looked over her shoulder and frowned. “That doesn’t seem right.”

Nora knew she was objecting to the title and not the use of her first name, but she deliberately misunderstood to make a point. If she didn’t ask for respect, she’d never get it. “Nora’s my name, but if you’d prefer to call me Dr. Mitchell, that’s fine, too.”

“Whatever you want, miss.”

Nora held in a sigh. If Zeb Garrison and Mrs. Jennings were typical of the folks in High Plains, she had a long road ahead of her.

Mrs. Jennings unlocked the door. As Nora stepped inside, she saw a narrow bed, a rough-hewn wardrobe and a vanity with a metal pitcher and washbowl. A red-and-blue quilt decorated the bed, and a window let in fresh air. The room struck her as plain, functional and the loveliest place she’d ever lived because it belonged to her alone.

She set the medical bag on the floor, then smiled at Mrs. Jennings. “This is perfect.”

The landlady huffed. “It is what it is. With the storm, I’ve got guests in every nook and cranny. Six families are living up here, along with an orphan boy from the wagon train. Don’t expect too much quiet.”

“I won’t.” Nora loved children, especially boys who couldn’t hold still.

Mrs. Jennings looked grim. “You’re going to have a hard time, miss.”

“How so?”

“The Ladies Aid Society has certain ideas, especially Matilda Johnson at the mercantile.”

“I met Abigail—”

“Matilda is her mother.” Mrs. Jennings tsked her tongue. “Matilda thinks High Plains should be the next Chicago. She won’t like having a lady doctor.”

“I’ll have to change her mind.”

“It’d be easier to stop another storm.”

Nora said nothing, but her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten in hours. Mrs. Jennings acknowledged the growling with a nod. “Supper’s not until six, but you can ask Rebecca for a bite to eat.”

Nora recalled Mr. Crandall’s praise. “She’s the cook, isn’t she?”

“That’s right. Head to the kitchen and she’ll fix you something.”

“I will. But first I have a meeting with Mr. Garrison. If we could use the parlor—”

“That’s what it’s for.” Mrs. Jennings looked her up and down, taking in the green dress with its fancy sleeves. Nora had worn her best gown to impress Mr. Garrison with her professionalism. Under Mrs. Jennings’s scrutiny, she worried that it made her look snooty.

Nora indicated the skirt with a sweep of her hand. “I’m dressed for a job interview.”

“You’re a pretty thing,” said the landlady. “What do you need a job for?”

I love my work. It’s who I am. Nora wouldn’t change Mrs. Jennings’s attitude with an argument, so she bit her tongue.

The woman’s face softened into a smile. “Judging by your looks, you won’t be a ‘miss’ for long. Just so you know, I’ve got rules. Supper’s at six. No muddy boots past the entry. And no gentleman callers after eight o’clock. There will be no improper behavior under my roof.”

“Certainly not,” Nora agreed, though she had little experience with men and courtship. Growing up, she’d been intent on becoming a doctor. She’d attended social events at her mother’s urging, but she’d never mastered the art of flirting. As her father said, she was too outspoken, too bold. Even too smart. Maybe, but she still wanted a husband. Not just any man, but the man God made just for her, assuming He intended to bestow such a gift.

As Mrs. Jennings turned to leave, two boys ran down the hall. One of them had golden-brown hair and reminded Nora of her brother. She guessed him to be eight years old.

Mrs. Jennings called after them. “Alex! Jonah! Stop it! You’ll bother Miss Mitchell!”

“Oh, no!” Nora protested. “I love children.”

“Good, because with the families, I’ve got ten of ’em here.” She crossed her arms over her bosom. “Zeb’s a good man. He gave me a dairy cow so all these children can have milk.”

“Mr. Garrison did that?”

“He sure did.”

Surely a man who took care of orphans wouldn’t leave High Plains without a doctor. Nora regretted Dr. Dempsey’s death, but his passing helped her position with Mr. Garrison. The town had a need, and she could fill it.

Heavy steps broke into her thoughts. She looked at the doorway and saw Mr. Crandall with her trunk on his wide shoulder. Grunting, he set it at the foot of the bed. “There you go, missy.”

Nora appreciated his friendly tone. “Thank you, Mr. Crandall.”

Mrs. Jennings gave the room a final glance, then put her hands on her hips. “If you need something, ask.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“That’s it, Miss Nora.”

She’d hadn’t been called “Doctor,” but she counted “Miss Nora” as progress. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Mrs. Jennings followed Mr. Crandall out of the room and closed the door. Alone for the first time in weeks, Nora opened her trunk and unpacked. She hung up her clothes, then filled the basin and washed her face thoroughly with her mother’s lavender soap. The scent took her back to New York and what she’d left behind.

She loved her father and he loved her, but he’d spoken stern words the day she’d left. This is your last chance, Nora. If you come home, I’ll expect you to put aside that medical nonsense and marry Albert Bowers.

Her father’s business partner was thoughtful, hardworking and generous. He was also fifty-nine years old and as modern as a powdered wig. She didn’t love him and never would. She had to succeed in High Plains. That meant impressing Zebulun Garrison with her abilities. As she washed her face, she prayed God would soften the mill owner’s heart, and that she’d find favor in the eyes of the town.

“Be with me, Lord,” she said out loud. “I belong here. I know it. Amen.”

Strengthened, she hung the flour-sack towel on the windowsill to dry. The opening had no glass, only two shutters spread wide to let in the light. To the right she saw the backs of the buildings on Main Street. Below her, she saw Mr. Crandall driving his empty wagon to the livery stable. As he rattled past her window, he tipped his hat to a man coming out of a low building with a new roof.

Squinting against the sun, Nora recognized Zeb Garrison and his flashy vest. The man acknowledged Mr. Crandall with a stern wave, then removed his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve, not stopping for a moment. From the vantage point of the window, she saw the crown of his head. No bald spot there…just thick hair that needed trimming. Everything about this man, even his hair, was bold, strong and defiant.

A smile played across her lips. She had the same traits. She also had an unshakable faith in God. As long as she stuck to her principles, she’d be safe from prejudice and cruel words. She’d treat Mr. Garrison the way she wanted to be treated. The Bible said to do unto others as you would have it done to you. That’s what she’d do now.

When Mr. Garrison threw stones, she’d duck.

When he criticized her, she’d smile.

When he mocked her, she’d turn the other cheek.

Nora knew all about loving her enemies. She also knew some enemies were more challenging than others. Mr. Garrison, she feared, would be the most challenging of all. With a prayer on her lips, she lifted the porkpie hat from her medical bag, pinned it in place and went to meet him in the parlor.

Chapter Three

Zeb caught a whiff of lavender. He hated lavender. It reminded him of Frannie.

He’d been staring out the parlor window, thinking about all the work he had to do, when the scent reached his nose. Turning, he saw Dr. Mitchell in the doorway. Instead of the duster that made her look like a farm girl, she wore a green dress with fancy sleeves and a hat with a silly feather. He dipped his chin. “Good afternoon, Dr. Mitchell.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Garrison.” Striding forward, she offered her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, again.”

“Once was enough for me.”

She kept her hand extended. “I’m hoping we can start fresh.”

Zeb smirked. “You can’t unring a bell, Dr. Mitchell.”

“No,” she countered. “But you can ring it again if it strikes the wrong note.”

She stood with her hand loose and ready, wearing a look that dared him to be civil. The moment called for formal manners, the ones he’d learned in Boston, except Zeb didn’t want to be civil. He wanted to fan the air to get rid of her feminine scent. He answered her by indicating a chair. “Please, sit down.”

Without a hint of defeat, she lowered her hand and sat on the sofa. Zeb dropped into a chair across from her, draped a boot over his knee and steepled his fingers. Her chin went up a notch. His went down.

If she wanted an interview, he’d give her one. “Tell me, Dr. Mitchell. Why do you want to practice medicine in High Plains?”

She smiled, but Zeb refused to be disarmed. Never mind her red hair and a dress that showed off her curves. She was female and not fit to practice medicine. She also smelled like Frannie. The scent brought back a rush of memories that gave him a headache.

Dr. Mitchell laced her gloved fingers in her lap. “Thank you for using my title. Most people—”

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then that’s what I’ll call you.”

He expected her to bristle at his tone. Instead, her eyes met his with a patience beyond her years. “Shall we skip the pleasantries and get down to business?”

“Absolutely.”

“In the past year, I’ve applied for fourteen positions and been turned down fourteen times because of my gender. I’ve come to High Plains for a chance to prove myself. Will you give it to me, Mr. Garrison?”

Coming from a woman, the directness surprised him. “Why should I?”

“Because Dr. Dempsey is deceased, and I have the skills to replace him.”

Again, she’d been blunt. Zeb liked her style, but nothing could change her unsuitability. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, being female caused problems—including one he was about to introduce.

“Suppose I give you this chance.” He tapped his index fingers together. “What will you do for an office?”

“I’ll use Dr. Dempsey’s.”

“I don’t think so, Miss—Dr. Mitchell.”

“Why not?”

“Doc’s office was damaged in the tornado. After the storm he used a room in the church.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “A room at the church would do nicely.”

“It wasn’t exactly a room,” Zeb said dryly. “It was more of a closet. Besides, a family took it over the day Doc died. We’re that short of space.”

“I see.” Her eyes dimmed, but nothing else betrayed her surprise. “You must have had plans for the new physician. Whatever you arranged will be fine.”

“I don’t think so, Dr. Mitchell.” Zeb didn’t bother to hide a smirk. “I had planned to invite the new doctor to use part of my house for his practice. The offer was to include room and board in my home.”

Zeb expected a gasp at the news, maybe hysterics or a fluttering hankie. Dr. Mitchell said nothing for a solid minute, then she stood up. “We obviously need an alternative. I’d like to see Dr. Dempsey’s office.”

Zeb stayed seated. “Forget it. I wouldn’t let a dog live there.”

“I’m not a helpless pet,” she countered. “I’m a capable woman who can adapt to harsh conditions. If the building has four walls and a roof, I’ll manage.”

“It has four walls,” he said, pushing to his feet, “but I can’t promise you a roof.”

Doubt flickered across her face. He’d won a small victory, but he didn’t feel good about it. Zeb knew the pain of a dying dream. That’s what he saw on the lady doctor’s face.

In spite of worry in her eyes, she squared her shoulders. “I’d like to see it for myself.”

“We’ll go now, but I warn you. It’s been damaged.”

When she stepped into the entry hall, he passed her with the intention of holding the door. If she’d been a man, he wouldn’t have bothered. Dr. Mitchell didn’t want to admit it, but her gender mattered. Zeb didn’t view women as less intelligent than men. His mother had been as sharp as a whipsaw. Cassandra could play him like a fiddle. As for Frannie, she’d owned his every thought. He’d have died for her, but she’d gone to Paris alone to prove a point.

Zeb wondered if Dr. Mitchell was one of those self-righteous women crowing about equality. What did equal mean anyway? Men and women were different. Any fool could see that…especially a fool looking at Dr. Mitchell in her green dress.

As she passed through the door, the feather on her hat swished by his nose. He found himself taking long strides to keep up with her, watching as she looked across the road to the church. With the sun high and bright, the siding glistened white and the windows turned to silver.

“It’s a lovely church,” she said. “It’s a miracle it survived.”

“Blind luck is more like it.”

She tipped her face up to his. “You don’t believe in miracles, Mr. Garrison?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” she countered. “Not exactly.”

He wanted to know what she meant, but refused to ask. If the survival of the church counted as a miracle, what would she call the tragedy of the missing children? Zeb called it cruel. He’d prayed as a boy, but he didn’t believe in God like Will did. Will’s faith gave him confidence in bleak times, even joy. Zeb had no such foundation.

The dust stirred as they approached Doc’s office. Zeb stopped in front of it, pausing to let her take in the boarded-up windows and chinks in the siding from flying debris. The roof had a hole the size of a wagon, but he expected the walls to hold. The door, half off its hinges, hung like a broken arm.

He indicated the entrance with his chin. “There it is.”

“My goodness.” Her voice wobbled.

Good, he thought. Maybe she’d leave with the Crandalls. Leaving him back where he’d started with his doctor search. What would he do if someone broke an arm? And Bess Carter…the girl hadn’t said a word since the storm. Zeb recalled the tornado and how Will had rescued Emmeline Carter and her family, including her fifteen-year-old sister who’d been struck mute after losing the twins. No one knew why Bess couldn’t talk, and Doc Dempsey hadn’t been able to help her.

“May I go inside?” Dr. Mitchell asked.

“Be my guest.” Zeb shoved the door wide and waited for her to pass. Along with lavender, he smelled rot from the building. The fan of light revealed stains on the floor from rain coming through the window, and no one had swept up the broken apothecary jars. The shards, a mix of green, brown and gold, caught the light and glittered like fallen leaves.

Dr. Mitchell surveyed every corner with a keen eye. “It’s a mess.”

“That’s a fact.”

She looked at the empty shelves, then peered into the back rooms. “I don’t see anything that can’t be fixed with a mop and a scrub bucket.”

“You haven’t seen the roof.”

She looked up the stairs. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Suit yourself, but I’ve wasted enough time for today. I won’t hire you.”

Zeb felt bad, but the townspeople would have to understand. No way could he have a female doctor working in his parlor. As for finding another place, he’d already tried and found nothing suitable. He shook his head. “Give up, Miss Mitchell. This isn’t going to work.”

Her eyes filled with cool disdain. “It’s Dr. Mitchell, and I never give up.”

“There’s always a first time.”

“This isn’t it,” she replied. “I have an offer for you. Will you listen?”

“Sure.”

“Hire me for one month. I’ll find an office, but I expect the town to pay for it. As far as room and board, I’ll stay at the boardinghouse. I’d like the cost to be included in our agreement.”

Pete had suggested the same thing. “Sure, why not?” Zeb said generously. She’d never find an office in High Plains. With those terms, she’d be gone in a week, and he could truthfully tell Pete she hadn’t worked out. Tonight he’d write another ad for the Kansas Gazette. The Crandalls could take it with the letters waiting at the mercantile.

Suspicion clouded her eyes. “That was too easy.”

“I’m giving you that chance you wanted.” He planted his boots wide and crossed his arms. If she wanted to act like a man, he’d treat her like one. “Name your price.”

“Twelve dollars a week,” she said boldly. “Plus room and board.”

She’d named a high price, expecting to negotiate. Zeb was glad to oblige. “I’ll pay you five. That includes room and board.”

“That’s insulting.”

“Yep.”

He wanted to rile her, but she didn’t blink. “This town needs a doctor, Mr. Garrison. You can’t afford to turn me down. Make it ten dollars a week, including room and board, and you have a deal.”

She had a point about the town’s need. Dr. Dempsey’s passing left him with a bad choice—a woman doctor or no doctor at all. For a few weeks, he’d have to tolerate her. “Fine, Dr. Mitchell. Ten dollars a week, it is.”

“Then it’s settled.” She came forward with her hand outstretched to shake on the deal. Again she met his gaze, demanding his respect and daring him to deny it.

Looking down at the beige glove, he saw the lace covering her fingers and the silky ribbon tied at her wrist. This wasn’t a man-to-man agreement. If he shook her hand, he’d notice the shape of her fingers, the warmth of her palm inside the lace. He didn’t want to touch her, but she’d win if he didn’t accept the gesture.

Annoyed, he gripped her fingers, but didn’t squeeze the way he would have shaken a man’s hand. Her bones felt too delicate for a show of strength. Neither could he ignore the scent of lavender.

Dr. Mitchell had no qualms about squeezing his hand. Those delicate bones had been deceptive. The woman had an iron grip.

She smiled at him. “You won’t be sorry, Mr. Garrison.”

He already was, but he kept the thought to himself.

Her eyes sparked with determination. “It won’t be easy. I’m well aware of the prejudice I’ll encounter.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” Her gaze hardened into blue glass. “You’re not the first man to ruffle my skirts.”

He couldn’t stop himself from looking her up and down. Pretty. Proud. And as stubborn as winter. He’d heard enough of her smart talk. “Let me be frank, Dr. Mitchell. I wouldn’t hire you if I had a choice. In the past year, four men interviewed for the position. Not one of them worked out.”

She raised one brow. “Let me guess. Patent medicines for sale?”

“Maybe.” He didn’t appreciate her tone.

“Did anyone bring leeches?”

He shuddered.

“I’m not surprised.” Her voice leveled into friendly banter. “Medicine is changing fast. Twenty years from now, my skills will be considered primitive, but right now I’m among the most highly trained physicians in America.”

“You’re also female.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Maybe to you. Not to me.” He put his hands on his hips and stared hard.

The lady doctor stared back, reminding him of the woman in the duster. She’d been all female when she’d smiled a greeting, and he’d liked what he’d seen. He liked her now, too. If it wasn’t for her medical degree, he’d have invited her to supper, maybe taken her on a buggy ride along the river.

She tipped her head to the side. “Tell me, Mr. Garrison. What worries you the most about hiring a female physician?”

“Everything.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“All right.” He thought for a second. “Women are tender-hearted. If a man gets his hand cut off at the mill, you’ll faint.”

“No, I won’t,” she said with a casual wave. “I’ve performed autopsies. They’re gruesome but necessary.”

Zeb’s stomach recoiled. He took another approach. “You’re from back East, a big city with streets and shops. Life is harsh in High Plains. I don’t think you can handle it.”

“I did fine with the Crandalls.”

He snorted. “It didn’t even rain. What about winter? A blizzard can last a week. The snow’s so deep—”

“I’m from New York,” she said impatiently. “I know what snow looks like.”

She had no cause to be irritated. He was trying to warn her, to prepare her for hardships unique to Kansas. “Then tell me, Dr. Mitchell. Have you ever seen a tornado?”

Memories came at him in a roar. Knowing she’d see the upset in his eyes, he strode to the broken window and looked at the sky. He relived the wind buffeting the mill, and hail beating on the roof. He recalled running to town and seeing the wreckage. He’d almost died that day. Others had died. He pictured the missing children and felt wretched. He thought of Bess Carter all tongue-tied from what she’d seen.

He heard footsteps on the floor, the swish of skirts. An instant later, Dr. Mitchell laid a gentle hand on his bicep. The touch took his breath as the tornado had done. His muscles clenched beneath her long fingers. Whether from anger or awareness, he couldn’t say.

She spoke in a hush. “I want you to know, Mr. Garrison, I’m sorry for what you’ve lost. The Crandalls told me about Mikey and Missy. They showed me the spot and we prayed—”

“A waste of time.”

“I disagree.” She lowered her hand, but her words hung between them. “God brought me here to serve this town. You can growl all you want—”

“I don’t growl.”

“Fine,” she argued with a smile. “You can grumble, then. But there’s nothing you can do to chase me back to New York.”

“Is that a dare, Miss—” He cocked one brow. “I mean, Dr. Mitchell?”

“No,” she said. “It’s a fact. I’ve been tested by male arrogance every day for three years. Compared to some of the men I’ve dealt with, you’ve been a tea party.”

Zeb had been called a lot of names in his life, but tea party wasn’t one of them. He didn’t care for the comparison, either. He’d been harsh because he wanted her to leave. “Life here isn’t a party, Doc. If Dr. Dempsey hadn’t passed on, you’d be leaving with the Crandalls.”

“But I’m not, am I?”

“You should be.” His voice rose with irritation. “You tricked me by using your initial instead of your real name.”

“You tricked yourself,” she said mildly. “You jumped to a conclusion.”

“A logical one.”

“A biased one,” she countered.

“You knew I’d think you were male.”

“You’re right.” She wrinkled her nose like a little girl. “I apologize.”

She looked downright cute. Zeb wanted to kiss her. The thought made him crazy. What was he thinking? She was an uppity know-it-all woman like Frannie. She had too much education and too much ambition. The next woman he kissed would be his future wife, either Winnie or Abigail, whichever one annoyed him the least. Dr. Mitchell annoyed him the most. “You’re hired for one month. Make it work or get out.”

“I’ll make it work.” She meant it. He heard the fight in her voice.

Zeb headed for the door. He couldn’t get back to the mill quick enough.

“Mr. Garrison!”

He stopped and faced her. “What is it?”

She looked into his eyes, staring hard as if she expected him to read her thoughts. Oddly, he could. She’d traveled a thousand miles and had arrived to a disaster. He hadn’t offered her a meal, even a cup of water. He’d been a jerk and they both knew it.

She spoke in a gentle tone that shamed him more than sarcasm. “Tell me, Mr. Garrison. Are you always this mean?”

“You bet I am.” Determined to have the last word, he walked out the door, leaving Dr. Mitchell adrift in the sea of broken glass.

Chapter Four

Nora hugged her waist and shivered, but not from a chill.

She shouldn’t have touched Zeb Garrison’s arm, but she’d seen the trauma in his eyes when he’d spoken of the tornado. When he turned to the window, she’d felt compelled to comfort him. She didn’t know about tornadoes, but she understood suffering. She wanted to dislike Mr. Garrison for his arrogance, but that moment had peeled back his bitter facade and revealed a genuine concern for High Plains.

“Not that genuine,” she said out loud.

She hadn’t been fooled by his acceptance of her offer. He’d agreed to the one-month trial out of desperation, and because he didn’t think she could find a suitable office. Like most men, he’d underestimated her.

So far, she hadn’t seen anything that couldn’t be fixed. The cracked windows could be tolerated, and she could scrub away the dirt. The broken apothecary jars could be swept into a bin, and she could wax the floor herself. Nora glanced at the ceiling. He’d told her the roof had a hole, but he hadn’t said how big it was. Considering his eagerness to get rid of her, he’d probably exaggerated the damage. If necessary, she’d put on pants, climb a ladder and cover it with a tarp until she could hire someone to replace the shingles.

When that would be, she didn’t know. She had just enough money to get back to New York and didn’t want to use her emergency fund. Even if she found a different office, she couldn’t afford the rent. The salary she’d negotiated would pay her living expenses, but money would be tight until she had patients. Everything depended on the condition of the roof.

Something rattled on the second floor. She looked up and saw a huge watermark. Her heart sank, but she refused to give up hope. The size of the stain didn’t have to match the size of the hole. Rainwater could have puddled and spread. She had to make this office work. If she didn’t succeed in High Plains, she’d end up back in New York married to Albert Bowers.

She walked to the stairs and started to climb. As the risers creaked, she heard the chirp of birds. The twittering reminded her of a truth she’d almost forgotten. The Lord had His eye on the sparrow. He knew every hair on her head. Surely He’d provide for her.

Hope welled in her chest, but so did fear. Had she been crazy to think the Lord had led her to this place? Had she been too prideful to listen to her father? Fear dragged her down the road that started with her brother’s death. She’d been so sure God had called her to heal. She’d fought to go to medical college. She’d prayed. She’d worked. Most of all, she’d trusted.

Alone in this dirty building, she felt her faith withering like a drought-stricken vine.

The chirping intensified into a symphony of sorts. Nora whispered a prayer. “I need Your help, Lord.”

Peering up the stairs, she made a decision. If she could cover the hole with a tarpaulin, she’d stay. If it was beyond repair, she’d consider going back with the Crandalls.

She climbed the stairs slowly, gripping the railing because she didn’t trust the steps. She reached the first landing and looked up into darkness. A good sign, she decided. If the roof had been gaping, there’d be light. She climbed the second flight. It ended at a closed door that explained the darkness.

With a prayer on her lips, she opened the door and saw a shaft of light. A hundred birds took flight, funneling upward through a hole the size of a bathtub. The fluttering wings stole her breath, her dreams, and she burst into tears. She couldn’t do it. She could scrub and clean, but she couldn’t fix the roof.

She slid to her knees and wept. Zeb Garrison had won. Unless something happened, she’d be leaving High Plains with the Crandalls. With her face buried in her hands, she cried out in groans beyond words.

Why, Lord? Why did you bring me here?

Something birdlike touched her shoulder. Startled, she looked up and saw a girl with white-blond hair. She guessed her to be fifteen years old, a girl on the cusp of womanhood. The child didn’t speak, but her blue eyes shimmered with intelligence. In that silent exchange, Nora received more compassion than she’d experienced in months. Her tears didn’t shame her. This child understood and wanted to help her. Then the danger of their situation struck home, and Nora gasped. There were on the upper level of a storm-damaged building, standing on a floor that had been compromised further by water from a leaky roof. They needed to leave straightaway before one—or both—of them fell right through the floor. Nora took a deep breath and reminded herself to stay calm and not spook the girl.

Nora wiped her eyes. “Hi. I’m Dr. Nora.”

The girl nodded but didn’t speak. Perhaps she was deaf. Nora’s feet were tingling from a lack of blood, so she slid to a sitting position. “What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer.

“Can you hear me, or do you read lips?” Nora tried again.

The girl opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. She looked down at the floor then looked up at the sound of a bird chirping on the roof. Well, that answered that question.

“That’s good,” Nora said, encouraging her. “You can hear pretty sounds, like music and birds.”

The girl smiled at that, then tipped her head, as if to ask a question. Why are you here?

Instead of answering, Nora did a cursory assessment. The girl could hear, and seemed to want to speak. If she’d been born mute, the instinct to open her mouth to reply to a question wouldn’t be there. Her neck showed no sign of injury, an indication her vocal cords hadn’t been damaged. Without an apparent physical cause, Nora suspected her muteness had hysterical origins, perhaps related to the tornado. The pieces clicked into place. This was the girl the Crandalls had told her about.

“You’re Bess,” Nora said. “Bess Carter.” The girl—Bess—nodded.

“Are you in town with your sister?” The Crandalls had said that Bess’s sister Emmeline had married town cofounder Will Logan, and that they all lived on the Circle-L ranch, outside of town.

“I’d like to meet her.”

The girl shrugged as if to say okay, then pushed to her feet. Nora stood, too. “I’ll follow you.” And do her best to make sure Bess wasn’t injured on her way out of the rickety building.

As the girl led the way down the stairs, Nora took in her appearance. She was so slight the risers didn’t creak. Blonde and pale, she had a serenity that reminded Nora of a painting she’d seen at medical college. The artist had depicted angels guarding a surgery from above. Bess had the same expression.

The realization blasted through her like Gideon’s trumpet. God had sent a child—a damaged child—to keep her in High Plains. Bess needed help. No way could Nora leave. She couldn’t work in this building, but surely the Lord would provide a place for her. As she followed Bess to the first floor, Nora nearly danced with joy. She belonged here. She had a purpose.

A woman’s voice drifted in from the street. “Bess! Where are you?”

The girl scampered outside. As Nora came down the last step, Bess dragged a dark-haired woman through the door.

“Bess!” the woman scolded. “You shouldn’t be in there. It’s dangerous!”

“I agree,” Nora called from the stairs. “Let’s talk outside.”

The woman peered into the gloom. When she saw Nora, her eyes widened with curiosity. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’m Dr. Nora Mitchell. I just arrived, and you’re right. This building isn’t fit for pigs.” As she crossed the room, Nora brushed the dust from her skirt. “You must be Bess’s sister.”

“I am.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Nora smiled, but Emmeline didn’t see it. She’d turned to her sister and was tipping up Bess’s chin with her index finger, forcing the girl to look into her eyes, as if she couldn’t understand any other way. “You scared me, Bess. Don’t run off, okay?”

The girl pulled back and turned to Nora. Her eyes told a story, but Nora couldn’t read it. She only knew Bess had something buried in her psyche. Nora had never been shy, particularly when it came to children.

“What were you doing in there, anyway?” Emmeline asked Bess, though she clearly didn’t expect an answer.

“That would be my fault,” Nora replied. “I went upstairs to check the roof. She followed me.”

The woman looked at Nora as if seeing her for the first time. “You’re the new doctor, the one Zeb’s been bragging about.”

“He’s not bragging anymore.” Nora indicated her dress. “He wasn’t expecting a woman.”

Emmeline laughed. “I wish I could have seen his face! I like Zeb. He’s my husband’s best friend, but he’s got some wrong ideas, especially about women.”

Nora wanted to hug Emmeline Logan. For the first time, she felt welcome in High Plains. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Logan.”

“Call me Emmeline.”

“Then I’m Nora.”

The brunette patted her sister’s arm. “I want to talk to Dr. Mitchell. Go find Will, all right?”

Bess turned to go, then looked back at Nora as if they had a secret. Nora supposed they did. Bess had seen her at her weakest point since leaving New York. That moment made them friends. Nora waggled her fingers. “Bye, Bess. I’ll see you later.”

After waving back, the girl scurried through the door. Emmeline followed her with her eyes, then turned back to Nora. Her eyes glistened with the desperation Nora saw every time she tended an ailing child.

“Please, Dr. Mitchell,” she said quietly. “Will you help my sister?”

Nora’s doubts about staying had already burned to cinders. Emmeline’s plea blew away the ash. “I’ll do my best. How long has she been mute?”

“Just since the storm.”

“Was she injured?”

“Not exactly,” Emmeline replied. “Doc Dempsey examined her, but he didn’t find anything wrong. I keep wondering if it’s in her head, or if she’s hurt and can’t tell us. Maybe she—”

Nora interrupted. “Can she cough?”

“Yes.” Emmeline’s brows collided. “What does that mean?”

“Coughing indicates functional vocal cords. I suspect Bess’s problem is psychological, and that it’s related to the trauma of the tornado.”

Emmeline bit her lip, then spoke in a low, frightened tone. “Do you think she’s gone crazy?”

“Far from it.” Nora had seen the girl’s intelligence, her compassion. “In some ways, her reaction is logical. Not speaking keeps the memories of the tornado from surfacing. Do you know what happened to Bess during the storm?”

Emmeline bit her lip. “I can barely talk about it myself.”

Nora hated to push, but she needed Emmeline’s help. So did Bess. “I know about the twins.”

“Mikey and Missy have been missing for weeks now.” Emmeline turned to the open door. Sunlight silhouetted her upswept hair and the slope of her shoulders. She spoke to the sky to keep from looking at the damage still evident on the street. “The twins are orphans. My parents took them in for the trip to Oregon. We think Bess saw the twins get snatched.”

Nora pictured flying bodies and shivered. “I see.”

“We were headed to Oregon with a wagon train, but we’d separated from the rest of the group when they stopped to wait out the storm while we pushed on ahead. When the storm flipped our wagon, my father was crushed under an ox. After that, we saw Kansa warriors—” She bent her neck. “I just want to forget.”

“So does Bess,” Nora said gently. “But she won’t recover until she lets herself remember.”

Emmeline shuddered.

Nora stepped to her side. “I have a colleague in New York who’s an expert in problems like Bess’s. With your permission, I’d like to write to Dr. Zeiss about your sister.”

Tears welled in Emmeline’s eyes. “I’d be grateful if you would, but I’m afraid to hope.”

“I’m not.” Nora thought of her little brother. “What scares me is doing nothing.”

Emmeline turned back to the inside of the building. Instead of focusing on Nora, she scanned the glass on the floor and the dirty walls. “Zeb doesn’t expect you to practice here, does he?”

Nora looked at the mess with Emmeline. “He doesn’t expect me to practice anywhere. If he has his way, I’ll leave tomorrow with the Crandalls.”

“He refused to hire you?” Emmeline’s brows shot up. “That’s just plain stupid! I don’t care if you’re a woman. This town needs a doctor. And Bess—”

Nora held up her hand. “I’m not leaving. He agreed to a one-month trial, but there’s a catch. I have to find my own office.”

“Maybe Will can help.” Her cheeks turned a pretty pink. “He’s my husband.”

“I’d appreciate anything he could do.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Emmeline said. “But there’s something else I have to say.”

“Of course.” Nora appreciated frank talk.

Emmeline paused to measure her words. “Zeb’s not a bad person. He’s just…troubled.”

“I’d have said prejudiced.”

“Maybe,” Emmeline replied. “Mostly he blames himself for what happened after the storm. Doc did his best, but he couldn’t keep up and people died. If Zeb had found a new doctor sooner, lives might have been saved.”

Nora understood guilt. She felt responsible every time she lost a patient until she remembered only God had the power to give and take life. She thought of Zeb Garrison’s eyes, the same color as the broken glass on the floor, and she wondered if his bitterness ran deeper. “Did he lose someone special in the tornado?”

“No,” Emmeline said. “But he lost someone in Boston.”

A wife? Was he a widower? Nora’s heart clenched for him. “Please, give him my condolences.”

“Oh, no!” Emmeline corrected herself. “It’s nothing like that.”

Then what is it? Nora wanted to know more, but she couldn’t ask without being guilty of gossip.

The brunette shook her head. “I’m talking too much. It’s just that I like Zeb. He can be difficult, but deep down he’s a good man.”

Nora gave a wry smile. “Considering the deal we negotiated, I’d say he’s a bit of a scoundrel.”

Emmeline grinned. “He is, but in a good way.”

A good scoundrel? Nora had seen the two sides of the man for herself. His prejudice toward women annoyed her, but he cared deeply about High Plains. Beneath his arrogant gaze, she’d seen suffering. Instead of disliking him, she found herself worrying about him. Not wise, she told herself. She had a practice to build and people who needed her, including a girl who couldn’t speak. She didn’t have time to worry about a man who was determined to dislike her. She decided to change the subject.

“I’ll write to Dr. Zeiss tonight,” she said to Emmeline.

“I’d be grateful. We’ll pay you, of course.”

As much as Nora needed patients, she couldn’t charge the Logans. She had an interest in psychiatry, but she didn’t have the expertise to consider Bess a patient. Helping the girl was an act of friendship. “Bess’s situation is unique,” she said. “There’s no charge.”

“But—”

“I insist.” Nora never took money from her friends. “When can I visit with her?”

“Anytime,” Emmeline answered. “She helps Rebecca at the boardinghouse. You’re staying there, aren’t you?”

Nora recalled Mr. Garrison’s original plan for room and board. “It’s my new home.”

“Then you’ll see a lot of her. I’m glad you’re here, Dr. Mitchell.” Emmeline held out her hand. “Welcome to High Plains.”

Nora gripped Emmeline’s hand in both of hers. “I’m Nora, remember?”

“How about Dr. Nora? I like how that sounds.”

“So do I.” She beamed a smile.

As the brunette headed for the door, Nora followed her outside to the boardwalk. The ping of hammers pulled her attention to the half-finished building across the street. Judging by the size and location, she was looking at the new town hall, a building Mr. Crandall had described during the trip.

Two men stood on scaffolding about six feet apart, each holding the end of a board and nailing it in place. A third man stood below them, shouting instructions over the racket. She recognized Zeb Garrison and felt the low beat of anger in her pulse. She could tolerate his rudeness. It came with being a woman in a man’s world. But how could he justify running her out of town? High Plains desperately needed a doctor. With the construction, men were sure to have accidents. Emmeline Logan had recently married. God willing, she and her husband would start a family of their own. And Bess…who would help her speak again?

The more Nora thought about Bess and Emmeline, the hotter her blood ran. Instead of treating her like a quack, Zeb Garrison should have been helping her find a suitable office. He deserved an earful, but she couldn’t escape the memory of her father’s voice.

Before you speak your mind, daughter, count to ten. If that doesn’t settle you down, count to a hundred.

The harder she tried to calm herself, the angrier she became. Emmeline saw the good in him, but Nora saw the arrogance. “Help me, Lord,” she murmured. “I don’t want to turn the other cheek. I want to tell that arrogant, self-righteous scoundrel what I think of him.” She wanted to fight. She wanted—

Before she could finish the thought, he turned and caught her staring. He smirked. Furious, Nora started to count. “Ten, nine…Forget it!”

With her temper flaring, she headed across the street to give Zeb Garrison a piece of her mind.

Chapter Five

Zeb saw Dr. Mitchell coming straight at him and felt the uncomfortable urge to run away. He enjoyed a good fight as much as any man, but he didn’t want to argue with her. A few moments ago, Will had taken him to task.

You showed her Doc’s place? Are you stupid?

No, just hopping mad. She’d tricked him by using her initial, then she’d had the audacity to be poised and pretty about it. Why couldn’t she have had warts on her chin…warts with hairs growing out of them? Warts so ugly he wouldn’t keep smelling lavender and recalling her hand on his arm and the kindness in her blue eyes.

He’d argued with Will for two minutes and ended up feeling like an oaf.

We need a doctor, Zeb. I don’t care if he—she—whatever—is wearing skirts. I’ve got a family now. So does Pete.

Where am I supposed to put her? She can’t work in my parlor!

So find someplace else. We help each other in High Plains. Have you forgotten that? It’s called Christian charity.

Will was right. The town needed Dr. Mitchell until he could find a replacement. And whether he liked it or not, he owed her amends for his surliness.

Tom Briggs, his foreman, called down from the scaffolding. “More lumber tomorrow, boss?”

“Plan on it.”

“Good.” Tom’s hammer pinged on a nail. “We’re about out.”

The demand for lumber kept Garrison Mill running from dawn to dusk and Zeb looking at ledgers well past midnight. Folks chipped in what money they could spare, but Zeb cheerfully absorbed most of the costs. He could afford it and others couldn’t. With good weather and a little luck, the town hall would be finished and High Plains would celebrate a full recovery with a summer jubilee. If he had to work like a mule to make it happen, so be it. He didn’t have time to eat or sleep, much less deal with Dr. Mitchell, but she was coming at him like a summer storm.

“Mr. Garrison!” she called. “I need a word with you.”

He did not want to have this conversation in front of a work crew, but he couldn’t avoid her without looking cowardly. “Get back to work,” he said to the man. The hammering resumed, but in a slower cadence.

As she hurried in his direction, he heard the rustle of her skirts and the scuff of her shoes, sounds that should have been drowned out by hammering, but Tom and the other man had stopped working. Zeb felt their eyes on his back, turned to glare at them and realized he’d been wrong. The men weren’t looking at him. They were gawking at Dr. Mitchell.

Briggs, a married man, went back to work. The other fellow looked like a starving man at Sunday supper.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Thank you for speaking with me.” Panting for breath, she put her hand on her chest in an Abigail-like gesture.

He hadn’t judged her as prone to vapors. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I came to thank you for setting me straight.”

Zeb liked this kind of talk. “About what?”

“What it’s really like in High Plains. How hard my life would be here.” She bit her lip, then blinked as if fighting tears. Her eyes had a shine and he wondered if he’d made her cry. He hoped not, but the sheen revealed a simple fact. If Doc’s office could drive her to tears, she didn’t belong in High Plains.

He crossed his arms over his vest. “It’s tough here. That’s a fact.”

“It’s such a warm day! Too hot for a woman to be hurrying, don’t you think?” She took a hankie from her pocket and dabbed at her forehead. “I thought I could hire someone to fix the roof, but the hole’s too big.”

“I know.”

“I went upstairs to check for myself. There were birds everywhere.” She indicated the smudges on her skirt. “I ruined my best frock!”

Well, what do you know? Dr. Mitchell had just proven him right about women. Knowing she wouldn’t stay longer than necessary, he could afford to be magnanimous. “I’ll pay for the laundering.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’m not worried about the dress.”

“Then what is it?”

The simpering female vanished in a blink. “I came to tell you that you’re a fool, Mr. Garrison. I am not the shallow woman you’ve assumed me to be. Being who you are—a town leader, someone who’s responsible and intelligent—you know High Plains needs a doctor. You should be helping me, not running me out of town! It’s reckless. It’s selfish. It’s—”

“Stop it, Doc.” Belatedly, he saw through her act. The woman was playing him. “You’ve made your point.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Garrison.”

“I do.”

“You owe me an apology.” She stood tall, her head high and her eyes burning with outrage.

Zeb said nothing.

After twenty seconds, she gave up. “Don’t think you’ve won. At the very least, I deserve courtesy. As for your respect, I intend to earn it. When the time comes for you to eat crow, I’ll expect that apology.”

“You won’t get it.”

“It’s not for my benefit,” she said. “It’s for yours. I’m assuming you do have a conscience?”

Zeb had a conscience, all right. It prickled every time someone in High Plains caught a cold. It twitched when he thought of his men working double shifts and ignoring their own families. It burned like fire when he thought of the tornado and how it had stripped High Plains bare. He’d picked this spot to settle. The death and destruction were on his hands. So was rebuilding. How dare this woman judge him? “You don’t belong here, Doc. Go back to New York.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

“Absolutely not! I care about people. I care about this town.”

“You think I don’t? I saw people die in the tornado, Miss Mitchell. What happens if you kill someone with your incompetence?”

“I’m not incompetent! I’m a highly trained physician.”

“You’re a woman!”

When the hammering stopped for the second time, Zeb realized he’d shouted at her. By tomorrow, the whole town would know he’d done battle with Dr. Mitchell. No way could he let her win.

She must have felt the same way, because she spoke in a voice loud enough for the work crew to hear. “You’re very observant, Mr. Garrison. I am, in fact, female. I’m also a doctor, and I will not leave High Plains.”

Zeb dropped his voice to a hush. “You’ll break your word, Dr. Mitchell. Mark my words.”

“Not a chance.”

Like Frannie, she made promises too easily. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

When she stepped closer, he smelled her fancy lavender soap, reminding him of Frannie. Women were all alike—two-faced Jezebels with heady ambitions and flapping tongues.

Dr. Mitchell took another step, crowding him because he refused to budge as she lectured him. “You, Mr. Garrison, have misjudged me. I don’t care about smudges on a dress. I don’t mind scrubbing floors. But I will not be disrespected.”

Zeb knew the feeling. The need for respect had driven him to build a mill instead of working for wages. Her breathing deepened and slowed as she fought for control. When she clenched her jaw, he imagined her counting to ten. The trick wouldn’t work. Zeb knew, because he used it himself.

He flashed a grin. “Cat got your tongue, Doc?”

She raked his face with those fiery blue eyes. “You need to know what happened after you left.”

“I don’t care.” He’d lied. He cared about everything in High Plains.

The redhead kept yammering at him. “You should care, Mr. Garrison. A girl came into the building. Bess Carter.”

“She can’t speak.”

“That’s right.” Dr. Mitchell spoke in a rush. “I’m a grown woman. I’m accustomed to adolescent pranks from silly little boys—”

“Wait just a minute!”

“No, sir.” She clipped the words. “I will not wait. That building should be boarded up. What if the roof had collapsed on her? You endangered a child today, a girl who couldn’t call for help. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He was, but he’d never admit it. “Anything else, Dr. Mitchell?”

“Yes,” she said. “With or without your help, I intend to find a place to practice.”

“Good luck.” He smirked at her.

“I won’t quit,” she repeated.

Zeb stared at her with a mix of disbelief and envy. Where had that faith come from? Didn’t she know life took dangerous turns? He flung up his hand to indicate the framework of the town hall. “Are you blind, Doc? A tornado blew this town to pieces. There’s not an inch of space that’s not being used except my parlor.”

“I don’t need your parlor,” she countered.

“Good, because you can’t have it.”

She stood ramrod straight. Zeb had a good six inches on her, but he felt no advantage. This woman had courage, the kind that made a small dog chase a bigger one. Of all the aggravating things, she reminded him of someone he used to know…not Frannie, but a young man who’d called on the foremost millwright in America.

I want to be your apprentice, Mr. Gridley.

So do a lot of men, Mr. Garrison. Why should I pick you?

Because I want it, sir.

Zeb had been full of faith that day, faith in God and faith in his dreams. Gridley had seen that confidence and taken him under his wing. A month later, the man arranged a dinner party to introduce his protégé to his upper-crust friends. Zeb had escorted Cassandra, but that night he’d fallen in love with Frannie.

Hammering pulled him back to the present. High Plains needed a doctor, not a debutante from New York. He couldn’t stand the sight of Dr. Mitchell and her red hair. As for her skills, he’d trust her to paint sore throats but nothing else.

She waved her hand to get his attention. “Mr. Garrison? Did you hear me?”

He’d been caught off guard and didn’t like it. “What?”

“I said, when I have a parlor of my own, I expect you to apologize.”

“Sure,” he said, mocking her. “Why not?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He’d never been more sure in his life. “You don’t have a prayer of finding an office, Dr. Mitchell. No one here wants a lady doctor.” Except Pete and Rebecca, Cassandra and Emmeline and Will and anyone with kids.

“I’ll have to change their minds, won’t I?” With a dip of her chin, she headed back to the street.

Her skirts swayed with lady-like grace, but Zeb saw past the poise. He’d just kicked a hornet’s nest. He felt the sting of it now. Even more confusing, instead of running away from the hornet named Nora Mitchell, he wanted to chase after her. He wanted to see the sparks in her blue eyes and the waves of her red hair. That desire couldn’t be tolerated.

“Dr. Mitchell!” he called.

She stopped and turned. “Yes, Mr. Garrison?”

“The Crandalls leave tomorrow. If you’re smart, you’ll go with them.”

She turned fully, giving him a good look at the high-and-mighty dress and the feather that had tickled his nose. “I assure you, sir, the Crandalls will be leaving without me. You may not like my gender. You might not trust my abilities. But I’m a good doctor. I also have a conscience. The people in this town need me.”

Yes, they do.

Pride sealed his lips, but he didn’t turn away. Neither did she. They glared at each other until she gave a ladylike dip of her chin, followed by a smile and a sly wink.

Completely disarmed, Zeb couldn’t think of a thing to say. The redheaded doctor had thrown down the gauntlet. They’d gone to war and he wanted to win. He also imagined kissing that smirk right off her pretty face. He had no right to such a thought, but he couldn’t help it. Dr. Mitchell had gotten to him. For that reason alone, she needed to go back to New York.

Nora kept her chin high as she crossed the street, but her insides were churning. Winking at Zeb Garrison bordered on shameless. What had she been thinking? Even more frightening, what was he thinking? The wink had been a trick she’d learned from male students who’d harassed her. Whenever a man made that presumptuous gesture, she felt flustered. She doubted a wink would fluster Zebulun Garrison, but she hoped so.

“Oh, dear,” she mumbled as she avoided the broken boardwalk. What if he misread the wink as flirting? They’d been alone in Dr. Dempsey’s office when she touched his arm. She’d acted out of concern, but she’d felt something stronger, a connection that made her notice his green eyes, the stubble on his jaw. Winking at Zeb Garrison had been a mistake. Either she’d insulted her new boss, or he’d take it as a brazen invitation. At the thought of seeing him again, she stifled a groan. In a town the size of High Plains, their paths would cross no matter how hard she tried to avoid him.

Eager to escape the prickle of his gaze on her back, she rounded the corner and headed for the boardinghouse. There she climbed the steps, walked into the foyer and smelled fresh bread. The aroma reminded her of her empty stomach, so she went to the kitchen where she saw a tall blonde, presumably Rebecca, stirring a pot of soup. She hoped the cook would be pleasant. Even more than food, Nora needed a friend.

She tapped on the door frame. “Hi, are you Rebecca?”

Recognition lit the woman’s eyes. “You must be Dr. Mitchell!”

Judging by her accent, the cook had recently come from Scandinavia. “That’s right,” Nora replied.

Rebecca indicated a small table by a window overlooking a meadow. “Please, sit down. Mrs. Jennings told me to expect you.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not,” the cook replied. “I’m eager to speak with you. Pete, my husband, was just here. There’s already talk about you and plenty of it!”

Nora forced a smile. “I’m afraid Mr. Garrison wasn’t expecting a woman.”

“That’s the truth!”

Unsure of the cook’s opinion, Nora measured her words. “I’m a good doctor. I may be female, but—”

“Glory! You don’t have to explain to me. My grandmother was a healer in Norway.” The cook pointed at the chair. “Sit. You must be hungry.”

“Starved is more like it,” Nora admitted.

“We’ll eat together, and I’ll tell you about High Plains.”

As the cook ladled soup into bowls and sliced bread, she told Nora how the town had been founded on Christmas Day almost two years ago. Will Logan and Zeb Garrison, boyhood friends, had come West to pursue their dreams. They’d picked the spot on the High Plains River and contracted with the New England Emigrant Aid Society for funding. When spring arrived, dozens of folks from Bellville, their hometown near Boston, followed the men to the Kansas Territory.

“My Pete is a blacksmith,” Rebecca explained. “Will and Zeb especially wanted him to come West.” In between spoonfuls of soup, Rebecca told Nora how Pete’s first wife had died in childbirth. When the cook finished the story, she looked at Nora with a gleam in her eyes. “I don’t care what people think, Dr. Mitchell. Pete and I want you here. You won’t have an easy time. I know, because I didn’t either. More than once, I’ve been called a dirty immigrant.”

Nora’s family had sailed with the Pilgrims, but she and Rebecca had something in common. “We’re both outsiders, aren’t we?”

“Very much.” Rebecca fetched the teakettle and refilled their cups. “That’s why I want to talk to you about the Ladies Aid Society. Matilda Johnson is president. She and her husband own the mercantile.”

“I already met Abigail.”

Rebecca sat down. “She and her mother are very much alike, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do.”

The cook’s brows hitched into a scowl. “I’m not fond of Mrs. Johnson and she’s not fond of me.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”

“Pete and I were alone in a cellar during the tornado. She accused me of immoral behavior and spread rumors. I couldn’t walk down the street without getting ugly looks.”

Nora knew the feeling. “I got plenty of stares in medical college.”

“But we survived, didn’t we?” A smile lit up Rebecca’s face. “Pete married me to stop the talk. We didn’t know it, but God had plans for us. What Mrs. Johnson meant for harm turned into the greatest blessing of my life.”

Envy stabbed through Nora. She loved being a doctor, but she wanted a husband and children of her own. “Pete sounds like a good man.”

“He is.” Pride rang in her voice. “Most of the folks here are decent, but a few cause trouble.”

“Like Mrs. Johnson?”

“I’m afraid so.” Rebecca’s eyes glinted with anger. “She’s telling folks you asked Abigail an indecent question.”

“Illness is indecent,” Nora countered. When a woman fainted, all possibilities—even indelicate ones—had to be considered.

Rebecca’s eyes twinkled. “I know why Abigail swooned. She’s set her cap for Zeb, that’s why.”

“I thought so,” Nora said casually.

The blonde studied Nora from across the table. Both women stirred their tea until their lips tipped up in unison. When Rebecca gave in to a grin, so did Nora. The cook spoke first. “Are we thinking the same thing?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.