Two Brides Too Many (16 page)

Kat stuck her head out the window and drew in a deep breath. With Gods help, maybe she could make this place into a home. And this spot right here would be her favorite.

Please, God, help me be the woman You designed me to be. A woman of faith who places her prospects in Your hands
.

T
WENTY
-O
NE

M
organ scooped another bite of mashed potatoes onto his fork and glanced around the austere dining room at the hospital. A crucifix hung on wall over the head of the long plank table, and a portrait of Pope Leo XIII hung at the other end. Pictures of various saints lined the walls on either side. Since he was taking a late lunch this afternoon, he had the room to himself. And while he wasn’t Catholic, the symbols of faith provided a tranquil retreat from the stark and busy hallways.

He’d helped Dr. Hanson with a leg amputation this morning and welcomed a few minutes alone to think now. In Cripple Creek just a week, Morgan had already amputated two legs. What a difference from his work in Boston. But he knew that the miner from the fire-related explosion, Ethan Goeke, was lucky to have his life. Ethan was still rarely conscious because of the painkillers they were giving him, and Morgan felt that was some grace as the man had lost his leg and his cabin to the fire. He had asked Mrs. Adams and the Sinclair sisters
to pray for Ethan, as he was still at high risk of infection, and for his mental state when he awoke.

It was Wednesday, and as he lifted his steaming coffee cup to his mouth, he couldn’t help but wonder if Miss Kat Sinclair would actually show up to have her sutures removed.

The memories from Sunday night at the boardinghouse played across his mind. Rosita cradled in Kat’s arms. The woman’s timid agreement to tomorrow night’s treat.

“Well, Dr. Cutshaw?”

Morgan almost choked on his last bite of leftover fried chicken. He had no idea how long Sister Coleman had been speaking to him. Unfortunately, the question that stretched across her face indicated that he’d missed at least a full sentence, and now she expected an answer.

Had he been looking at her and not even seen her there? This was bad. “I’m not sure what to say to that, Sister. What do you think?”

The reverend mother huffed and wagged her finger at him. “I think you didn’t hear a word I said.”

He pulled the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. “Not a word. Sorry, but I’m a bit distracted today.”

Raising an eyebrow, she peered at him over wire-rimmed spectacles. “I’d say that’s an understatement, Doctor.”

It was all Miss Kat Sinclair’s fault. He needed to clear his mind of the distraction.

“I apologize, Sister. I’m listening now. What is it you asked me?”

“The young woman from the birthing room is here to have her sutures removed,” Sister Coleman said, enunciating each syllable. “But she seems reluctant to see you.”

He felt his pulse rise. “Miss Kat Sinclair.”

“Yes. Her sister worked tirelessly with us during the fire.” She tucked a wisp of white hair under her headpiece. “The Miss Sinclair waiting in the hallway asked if Dr. Hanson could do it, but I can’t find him, and I hate to make her wait when you’re available.”

Morgan nodded. “Just let me clean up here, and I’ll be out to talk with her.”

“I’ll let her know. Thank you.” While the reverend mother left the room, her black habit swaying with each step, Morgan stacked his plate in the tub on the side table.

When he stepped into the front hallway, Miss Kat Sinclair sat by herself, reading a copy of
Harper’s Bazar
. That is, she might have been reading it if the magazine had been right side up.

“Miss Sinclair?”

“Dr. Cutshaw.” She stood abruptly. The magazine slid to the floor.

“I’ll get that.” Morgan retrieved it and placed it on a stack on the small table between them. “Rosita is doing well?”

“Yes, thank you. Hattie said you came by to check on her yesterday.”

“I was sorry I missed you…her.” Morgan tugged on the stethoscope that hung at his white collar. “I wanted to make sure Rosita’s fever had broken.”

“It did.”

“Sister Coleman said you came to have your sutures removed.”

“Yes. But I told her—”

“Dr. Hanson isn’t available this afternoon. Do you have a problem with my removing your sutures, Miss Sinclair?”

Her face tight, Kat shook her head. “The sooner, the better, Doctor.”

“Then follow me, and we’ll make short work of it.”

Her boot heels tapped against the pine floor as she followed him down the hallway to an exam room. Sunday night they’d made progress toward getting along—at least he’d thought so. Now the exam room felt too small to contain the two of them. Miss Sinclair’s wide brown eyes told him she felt the same way.

“You can hang your cape on the peg.” While she did that, he pulled an instrument tray from a drawer in the cupboard and set it on a countertop near the exam table. “Please have a seat up there, if you will.” He extended his hand to her. Her grip certain, she climbed the wooden step at one end of the table then perched herself on its edge. They both glanced at their joined hands and let go.

Morgan unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves one turn. “Miss Sinclair, you’re wearing your collar so high today that I can’t even see the hint of a bandage. Which side are your sutures on?”

Her smooth cheeks turned cardinal red, and she glared at him. “Despite your early impressions, Doctor, I am a modest woman.”

He couldn’t seem to keep his foot out of his mouth around this woman.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You never do.” She reached behind her neck with the grace of a ballerina and began unbuttoning her collar. “The cut over which entirely too much fuss has been made is on my left side, at my shoulder.”

Studying the one-inch laceration near the scapula, Morgan reached for the forceps ready on the tray. “A cut this deep and in this location will have two layers of sutures. First, deeper ones that hold the
muscle and soft tissue together.” Trying to learn from the past mistake of saying too much, he kept the catgut part to himself. “All we have to concern ourselves with is the silk sutures at the skin. You might feel a sting. Just relax your muscles for a minute.”

Breathing deep, Kat Sinclair lowered her shoulders. Morgan grasped the tied end of the first suture with the forceps.

“Ouch. That hurt.”

“I’m sorry. This should go quickly.” Morgan cut each suture with a scalpel in succession and gave them each a quick tug. “All finished.” He set the silk sutures and the scalpel on the tray while she buttoned her collar. “It’s a bit red along the healing laceration, but the scar will mature in a few weeks to a white, faint line. I won’t even notice it.”

“Excuse me?”

Morgan’s jaw and ears burned, and he was sure the beets in his mother’s garden wouldn’t be as flush as his face felt. “Uh…when I check it again. I’d say four weeks would be good.” She might be amenable to seeing him again by then. “Unless you’d rather have Dr. Hanson do it.”

A throat clearing silenced them both. Neither of them had noticed the reverend mother standing just inside the closed door, and again, Morgan had no idea how long she’d been there. He needed to put a bell on the woman.

“I knocked. But you were…distracted, Doctor.”

Was it permissible to glower at a nun?

“We just finished, Sister.” Morgan returned the forceps to the metal tray.

The reverend mother offered Kat a hand and helped her down
from the table. “It looks like Dr. Cutshaw worked out okay for you after all.”

Kat flushed. “Yes ma’am, although not without some pain.”

Morgan kept his agreement to himself, maintaining the hope that he’d gain the woman’s forbearance during tomorrow’s outing.

T
WENTY
-T
WO

N
ell grabbed the stack of newspapers from the table in Patrick Maloney’s cabin and assessed their progress. She, Kat, Hattie, and Rosita had ridden up the hill to the house in Hattie’s wagon this morning. Kat went to work in a flurry, scrubbing the floor with such intensity that Nell was sure her sister hoped to erase the boards and reveal perfectly tiled flooring underneath. Consequently, there hadn’t been much conversation in that first hour. None of them dared to get in her way.

Kat had boxed up Patrick’s things and placed them on the porch before she headed off to the hospital and the grocery. Hattie had scoured the shelves and the one glass window, and now an afternoon sunbeam shot through the sparkling glass, lighting the table where four-year-old Rosita folded a flour sack dishtowel.

“You’re a good helper, Rosita.”

“Mama said so.” A smile lit Rosita’s honey brown face. The child had been with them for a week now, and they were still waiting
for word from Mr. Hughes concerning her grandmother. More than once Nell had considered her and Judson taking Rosita in as their own. But first, she needed to meet the man who would be her husband.

By the time she’d read Judson Archer’s fifth letter, she had loved him. His heart had spilled out on every page and reached out to her. She couldn’t help but love that about him. He had been derailing Nell’s thoughts for some four months now, and she could only hope he was on a path that brought him back to Cripple Creek soon.

She never would have imagined that Wednesday would roll around and she still wouldn’t have heard from her beloved. She’d rehashed a hundred times what the paymaster said. Judson wasn’t at all like Paddy Maloney. He said Judson was as upstanding as the working day is long, and out of town until next week. Well, this was next week. Only the middle of it, but patience had never been one of her virtues. Father was fond of saying she was compassionate and caring as long as she could be about it in a timely fashion. She couldn’t let impatience get the best of her now.

She and Kat stepped off the train eight days ago. She’d waited this long to lay her eyes on her intended; she could certainly wait another two or three days, because soon after that she’d be Mrs. Judson Archer. Then she’d have a lifetime with him.

Please help me be patient, Lord
.

Hattie walked through the front door, swinging the empty wash bucket. “I saw my wagon bumping its way up First Street. That means Kat’s done in town.” She set the pail on the plank floor beside the potbellied stove.

Nell reached into the crate of pretties Hattie had donated to Kat’s cause and pulled out a lace curtain. “Let’s get these hung before she gets back. I’ll do the climbing, if you’ll do the threading.”

“The good Lord only saw fit to give me brothers that never really got along.” Hattie set an empty straight-back chair in front of the window. “Watching the two of you work together with Rosita and on this place sure makes me miss my George. Why, he would’ve been right in the middle of this. Building you girls a bookcase or a chest of drawers. Something, you can be sure of that.”

Nell laid the curtain over Hattie’s broad shoulder, then hiked her skirt. She took her friend’s hand and stepped up onto the chair. “I don’t know what we would’ve done without your help.”

“Oh, fiddle-faddle.” Hattie shook out the curtain. “You two are quite capable—made of strong stock, you and your sister. The other two like that?”

“I suppose so, but Viv’s a bit more impetuous, and Ida’s, well, she’s bossy. She says it is mandated by being the oldest.” Nell shrugged. “I do miss them. And Father, of course. We told you they’re coming to Cripple Creek, right?”

“Your father too?”

“Just Ida and Viv, but not until Ida finishes her secretarial course and Viv finishes school.” As Nell wrestled the simple wooden rod from hooks on the wall, she thought
strong stock
wasn’t a way she would describe herself. The term best suited Kat. Since they’d boarded the train to head west, Kat seemed to be the backbone for both of them. Nell had no doubt that her sister would make a good life for herself in Cripple Creek despite Patrick Maloney’s betrayal. He was gone now, and
whether Kat believed it or not, there were better men around here for her.