Kansas Courtship (8 page)

As she loosened her fingers, Zeb took the full weight of the black case. He carried it into his office and put it at the foot of his desk, smelling lavender because Dr. Mitchell had followed him.

“Is this your office?” she asked.

He grunted. “Yep.”

As he turned back to the door, he saw her surveying the room. He followed her gaze to the brick hearth with a potbel
lied stove, then around to the shelves stacked with books and ledgers and finally to the lone chair he kept for visitors. Her eyes came to rest on the desk he’d hauled from Boston. Tall with spindly legs, the standing desk lacked a stool because Zeb never sat down.

Her brows knit together. “Don’t you sit down to work?”

“I draw standing up.”

“I see.”

Zeb didn’t need words to read her expression, maybe because he shared the same thoughts. He never rested. He couldn’t until every building in High Plains, particularly the town hall, stood tall and proud. No wonder he had a tic in his eye. It twitched now, but Dr. Mitchell politely ignored it.

Zeb motioned at the door. “Time’s a-wasting, Doc. Let’s go.”

The sooner he showed her the mill, the sooner he could get back to standing at his desk.

N
ora led the way up the trail until they passed the mill. When the path branched into a vee, she paused to let Mr. Garrison take the lead.

“This way,” he said, veering to the river.

His stride lengthened and she had to hurry to keep up. She’d been wise to leave her bag in his office. The weight would have slowed her down. She’d always be a physician, but for the moment she felt unburdened.

Ignoring the stir of dust, she followed him around a bend and nearly plowed into his back. He’d stopped at an outcropping of rock that overlooked the High Plains River. Meadows stretched for miles, ending in the rolling hills she’d traveled with the Crandalls. Nora loved the openness and the vast sky. She missed her family in New York, but she didn’t miss the city. Inhaling deeply, she savored the fragrance of sunlight and grass.

He gave her a sideways look. “Did that little walk tire you out?”

“Not at all.” She smiled. “I’m enjoying the air.”

He huffed in a way she didn’t understand, then pointed east to the rambling flow of the river. “You’re seeing the reason Will and I picked this spot.”

Nora studied the pattern of the current. A leaf floated by, gathering speed as it rushed to the waterfall. On the other side of the drop, she saw the waterwheel spinning in time with the flow.

“Do you see what’s happening?” he asked.

“The river’s pushing the wheel, and the wheel powers the mill.” Nora saw a problem. “What happens if the river runs low?”

He turned and pointed upriver to a bulge in the bank where water pooled in a half moon. “When High Plains is back on its feet, I’ll dam up that spot to make a millpond.”

For the next several minutes, he talked about water flow, gates, traces and types of waterwheels. Garrison Mill had an undershot, the quickest and easiest to build, but he had plans for an overshot design. Instead of the river pushing the bottom of the wheel, an overshot design relied on gravity. Water traveled down a trace box that spilled into slots on the wheel called buckets. Gravity pulled the wheel down and the buckets spilled back into the river, causing the wheel to spin.

“Why the change?” Nora asked.

“An overshot is less vulnerable to drought. Once the millpond is finished, I’ll have a constant source of water.”

Nora recalled Cassandra’s warning about Zeb being boring. The girl couldn’t have been more wrong. He had a good mind and the ability to explain complex principles.

Leaning closer to her, he pointed to the opposite bank of the river and the meadow stretching as far as she could see. “Look over there.”

As she turned her head, he lowered his chin. Did he realize he’d moved closer to her? She smelled wood and water, grass and his freshly laundered shirt. The sun warmed the dark print of his vest, another paisley with swirls of silver and black. A sudden pounding in her chest matched the rush and spill of the waterfall.

“What do you see?” he asked, challenging her.

“I see grass.”

“And?”

He was testing her, but she didn’t mind. She enjoyed a match of wits. Pausing, she put herself in his shoes. What would a miller see? He’d see trees, except they’d all been cut down. The grass waved like an open hand. The green blades matched his eyes until the grass bent and the sun bleached the color, leaving a sheen of gold, the color of…“Wheat!” she cried. “I see wheat fields.”

“You’ve got a logical mind, Dr. Mitchell.”

She enjoyed the praise, but she wished he’d called her Nora. With the sun warm on her face, she wanted to be a woman first, not Dr. Mitchell. Never shy, she tipped up her chin. “Please, call me Nora.”

“Then I’m Zeb.” Looking bold and roguish, like the scoundrel Emmeline had called “good,” he stepped back and offered his hand.

Clasping it, she noticed the strength of his fingers, how his shirt pulled back on his forearm to reveal a smattering of dark hair. There was nothing clinical about her sense of this man, nor was he looking at her with the hostility she’d come to expect. Their hands stayed locked for a blink too long…until his eye twitched and they each let go of the other, laughing at the irony.

“Was that a wink?” she said playfully.

Turning abruptly, he hooked his hands on his hips and looked downriver. Nora’s cheeks warmed with a blush. She hadn’t meant to be so bold, but she’d forgotten the tension between them. When he wanted, Zeb Garrison could be charming.

“Let’s go.” He sounded gruff again. “I’ll show you the inside of the building.”

“I’d like that.”

As they walked back along the trail, he told her more about his plans for the future. If the tornado hadn’t struck, he’d have
already replaced one of the saw frames with grinding stones. Nora thought of her own dreams that had been delayed. She’d put off marriage for the sake of medicine. Zeb had made a similar choice.

As the building came into view, she tipped her face to his. “You’ve made sacrifices for High Plains. That’s admirable.”

He kept his eyes on the mill. “I’ve done what’s necessary.”

“You’ve been generous,” she added. “Mrs. Jennings told me how you helped with the children at the boardinghouse. I’ve gotten to know little Alex. He’s special.”

“He’s a good kid.” His expression turned serious. “It’s too bad about his brother.”

Nora had spent a lot of time with the boy. She knew his parents had died two years ago, and that Alex and his brother, Eli Henning, had been headed to Oregon when the tornado orphaned him a second time. “What’s going to happen to him?”

Zeb hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”

Nora wanted to push, but the peace between them hung like gossamer. She had to tread lightly. “I’ve been visiting families. Some of them still need houses.”

“And wood’s gotten scarce.” He indicated a door on the backside of the mill. “The saws are going full tilt. Come and look.”

Nora entered the building and paused. As her eyes adjusted to the poor light, she heard the clatter of gears as they transferred power from the river to saw blades mounted in wood frames. At each of the three stations, she saw a log on a carriage being guided by a team of two men. One of the crews included Clint Fuller, the cowboy she’d met at the Circle-L.

Sawdust filled the air and she coughed. In medical college she’d treated millworkers for a condition called “white lung.” It came from dust in gristmills, but sawdust could be just as damaging. A log bucked against a saw. Clint shouted a warning,
then manhandled it back into place. She pictured him losing a hand and felt sick. Even from the distance of several feet, she could see circles under his eyes. The cowboy looked exhausted and so did the other men.

Nora thought of Zeb’s comment about the mill operating sixteen hours a day. These men—all of them—were on their last legs. Fatigue led to accidents. As much as she’d enjoyed putting down her medical case for a walk along the river with a handsome man, she couldn’t stop being a doctor. Someone had to tell Zeb Garrison his mill needed more windows and his workers needed rest.

The
clack
and
whoosh
of the mill filled Zeb’s ears, but Dr. Mitchell—Nora now—still commanded his attention. Sawdust overpowered the scent of lavender, but the dim light brought out the ivory of her skin. For all her bold ways, she had a delicate chin and a bow-shaped mouth. Even more attractive to Zeb, she’d asked intelligent questions.

She’d been a good listener, maybe the best he’d ever had. Unlike Cassandra who listened out of obligation, and Will who preferred talk of cattle, Nora had focused on the mill’s engineering. She’d also seen his vision of wheat fields, something not even Will had guessed.

Zeb didn’t know what to think. One minute he’d been talking to Dr. Mitchell about water and gravity. The next, he’d been calling her Nora. The mill made sense to him. He could identify every sound and explain its cause. What he’d felt at the river made no sense at all. In the middle of his talk about waterwheels, he’d decided he liked the scent of lavender. He liked
her.

The thought turned in his mind like the wheel powering the mill. It spun in a circle, going nowhere but putting other thoughts into motion…thoughts of a wife, thoughts of children.
If she’d been a farmer’s daughter instead of doctor, a woman from Missouri instead of New York, he’d have already asked her to supper.

As things stood, he couldn’t cross that line just yet. He didn’t trust her judgment, but he was open to a civil conversation. How could he not be? She’d shown him respect. He owed her the same opportunity. As a first step, he’d give her a ride back to town and see what she had to say about finding a new office.

He looked at her profile. Instead of wonderment, he saw worry. He’d planned to show her the lower level, where they’d be alone again, but he changed his mind. To be heard over the noise, he raised his voice. “Had enough?”

She answered by heading for the door to the yard. As they stepped outside, the noise faded but didn’t stop. His face felt gritty and he wondered if hers did, too. He didn’t think she’d mind. Dr. Mitchell—Nora—had a thick skin.

She squared her shoulders. “I realize I’m not an expert on mills, but I have to ask. Are you aware of the risk of lung disease?”

He’d been expecting a question about the engineering, praise for the efficiency of his design. He’d even wondered if she’d hear the music he heard in the clack of the gears and the rasp of the saws. “What are you getting it?”

“I know millwork is dangerous. It’s the nature of it, but there are things you can do for the sake of safety.”

“Safety?”

“Yes.” She spoke with force. “I’m sure you’ve heard of white lung disease. It’s rampant in millworkers. Inhaling sawdust is just as bad. It can cause lung irritation. And I don’t need to tell you that saws are sharp. A fatigued worker—”

“Stop right there, Dr. Mitchell.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” he said angrily. “You have no right to judge. What do you know about mills anyway?”

“I know—”

“You know
nothing.
” He was mad enough to spit. “You said yourself that people need houses. The town hall’s only half finished. High Plains won’t forget the tornado until that building has four walls and a roof.”

“Yes, but—” She bit her lip.

Bitterness flooded through his veins. “You don’t know a
thing
about how I run this place.
Safety?
Do you think I don’t care? In Bellville I saw a man lose his arm. He nearly bled out on the floor.” He held up his hands. “I’ve got ten fingers. Most millers lose one or two. It’s part of the work.”

Her expression shifted from concern to outrage. “I’m offering a professional opinion.”

“You’re interfering.” He crossed his arms. “What else do you want to tell me? That dust is explosive? That someone should pour water on the blades to keep them from sparking? That if I don’t keep the gears greased, this whole place could go up in flames? Go ahead,” he taunted. “Tell me how to run a mill.”

“I wouldn’t presume.” She bit off each word. “I’m addressing a potential risk. Accidents happen when men are fatigued. Clint looks positively ashen! You can’t work at this pace without risking serious injury.”

“I know that.” He worried every minute that someone would get cut, that a log would bounce and crush a man’s leg. He worried about sparks and even the dust, because as she’d said, millworkers got bad lungs. He didn’t want to be one of them, and he didn’t want his men to suffer, either. He cared, deeply. He also cared about the people of High Plains, the ones living in tents who’d freeze this winter if he didn’t supply wood for decent houses.

Dr. Mitchell didn’t understand. Like Frannie, she saw the world through her own ambitious eyes. Zeb had heard enough. “Look, Doc. Here are the facts. If my men and I don’t work long hours, people are going to freeze. Winter’s not going to wait for High Plains to finish rebuilding.”

“I realize that.”

“Do you think I
want
to push this hard? Do you think I’m enjoying it? If you do, you’re wrong.” His voice had risen and not just from anger. For a few minutes he’d imagined this woman in his arms, his life. He’d enjoyed her intelligence and humor. But he’d been fooled. Deep down, she was a know-it-all female who wanted to tell him how to run his business.

“I know you’re conscientious,” she said quietly. “I’m sincerely concerned. As a physician—”

He cut her off with a guffaw. “As a
physician,
you should stick to hangnails. I don’t want you anywhere near my mill
or
my men. Or my sister,” he roared. “You’re filling her head with fancy ideas. I won’t stand for it.”

Dr. Mitchell stepped forward and got right in his face. “I’m doing no such thing, Zeb.”

The use of his name cut. He’d let her get too close. Who was she anyway? Frannie’s twin or someone else? He couldn’t see straight, and it didn’t help to have his eye twitch. She saw the wink, and pounced on it.

Staring straight at him, she poked him in the chest. “Look what all of this work is doing to
you!
You,
Mr. Garrison,
need a nap! You should also lay off the coffee and give your men a day off before someone gets hurt.”

“That’s my problem.”

“It certainly is.” With her head high, she walked down the mill road.

Zeb thought of his earlier plan to give her a ride. He’d been
out of his mind to consider such a thing. Not only did she get on his nerves, she’d gotten under his skin and into his dreams. Oak trees needed to be cut down. Lavender water belonged in big cities. And a woman doctor did
not
belong in Kansas or at his mill.

He had work to do, but he also had a head of steam and didn’t want his men to know the lady doctor had gotten to him. He went back to the cutting floor, told the foreman he’d be gone awhile and climbed on the bay he’d been riding when he first saw this land.

Riding steadied him, so he aimed the gelding west along the river. As he passed the bend where he’d taken Nora, his thoughts drifted to the day of the tornado. He still wanted a legacy, children to carry on the Garrison name, and for that purpose he needed a wife. For a foolish moment he’d wondered if Nora Mitchell was that woman. As they’d stood by the river and looked at the mill, watching the harnessed power of the water and then hearing the music of it, he’d imagined her sharing his house. He’d noticed the smattering of freckles on her nose, the easy way she smiled. He’d appreciated her intelligence and her questions. And she’d seen wheat…vast fields of it. She’d seen his dream without him saying a word.