Margaret Brownley (9 page)

Anxious to get to her darkroom, she quickly disassembled her equipment, humming to herself. Her plan to bring Doc Myers and Monica together was partly responsible for her high spirits, but no more so than another plan—a more daring plan.

If all went well, she would soon capture the image of the bold yet intriguing stranger.

The next day Lucy drove her brother to Doc Myers’s house, the photo of Monica tucked into her satchel. Next to her, Caleb stared at the road ahead. She had never seen him so nervous.

“For goodness’ sake, Caleb. You look like you’re going to the gallows.”

Caleb blew out his breath as if he’d been holding it. “Do you think Doc Myers will agree to be my preceptor?”

“He’d be a fool not to,” she said and meant it. Caleb had been interested in medicine for as long as she could remember. When he wasn’t working at their Pa’s shop, he had his nose in a medical book.

She glanced at him. “What did Papa say?”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

She grimaced. “Oh, Caleb. You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later.”

Caleb gave her a beseeching look. “Maybe you can talk to him.”

“No.” She was tempted to turn the wagon around and head back to town.

“Come on, Sis. Please.”

She sighed. She never could deny her brother anything when he looked at her with those puppy-dog eyes of his. “We’ll talk about this later,” she said, pulling up in front of the doctor’s picket fence.

Doc Myers opened the door at their knock. “Come in, come in,” he said warmly.

He led them into a small cluttered parlor. The chairs and divan were stacked high with books, so they had no choice but to stand. Lucy hadn’t stepped foot in the doctor’s house since before her mother’s death.

The doctor looked Caleb up and down as if measuring him for a suit.

“You look just like your pa when he was your age.”

Lucy studied the doctor’s face. What was behind that dark look? Pain? Regret?

“You and Papa used to be good friends.” Sensing she was treading on sensitive ground, her voice ended on a tentative note.

The doctor’s reply was as quick as it was brusque. “That was a long time ago.” He changed the subject, directing his full attention on Caleb. “Your sister tells me you want to be a doctor.”

“Yes, sir,” Caleb said eagerly.

“It’s a lot of hard work with very little pay.”

“I know that, sir.”

Doc Myers’s eyebrows rose. “Do you now?” Arms folded across his chest, he studied Caleb with the same intensity he gave his patients. “It means sleepless nights and tramping through the countryside in the heat of summer and cold of winter.”

“Yes, sir.”

The doctor continued, “It means inconsiderate people calling you out of your warm bed because of a splinter or some other minor inconvenience.”

“I’m aware of that, sir.”

“Hmm.”

“I know how to treat wounds,” Caleb said, anxious to impress. “I fixed my mule’s leg wound. I also know that carbolic acid prevents infection and asepsis prevents mortality.”

“I’m sure my patients will be delighted to know that at long last we found a way to
cure
death,” Doc Myers said with warm humor.

Mistaking the doctor’s gentle ribbing for approval, Caleb continued. “I also know that the treatment for melancholia is rose-colored spectacles.” He should have stopped while he was ahead. Now the doctor laughed and Caleb looked mortified.

“Mrs. Green has been wearing rose-colored spectacles for fifteen years and she’s not only depressed, she’s downright morbid.” Myers thought for a moment. “Why do you want to be a doctor?”

Caleb hesitated and Lucy gave him a nod of encouragement. “I want to care for the sick,” he said.

Doc Myers stabbed the air with his index finger. “Ah. You didn’t say cure, you said care. You’ve done your research. Only quacks claim to cure.”

“Papa says that all doctors are quacks,” Caleb said.

“Not all, son. Just the handsome ones. That leaves me out.” Myers chortled before growing serious again. “God cures, but we get the credit. Don’t you forget that.”

“I won’t.”

The doctor indicated a large cabinet. “It also helps to have a place to hide your mistakes,” he said with a note of humor.

Caleb’s eyes grew round but Lucy laughed.

“That’s what I like about photography,” she said. “If I make a mistake I just call it art.”

“Ah, you see?” Doc Myers said. “Every profession has its secrets.”

His referring to photography as a profession was gratifying. Her father considered it nothing more than a waste of time. Lucy always liked the doctor but never more so than at that moment.

The doctor grabbed a hefty book from a chair. “You can start by reading
Gray’s Anatomy
.” He shoved the book in Caleb’s hands.

Caleb lowered his gaze to the book in his hand. His mouth dropped open when the doctor piled yet another book on top. And then another.

Caleb bent forward to accommodate the weight of the books.

“When you can name all the parts of the body, come back and we’ll talk about your hours.”

“Yes, sir!” Caleb’s uncertain frown as he stared at the volumes was at odds with his enthusiastic response.

Taking her cue, Lucy tipped her portfolio. As planned, Monica’s photograph floated to the floor as delicate as a feather. Lucy considered it a lucky sign that the glossy print fell directly in front of the doctor, faceup. Doc Myers bent to pick up the photograph and, without so much as a glance at Monica’s image, handed it back.

Undeterred, Lucy held up the photograph and pretended to examine it thoughtfully while making sure the doctor could see it. “I think it’s one of my best photos. What do you think?”

The doctor arched back to have a look. “Yes, yes, it’s very good.”

“I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit,” she said, watching him closely. Did his eyes linger on Monica’s face a tad longer than necessary? “The subject had something to do with it.”

“Yes, Miss Freeman has very good structure.”

Lucy blinked. Had she heard him right? Structure?
Structure!
“The same could be said for the Taj Mahal,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation.

It was a ludicrous comparison but the doctor made no comment. Instead he casually walked toward the door, a signal that the meeting was over.

She shoved the photograph back into her portfolio. If it wasn’t for Caleb, she would have told the doctor what she thought of him and his . . . structure.

Caleb, oblivious to her frustration, practically gushed as he thanked the doctor, then lugged his books out to the wagon. No sooner had he placed the volumes on the seat of the wagon and climbed in after them than he started to read.

That night Lucy was so busy thinking of her plan to capture the stranger’s image that she barely touched her food. Caleb and her father discussed an inventory problem at the store. Deep into her thoughts, she paid little attention to the conversation until a full-blown argument broke out.

Caleb jumped up from his chair and yelled, “I don’t want to work at the store anymore!”

Her father, seated across the table from her, looked stricken. “Then don’t work there,” he said, his voice curt. “There are other places you can work.”

“I only want to work with Doc Myers.”

Her father’s face was dark with rage. “I forbid it.”

“I’m a man now and you can’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re sixteen.”

“I’m
going
to be a doctor.” Caleb slammed his chair against the table and stormed out of the house.

For several moments her father said nothing but simply stared into space with his usual dark, unfathomable look.

Caleb no longer needed her to fight his battles, but long-held habits were hard to break and Lucy couldn’t leave things as they stood. She leaned forward and tilted her face toward her father’s.

“Papa.”

The hard lines on his face softened. Encouraged, she continued, “God has given Caleb the gift of healing. It would be wrong for him not to use it.”

“I don’t want him working for Myers,” he said, his voice terse.

“But he’s the only doctor in town.” She frowned. “Doc Myers wasn’t responsible for Mama’s death. He did everything medically possible to save her.” He was a simple horse-and-buggy doctor, but he was always reading the latest medical books and journals, always talking about the latest treatment or discovery.

Papa lifted his head. Sadness had replaced his anger but it was no less alarming. “There are many ways to kill someone,” he said, and Lucy had the strangest feeling they were no longer talking about the doctor. Without another word, Papa stood and left the cabin.

Caleb came home sometime before midnight, but her father still hadn’t returned. Though his absence worried her, it wasn’t all that unusual for him to stay away all night. Once, curious to know where he went on such occasions, she followed him, keeping a discreet distance. He wandered from place to place with seemingly no rhyme or reason and she feared he was losing his mind. Then it occurred to her that he was visiting all her mother’s favorite spots as if trying to find her. It near broke Lucy’s heart.

Her heart ached anew.
Why, oh why, Papa, are you always searching for that which can’t be found?
It was a long and troubling night.

Eight

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. For this reason a
woman wishing to look appropriately domesticated for her Mail-
Order Bride photograph should wear an apron and wield a kitchen
utensil (preferably not a rolling pin).

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

T
hough Lucy’s father didn’t return home until after midnight, he had already left the house by the time she arose. It was a sign he’d had trouble sleeping, and this concerned her. She was worried but nonetheless relieved, for his absence would allow her to leave the house earlier than usual without having to explain her intentions.

Eager to put her plan into action, she raced through her morning chores. She washed the dishes, made the beds, and swept the floors.

She searched her meager wardrobe for something to wear that wasn’t patched, ripped, or otherwise in disrepair. She finally settled on a light blue skirt with a draped panier and a formfitting bodice that came to a point below the waist. She brushed her hair until it shined. Working her chestnut locks into a smooth braid, she coiled it into a bun and pinned it carefully into place.

When she was finished, she stepped back and regarded herself in the beveled glass mirror. She looked like a professional photographer, which, of course, was her goal. Her
only
goal. As if to argue with her reflection, she stuck out her tongue and made a face.

“And I don’t care what the stranger thinks of me.”

She was just about ready to walk out to the barn and hitch her wagon when Timber Joe appeared on her doorstep.

“I hope I’m not intruding.” The former Confederate soldier held his visor cap in one hand and his rifle in the other.

“No, of course not,” she said, inviting him in. “Any luck tracking down the outlaws?”