Two Brides Too Many (14 page)

A
thumping sound woke Morgan Sunday night. He rolled over and rubbed his eyes, trying to orient himself to his new surroundings. A faint glow from the stove cast shadows that danced across the pipes on the low ceiling. Wheelchairs and gurneys were piled in the corner, next to the door.

More thumping. Who would be knocking at this hour?

“I need to speak with you, Dr. Cutshaw.” The voice had a familiar lilt to it, but he couldn’t place it. What in the name of common sense was a woman doing out at this hour?

“Give me a moment.” Morgan rolled out of bed and grabbed his clothes from the back of a plain pine chair. He dressed quickly and opened the door to a surprising blast of frigid air. It chilled his face and stole his breath. A young woman, holding a lantern, rocked back and forth in a hooded mantle. Her gloved hands held a wool scarf across her nose and mouth, leaving only worried blue eyes uncovered.

“Miss Sinclair?” He didn’t see anyone with her. “What are you doing out alone? Are you ill?”

She lowered the scarf. “I’m sorry for the late hour, but we need you at Hattie’s.”

His pulse quickening, Morgan grabbed his coat off a peg and his doctoring bag from the table. “Your sister? Is it her shoulder wound?”

“Kat is fine, Doctor. It’s Rosita. The little girl she’s caring for.”

Morgan remembered the girl from the birthing room. No place for a child. He also remembered that the woman detested him. “Does she know you’ve come for me?”

“She knows.”

Morgan grabbed his bag and followed Nell out the hospital door and up the road to the boardinghouse, praying for wisdom. As he glanced up at the sliver of moon high above them, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the new thing God had in mind for him—doctoring women and children. It wasn’t at all what he came to do in Cripple Creek.

“She was a might puny most of the morning,” Nell said, walking beside him in the cool night air.

“Do you know if she has a fever?”

“She felt pretty warm to me.” She pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders. “She’d perked up some this afternoon, but then an hour ago, she awoke crying.” The young woman turned up a walkway in front of the yellow house and walked in the front door.

Morgan followed Nell up the creaky wooden stairs to a small room on the right. Kat Sinclair sat on the bed while Rosita wiggled in her arms, crying and clutching a fabric bunny.

He stepped up to the foot of the bed. “Miss Sinclair.”

Kat looked up at him, her eyes warm and weary. “She has a fever. I think it’s her ears.”

He set his medical bag on the floor and sat on the bed beside them.

Rosita looked a little older than William would have been. Morgan studied his young patient. Her gaze dull, she swiped at her right ear. “Hello, Rosita. You saw me at the hospital.”

Shaking her head and whimpering, she glared at Miss Sinclair. “The baby doctor.”

“Yes, it is, but it’s all right. He’s a nice man.” Kat looked up at him with her brow lifted in a question mark. “He saved that woman and her baby. You need to let him help you get better too.” Kat looked his way, giving him a slight nod.

Morgan brushed his thumb and forefinger along the little girl’s high forehead. The fluting iron his mother used to press the ruffles on her dresses wouldn’t be this hot.

“Do your ears hurt?” He crouched down and looked into the girl’s eyes.

Nodding, Rosita tugged at her left ear. Kat swept straight black hair back from the child’s temples with a tender touch, much the way Morgan imagined Opal would have. Attentive. Gentle. Tender.

“I agree with you. It’s most likely an ear infection.” Morgan pulled his bag up from the rug and unlatched the silver clasp. “I’ll check them to be certain.” He pulled the otoscope out of a gray felt sack. Rosita’s mouth dropped open, and she retreated into the crook of Kat’s arm.

Morgan lifted the fabric bunny and patted its ears. “Is this your friend?”

“HopHop.” Sniffing, Rosita squeezed the stuffed bunny with one hand and swiped at her damp cheeks with the back of the other. “Miss Kat gave him to me.”

Morgan held the glass lens of the otoscope to his eye. “This is the special tool I’ll use to peek into your ears to see if they’re sick.” Morgan held the instrument out to her. “Would you like to hold it?”

The child’s posture softened. Nodding, she exchanged the bunny for the otoscope and folded both hands around it.

“You can check HopHop’s ears for me.”

Rosita lifted the lens to her eye as Morgan had done—as his son, William, might have done. Morgan swallowed the bittersweet image and lifted the flat bunny in front of Rosita. “Gently put that pointed end into his ear. Then look through the lens.” Morgan pointed to it.

Tilting her head and pinching her lips together, the little girl placed the tip at the seam on the bunny’s head and examined a make-believe ear.

“Do you see any infection in HopHop’s ear? Any red like you see on an apple?”

She shook her head. “Just thread.”

A smile momentarily chased away the weary lines that framed the sisters’ faces.

Morgan grinned. She was a bright little girl. “Now, it’s my turn to look at your ears. You make sure HopHop doesn’t hop away, okay?”

Rosita returned the instrument and took the stuffed rabbit from Morgan. Then she laid her head on a pillow on Kat’s lap.

“You’re good with children,” Kat said, holding his gaze.

“Thank you.”
Thank You, Lord
. Morgan pulled a clean handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiped the instrument tip. “Rosita, you hold real still, as HopHop did.” Holding Rosita’s head steady with one hand and the otoscope with the other, Morgan first looked at the drum
in the left ear. It was red and bulging like a frog’s throat. Oil might not be enough. It might need to be drained. He had his myringotomy knife with him, but he didn’t dare try to lance the eardrum here. If he had to do it at all, he wanted a sterile environment. “This doesn’t look good.”

Kat blinked back tears. This was why Rosita needed her family. The girl’s mother would have noticed the infection sooner, been better able to help. There had to be someone else who could care for her. This was too hard. She’d cared for her little sisters, but this was different. A child needed a mother, and it couldn’t be her.

“Time to turn over, little one.” Dr. Cutshaw knew how to talk to children. His voice sounded like butter melting on fresh bread.

Rosita rolled over, right ear up, tucking her hand around Kat’s middle.

“This one’s red, but not bulging. I have some sweet oil with me.” He returned the scope to his bag then pulled out the vial of oil and two clean handkerchiefs.

“I’ll warm it.” Nell took the vial and pattered down the stairs.

Dr. Cutshaw laid his hand on Kat’s good shoulder, sending a shiver down her spine. “Kat, Rosita will be all right.”

She could feel the warmth of his hand through her cotton dress. He was being too familiar, touching her shoulder and using her given name, but this felt personal—Rosita sick, the three of them sitting on the bed. She hadn’t noticed his eyes before: spring grass green.

“The oil should do enough to get you through the night.” He set his bag on the floor. “The left eardrum might need to be lanced, but it can wait until tomorrow. Let me know if she’s not feeling much better by then.”

Nell returned, cradling the oil jar in a tea towel.

“Rosita, I’m going to put the oil in now to make your ears better.” Dr. Cutshaw cupped her little chin. When the oil dropped into her ear, she shuddered, but remained quiet while he gently kneaded her ear.

Holding HopHop tight, Rosita scooted and rolled over. After Dr. Cutshaw repeated the treatment in the right ear, he capped the vial and set it in his bag.

“Thank you, Dr. Cutshaw.”

“I hope it helps.”

Kat eased the little girl into a sitting position and cradled her. She had been taught to treat others how she wanted to be treated, and being cradled and cared for sounded real good to her right now.

The doctor pulled a small paper sack from his satchel and looked at Kat. She didn’t see any misunderstanding in them this time. “May I give Rosita a candy?”

Kat realized that the man couldn’t be all bad if he saved babies, healed little girls, and handed out candy. She nodded. “One piece.”

Yes, the good doctor knew how to endear himself to little ones, and to sisters. Nell was smiling for the first time tonight.

Dr. Cutshaw held the sack open for her Rosita. Kat couldn’t help but peer over Rosita’s shoulder. Nell looked every bit as interested in the assortment. Caramels. Licorice. Horehounds. Peppermints. Kat hadn’t had any candy since she’d left Maine.

Rosita tugged the wrapper off a piece of licorice, and Dr. Cutshaw held the candy bag in front of Kat and Nell. When they didn’t reach for it, he pulled out a few pieces and opened his hand. It wasn’t the hand of a dandy city doctor who never saw sun or real work. But then nothing about Dr. Cutshaw was conventional, or expected.

After Nell picked a horehound, Kat chose a caramel. The doctor returned the rest to his medical bag, save a licorice that he unwrapped and popped into his mouth. He was twisting the latch on his satchel when Hattie stepped into the room with her hand open.

“Just a minute there, good Doctor. Where’s my candy?”

He pulled an assortment from his sack and set them in her hand, then curled her fingers over them. “All yours.”

Kat didn’t want to like the man, but she did.

“Miss Sinclair?” Dr. Cutshaw was looking at Kat.

“Yes?” Until now, she hadn’t noticed the dimple just to the right of his upper lip.

“I’ve offended you, not once but at least twice that I know of, and I’d like to make it up to you.”

“Oh?” Kat’s voice was one in a chorus of three women.

“Once Rosita is feeling better, I’d like to treat all four of you to a special evening.”

Kat shook her head. She was grateful for his help with the girl, but…

“What kind of treat, Doctor?” Hattie said around the licorice in her mouth.

“That’s a surprise.”

“I don’t think—”

“We accept.” Nell slanted a coy grin Kat’s direction.

“Thursday then? Providing that Rosita is over her infection, of course.”

Hattie and Nell both stared at Kat, their heads bobbing. “With the fire and…all, I suppose we could use a treat,” she finally said.

“Perfect.”

Kat wasn’t so sure it would be perfect, but then, she was beginning to question a lot of her impressions of the man.

N
INETEEN

I
t had been two days, and Morgan hadn’t heard any more about Rosita’s ears, and neither had Dr. Hanson. He assumed that meant the little girl was faring well, but it wouldn’t hurt to check on her.

He grabbed his hat and his medical bag and stepped outside his basement accommodations to a cool spring afternoon.

“Oh, Doc-tor Cutshaw!”

Morgan recognized the operatic voice and drew in a deep breath before he turned. Miss Taggart waved a gloved hand, her smile wide as she sashayed toward him from the corner. The wind ruffled her skirt. She smoothed it down with her hand.

“I was hoping to speak to you.”

He tipped his derby in greeting. “Miss Taggart.”

“Please call me Darla.” She fingered the locket at her neck. “I looked for you after church Sunday, but you’d dashed off before I could make it down the aisle from the piano.”

He stepped back. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“I did indeed. At the depot last week, I told you my father’s church housed some of those who lost their homes in the fire.”

He nodded, wondering where she was going with this.

“Even though they’ve all found housing elsewhere by now, my father still wants to keep in touch with them.”

“It sounds like a good idea.” Morgan switched his bag from one hand to the other and waited for her to go on, his eyebrow raised.

“I knew you’d think so.” Darla beamed at him.

“What exactly did you need me to do?”

“I’m getting to that, Doctor.”

Morgan resisted the urge to check the watch in his vest pocket.

“We’re setting up a monthly meeting. That’s where you come in.”

Morgan still had no idea
where
he came in, but he swallowed his frustration. The woman obviously cared about her town and had a heart for hurting people. He appreciated that about her, but she could take a lesson in succinctness from Miss Kat Sinclair, who didn’t mince words. It would save him a lot of time.

“We—Father and I—thought it would be good to have you speak at our first meeting.” She nodded. “It’s this week.”

“I see.”

“Each meeting will be a combination of spiritual encouragement and instruction.”

He could use a little spiritual encouragement about now.

“The night of the fire was so frantic, and folks have been so busy trying to salvage what they could and start over, that we’re concerned they aren’t taking proper care of themselves.”

“Good thinking, Miss Taggart. In crises, people usually will tend to others and to business matters, and neglect their own needs.”