Janet Dean – Courting the Doctor's Daughter (страница 5)

Mary ducked out the door and returned to her desk. Her father could handle this latest malady alone.

Within minutes, Geraldine returned, having regained the spark in her eyes and the spring to her step. “I’m not dying! Hay fever is giving me this cough. It’ll disappear with the first hard frost.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mary said, but wondered when the café owner would be back wearing a panicked expression, ticking off new symptoms on her fingers.

Geraldine dug through her purse. “With these doctor bills, it’s a good thing I’ve got a renter for the room over my café.”

Mary smiled. “Oh, to whom?”

“To that traveling salesman. He’s taking his meals at the café, too.” She beamed, then paid the fee and scooted out the door.

Mary’s mouth drooped. That peddler was staying, as he’d said.

The door opened and the Willowbys entered. Mary gave them a hug, then gestured for them to follow. Judge Willowby leaned heavily on a cane, his gait unsteady and shuffling. Although it was still a huge improvement from when he’d first had his apoplexy.

In the weeks since the stroke, Mrs. Willowby had devoted herself to her husband’s recovery. If anything, his illness had brought out her gentler side. An outcome appreciated not only by Mary and her father but by everyone who had dealings with Viola Willowby. Mary had come to admire the woman—something she couldn’t have expected a few months ago.

“How’s our…grandson?” Judge Willowby asked.

The Willowbys had wanted Mary to have custody of Ben, but the judge’s tongue still tripped over calling Ben his grandson, rather than his son. Mary smiled. “Fine. No asthma episodes as of late.”

Oh, how Mary enjoyed Ben’s presence. Shy at first, the youngster had taken a few days to adjust but soon settled into the family. He adored her sons, and Michael and Philip loved playing with him and reading him stories.

Mary smiled. “Ben prays for your recovery every night. By the looks of you, God’s answering his prayers.”

Viola’s eyes misted. “We’re so grateful, Mary, for your willingness to raise Ben as your own. Tell Carrie how much we appreciate her watching Ben so you can work in the office. The generosity of the people in this town amazes us. Food brought over, help with chores—we’ve been blessed in countless ways.”

When needed, folks in this town pulled together. Mary loved living here.

Her father appeared in the doorway, scrutinized his patient for a moment and then gave an approving smile. “You’re looking spry, Judge.”

“I’m thinking of trying the new cure, Doc,” the judge said. “Maybe it’ll loosen me up.”

“You’re the second patient to mention that remedy. Guess I’d better buy a bottle.”

Mary could understand the Willowbys looking for answers, but surely her father didn’t believe that nonsense too. “If you don’t need me, I’d like to leave now.”

“Sure.” Her father turned and handed her a capped bottle. “Would you stop by the livery and deliver this medicine to Mr. Lemming? He’s been without it for several days. Make sure he realizes the importance of taking it correctly.”

Mary nodded, tucking the bottle in her purse. “See you at supper.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said with a forced gaiety belying the weariness in his movements. He didn’t fool her.

Before she delivered the medicine, she intended to talk with Sheriff Rogers. See what could be done about that peddler.

Chapter Three

Mary passed the town square and didn’t see that rogue, but his wagon remained where it had that morning. He’d probably gone to the saloon, spending his morning profits on liquor to fill more bottles and, more than likely, himself.

A hand-lettered sign boasted in bold letters: CURATIVE FOR HEADACHE, STOMACHACHE AND INSOMNIA. What some people would do to make a dollar—uh, three dollars.

Though her father’s rebuke stung, his words held a smidgen of truth. She did tend to get wrapped up in worry. But didn’t the Bible instruct her to help others? Surely that meant protecting them from this bloodsucker.

By the time she’d reached her destination, the imposing limestone structure housing not only the jail but also the sheriff’s quarters, she’d envisioned the charlatan tarred and feathered, or at least run out of town.

Inside, Sheriff Rogers turned from tacking up a wanted poster and tipped his hat. The sheriff’s gray-streaked hair and paunch belied the strength of his muscular arms and massive shoulders. Not a man she’d care to cross. But then again, she needn’t fret; she wasn’t the criminal in town.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Graves.”

“Hello, Sheriff.” Mary walked to the wall and checked the poster to see if it held the medicine man’s picture. Not seeing the peddler’s face, she sighed and turned back to him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I hope you know a way to rid the town of a swindler bilking our citizens out of their money.”

He chuckled. “Reckon you’re talking about Luke Jacobs.”

That vile man carried the first name of the doctor in scripture, the follower of Christ? The similarity didn’t sit well with Mary. “I don’t know his name, but the man I’m talking about is selling home-brewed medicine.”

“Jacobs convinced me of his product’s value.” He gestured to his desk. There, as big as life, sat a bottle of that remedy. “I gave it a try, and it’s eased the pain in my gut.”

No doubt the result of wishful thinking. Hadn’t she seen that outcome before?

“Either way,” Sheriff Rogers said, taking a seat behind his desk, the springs whining in protest, “he obtained a permit to sell on our streets, so he’s within his rights.”

“For how long?”

“Believe he said a week.”

“In that length of time, he can filch everyone’s money.” Still, it could be worse. “At least he’ll be gone by week’s end, maybe before, if we’re lucky.”

The sheriff laced his fingers over his chest. “His eyes lit when I mentioned those orphans who came to town last year. Wonder if he’s here for more than peddling.”

A lump thudded to the bottom of Mary’s stomach, and she sucked in a gulp of air. Ben, along with Emma and William, Charles and Addie’s two, had ridden on that train. “Did he ask about any of them?”

“Nope. Reckon I could be wrong, but in my work, I make a point of reading people.”

Mary paced in front of the desk, then spun back to the sheriff. “He can’t come to town and wreak havoc on our children’s lives.”

“Now simmer down, Mrs. Graves.” Sheriff Rogers rose. “I’m not going to let anyone harm our citizens, much less those youngsters.”

Ever since Ed Drummond had beaten Frances, William and Emma, the sheriff took special interest in the orphans, becoming a protective grandfather of sorts. She couldn’t discount his well-honed instincts about Luke Jacobs.

Mary shivered. “Did he say anything else?”

“Nope. Jacobs is closemouthed.” The sheriff gave a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye out. But if he’s half as good as his medicine, we’re fortunate to have him.”

Fortunate? The man meant trouble. Why couldn’t anyone see that?

Mary said goodbye to the sheriff. She hadn’t gotten anywhere with him. What reason would a traveling salesman have to concern himself with the orphans? Could he be a relative of one of them? Surely not to Charles and Addie’s two blond, blue-eyed youngsters, not with the man’s dark looks.

She pictured Ben’s impish grin and dark-brown curls—

She bit her lip to quell its sudden trembling, refusing to finish the thought. She didn’t like what she’d heard at the sheriff’s office, didn’t like it at all. She had to make sure Luke Jacobs did nothing to upset the peace of the children, especially Ben, the little boy who’d staked a claim in her heart.

Charles would know what to do. Before she could talk to him, she had to deliver the medicine to John Lemming over at the livery. To save time, she cut across the courthouse lawn and rounded the corner of the building—all but colliding with her adversary.

Luke Jacobs. Again. The man hovered over her life like crows over a cornfield.

“Well, well, Miss Nightingale.” He gave her that lazy smile of his. For a moment, their gazes locked. “We meet again.”

At her side, Mary’s hands curled into fists, ready to protect the whole town if need be from this man, his smile and his phony charm. “Yes, Mr. Jacobs, we do.”

His brows rose to the lock of dark, wavy hair falling over his forehead. Why didn’t the scoundrel wear a hat like any decent man? “Appears you’ve learned my name, but I don’t know yours,” he said.

A team of horses couldn’t pull the information out of her—any information for that matter. “I believe you do, Mr. Jacobs.” She planted a hand on her hip. “Florence Nightingale.”

“So, Miss Nightingale,” he said, mocking her—teasing her, “will you tell me where I can find the livery?”

That cocky grin he wore affected her. It was like waving a red cape in front of a bull. And he knew it. From the gleam in his eyes, he enjoyed it too.

“Have you a remedy for horses? Or looking for some manure to add to your spiel?”

He chuckled, apparently not at all upset by her words. “I need to bed down my horse.” He put a hand to his chest, feigning distress. “Surely even you wouldn’t want to put an innocent animal at risk.”