Healing Hearts Page 9

  She looked over at Gideon as he spoke to Mr. Driessen. Some­thing Gideon said left that mountain of a man visibly shaken. He lowered himself to a nearby chair, his color ashen. Their conversation continued in low tones, their words too quiet to be understood from a distance.

  “I didn’t realize she was so bad off,” Mr. Driessen said. “Can’t you do anything for her?”

  “She needs a surgeon experienced in this particular difficulty,” Gideon said. “She needed one weeks ago, but the nearest one I would trust with this is in St. Louis. You would do even better to take her to New York or Boston.”

  Mr. Driessen’s shoulders hunched forward. “I haven’t the money for a trip like that.”

  “You drive for the stage occasionally,” Gideon said. “Perhaps you could take on a few extra driving jobs.”

  Mr. Driessen looked up, his eyes bleak. “What should I tell the surgeon is wrong with her?”

  “When you’re ready to make the trip, send word. I’ll write up the information you’ll need.”

  “Thank you, Doc.” Mr. Driessen turned and looked at Miriam. “And thank you, Miss Bricks. If I can ever repay you . . .”

  She waved that off. “I’m glad I could be of help.”

  Gideon turned to Mr. Driessen. “Let me know what you decide.”

  He received a silent acknowledgment in response.

  They let themselves out.

  They began their journey back to Savage Wells, and in no time at all, Luthy was but a dot on the horizon.

  “Thank you for what you did today, Miriam.” Gideon kept his eyes on the path and his hands on the reins as he spoke. “Mrs. Driessen has weighed on my mind for weeks.”

  “Is there anything that can be done for her?” She rubbed a hand against her temple.

  “There is a surgeon in Cheyenne who could try to remove the growth. Surgeries are risky, however, especially this far West.”

  “And not having the operation? Is that a risk as well?” Miriam asked.

  “A tremendous risk.”

  Poor woman. “Do you have any other texts I could read? I have a sinking feeling that, when you are away, people will come by with complaints I haven’t the first idea how to address.”

  “Every book I own is at your disposal, and you may ask me any question you have,” he said. “I don’t claim to be the best teacher, but I will certainly try.”

  “You don’t mind me thumbing through your papers and such?” Dr. Blackburn had expressly forbidden such a thing. The rule hadn’t stopped her—access to his records had been her only hope of helping the others in the sanatorium—she’d simply had to do it in the dark of night, at great risk. Being caught meant . . .

  She wrapped her arms around herself. Her hand rested on the lump of her sketchbook in her coat pocket. It was still there. Still safe.

  Gideon guided the buggy off the road with no explanation.

  “Another patient?” she asked, but she didn’t see any signs of a home nearby.

  “No. We’re going to have supper while the weather is holding.” He eyed the leaden sky. “The road is treacherous in the rain.”

  “I would rather not be driven off a precipice, if you don’t mind.” She wasn’t usually one for jests, though that had begun to change since she’d come to Savage Wells.

  “What a pity it would be to keep to the road when precipices are so much more adventurous.”

  All of the other doctors she’d known had been ceaselessly serious, to the point that they often added to the burden of worry their patients carried. Gideon was so wonderfully different from the rest. His humor lightened her burdens.

  He stopped in the shade of a small group of trees and wrapped the reins around a low branch. He stepped around the buggy and handed her down. Then, with a quickness that spoke of practice, he spread a wool blanket on the ground and set down a basket of food.

  “This is the point where I usually go for a walk around the pond,” he said, motioning to a small body of water not far distant. “It helps me clear my mind. Please don’t think you have to wait for me. I’m certain you’re hungry.”

  Her stomach was rather desperate for attention. Her nerves had dampened her appetite at breakfast, and she’d worked through lunch. “Enjoy your walk. I will try to leave some food for you.”

  His smile was distant. Clearly his mind was heavier than he was letting on. “The mercantile in Luthy always sends me home with more food than I can possibly eat. Have as much as you’d like.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  He tucked his hands in his coat pocket and walked away. Stretching his legs brought him calm and relief. Sketching brought her that same peace.

  She sat on the blanket, her back against an obliging tree. With her feet flat against the blanket, she propped her notebook against her bent knees. She’d often sat that way on the floor of her room at the asylum, her legs acting as a desk. The position felt almost whimsical in the fresh air of the meadow.

  There had been a moment with Mrs. Driessen when the woman’s expression had lightened, when the worry that had filled her seemed to ease. That was the look Miriam wanted to capture: hope.

  She worked at the sketch as the minutes stretched on. There never was time to clean up the drawings and make them anything but rough pencil strokes. Still, she was happy with them. Drawing had seen her through some very difficult times.

  When Gideon returned, he said, “You didn’t eat.”

  “I was distracted.”

  He sat beside her, which she hadn’t expected. She liked it, though. His company was comforting and enjoyable. She wasn’t afraid of him the way she was of nearly every doctor she’d ever known.

  “You are very talented,” he said, looking at her sketch. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen that expression on Mrs. Driessen’s face. She only ever looks tired and defeated.”

  Miriam filled out the hair in her drawing. “She looked this way for only a moment, when she was telling me that she was grateful you didn’t give up on her.”

  “Giving up is not in my nature,” he said. “That frustrated my mother to no end.”

  “We have that in common, it seems. I frustrated my parents to the point that leaving home was my only option.”

  He watched her with drawn brows. “They tossed you out?”

  “I left.” Heavens, how was he managing to get her to talk about this? She closed her sketchpad. “Shall we eat?”

  He didn’t accept the change of subject. “If you were to draw your parents in your book, what expression would they be wearing?”

  “Disappointment.” She spoke without even thinking.

  He took her hand, as he had once before at his kitchen table. It was a kind and gentle gesture. She’d needed kindness these past years.

  She let her gaze take in the small meadow, a line of trees meandering along its edge, and the pond in the distance. The stiff breeze drowned out any noise the water might have made.

  “This is a lovely spot,” she said.

  “It is.” He leaned against the other side of the same tree she was using, still holding her hand. “If I didn’t need to be easily found by townsfolk at all hours of the day and night, I would build myself a house right here.”

  She turned her face toward the wind, closing her eyes. Too many long days spent shut up indoors at the asylum had granted her a deep appreciation for the invigoration of fresh air. She had often stood at the windows of Blackburn, desperately watching the horizon, wanting to leave, even if only for a moment.

  “We should probably eat.” His breath tickled her ear.

  Far from flinching at the nearness, as she would have with anyone else, she leaned toward him, resting her head against him. His arm slipped behind her, settling around her waist. She pulled her sketchbook to her heart, her hands crossed over it, and tucked herself into his unexpected embra
ce.

  “Thank you for your help today, Miriam. I couldn’t have done a thing for Mrs. Driessen without you.”

  “It was nice to be permitted to help.”

  “Did you work for a doctor who didn’t allow you to do your job?”

  She adjusted her position, growing more comfortable nestled beside him. “I worked for a doctor who didn’t allow me to be a human being.”

  There was a pause. A long moment. “Was this doctor in Nebraska?”

  She stiffened. Her heart pounded in her neck. She sat up straight, and eyed him. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Something about Nebraska rattles you. I’ve been at a loss to discover what.”

  He was too sharp for her peace of mind.

  She scooted away, every nerve on edge. She kept a tight hold on her sketchbook.

  He watched her closely. “I’ve told you before I’m a good listener. And I’m trustworthy. If something is weighing on you—”

  “There’s not.” The falsehood sat uneasy on her lips. If anyone who knew her history realized where she was, her entire world would come crashing painfully and dangerously down around her.

  Gideon looked away. “I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t get married after all. I don’t think I could have been happy with someone who can lie to me so casually.”

  “That is your assessment of me?” It shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did.

  “I know you’re not telling me the truth.” He stood and took a step away. “It is difficult to trust you with my patients’ lives when you won’t trust me with any of the details of yours.”

  He had no idea what he was asking of her. “I am entitled to my secrets, Gideon.”

  He sighed. “If you ever decide to sketch a picture of me, you can draw me disappointed, as well.”

  A sharp turn in the wind chilled her, even as his words seared through her. She had let his gentleness lull her into feeling safe. Had life not shown her often enough that she was never safe?

  Miriam stood, a white-knuckled grip on her sketchbook. “It is a little cold. I think I will wait in the buggy.”

  “You haven’t eaten.” His tone had softened, but it did little to ease her anguish.

  “I’m more tired than hungry.” She moved swiftly toward the buggy. “I’ll just close my eyes and see if I can’t fall asleep.”

  He watched her, brow pulled. After a moment, he nodded and hunched down by the picnic basket.

  “I’m sorry I’m a disappointment.” Her voice broke on the words. “It’s another of my talents.”

  She climbed into the buggy and set herself on her side of the bench. She tucked her sketchpad into her pocket, then buttoned her coat against the biting wind. Gideon sat beside the picnic basket, eating his supper alone. She’d lied about more than Nebraska; she was actually very hungry. But she didn’t like to cry in front of people, especially people who could hurt her as quickly and deeply as he had.

  Her first tear fell in the very moment rain began tapping against the roof of the buggy. She turned so she faced away from the spot where Gideon would, thanks to the rain, be sitting in a moment’s time, and feigned sleep.

  He climbed inside in the next instant. He didn’t say anything, though he must have known she was awake. In silence, he set the horse in motion and pointed them toward home. His home. She didn’t truly have one. Perhaps someone like her was never meant to.

  Chapter 12

  Gideon kept the horse to a reasonable pace: slow in deference to the mud, but quick in light of the dangers of getting stuck overnight in such weather. He’d never had much of a temper, yet he was struggling to hold back his frustration. If he couldn’t trust Miriam to give him an honest answer, even if that answer was “I’d rather not say,” how could he entrust her with the well-being of hundreds of people?

  The rain came down in sheets too strong and too constant for even the roof of the buggy to keep them entirely dry. What he wouldn’t give for some isinglass curtains for his buggy.

  Miriam sat with a blanket wrapped around herself. She’d not said a word since they’d resumed their journey. For the first thirty minutes, she’d sat facing away from him. Then she’d moved closer to him, though likely because the weather had turned so miserably cold. He didn’t for a moment believe things were patched up between them. And he couldn’t for the life of him explain why he wished they were.

  When she’d sat in his arms under that tree, content and comfortable, he’d had the most unexpected sense of serenity. The isolation he so often felt had disappeared, not merely because someone was beside him, but because she was.

  Then he’d reached out to her with tenderness and sincerity, and she’d responded with a lie. An unhesitating, determined lie. He had, it seemed, only been fooling himself. Again.

  The mud was growing thicker, but they weren’t too far from home. He could work out his tension with an hour or two on his cello.

  He felt her brush against his shoulder. He looked over just as her head bobbed against him.

  “Sorry,” she slurred as her head bobbed again. Twice more the exact scenario played out.

  “Lean your head against me,” he said. “We still have a few miles to go.”

  “Sorry.” But she let her head settle on his shoulder. As they continued down the wet road, she silently grew heavier against him.

  This was what he’d hoped for when he’d sent for a wife. Some­one to sit beside him, to talk with, to chase away his loneliness. Someone to argue with hadn’t been on his list. He’d seen enough tension between his parents to know he didn’t want to live that way.

  The vast nothingness spread out on either side as the rain continued and the day grew dimmer until, at last, they reached the outskirts of Savage Wells. Gideon guided the buggy down the main street, pulling to a stop in front of the livery stable.

  “Miriam.” He gently nudged her.

  Her eyelids fluttered a few times before opening.

  “I have to stable the horse and buggy. We’ll have to run back to my house in the rain.”

  She nodded, though he couldn’t guarantee she fully understood.

  He hopped down. “Be right back.” He ran inside, braving the downpour. It took but a moment to let Jeb know he was back. The man was a wonder with horses and equipage; he’d have the wet, soggy mess sorted out in no time.

  Gideon returned to the buggy. He reached up for Miriam. She allowed him to lift her to the ground. He moved the blanket from around her shoulders so it covered her head, then he grabbed the picnic basket.

  “Run like your life depends on it.”

  They ran across the narrow gap behind the buildings on Main Street. Mud splattered everywhere, squishing into his boots and piling heavy on his trouser cuffs. Neither of them slowed until they came around the side of his house and onto the front porch.

  He pulled his house key from his pocket. As he began sliding it into the lock, the door inched open. Why wasn’t it locked?

  “Someone is in my house,” he said under his breath, peeking around the doorframe. “Wait here.”

  “And freeze to death? Not a chance.”

  He stepped inside, Miriam right on his heels, eyeing the entryway for signs of an intruder. Heavy footsteps approached from the parlor. Gideon reached behind himself, taking hold of Miriam’s hand, reassuring himself she was there and safe. A broad-shouldered figure stepped out.

  Cade. What was he doing there?

  “You ought to know you can’t leave town without some kind of disaster happening while you’re away,” Cade said.

  “What disaster?” He didn’t release Miriam’s hand, though he no longer suspected any danger. He was, it seemed, a glutton for punishment, allowing himself to imagine the comfort he felt in that simple touch wasn’t going to hurt him in the end.

  “Barney wandered off,” Cade said. “He’s
been found; he’s not in danger. But he took a thorough soaking, and Paisley’s worrying herself into a whirlwind, afraid he’ll develop an inflammation of the lungs like he did the last time he was drenched to the core.”

  “I’ll have a look at him.” He turned to Miriam, pulling his hand from hers and holding the basket out to her. “Change and warm up, then have a bite to eat.”

  “But there’s a patient,” she said.

  “I don’t need your help with this.”

  Color splotched her cheeks, just as it had in the meadow when he’d admitted to his disappointment. She lowered her eyes. “I understand.”

  She turned and stepped into the small room beneath the stairs and closed the door. A chasm was growing between them, and he didn’t know whether to try to bridge it or simply accept that this was what happened anytime he let himself grow fond of a woman.

  Chapter 13

  Gideon rubbed his face, trying to shake off the bone-deep exhaustion he felt. Barney hadn’t grown ill, though he’d remained in one of the upstairs rooms overnight, mostly to calm Paisley’s worries. Her father had coughed a little during the night, which had pulled Gideon from his own bed to check on him. He was painfully deprived of sleep, with no end in sight.

  The front door opened. Gideon didn’t look up immediately. Someone needed a doctor, and he wasn’t sure he had it in him to be one just then. Except he didn’t have a choice. This was what he’d come to Savage Wells to do. It was what he’d devoted his life to, and exhaustion couldn’t be permitted to get in the way of his work.

  “Oh, Gideon, you look so tired,” Mrs. Wilhite’s voice greeted him.

  He looked up. She seemed quite hale for a woman in her seventies, who had been complaining of a sore throat only two weeks earlier. That was a relief.