Kansas Courtship. Victoria Bylin
river. Half the shingles were new, a sign of the tornado’s damage. On the river side, she saw a waterwheel turning with the lazy summer current. Mr. Garrison may be unschooled, but he clearly had a keen intelligence to build a mill. It also took money, a sign he was older, as she’d imagined.
As the wagons rolled closer to town, she saw more signs of devastation. Along the river, families were living in tents and wagons. A few had constructed shacks from storm-damaged boards of different colors. Down the road she saw a whitewashed school, miraculously untouched. Farther in the distance, she saw a steeple pointing to the bright blue sky.
At the edge of town, a rough sign identified a dirt road as Main Street. Back east, main streets were cobbled and alive with business. This one looked haggard, but she sensed pride in the sign. Soon she’d meet the people she’d come to serve. Would they accept her? Not at first, but she could win their hearts. She felt sure of it.
First, though, she had to win over Mr. Garrison. She wanted to look professional, so this morning she’d put on her New York best. Under the duster she’d bought for the wagon ride, she wore a bottle-green jacket with pagoda sleeves, a white shirtwaist and a narrower-than-usual skirt. She’d gladly left her crinolines in New York, along with the navy suits she’d worn in medical college. In her satchel she had a porkpie hat with a feather. When Mr. Crandall stopped the wagon, she’d whip off the bonnet, slip out of the duster and pin the hat to her red hair. Then, with her medical bag in hand, she’d go in search of Mr. Garrison.
When they reached a mercantile, Mr. Crandall reined in the mules. As the wagon lurched to a halt, Nora lifted her hands to unbutton the duster. She’d worked the first button, when she spotted a tall man with dark hair striding in her direction. Dressed in black trousers, a white shirt and a brocade vest, she judged him to be a local businessman. As he neared the wagon, he looked at her, not once but twice.
She didn’t believe in love at first sight, but she believed God had someone special for her. Looking at the tall stranger, she felt a hitch in her belly and wondered…Could he be the one? When the man slowed his steps, she wondered if he’d offer to hand her out of the wagon. She imagined her gloves growing warm at his touch, the strength of his hand as he’d guide her to the street. She’d never been shy, but neither did she want to be considered brazen. Her father’s words rang in her head.
Mind your tongue, Nora. You’re too outspoken for a lady.
Maybe, but some things had to be said. Some risks had to be taken.
As the man neared the wagon, she smiled.
He tipped his hat in reply. “Good afternoon, miss.”
“Good afternoon,” she answered.
Mr. Crandall greeted the man with a nod. “Howdy there, sir. How’s it going for ya?”
“Excellent. I trust you had a good trip?”
“The finest,” Mr. Crandall replied. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a wagon to unload.”
The freighter, more concerned with his delivery than social graces, hopped off the seat without introducing her.
The man in the vest propped an arm on the edge of the wagon and planted a boot on the wheel. His green eyes held a mix of mirth and intensity.
Nora’s cheeks flushed pink.
He smiled at her. “You’re new in town.”
“I am.” She wanted to know this man, but she didn’t want to introduce herself to anyone—especially not as Dr. Nora Mitchell—until she met Mr. Garrison. She hoped to see this man again, but she needed to be on her way. She indicated the step down from the wagon. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“Allow me.” With a roguish smile, he offered his hand.
Nora saw a spark of fun in his eyes. The pale green reminded her of waving grass, but the rugged line of his jaw testified to his boldness. So did the strength of his hand when she gripped his fingers.
“Thank you, sir.”
As she dropped to the street, the duster caught on her medical bag and she stumbled. He caught her waist with both hands, steadied her and stepped back. Rugged or not, he had the air of a gentleman.
“Welcome to High Plains,” he said. “I’m—”
“There you are!”
They both turned to the mercantile where a petite blonde was coming through the door. Clad in a royal-blue gown with snow-white piping, the woman wore a porkpie hat that matched the one in Nora’s satchel. She couldn’t have been lovelier…or more feminine. In the duster and bonnet, Nora felt drab.
Her gaze drifted back to the man. In his eyes she saw an aloofness that reminded her of her professors in college.
“Hello, Abigail,” he said.
“Oh—Oh no!” The blonde swayed on her feet. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her knees buckled in the start of a swoon. Nora rushed forward to catch her. So did the man. He reached her first and caught her in his arms. As he lowered her to the planking, Nora grabbed her medical bag and charged to her side, whipping off her bonnet when it impeded her vision.
She checked the woman’s pulse and found it to be normal. She looked for perspiration and saw only a summer sheen. Next she glanced at the bodice of the blue dress. In New York she’d seen women faint because of too-tight corsets. Nora loathed fashion that harmed a woman’s health. She suspected this woman had submitted to such an indignity, but a quick run of her fingers along the woman’s rib cage revealed no such encumbrance.
The blonde had swooned for no apparent reason…or had she? Nora looked at the man crouched next to her. His dark hair brushed the rim of his collarless shirt, a linen garment that clung to broad shoulders and well-muscled arms. Black boots, scuffed but made of fine leather, tightened on his calves as he crouched. Gone was the charming stranger. In his place was a man with a smirk, a look she associated with arrogant men…handsome men. Had the woman swooned to get his attention? It wouldn’t have surprised her.
The blonde stirred, blinking as if she couldn’t focus until she found the man’s face.
“Zeb?” she murmured. “Is that you?”
Nora gasped. How many Zebs could there be in High Plains? Please, Lord. Don’t let this man be the one. Knowing she couldn’t hide from the truth, she lifted her chin. “Are you Mr. Zebulun Garrison?”
His eyes traveled to her medical bag, and back. He frowned. “I am.”
“I’m—”
“You’re Dr. N. Mitchell,” he said coldly. “And you’re a liar.”
“I am not!” She wanted to settle the matter now, but the blonde needed her attention. Nora turned to her patient. “I’m Dr. Nora Mitchell.”
“Get away from me!” the woman declared.
“I’m a doctor.”
“You’re a woman,” she complained. “You can’t be a doctor.”
“I’m fully trained, Miss—?”
“Miss Johnson,” she said coldly. “Abigail Johnson.”
Nora gripped the woman’s wrist, retook her pulse and detected no change. “Did you eat breakfast today?”
“Of course.”
Nora surmised the woman to be single. She wouldn’t ask about pregnancy directly, but it had to be considered. “Have you been ill, perhaps nauseous on occasion?”
The blonde glared at her as she sat up. “That’s a rude question to ask. Zeb, would you help me? I want to go inside.”
“Of course.” He sounded gentle, even sweet.
Nora surmised they were close and wondered if they were courting. She also recalled the way he’d looked at her. Zebulun