Would-Be Wilderness Wife. Regina Scott

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       Chapter One

      Seattle, Washington Territory May 1866

      “I need a doctor.”

      The commanding male voice echoed through the dispensary of Doc Maynard’s hospital like a trumpet call. Catherine Stanway straightened from where she’d been bending over a patient, fully prepared to offer assistance. But one look at the man in the doorway, lit from behind by the rare Seattle sun, and words failed her.

      He carried himself as proudly as a knight from the tales of King Arthur her father had read to her as a child. His rough-cut light brown hair brushed the top of the doorjamb; his shoulders in the wrinkled blue cotton shirt reached either side. He took a step into the room, and she was certain she felt the floor tremble.

      Finding her voice, she raised her chin. “I can help you.”

      He walked down the narrow room toward her, the thud of his worn leather boots like the sound of a hammer on the planks of the floor. The blue apothecary bottles lined up on the shelves behind the counter chimed against one another as he passed. He was like a warrior approaching his leader, a soldier his commanding officer. Mrs. Witherspoon, waiting on a chair for the doctor to reset her shoulder, clutched her arm close, wide-eyed. Others stared at him or quickly looked away.

      He stopped beside Catherine and laid his fingers on the curved back of the chair where the elderly Mr. Jenkins snoozed while he waited for his monthly dose of medicine. Scars crossed the skin of the massive hand, white against the bronze.

      Up close, Catherine could see that his face was more heart-shaped than oval, his unkempt hair drawing down in a peak over his forehead. His liberally lashed eyes were a mixture of clear green and blue, like the waves that lapped the Puget Sound shores. The gold of his skin said he worked outdoors; the wear on this clothes said he made little income from it.

      He was easily the most healthy male she’d ever seen, so why did he need medical assistance?

      “Are you a doctor?” he asked. Everything from the way he cocked his head to the slow cadence of the question spoke of his doubt.

      Her spine stiffened, lifting her blue skirts off the floor and bringing her head level with his breastbone. She was used to the surprise, the doubts about her vocation here in Seattle. Even where she’d been raised, a few had questioned that the prominent physician George Stanway had trained his daughter to be a nurse. More had wondered why their beloved doctor and his promising son had felt it necessary to get themselves killed serving in the Union Army. At times, Catherine wondered the same thing.

      “I’m a nurse,” she told their visitor, keeping her voice calm, professional. “I was trained by my father, a practicing physician, and served for a year at the New England Hospital for Women and Children. I came West with the Mercer expedition. Doctor Maynard was sufficiently pleased with my credentials to hire me to assist him and his wife.”

      “So you’re a Mercer belle.” He straightened, towering over her. “I didn’t come looking for a bride. I need a doctor.”

      A Mercer belle. That, she knew from the newspapers back East, was synonymous with husband hunter. Obviously her credentials as a medical practitioner meant nothing to him.

      Well, he might not have come to the hospital seeking a bride, but she hadn’t come to Seattle after a husband, either. She’d already refused three offers of marriage since arriving two weeks ago. Her friend Madeleine O’Rourke had turned away six. Even her friend Allegra had had to argue with two would-be suitors before she’d wed her childhood sweetheart, Clay Howard, a successful local businessman, only two days after landing.

      None of them had left the East Coast expecting such attentions. When Seattle’s self-proclaimed emigration agent, Asa Mercer, had recruited her and nearly seventy other women to settle in Washington Territory, he’d talked of the jobs that needed filling, the culture they could bring to the fledging community. Already some of her traveling companions were teaching schools in far-flung settlements. Others had taken jobs they had never dreamed of back home, including tending a lighthouse. They were innovative and industrious, just as Catherine had hoped she’d be when she’d journeyed West.

      “I’m not interested in marriage either, sir,” she told him. “And I assure you, I am perfectly suited to deal with medical emergencies. Now, what’s the trouble?”

      He glanced around as if determined to locate her employer. Doctor Maynard had converted the bottom floor of his house for his patients. This room was his dispensary, the medicines and curatives lined up in tall bottles on the triple row of shelves along one wall, with a dozen chairs, frequently all filled, opposite them. The other room held beds along either wall, with an area at the end curtained off and outfitted for surgeries. That room was used primarily as a laying-in ward for women about to give birth.

      After conversations aboard ship about the dismal state of Seattle’s medical establishment, Catherine hadn’t been sure what to expect of Doctor Maynard and his hospital. She’d been greatly relieved to find the wood floors sanded clean, beds nicely made and light streaming through tall windows. The doctor shared her father’s view that fresh water, healthy food and natural light went a long way to curing any ill.

      “I appreciate your offer,” the man said, returning his gaze to hers. “But I would prefer a doctor.”

      She could see herself reflected in his eyes, her pale blond hair neat and tidy, her face set. She refused to be the first one to look away. In the silence, she heard Mr. Jenkins mumble as he dozed.

      “Well, greetings, Drew!” The call from her employer caused their visitor to raise his head, breaking his gaze from Catherine’s. She suddenly found it easier to breathe.

      Doctor Maynard didn’t appear the least concerned to find a mountain of a man in his dispensary. He strolled toward them with his usual grin. A tall man, he had a broad face and dark hair that persisted in curling in the middle of his forehead as if it laughed at the world like he did. After helping her organized father, Catherine had found Seattle’s famous founding father undisciplined, impractical and irrepressible. He was also endlessly cheerful and generous. In the two weeks she’d been working at his side, he’d never turned anyone down, regardless of gender, race or ability to pay.

      “And what can we do for you today?” he asked their visitor as he approached. “Are all the Wallins healthy? No more bumps, bruises or broken bones among your logging crew, I trust?”

      The man hesitated a moment, then nodded. “My brothers are well enough. I’m here about another matter.”

      “I told Mr. Wallin I could assist him,” Catherine assured her employer.

      “O-ho!” Maynard elbowed the man’s side and didn’t so much as cause their visitor to raise an eyebrow. “Are you after my nurse, Drew? Can’t say I blame you. Allow me to introduce Miss Catherine Stanway. She’s as pretty as a picture and twice as talented.”

      Catherine didn’t blush at the praise. She’d heard it and far more in her hometown of Sudbury, while she’d worked as a nurse in Boston and while aboard the ship to Seattle. Much of the time it came from no sincere motive, she’d learned. She was more interested to see how this Drew fellow would answer. Would he continue to argue with her in the face of her employer’s endorsement?

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