Kansas Courtship. Victoria Bylin

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СКАЧАТЬ seat next to Mr. Crandall, facing the aftermath of a tornado. No physician in the world could have stopped the suffering. The Lord alone gave life and took it away. Whatever gift Nora had for healing, she never lost sight of the one true Healer.

      Mr. Crandall shouted “whoa” and reined the mules to a halt. As the wagons rattled to silence, he removed his hat and held it over his heart. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed to the other wagons. “Let us pray.”

      As Nora bowed her head, Mr. Crandall spoke to the sky. “Father God, we pray for mercy for the injured and the lost, especially those two children, Mikey and Missy. We pray they would be found. We pray for Your hand on their tender lives. Amen.”

      “Amen,” she whispered.

      A chorus of “amens” echoed from Mrs. Crandall and the four children she had with her. As Nora looked again at the empty meadow, Mr. Crandall jammed his hat on his balding head, gave the reins a shake and shouted at the mules. The wagons rolled forward, creaking as they stumbled in ruts. Awed by the vastness of the land, Nora contemplated the next step in her journey.

      Within the hour, she’d meet Mr. Garrison. The tone of his letter had been terse, his penmanship bold. As she’d traveled from New York, enduring grime and crowded trains, she’d imagined their meeting. Judging by his responsibilities, she pictured him as a man in his middle years, perhaps portly with a balding head like Mr. Crandall. Her belly churned as she contemplated their first encounter. If necessary, she’d fight for her right to be a doctor, but the battle would take a toll.

      She’d had little experience with Westerners until meeting the Crandalls. They were decent folk but unschooled. She figured Mr. Garrison came from the same hardworking stock. He could read and write, but she doubted he’d appreciate the book of poetry in her satchel, or the oil painting she’d brought to remind her of home.

      “There’s Garrison Mill,” Mr. Crandall called in a booming voice. “That’s the start of High Plains.”

      Nora sat higher in the seat. Straining her neck, she saw a two-story building on the 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 СКАЧАТЬ