The Proposition. Kate Bridges

Finch?”

      He studied her critically. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

      She shrugged, but seemed flustered by his scrutiny. “Journalists are supposed to ask questions.”

      Maybe, but she seemed to have a bigger stake in this. His gaze again fell to her creamy throat. “The fort’s surgeon, John Calloway, joined us for dinner once after the trial and seemed to like Dr. Finch just fine. And Dr. Virginia Bullock says she and Dr. Finch shared the same physiology professor in medical college.”

      “What?” Jessica’s plate clattered to the pile, the bang surprising them both. A flock of geese fluttered fifty feet away then tore off into the sky. Quickly recovering, Jessica scooped the plate and continued washing. “How’s that possible?”

      He stepped back from her to catch a breath. “Dr. Bullock attended the university in Toronto, but she told me her professor emigrated from Glasgow twelve years earlier. That’s where Dr. Finch went to school. During the trial, they compared notes about their quirky professor. He used to write lists and lists of anatomical glands, organs and bones. He made his students reorganize them according to their placement in the body, starting from the head and working down.”

      She rubbed the back of her neck, looking very disturbed.

      “Glasgow,” Travis repeated. “That’s where Dr. Finch earned his medical degree. He’s Scottish.”

      She slumped down on a protruding boulder.

      “You have done some digging about his background for this interview, haven’t you?”

      “The University of Glasgow,” she whispered, incredulous.

      “What’s this interview about, exactly? What’s the topic?”

      The breeze whirled around her hair. “There’s a man,” she said. “A man I’ve been tracking in Montreal. His name is Dr. King. My topic is about charlatans and their influence in modern society. How their practices have sparked the current laws for licensing of legitimate doctors. Up until recently, almost anyone could call themselves a doctor.”

      “And you think Dr. Finch knows something about Dr. King?”

      “I thought…But his attendance at the University of Glasgow places him in a different…” She flushed. “You’re a policeman. Do you know anything about medical con artists and charlatans?”

      He shook his head. “Not medical. We’ve had our share of passing carnival men who’ve duped folks out of money. We’ve had store owners and bankers who’ve been apprehended with their fingers in the till. But no run-ins with dubious quacks.”

      The animation in her face distracted him again.

      He shoved a hand into a pocket. “I’ve heard about charlatans, though, in the big cities out East—in both Canada and the States. I’ve heard that in Philadelphia they have these medical museums. Innocent folks go in thinking they’re going to see something unusual, but many are cornered and led to believe they’re dangerously ill themselves. They’re taken to a backroom and sold expensive treatments.”

      “There was a museum like that in Montreal. The police disbanded it.”

      “And Dr. King knew something about it?”

      “I’m convinced he was involved, although he was never caught.”

      “Well, if Dr. Finch can help you locate this charlatan, I’m sure he will. Because of him, I won a major trial. Pete Warrick’s doing seven years’ hard labor.”

      Devastation fell across her face. “A doctor’s word is sacred, isn’t it? I mean, no one goes against the word of a doctor.”

      “Not without powerful proof. Do you have any against Dr. King?”

      Her lashes swept downward. “No…”

      “That’s a big accusation with no proof. You could be brought in front of a judge yourself for slandering the doctor’s reputation.”

      She scoffed. “That’s the same thing my father told me.”

      “You should listen to your father.”

      The wind kicked up around them. She sprang to her feet, collecting the plates and cups. “The puzzle pieces are spread in front of me,” she said firmly. “All I have to do is join them.”

      “It seems to me that you have an opinion on everything.”

      “I’m close.” With a burst of militancy, she blew the hair from her face. “I can feel it.”

      They were standing close, and he could feel it. Close enough that he could smell the soap on her hands.

      Their proximity made him uncomfortable. He stepped away to lift the empty bucket. When the wind curled and shifted, he smelled vestiges of smoke. Wary, looking down the flowing river, he straightened and sniffed again.

      “What is it?” she asked.

      “A campfire.”

      She peered through the darkness. “I don’t see it.”

      “It’s a smudge fire. They’re using moss to keep it burning low.”

      “Why would they do that?”

      His muscles tensed. “They’re hiding it on purpose. There’s two or three of them behind us.”

      “Who?”

      “I don’t know. Earlier today along with the hawk you and Merriweather were watching, there were vultures flying in the sky. They were circling something a mile or two farther down the trail. They eat scrap food and anything a traveler might leave behind.”

      “What does that mean?”

      He grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her arm so hard against his chest he stole her breath. “Is there any reason you can think of why someone might be following us?”

      She hesitated, and that worried him.

      “No,” she whispered.

      “Are you sure?”

      She yanked from his powerful grip, spun around and dodged him. “Wh-what on earth would they want from me?”

      He ran a hand across his dry mouth and cursed aloud. If she didn’t know anything about them, then there was only one logical explanation, one that had loomed in his fears since he’d begun planning this critical journey.

      “Then someone’s after my horses.”

      Chapter Five

      With a growing sense of frustration, standing behind a cover of bushes while preparing for bed, Jessica stretched her right arm behind her back as far as it would go and grabbed for the last hook and eye on her corset. She shuffled in the dirt. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. With a moan and a final tug, she managed to unhook it. The red corset flung off her body and ricocheted between a poplar tree and white spruce. A cool breeze whispered over her naked breasts.

      “You damn miserable piece of cotton, I should—”

      “Is everything all right?” Travis called in the darkness.

      Shocked by the proximity of his voice, she scooped her corset and clutched it to her body. “Stay out there!”

      “I’m not coming after you. I’m merely wondering what the fuss is about.”

      “I’m fine. A little difficulty with my clothing. Go on now. Run along.”

      There was a pause. “Yes, ma’am,” he said in mocking tones. She relaxed as his footsteps grew distant. He called to Mr. Merriweather about stacking fire logs.

      She was still touchy from the thought someone might be following them. Every noise spooked her.

      Looking down at her corset, as much as she could see of