The Drifter. Сьюзен Виггс

Mrs. Trotter would fix that unruly hair in order to do the dress justice?”

      And later, when she was a schoolgirl: “There are a hundred ways to be mistaken, but only one way to be right. You have your mother’s looks and—alas—her contempt for conventional wisdom.”

      When she became a young lady and a social failure, he had said, “If you cannot attract a decent husband, I shall permit you to assist me in my practice.”

      By the time she recognized the harm he’d done her, it was too late to repair the damage. But he was gone now, and maybe she could find a way to move out from under his shadow. Maybe the world would open up for her.

      “It’s not fair for me to pin so much hope on you, Penny,” Leah said, shaking off her thoughts.

      She placed the letter to Penelope Anne Lake on a wooden desk tray, then checked her register. Mrs. Petty-grove had sent her houseboy with a list of the usual complaints, all of them imaginary, all treatable with a cup of Sophie’s mild herb tea and a bit of conversation. The Ebey lad, the one who had been kicked by a horse, had passed a quiet night.

      Unlike Leah. Her own head throbbed—not from an iron-shod hoof, but from a man with an iron will.

      And the most frightening eyes she had ever seen.

      Just the thought of those hard gray eyes brought her to her feet. Restlessly, she paced the surgery, scanning the bookshelves and the framed certificates hanging on the walls, trying to construct her day in some sort of orderly fashion. But the extraordinary night she’d passed destroyed her concentration.

      Memories of the man’s bleak gaze troubled her as she stopped at the coat tree behind the door and put on a white muslin smock. The garment had been laundered and starched and fiercely pressed by Iona, the deaf-mute girl abandoned by her parents three years earlier.

      Over her father’s protests, Leah had taken in the girl. Other women marry and have children of their own. But you have to adopt someone else’s damaged goods.

      Leah wished she could forget her father’s bitter words. But she remembered everything. Her blade-sharp memory was both a gift and a curse. In medical school, she’d been renowned for her ability to commit the most minute detail to memory. Yet the curse of it was, she also recalled every slight, every slur, and they hurt as fresh as yesterday. Leah Mundy, too busy doing a man’s job to remember she’s a woman… Her childhood friends had gone to parties while Leah had stayed home, memorizing formulae and anatomy. Her classmates had married and become mothers while Leah doctored people and delivered other women’s babies.

      Resolutely, she filled a small earthenware churn with vinegar heated at the kitchen stove. She added sassafras and mint, then a pinch of ground cloves, and put the container on a tray to take upstairs.

      As she passed through the hallway, she heard the sounds of clinking dishes and silver from the dining room, the clack of the coffee grinder in the kitchen. Smells of sizzling bacon and baking biscuits wafted through the house. Eight o’clock, and Perpetua Dawson would be serving breakfast.

      Leah rarely took the time to sit down for a meal with the boarders. When she did, she felt awkward and intrusive anyway. She had never learned to be comfortable in company, even among people she encountered every day. For most of her life, she’d been regarded as an oddity, an aberration, sometimes an absurdity: a woman with a mind of her own and the ill manners to show it.

      She paused in the grand foyer. Perhaps this was the area that had deluded the outlaw into thinking the house fancy. High above the front door was a wheeled window of leaded glass depicting a ship at sea. The colored panes with their fanciful design served as a reminder of bygone days when the owner of the house had been a prosperous sea captain. A railed bridge, reminiscent of a ship’s deck, spanned the vestibule from above, connecting the two upper wings of the house.

      By the time Leah’s father had bought the place, it had been an abandoned wreck for many years. He’d gone deep into debt restoring it, but impossible debt was nothing new for Edward Mundy.

      She went up the main staircase, noting with satisfaction the sheen of verbena wax on the banisters. Iona kept the house immaculate.

      Leah stopped outside the first door on the right. She tapped her foot lightly against the door. “Carrie? Are you awake?”

      No sound. Leah shouldered open the door, the tray balanced carefully in both hands. Silence. Heavy drapes blocked out the morning light. She stood still for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. The room had a fine rosewood bedstead and, when the curtains were parted, a commanding view of Penn Cove.

      Carrie lay unmoving in the tall four-poster bed. Alone. Good God, had the husband abandoned her?

      Leah turned to set the tray on a side table—and nearly dropped it.

      The gunman.

      He dozed sitting up in a chintz-covered chair, his long legs and broad shoulders an ungainly contrast to the dainty piece of furniture. He still wore his denims and duster, his hat pulled down over the top half of his face.

      Held loosely in his hand was the Colt revolver.

      Leah gasped when she saw it. “Sir!” she said sharply.

      He came instantly alert, the hat brim and the gun barrel both lifting in warning. When he recognized Leah, he stood and approached her, raising one side of his mouth in a parody of a grin.

      “Morning, Doc,” he said in his gravelly voice. “You look mighty crisp and clean this morning.” Insolently, he ran his long, callused finger down her arm. The forbidden touch shocked Leah. She flinched, glaring at him. Before she could move away, he cornered her. “Uh-oh, Doc.”

      “What’s the matter?” She forced herself to appear calm.

      “You missed one.” Before she could stop him, he reached around and fastened the top button of her shirtwaist.

      A man should not be so familiar with a woman he didn’t know. Particularly a married man. “Sir—”

      “Do you always look so stiff and starched after wrecking a man’s boat?”

      Ignoring his sarcasm, she moved past him. “Excuse me. I need to check on my patient.” She deposited the tray on the table. “Did you find a bottle of your wife’s tonic? I need to know what she’s been taking.”

      “All our things are on the boat.”

      “I wish you’d remembered the tonic.”

      “We had to abandon ship pretty fast. It was all I could do to keep myself from choking you to death.”

      “That wouldn’t do Carrie much good, would it?”

      “Damn it, woman, you could have killed us all.”

      “Perhaps you’ll consider that the next time you try to kidnap me.” She took the lid off the medicine crock.

      He crossed the room, boots treading softly on the threadbare carpet. “What’s that?”

      “An inhalant to clear the lungs.”

      “So what’s wrong with her?” he asked, and she heard the anxiety in his voice. “Besides…you know.”

      “Yes, I do know.”

      “She’s got the croup or something?”

      “Or something.” Leah folded her arms. “I’ll need to do a more thorough examination. Her lungs sounded congested last night. She’s in danger of developing lobar pneumonia.”

      His ice gray eyes narrowed. “Is that bad?”

      “It can be, yes, particularly for a woman in her condition. That’s why we’d best do everything we can to prevent it from happening.”

      “What’s everything?”

      “The inhalant. Complete bed rest. Plenty of clear liquids and as much food as we can get her to eat. She must regain