With Autumn's Return (Westward Winds Book #3): A Novel (13 page)

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked toward the front door. Once he’d assigned the tasks, he had little to do. If he tried to help, all he did was get in the workers’ way, and that delayed progress. Barrett would not be happy if he and Charlotte returned to discover that the store renovation was incomplete. That was why Harrison had a schedule, not just for the store, but for his life. And, unfortunately, the life plan was not going well.

Perhaps he should take Jason’s advice about Rose. It was good—one part, anyway. Practicing with other girls made sense, but the problem remained that Harrison didn’t know any other little girls. The other part of Jason’s advice was just plain silly. Pray. God had more important things to worry about than providing Harrison with a little girl who’d teach him what other little girls liked.

Wincing at the seemingly endless sound of hammers and saws, Harrison shook his head. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to
try. He wouldn’t pronounce the words aloud, of course, but thinking them couldn’t hurt, could it? Gaining Rose’s trust was important, and it wasn’t as if he had any other ideas. He had nothing to lose and maybe, just maybe, everything to gain.

Turning away from the workers, Harrison faced the front window, closed his eyes, and sent a prayer heavenward. When he opened his eyes, he blinked, certain he was mistaken. It couldn’t be. But it was. Two little girls stood outside the window, their noses pressed to the glass.

“Well, young ladies, who are you?” he asked as he stepped outside. He wouldn’t call them answered prayers, even though that was exactly what they were. Though the bright sunshine caused him to squint, the girls’ eyes were wide with innocence. Harrison was no judge of ages, but since they were of different heights, he guessed that one was a year or two older than the other. Both had big brown eyes and dark brown hair gathered into uneven braids.

“I’m Rebecca,” the taller girl said, “and she’s Rachel.”

All right. They had names, and they hadn’t run away shrieking with fear the instant they saw him. That was good, but where was their mother? What little Harrison knew about young girls included the fact that they did not wander the streets of Cheyenne unaccompanied. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your mother?”

It was the wrong question. Tears welled in the shorter one’s eyes, while the older one frowned. “She’s gone,” Rebecca told him. “Our ma went to heaven.”

“Pa said it would be a long time until we saw her again,” the younger girl added.

“I see.” What Harrison saw was that he was going to need
lots more practice if he had any chance of charming Rose. He’d asked two questions. The first had been innocuous, but now the girls were close to crying. He’d have to try harder. “I saw you at the window. What were you looking at?” Surely there wasn’t anything wrong with that question.

“We heard hammers.” Not surprisingly, it was Rebecca, the older one, who answered. “We thought they might be building a stairway.”

That was one thing that was not included in the building renovation. Barrett had seen no need for an interior staircase. “There are already two on the outside,” Harrison said, pointing to the one that led to his apartment. A matching stairway on the opposite side of the building led to the apartment Gwen and Rose shared with Elizabeth Harding.

“We saw that, but it only goes to the second floor.” Rachel’s expression said that Harrison should realize how inadequate that was. He did not. “We were looking for a stairway to heaven.”

The pain that clenched Harrison’s heart made him gasp. There was no reason to ask why the girls wanted a stairway that stretched all the way to heaven. “I’m sorry,” he said as softly as he could, “but we’re not building a staircase.”

Though Rebecca appeared stoic, Rachel began to sob. “I wanna see Ma again.”

He’d thought it couldn’t get worse, but it had. “Does she have a handkerchief?” he asked Rebecca as the tears rolled down Rachel’s cheeks.

“She always loses it.” Rebecca dug into her pocket and withdrew a large square of calico. “You can use mine. You gotta hold it to her nose, cuz she’s not very good at blowing.”

And so Harrison found himself kneeling on the boardwalk,
holding a brightly colored piece of calico to a little girl’s nose as a tall man clutching a baby to his chest raced toward him.

“There you are!” the man cried when he reached the girls. Clad in denim and boots, with a Stetson perched on his dark brown hair, the man would have resembled many other men in the city were it not for his distracted expression. “I thought I’d lost you,” he told the girls. When Rebecca and Rachel looked up, their eyes filled with confusion, he turned toward Harrison. “What were they doing here?”

Harrison mopped the last tears from Rachel’s face and returned the handkerchief to Rebecca. “It appears they were looking for a stairway to heaven.”

The way the man’s lips tightened told Harrison he was struggling for composure. “I should never have read them the story about Jacob and the ladder. Now they want me to build one so they can visit their mother.”

Harrison rose. As he’d thought, the young father topped him by a few inches. “I’m sorry for your loss. It looks as if you have your hands full.”

“You can say that again.” The baby in the man’s arms began to fuss, causing him to slide one of his fingers between her lips. When she started to suck, he turned back to Harrison. “The woman who’s been caring for the girls during the day came down with diphtheria. I’m on my own now.” He looked at the two girls who had returned to staring into the store, as if they didn’t believe Harrison’s story of no stairway. “It’s not too bad at home, but I needed to buy a few things in town and, well . . . You saw what happened. I turned my back for a second, and these two were gone.” He nodded at the baby in his arms. “If Ruby could walk, she’d probably have gone with her sisters.”

Harrison’s heart ached almost as much as it had when he’d heard the girls talking about their special staircase. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He could probably do the man’s shopping for him.

The man’s eyes brightened. “Would you watch these two while I go down the street to Myers Dry Goods? I need some clothes for them.”

Harrison wished Barrett’s new stock had arrived. If it had, he could help the man without having to look after two young girls. “You’d trust me with your daughters, Mr. . . .” He let his voice trail off.

“Granger. Kevin Granger.”

“I’m Harrison Landry.”

“Barrett Landry’s brother? I heard he bought this store from Mr. Yates.”

“Exactly. Barrett’s expanding it. When it’s finished, it’ll be the most modern dry goods store in town.”

Kevin Granger nodded. “I promise to do all my shopping there if you’ll just help me out today.”

“I wish I could, but I don’t know anything about little girls. All I did was ask a couple questions, and I got tears.”

Kevin shook his head slowly. “It wasn’t you. Rachel cries a lot. I’d be much obliged if you’d help me.”

Though he suspected he was making a mistake by agreeing, Harrison could not forget that he’d prayed for this opportunity. It would be the worst kind of ingratitude to toss aside God’s gift.

“What do I do?”

The tall man’s face brightened. “It’s easy. You ask them.”

It wasn’t as easy as Kevin claimed, but when Harrison learned that Rebecca and Rachel liked to skip rope, he found
a rope inside the store and held one end, helping one girl twirl it while the other jumped. When Rachel and Rebecca tired of that, he learned that they enjoyed singing and found himself joining in childhood ditties. It took less than an hour, but by the time Kevin returned, Harrison was more tired than if he’d spent the entire day at heavy labor.

“Can we come back, Pa?” Rebecca asked as they left the backyard. “I like Mr. Landry.”

“Me too,” Rachel chorused.

Kevin grinned. “See, I told you it was easy.”

Jason wasn’t certain what surprised him more, the fact that Elizabeth was carrying a package that appeared to have come from Mr. Ellis’s bakery or that she looked a bit like the Cheshire cat, her smile so wide that it urged a man to return it. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Something smells delicious.”

Though he hadn’t thought it possible, her smile broadened. “I brought you a spice cake.”

One day when they’d had little else to discuss, he had mentioned that was his favorite, never thinking she’d remember. But she had, for here she was in his office, holding out a box of mouth-watering cake. “Is this all for me?”

Elizabeth nodded. “If you like. I thought you might share a piece with me, though. You see, I’m celebrating the addition of a dozen new patients.”

That explained the grin. “Twelve patients in one day is wonderful.”

He took the cake from her and gestured toward his library. Though the table there was designed for poring over multiple
books, it could do double duty as a dining table. As soon as he’d heard Elizabeth’s story, he’d run upstairs and grab a knife and a couple forks and plates.

“Tell me about it.” He hadn’t seen that many women entering her office. In fact, he hadn’t seen any patients, but that could be because he’d spent an hour in here where the only window overlooked the alley.

“The way it got started wasn’t wonderful,” she admitted. “A woman fell and broke her ankle outside Mr. Ellis’s store. Fortunately, I saw her and was able to help. I’m sorry about her injury, but I’m certainly not sorry about the new patients, especially since I’ll be calling on them regularly.”

Though he knew it wasn’t impossible that twelve people in Cheyenne would have picked this day to consult Elizabeth and that they all would require periodic treatment, something about it sounded odd to Jason. “Do you mind my asking who these new patients are?”

The Cheshire cat grin faded, replaced by an expression that seemed almost wary. “I haven’t met them yet, but they work at Phoebe Simcoe’s establishment. She’s the woman who broke her ankle.”

“What?” Jason couldn’t hold back his cry of surprise. “You’re going to treat whores?”

“I’ll be treating women who need a doctor.” Elizabeth’s voice was cool, her expression so strained that Jason knew he’d made a mistake. Still, he couldn’t let her continue on that path without warning her. They were friends, and friends were honest with each other, even when the news was painful.

Using the tone his professors claimed was most effective in convincing reluctant juries, Jason said, “I know you want more patients, but I think you’re making a mistake. You’ve
just started winning over the women, and this will set you back. Word spreads quickly in Cheyenne—you know that—and when it does, no decent women will want you to treat them.”

She wasn’t convinced. He could see that. Her lips thinning, Elizabeth shook her head. “I understand that Dr. Worland used to attend Phoebe’s girls. From what I gathered, his visits there didn’t hurt his practice.”

“That’s different.”

“Because he’s a man?”

Jason nodded slowly. There was no point in dissembling. “You may not like it, but you know there’s a difference. You’ve said it yourself. Women have to be smarter than men to be accepted at medical college, and now that you’ve graduated, everyone expects you to be more competent, more upstanding, and better in every way than your male colleagues.” When she started to bristle, Jason added, “It’s like being a minister’s child. You’re held to a higher standard.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“I didn’t say it did.” Jason had hated the way his father’s parishioners scrutinized his every move, complaining over the slightest infraction when it was Jason’s fault but ignoring it when one of his friends was responsible.

Elizabeth’s eyes flashed the way they had the day he’d met her, her heightened color telling Jason how much this discussion irritated her. “I’m not condoning Phoebe’s lifestyle or that of her girls. It’s deplorable that any woman is forced to sell her body. But I took an oath to heal, and that’s what I plan to do. Phoebe’s girls need my care as much as—perhaps more than—what you call the decent women of Cheyenne.”

“Principles are fine,” he said softly, hoping to diffuse her anger, “but you need to be practical too. Don’t do something that will hurt your career.”

“This won’t.”

Jason could only hope she was right.

 9 

E
lizabeth wasn’t certain what to expect when she went to the bordello. When she’d thought about it, she’d envisioned a building painted flamboyant colors. At the very least, she’d thought it would be tawdry. But had she not seen the discreet sign next to the front door, she would have walked by the two-story brick building with the lace- and velvet-covered windows. There was nothing distinctive about it other than its size. While it wasn’t as large or as ornate as the cattle barons’ mansions that lined Ferguson and the streets near the Cheyenne Club, it was more than average sized. It had to be to accommodate a dozen women and half a dozen servants. Although unpretentious, all it needed was a wide front porch, and it would have appeared to be home to a large family.

As Elizabeth climbed the steps to the small stoop by the front door, she reflected that the absence of a porch was deliberate. While she had waited for her cast to dry, Phoebe had spoken of the building she called home, saying she hadn’t
bothered with an architect but had had it built to her specifications. Undoubtedly Phoebe had realized that no one would use a porch. She had told Elizabeth that, unlike some madams, she chose not to put her girls on display. Furthermore, it was unlikely visitors would want to advertise their presence by sitting on the porch. According to Gwen, Phoebe catered to the most influential members of Cheyenne’s society. Perhaps that was why she referred to it as a bordello rather than a whorehouse. The term wasn’t important. What was was that the building housed the majority of Elizabeth’s patients.

Gripping her bag, she tried not to frown. No matter what Jason had said, treating Phoebe’s girls was the right thing to do. They needed medical care, and they deserved to be treated with respect, regardless of how they earned their living. The frown she’d tried to repress settled on her face as she remembered Jason’s expression the day she’d told him she would be treating these women. Just when she thought she understood him, he did something unexpected.

While she hadn’t believed he would be overjoyed by the idea, Elizabeth hadn’t realized he’d be so adamant about her treating Phoebe’s girls. Had it been another man, she might have believed that he was one of Phoebe’s customers and feared she’d discover that, but Elizabeth was convinced Jason did not frequent Phoebe’s or any of what Mama referred to as houses of ill repute. Elizabeth couldn’t explain how she knew, but she was certain Jason would not pay for a woman’s favors. It wasn’t simply that as a minister’s son he would have heard numerous sermons about the evils of fornication. Those sermons might have influenced him, but they weren’t the only reason he wouldn’t visit Phoebe. Though
he and Elizabeth disagreed on some things, fundamentally, Jason was a man of honor, and that honor would not allow him to demean a woman.

That thought—no, Elizabeth corrected herself, that knowledge—chased away her frown. Jason had disagreed with her decision to treat Phoebe’s girls, but the reason had nothing to do with him. It was because he feared Elizabeth would hurt her chances for acceptance as a physician, and he’d wanted to protect her. How sweet!

Her smile as wide as the Wyoming prairie, Elizabeth knocked on the door. A few seconds later, she was escorted into what would have been called a parlor in another house. Elizabeth wasn’t certain what term applied here. Like an ordinary parlor, it was furnished with comfortable seating, a few small tables and lamps. Like an ordinary parlor, it boasted a thick carpet. Unlike an ordinary parlor, it had a second door to the outside, perhaps so that patrons could enter without attracting attention, and unlike an ordinary parlor, the paintings that hung on the walls brought a blush to Elizabeth’s cheeks. Portraits of women wearing only scraps of cloth artfully draped over their bodies looked down from each of the walls.

“I see I’ve shocked you,” Phoebe said as she made her way into the room.

Grateful to have something less controversial to look at, Elizabeth focused her attention on the woman who’d invited her here. Though she was dressed in the unrelieved black that she’d worn the day she broke her ankle, today her hair was gathered into a simple chignon rather than the elaborate coiffure she’d sported that day. What held Elizabeth’s attention was her awkwardness with the crutch. It had been almost a
week since Elizabeth had prescribed it for her. By now she should have become accustomed to it.

“I’d say I was startled rather than shocked. The truth is, I’m more concerned about your ankle than your artwork.” Elizabeth pointed toward the crutch. “You’re still having trouble with it.”

Phoebe nodded her agreement. “I can’t seem to get the hang of it. I was hoping you could show me what I’m doing wrong. First, I want you to meet my girls. Girls!”

They must have assembled in the long hallway that extended from the front to the back of the house, for they entered the parlor as soon as they heard Phoebe’s command. Like the exterior of the house, they were not what Elizabeth had expected. They wore no face paint, and their hair was neatly braided. The only clues to their profession were the unnatural shade of some of the girls’ hair and the elaborately trimmed wrappers they wore. Though as modest as the wrappers Elizabeth owned, these had more ruffles and lace than she’d ever seen. Even Charlotte’s fanciest creations were plain compared to this.

As the girls filed into the room and perched on the various chairs, Phoebe inclined her head toward Elizabeth. “This is Dr. Harding. As I told you this morning, she’s going to replace Doc Worland.”

A round of cheers greeted her words and warmed Elizabeth’s heart, confirming her belief that she had made the right decision in treating these women. “Thank you. I want to assure you that I’ll do my best to keep you healthy.”

Elizabeth looked around the room, noting that several of the girls appeared to be no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, while others were in their middle thirties. What
they all had in common were their eyes. There was a quiet resignation in them that told Elizabeth they knew there was no hope of changing their lives. But, though her heart ached for them, Elizabeth could not set them on different paths. All she could do was tend to their medical needs.

She gave the girls a smile, hoping they’d realize she was their ally. “I also want to assure you that whatever you tell me will be kept in confidence.”

“Except from me.” Phoebe’s voice filled the room, and though no one said a word, Elizabeth saw several of them wince.

“Even from you, ma’am,” she said firmly. “What I learn will be kept confidential. That is my responsibility as a physician.”

“But Doc Worland . . .”

Though she hated to contradict Phoebe, particularly in front of her girls, Elizabeth could not back down. “I am not Dr. Worland. I can compromise on many things, but patient confidentiality is not one of them.”

For a long moment, Phoebe said nothing, merely stared at Elizabeth as if expecting her to flinch. At last, she nodded. “All right. I’ll find out sooner or later, anyway.” She gestured toward the girls. “They’ll wait for you upstairs in their rooms. You might as well start with me. This ankle’s itching something awful.”

As the girls climbed the staircase, Phoebe led the way down the hallway. Elizabeth saw a large dining room on the right, behind the parlor, but the wall on the left was unbroken except by one door at the very end. Pulling a key from her pocket, Phoebe unlocked that door.

“These are my private quarters,” she said as she led the way into a sumptuously furnished sitting room. Like the parlor,
Phoebe’s boudoir had a second entrance, this one leading outside. Opposite the entrance, an open door revealed a bedchamber. There were no portraits of scantily clad women here. Instead, the walls boasted delicate watercolors of European scenes. Elizabeth recognized the Roman Colosseum and Paris’s Notre Dame Cathedral but couldn’t identify the bridge.

“It’s the Bridge of Sighs in Venice,” Phoebe said as she sank onto a horsehair settee. “I keep the pictures to remind me that there’s a world outside of this house.” Though there was a wistfulness in her voice that made Elizabeth think Phoebe regretted her choice of profession, she would say nothing. She was here as a physician, not as a judge or even an advisor.

“I noticed that you’re left-handed,” Elizabeth said, gesturing to the hand that still held the key. “I hadn’t realized that before. It’s no wonder you’re having difficulty with the crutch.” To keep the weight off her injured ankle, Phoebe had to manipulate the crutch with her right arm and hand, and since that was her nondominant side, it was awkward. “Perhaps you should try a cane instead. I can have one delivered this afternoon.”

Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Go ahead. It can’t be any worse.” She was silent while Elizabeth inspected her ankle, but when Elizabeth declared it was healing well and that the itching was normal, Phoebe gave Elizabeth her most persuasive smile. “Are you sure you won’t tell me what you learn from the girls?”

Elizabeth suspected this was the reason Phoebe had asked to be first. She wanted another chance to persuade Elizabeth. “I can only tell you if it’s something that might endanger the
others. I’ve heard there have been a few cases of diphtheria in the area. If one of your girls contracted it, you would need to know so that you could quarantine her.”

Phoebe’s lips thinned. “None of them have diphtheria.”

They did not. As she completed the last of her examinations three hours later, Elizabeth suspected Phoebe might have preferred diphtheria.

“Are you going to tell her?” Sheila Kerrigan asked when Elizabeth confirmed her diagnosis. The petite brunette had classic black Irish coloring, with hair so dark a brown it was almost black and deep blue eyes. In the lilting voice that betrayed her origins, she told Elizabeth she was twenty-two years old and had been in Cheyenne little more than a year. “Sure and it’s different from Ireland,” she said with a grin. “There are no soft days here.” Soft, she explained, meant a day when the rain fell as a mist. So far, Elizabeth had seen no days of rain, soft or otherwise. And what she saw now was a young woman in a difficult situation.

“I said I wouldn’t tell Phoebe, and I won’t. Of course,” she added, watching Sheila’s expression carefully, “you won’t be able to hide it forever.”

The pretty brunette clenched her fists. “She’ll want me to get rid of it. That’s what happened when Annie got caught.”

Elizabeth wasn’t surprised. As deplorable as it was, she suspected that was the normal practice when a girl “got caught,” as Sheila had phrased it. “You can probably hide your condition for another month or six weeks,” she told Sheila, “but I’d suggest you not wait. It’ll only get harder. If you’d like, I’ll go with you when you tell Phoebe.”

Her eyes widening with surprise, Sheila tipped her head to one side. “Would you?”

“Of course.” Five minutes later, Elizabeth knocked on the door to Phoebe’s sitting room and found the madam sitting with her leg propped on an ottoman. “Sheila has something she needs to tell you.”

“Something tells me I’m not going to like it.” Phoebe gestured toward the two chairs opposite the settee. “What is it, girl?”

The harsh tone made Sheila flinch, but she straightened her shoulders as she sat. “It’s good news for me. Dr. Harding confirmed that I’m going to have a baby.” The smile Sheila gave Elizabeth faded when she saw Phoebe’s eyes narrow and spots of color rise to her cheeks. Though Phoebe’s reaction was what Elizabeth had expected, she was surprised by its intensity.

“Good news?” Her face contorting with anger, Phoebe spat the words. “That’s just about the worst news you could have brought me.” She fixed her gaze on Elizabeth. “Will you help her get rid of it?”

“I can’t.” It wasn’t what Phoebe wanted to hear, but it was the only answer Elizabeth could give. “Even if Sheila wanted that, I took the Hippocratic oath, and that—”

Phoebe interrupted, glaring at the petite brunette. “You can’t want this baby. It’ll ruin everything.”

“I do want it.” Sheila’s eyes darkened. “I watched my mam bury three little ones. I’m not going to bury mine.”

“How are you going to earn a living? You won’t be able to entertain anyone when you’re as big as a horse.”