“Moore?”
“You met him last night. Mrs. Whittaker was on his arm?”
The scowling man, he remembered. “Yes, but why —”
“Laying in wait for her, like some jackal, with his doctors,
Moore is. Hold your own among them, Mr. Hart, with your good sense, your … your welcome from the child. I’ll have Patsy look out for you when your work’s done. Then we’ll talk, yes?”
“Sure, but — all right, ma’am.”
“Of course you lanced the other areas, Mr. Hart?”
“No.”
Doctor Gaston let his assistant snort out his own disgust before he continued. “You left Miss Whittaker in unrelenting pain while —”
“I never left her.”
Why had Dora insisted on these doctors, James Whittaker wondered, their words not clear to him, perhaps even meant to baffle him further on the state of his daughter’s health? He turned to that odd duck, her ranger. At least the man spoke English. He had been so calm, so blessedly encouraging in Three Rivers. Now he looked ready to wring Moore’s and his doctors’ necks. Where was Sidney, damn him, he’d backed Hart’s opinions, had even joined Olana in convincing him to hire the fellow to come home with them. Dora was having a bad morning, and had left everything to Darius Moore. As fond as he professed to be of Olana, why did he keep nodding gravely now? These men wanted to cut up his daughter!
True, she did not look well. Her eyes struggled to follow the abrupt movements around her bed. She’d looked healthier in the mountains, James thought. He must not lose her. It would kill them all, this time.
“The pain was not unbearable,” a pale version of Olana’s voice spoke up from the pillows. “The worst part was the blisters. Papa. Mr. Hart said they would go down on their own, and they did.” Another snort and the Olana he knew surfaced in her ire. “Kindly tell your colleague to use his handkerchief, sir!”
Doctor Gaston froze, then pointed to his associate’s breast pocket, and then to the door. The man excused himself.
Hysterical. Was Olana being hysterical? Or just bad-mannered? She’d been an unruly child all her life, didn’t they understand? No laudanum. Don’t start his lively daughter on his wife’s habit. James Whittaker sighed. “Gentlemen. Might you unite in the purpose of my daughter’s recovery?”
Matthew Hart’s eyes met Moore’s. The ranger and Darius Moore had taken a mutual dislike to each other on sight last night, James could see it. Another time it would have intrigued him. Now, complicating the matter of restoring Olana, it was irritating.
Doctor Gaston moved in closer, yanked the covers back from Olana’s raised, swollen feet. She started, her eyes frightened. The ranger’s lips whitened.
“Doctor,” Olana whispered, “the rest of my injuries healed.”
Gaston nodded mournfully, like an undertaker. “On the contrary, they have congregated in your feet — where all the poisons will strengthen, before they rise up and paralyze, perhaps kill, unless —”
“That’s plain nonsense!” Matthew Hart exclaimed.
Gaston turned to James. “Mr. Whittaker, you rescued your daughter from the wilderness, brought us to her at the last possible moment. If we make incisions here —” The physician pressed his ivory handled stick into Olana’s feet. “And here —” She winced. Matthew Hart knocked the instrument from Gaston’s hand. It struck the bedroom door.
“Get away from her. She’s not cattle to be prodded.”
The physician glared. “We can’t make our prognosis if we’re to be assaulted by this — barbarian, sir!”
The ranger made his argument to James directly, too. “There are no poisons, Mr. Whittaker. Freezing’s a serious, but a simple ailment, and Miss Whittaker’s been healing herself of it. Time, rest, gentle care, and her feet will finish their own work.”
“How convenient,” Moore’s sardonic voice entered the fray, “a cure that requires nothing of the physician.”
Matthew Hart moved closer to Olana’s side and straightened his stance like a steadfast soldier on guard. “If you let them take a
knife to her now, you’re leaving her open to troubles she may not overcome. A whole new burden of healing, scaring, disfigurement.”
James Whittaker looked around the circle. Were they all in league to torment him? The prodding doctor laid a hand on his shoulder. His colleagues closed in.
“We’re trying to save your child’s life, sir.”
“She’s not a child,” Matthew Hart contended. “And she’s bested the lot of us — she’s saved her own life. Her heart was down to five beats a minute when first I brought her out of the cold.”
Moore swung around to face him. “That’s patently impossible!” he proclaimed. “The man’s a fool and a liar both, sir!”
Matthew’s jaw tightened, exactly like Leland’s used to, when insulted. But just as quickly, his mouth went slack, and his words betrayed what Dora had called ‘a Secessionist’s drawl.’
“This lady’s healing ought not get undone.”
“What?” Gaston demanded.
Matthew kept his eyes on James Whittaker. “By folks who never felt the kind of cold she survived, sir,” he finished.
Gaston spun him around. The ranger’s smile broadened as he recovered, stood his ground. Go on, the smile invited. Hit me. Let’s see which of us is the barbarian. An interesting tactic, James Whittaker noted, even in the midst of his own distress. And he noted Olana’s fingers gripping the ranger’s sleeve.
“Mr. Hart’s approach has benefits —” James began.
“If you prefer to leave your daughter in the care of an unschooled country shaman, we will not be held responsible for the consequences!” Gaston shouted.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Darius Moore held up his hands. At last, Dora’s Indian fighter to his rescue, James thought. “We share a joint purpose,” he began. “Dr. Gaston and his associates have learning; Mr. Hart, experience. Let us leave it to the loving parents to choose, shall we?”
James nodded curtly. The man was bloodless, but quite correct.
And at least he’d get some breathing room. “Thank you, Darius.”
The black-suited men followed Moore out. James Whittaker motioned for Matthew to follow. Olana’s fingers released his sleeve as her maid appeared from the shadows.
“Please open a window,” he instructed before he left. His only instruction since he’d arrived to oversee Olana’s care, and here he was risking her to the cold winter air.
Matthew waited for James Whittaker in a cavernous, two-storied room filled with books. James watched Olana’s baffling, surly avenging angel as he breathed in the fresh bindings. He read over the titles on the leather-bound spines, then removed one from the section that held Whittier, Thoreau, Joaquin Miller. There. Unschooled shaman, indeed. The man was not as ignorant as Dora insisted. James Whittaker entered. He went to his desk, pulled out a wooden box filled with Havana cigars as Matthew Hart returned the volume. When he offered one, the ranger shook his head. What kind of a man would refuse a fine cigar?
“Sit down, Mr. Hart.”
“I apologize. My patience wasn’t what it should have been.”
“Sit down.”
Matthew took the wing chair he was offered, but sat leaning forward. Odd. James Whittaker busied himself preparing his smoke, lit, and tugged out the first ashes. “I love my daughter, Mr. Hart,” he said, finally. “She is my future. It’s important for me to know who you are. You’d feel the same in my place.”
“Yes,” he conceded, “I would.”
James frowned. Go on, he told himself. Go after his pride first. “Do you consider those men colleagues?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. I paid them half your month’s fee for one visit wherein they frightened my daughter into anemia. The price of her complete confidence in you might prove disastrous to my holdings.”
The surprised merriment in the ranger’s eyes quickly stilled. “I hope to God it’s warranted confidence, Hart. If my daughter recovers you can name your price.”
“I don’t want more money, sir.”
James knew that. The fact was, he didn’t want any money. He didn’t want to be here, that’s why he’d tried to circumvent Mr. Parker’s order to take the job by naming the most outlandish fee he could think of. Except it wasn’t outlandish at all. He didn’t know much about money. Or the power it provided. James felt sorry for him in that. He suspected the boy had already been bruised by his ignorance. James even felt protective of this fierce, direct stranger, who had saved his daughter’s life, who had even praised her as ‘a fine woman, with great courage.’ Odd. Why did he say that? Women didn’t need courage, did they?
“What do you want, Hart?”
“’Lana’s health. My leave.”
“Permission to return to your trees?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Whittaker walked toward the leaded glass windows, his hands clenched behind his back. His legs were slightly bowed from being in the saddle so much, visiting his timber mills. He turned until Matthew Hart could see only a quarter of his face, and the smoking cigar. Because he needed to be stern, and he found the honesty of the young man’s face too compelling, too refreshing. Buck up, James. Do it. The man didn’t want to be here. He upset Dora, and the valet was ready to quit over him. He had dangerous politics. And Olana’s affection.
“I thought that allowing my daughter’s journey to the National Park’s opening would solidify some notions about the proper use of timber and her own place in society. I wasn’t counting on you to disrupt both.”
“You’re not exactly my idea of a lumber baron yourself, sir.”
The older man turned. “Is that a compliment?”
“Wholehearted.”
James Whittaker’s face broke into a grin. “‘’Lana,’ eh?”
“It slipped out.”
“I like it. But her mother won’t. And Mrs. Whittaker doesn’t care for you, I’m afraid. You’re at odds with the doctors. That fool Gaston and his assistants treat her neurasthenia.”
“Neuras —”
“Their expensive name for her bouts of debilitating weakness, headaches. She’s suffered them since … for a long time.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Yes, well. It’s … it’s only fair to tell you that my wife and Darius Moore are pulling me toward her physicians’ advice.” There. Let’s see some anger. Quit, so I’m not faced with firing you. But the ranger only spoke softly.
“Who is Moore, sir?”
“He manages several of my businesses. And serves as a bookkeeper for my wife in her philanthropic pursuits. I’m so flat-footed he serves as her dance partner as well at their charity soirees. He cuts a fine figure, and she is so sad, has so few pleasures …” God, why was he telling him that? “Olana’s heart was down to five beats a minute, you say?”
“Uh … yes, sir.”
A sudden laugh erupted from James Whittaker, as it often did when he’d made a decision. “Yes, by God, you scoundrel! Turn my household upside down if you must! But we’ll try your way first!”
James Whittaker knew the place in the room where he could watch, unobserved. He arrived well before Matthew reached Olana’s side. He shouldn’t have, but he had to see her reaction to his choice, and he had to see them alone.
Matthew Hart ignored the chair Patsy put out and sat on the bed. Olana was lost in the lace, the damask, the pillows, much like her mother had been now, for twenty years. Was Dora’s condition going to be passed on? Olana’s voice was just above a whisper.
“Are they gone?”
“They’re gone.”
“And you’re still here.”
“Your father’s a patient man.”
Her mouth quivered. “Come closer, Matthew.” She frowned at his tie, pulled out the pin and had it realigned in seconds. “There,” she approved. “You look very handsome. How is your back?”
“Healing.”
His back. Of course. That’s why he didn’t lean into the chair.
“You’ve won over Cook,” Olana told him, her voice sounding stronger. “But you frightened Papa’s valet to death!”
Matthew winced. “I can dress myself.”
“Well, I’m not going to send my Patsy to make sure everything’s on you properly. She’s too pretty.” She looked him over once more, how? Boldly? Olana, who was bored by men of all stripes? Then she sighed. “Perhaps I’d best loan you my three-way mirror, though.”
They laughed quietly together, until she was overcome by a dry cough. The ranger reached the bedside table, poured her a glass of water from a pitcher there, then held it to her lips. Her fingers twined with his until she finished. He laid her head gently back in the pillows. There were tears in her eyes.
“I’ll be good. Don’t let them cut me, Matthew,” she whispered.
“I won’t. You don’t even have to be good.”
She gave herself into his arms, reaching past the starched shirt to his suspenders. She held them as he rocked her and made quiet, humming sounds at the back of his throat. It was achingly familiar to James, seeing them like that. “There,” Matthew whispered, stroking her hair. “You were wonderful. You didn’t need me at all.”