A Bride in Store (2 page)

Will sighed. Not a customer. Wiping his grimy hands on a towel, he sidled around the ammunition bench at the back of the store. “What can I—”

“Pa needs you at the depot, right quick.” The boy—not much more than a collection of animated elbows and knees—beckoned him, looking ready to dart back outside within a breath. “The train was robbed, and a lady needs you to give her stitches, and then this one old man—”

“Hold it.” Will pointed toward the white stenciled letters on his front window. “Under
Men’s Emporium, Purveyor of All Things Gentlemanly
, I’ve listed gunsmithing—nothing else.”

“Oh, c’mon, Mr. Stanton. We all know you’re gonna be a doctor someday, even if you don’t put it up there.”

“I’m not practicing. Get Dr. Forsythe.”

“But the lady needs stitches.” He stuck his hands on his hips. “On her
face
.”

Will gritted his teeth but untied his oil-smudged apron. The county doctor adamantly declared that the best surgeons—whether the surgery was major or minor—were fast surgeons. Coupled with the man’s sorry bedside manners, his speed would ensure the woman’s face would be stitched up in seconds to spare her pain, but the work would be shoddily done and certain to look terrible.

How could he allow a horrible scar to disfigure a woman if he could possibly suture her wound so people wouldn’t stare at her for the rest of her life? He’d learned at his mother’s knee to sew and sew well. “Does she truly need stitches?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy backed out the door. “Mrs. Hampden insisted I get you while Dr. Forsythe cares for the man with chest pains.”

“Anyone else hurt?” Leaving Oliver standing in the doorway, Will strode to the back to grab his medical kit—a small wooden box his father had fashioned with a carving of Jesus’ nail-pierced hands on top.

“No.” The boy placed his hands at his sides, as if he were gripping holstered six-shooters. “I heard Mr. Hampden say the gang tossed the expressman out the window, though. Posse went out to see if he’s still alive before they chase after the gang. Pa says they
likely won’t pick up a trail, since they jumped off at the Solomon River. Probably rode through the water a ways.”

Will flipped his sign to Closed and hustled after Oliver, who wove through the onslaught of pedestrians from the train.

“William!” Mrs. Hampden flagged him down from across the street.

Will turned and waited for a wagon to pass. He dodged a donkey cart and almost stepped in the unmentionable pile an animal had left behind on the dusty road. “I was just heading to the depot.”

As soon as both his feet hit the sidewalk, Kathleen pivoted toward her store. “I had Carl bring her to the mercantile. She doesn’t need half the town watching you stitch her up.”

He strode after her, barely nodding at the people passing by. For a short, pregnant woman, Kathleen could sure eat up the ground.

When they entered the mercantile’s back room, instead of climbing the stairs to the family’s apartment, Kathleen led him into the office, where a lady wearing a wrinkled black dress sat on a crate pressing a wad of blood-soaked fabric against her face. The poor thing looked exhausted.

Carl stood by the door jiggling his fussy little girl, his eyes wide with frustration. “I sent Junior upstairs for a nap, but Gretchen won’t lay down without you.”

Kathleen took the one-year-old from his arms and rested a reassuring hand on the injured woman’s shoulder. “Eliza, this is William Stanton. He delivered Gretchen. No finer doctor in the county—even if he is rather young.”

Will frowned, not sure whether he scowled more because she called him a doctor or because she made him sound like a child, though Kathleen was indeed closer to his parents’ age. He sat on a crate next to his patient. The deep red color plumping her cheek made his fists curl. How he’d like to make the perpetrator’s face match hers.

Will forced himself to smile though, knowing his demeanor would affect his patient. “I wasn’t really given a choice in attending Mrs. Hampden. She has a knack for giving birth so quickly that whoever happens to pass by gets the honor of attending the delivery.”

“You’re highly competent, no matter what you say.” Kathleen shook her finger at him, then took a pouting Gretchen out the door.

Carl turned to follow.

“I’ll need your help, Mr. Hampden.” Since he’d run out of cocaine powder, Will grabbed the laudanum from his medical box.

“Um . . .” Carl shifted his weight, taking a long look at the door. “I don’t do well at the sight of blood. . . .”

“You can close your eyes.”

“Or screaming.” He looked a bit pale already.

Will blinked innocently. “I don’t intend to scream.”

Eliza, who looked much calmer than he’d expected, glanced at Carl, a smile tugging at her lips. “Me neither.”

“Great, two jokers.” Carl took a reluctant step closer.

Will winked at Eliza before unscrewing the bottle’s cap and measuring a small dosage. “Unfortunately, all I can do is help you get very relaxed and not notice the pain so much. You’ll still feel every stitch.”

Carl groaned, and Eliza’s face scrunched. Was the needle he’d pulled from his kit making her anxious or was it Carl’s unmanly apprehension?

She sucked air through her teeth, then quickly relaxed her face. The blotch on her handkerchief grew bright red around the edges.

Will handed her the medication, and she gingerly placed the cap against her lips.

“You’re not going to want to sip that—drink it right down.”

She threw back the whole measure, and forced it down with a hard blink.

He left to wash up in the Hampdens’ upstairs apartment, giving the medicine time to work.

Carl was pacing the tiny office when he returned, yet the lady seemed relaxed.

Will sat beside her and reached for her makeshift bandage, his hand cupping hers. “Let me take a look.”

She removed her hand and stared straight into his eyes. Her irises were a rich brown, like the cloves she’d used to sweeten her breath.

He forced himself to break from her gaze and focus on her gash. She’d most likely need eight stitches. He pressed the cloth back against her skin to staunch the blood. The heat of her cheek through the handkerchief was uncommonly distracting.

Mr. Hampden swayed and put a hand on the wall to keep himself upright.

“Carl, get behind her so you can’t see, and I need you to clamp your arm across her forehead and against your side to hold her still.”

She shook her head slightly, the loose tendrils of hair tickling his knuckles.

He should anchor her hair behind her ear, but that would be too intimate a gesture for a doctor. Not that he was one. Maybe that’s why he almost desperately wanted to do that very thing for some reason.

“I won’t move.” Her eyes were steady and as dark as the hair trailing across his hand.

He blinked and refocused. She didn’t realize how many stitches he was going to have to put in. “Dr. Forsythe might close this up quick enough you could stay still without help, but you wouldn’t be happy with your scar. Stitches hurt no matter how much Mrs. Hampden talked up my abilities.”

“I’ve had stitches before,” the lady mumbled. “I’ll be fine.”

Maybe she would. At least she appeared more resilient than Carl. The man was turning whiter with each passing second, and he wasn’t even looking at Eliza.

Maybe he should wait for Kathleen to return, but was she strong enough to hold this woman still?

“When do you plan on starting?” The lady’s eyebrows arched as she tried to peer down at his hand cupping her cheek. She actually looked amused. A woman who could laugh in this situation was a strong woman indeed.

“I’m giving the medicine time to work.” He glanced down at her hand but saw no wedding ring, then rolled his eyes. The robbers would have stolen it. “What’s your last name, Eliza?”

“Cantrell.” Her eyelids sagged, then flew open. If she was feeling sleepy, the medicine had done its job.

“It’s time.”

His friend anchored her head under his arm, his muscles flexing tight, his Adam’s apple running up and down his throat.

“Just look at the ceiling and think of lots and lots of sales, Mr. Hampden. Happy thoughts.” Will smiled at Miss Cantrell and scooted closer. “You should close your eyes.”

She tried to shake her head, but Carl thwarted her. Good.

“If I can’t watch, I’ll flinch.”

“All right.” Grabbing a little piece of leather with his free hand, he offered it to her. “Bite down on this. It’ll help steady you.”

When she nodded, he lowered the handkerchief and began his first stitch. Impressively, she only tensed and forcefully exhaled.

Will prayed for a steady hand with each poke of his needle. If she stayed motionless and silent, Carl would remain upright and her scar would be minimal.

After seven stitches, he knotted the silk. “I’m finished.” He smiled into her droopy eyes.

Carl let go of her head and sighed. “That wasn’t so bad, but I need to go, um, outside for a moment.” He moved toward the door on wobbly knees.

Will couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the man’s melodrama, not that Carl was paying attention to him. “You impressed me, Miss
Cantrell.” Will wiped his hands and pulled out some bandaging. “I should have taken your word for how you’d fare.”

She gave him a weak smile before her head drooped and her shoulders sagged.

He frowned. He hadn’t given her enough medicine to cause her to sleep sitting up. “Are you all right?”

Maybe she’d counted his stitches and realized the extent of the damage. She wasn’t the prettiest woman in the world. She had a fairly long face and big eyes, but every woman wanted to be beautiful, and stitches and the resulting scar wouldn’t help. Though, if she was tough enough to endure sutures without a peep, she’d rise above a fading scar. “In a few years, I don’t think you’ll see any evidence of what happened today. Unless you look really close.”

He held out the bandage, trying to figure out the best way to wrap her head. “You’ll need to cover your wound until it no longer oozes. Then you should let it air dry.”

“I’ll be fine.” She handed him her unadorned bonnet and reached for the gauzy roll. “At least my face anyway.”

“Are you hurt elsewhere?”

She sighed as she lifted the strip to her face. “My pocketbook.”

Will put her hat on the edge of the desk. “Where’re you headed? Folks in my church could donate money to get you home.”

The bandage’s end kept slipping from where she tried to anchor it against her neck with her chin. Will reached out to hold the piece against her skin, velvety like butter. His fingers itched to run along her jawline.

Watch
it, Stanton. You don’t manhandle patients just because they
feel soft.

After she got the first round of gauze started, he let his hand slide down, his double-crossing fingers lingering seconds longer than necessary.

She stopped unrolling the bandage and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Was she trying to figure out why his hand
loitered so long where it shouldn’t have? He met her gaze and tried to breathe normally.

She watched him for a second before continuing with her head wrapping. Without the aid of a mirror, she smoothed the cloth as she unrolled the bandage.

He should help her, but he was afraid his fingers might decide to take a trip down her long neck.

“No need to send me anywhere. I’m Salt Flatts’ newest resident.”

“Oh.” Will scurried to think of any Cantrells in the area, but none came to mind. His tongue suddenly felt dry. “Are you alone?” She had to be, since no one was with her, but why had she come? There weren’t many available jobs in Salt Flatts for single ladies. “Do you need a place to stay? Maybe a member of my church could house you until you can send for money to stay at one of the boardinghouses.”

She tied a neat little bow under her chin and indicated she wanted her hat. “If you’re wondering when I will pay you, don’t worry—”

“Oh no, ma’am.” Will handed her the bonnet. “I don’t charge people.”

She cocked her head and scrunched her brows, as if witnessing nuts falling out of his ears. “You aren’t charging me because of the robbery?”

“No. I don’t charge for my services because I’m not ready to hang out my shingle as a doctor.”

She puckered her mouth as if he’d said something that didn’t make sense. “People seem convinced you’re better than the county physician, so why wouldn’t you ask for payment?”

Why did he feel as if she’d pulled out an augur, readying to drill a hole in his skull to check for brains? “I just don’t.”

She shrugged. “You’re selling yourself short. If Mrs. Hampden insisted I see you because you do such great work, then you’re worthy of being paid.” She flung up empty palms. “Not that I have any money at the moment.”

“As I said, don’t worry about it.”

“But I’ll pay soon.” She took a sidelong glance toward the door and leaned forward to whisper. “You’re looking at a woman who’s going to be running the most prosperous mercantile in town. Just wait and see.”

His eyebrows froze near his hairline. “A mercantile?” Salt Flatts had one too many stores already, if his financial woes were an indication.

“Have you heard of F. W. Woolworth of Pennsylvania?” Her serious face had transfigured in the same way his little sisters’ did when they talked about kittens. “I’m going to—”

The door creaked open, and Kathleen came in, arms void of children. “Are you done already, Will?” She smiled upon seeing Miss Cantrell’s bandaged face. “I didn’t hear anything while I was putting Gretchen down—not even my husband’s unconscious body hitting the floor.”

Kathleen giggled and squeezed Will’s shoulder before taking a seat next to Miss Cantrell. “Do you need Carl to get your things? I should’ve asked who was waiting for—”

“No need.” Miss Cantrell clamped both her hands around Kathleen’s. “I’ve got plans.”

Will turned to pack up his box, pushing his emaciated savings purse farther back into the corner.

Great. Another mercantile owner. If Miss Cantrell was about to compete with the Hampdens, the Lowerys, and him and Axel for Salt Flatts’ sales revenue, he’d never make enough to afford medical school.