Her Healing Ways (11 page)

“Thee needs some nourishment and rest.” Just as she had the first day they met, when she'd served him coffee, Mercy tended him now. She took him firmly by the arm and led him to the front of the church hospital where the pulpit had been pushed to one side. Tall shadows danced on the walls. She opened the back door and said in a low voice, “Lon Mackey is here. Will thee bring him a bowl of stew and coffee, please?”

He wished she didn't always do that, try to take care of him. “I hear you have competition,” Lon said gruffly.

Mercy led him to a chair and pushed him gently into it. “A very opinionated man, unfortunately.” She sounded only mildly interested. “I just finished treating my last patient. Soon I will be checking on all here again. Since you have come, it must mean…” She fell silent and touched his arm.

Her words caused him physical pain. He rubbed the back of his neck and forced his lungs to inflate. “About two hours ago, we broke through the final barrier and all the injured…and deceased have been removed from the mine.” The memory of the crushed and broken bodies that had been tenderly carried out knotted around his lungs. Tears hovered just below the surface.

I shouldn't have come here—come to her.
But he had been unable to stop himself. The desire to be in this woman's consoling presence had been undeniable, uncontainable. He bent his head over his folded hands. She took his hand and held it. He didn't pull away. Couldn't.

Then Mercy cleared her throat. “Thee took the remaining injured to the other church then?”

“The last two living, one of them was Dunfield.”

“I'm so glad James Dunfield came out alive,” she said, sounding more worried than relieved.

Maybe they should have brought Dunfield here to her, instead of the Boise doctor, but they had been
told there was no more room. He couldn't stop the old feelings of loss and failure that the past hours had reignited. He'd done his best but, as always, it wasn't enough. Why hadn't he just stayed at the saloon? Why couldn't he have just been another rescue worker? Why did people turn to him? A bleak silence stretched between them.

The back door opened and he dropped her hand. He recognized the pastor's petite wife and thanked her for the large bowl of stew and mug of coffee she'd brought him. “After this,” the woman said in a stern, motherly tone, “you should get some sleep. You look played out.”

“I am. Thank you, ma'am.”

“They tell me you're a gambler. And that after the avalanche, your quick action saved lives. I think your talents would be better used in a different line of work.” With that admonition, she turned and went back outside to the detached kitchen.

Mercy had the nerve to chuckle softly. “She has a point.”

Their levity fired his anger. “I told you I like living a free life—”

“Lon Mackey, thee may fool others, though in light of the past day, I doubt it. Thee didn't demand the lead in the rescuing effort, but thee was there. And everyone turned to thee without thee saying a word. Leadership is a quality that some are born with. Thee was born for command.”

He couldn't curse in her presence though he sorely
wanted to. “I don't want to lead. I just want to be left alone.”

Mercy merely shook her head at him. “Eat thy food and then it will be time to rest.”

He began spooning up the venison stew. It tasted better than he'd expected and he resented that. He didn't deserve good stew and comfort. Men had died.

At least the Quaker let him eat in silence. He hoped she would fall asleep where she sat and then he could just slip away.
Why did I come here? She can't do anything for me, for the way I feel.

“Why aren't you resting?” he asked, unable to hold back the words, letting his ill grace be heard.

Mercy looked up. “I am going to. Indigo fell sound asleep when she sat down over there.” Mercy gestured to the shadows near the far wall. “When she wakes, I'll lie down and sleep.”

“And if someone's wound reopens, you'll just tell him you need your rest so they should stop bleeding, right?” he growled, scraping up the last of the stew.

She said nothing, making him feel like a scoundrel. Still, he couldn't bring himself to apologize. He'd spoken the truth about this woman. Mercy Gabriel couldn't help herself. She was impelled to help sometimes thankless people. For some reason, that made him angry. He set the empty bowl on the floor and began sipping the strong, hot coffee.

“Lon Mackey, thee has carried a heavy load and not just yesterday and today,” she said at last. “I don't blame thee for seeking some ease, some pleasure. When I think of the war, I wonder how I survived it. How any of us survived it.”

She passed a hand over her forehead as if she had a headache. “I often wonder if the men who framed our Constitution to continue the practice of slavery would have changed their minds if they had known what it would cost their grandchildren in human suffering.”

“I'm not in the mood for a philosophical discussion,” he said, hating the disdain in his harsh voice. He drained the last of his coffee and set the cup by the bowl on the floor.

“It is not thy fault that all the miners were not saved, Lon.” Mercy's rich, low voice flowed over him. But it didn't soothe him; it raised his hackles.

“Thee did thy best, and some lived who would have died if thee hadn't stepped in to lead.”

“I don't care!” He said the words with a force that surprised even him. He jumped to his feet, suddenly enraged.

“Thee does care. That's why thee is so angry.”

He had to stop her words, make her stop prying up the scab that covered unhealed wounds.

“Lon, thee is a good—”

He pulled her to him and kissed her. This halted her words, but it also unleashed something within him. She was so very soft, so womanly in his arms.
The sensation was intoxicating. How long had it been since he'd held a woman close and kissed her?

 

Mercy's gasp of surprise died on Lon Mackey's lips. No man had ever touched her like this. No man had ever kissed her. Sensations she'd never experienced rushed through her, overpowering, uplifting, breathtaking.

Lon pulled her tighter, and she reveled in the contact with his firm chest. The strong arms wrapped around her gave her a sense of sanctuary she'd never known. So this was what the poets wrote of…

Suddenly, Lon thrust her from him and rushed down the center aisle and out the front double doors. Mercy stood, blinking in stunned silence, and then she sank into her chair. The quiet of the church hospital was disturbed by a loud moan. Mercy rose and went to Pierre, who was writhing in his sleep.

She touched her wrist to his forehead. Just a slight fever. She sank to her knees on the hard floor beside him and prayed that he would regain consciousness.

As she prayed, Lon's kiss kept intruding on her thoughts. She remembered everything—the strength of his arms, the stubble on his chin rubbing her face, his lips moving on hers. She tried to block it out, but couldn't.

Why did he kiss me?
She had done nothing but try to encourage him to accept who he was. Was that so hard for him to do? Then her conscience pinched
her. She was not always up to carrying on her work, either.

After the cholera epidemic, hadn't she spent a gloomy time in the back room of the mining office, trying to hide from who she was? And after the horrible words had been soaped onto Jacob Tarver's window, hadn't she been tempted to withdraw again?
Forgive me, Lord. I'm not invincible, either.

“Both Lon and I have been called to step out from the crowd,” she murmured aloud in the darkened church, “called to carry more responsibility than most.” She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. She slid down to lie on the floor, too exhausted to move.

“It's hard, Father,” she whispered, gazing up at the dark ceiling. “How can I help Lon heal and be the man—the leader—you created him to be?”

 

Mercy woke, the floor hard beneath her. All was quiet. She felt a few moments of disorientation. Where was she? Then she recognized the sound of Indigo's footsteps as she moved through the aisles, checking on her patients.

The memory of Lon's kiss assaulted her senses, bringing her fully awake. She couldn't deny the kiss's effect on her. But had he simply done it to stop her words? She had made him angry with the truth, she was certain of that. But though she knew little of kissing, Lon had not appeared untouched by the kiss, either. Intuitively, she realized he would not have
kissed her only to silence her. He never did anything from casual motives.

What if Lon kissed her again? What if he never kissed her again? The second question caused her the more powerful reaction. She realized she wanted Lon to kiss her again. But kissing Lon Mackey didn't mesh with her calling. Hers was a lonely path. Now she truly experienced a loneliness she had never anticipated. She had put her hand to the scalpel and now couldn't turn back. No man, not even Lon, would want a wife who was a doctor. Who could argue with that truth?

 

Two days later, holding her gray wool shawl tight around her, Mercy stood on the church steps. She watched another funeral procession make its solemn way to the town cemetery. These processions took place every morning and afternoon. The mortician and the town pastors were busy all day and each evening, preparing the dead and comforting the mourning. Mercy's heart went out to the widows and orphans who walked behind the wagon bearing their loved ones. As the flag-draped bier passed, she bowed her head in respect.

When she looked up, she saw two men approaching. Gideon Drinkwater, fire in his eyes, and behind him, Lon. She drew herself up and called upon God for strength and wisdom for the coming battle. “Good day, Gideon Drinkwater.” She smiled.

“I have never approved of Quakers,” he snapped.
“Letting women think they are the equal of men is a dangerous idea. Now, I've done all I can for the patients sent to me first. I'm going to check on your patients and do what I can for them—”

“I am afraid that I cannot allow thee to do that.” She had prepared for this. Usually Quakers did not believe in arguing with others, preferring to turn the other cheek. However, Mercy had decided that to permit this man to treat her patients would be to admit she was not a qualified physician and his equal. More importantly, since she had been told by the relatives of patients that this doctor did not practice sanitary medicine, he could actually do harm to her patients.

“Thee knows that no doctor presumes to encroach on the patients of another.”

The man made a scornful sound and tried to push past her.

Lon hurried forward. “Stop that.”

Gideon thrust her aside. Mercy lost her footing and fell. She gasped. Lon shouted in disapproval as people rushed forward. Lon jerked the doctor around and put up his fists as if challenging him to a fight. Women helped Mercy to her feet.

“Don't you try anything,” Lon threatened.

“Dr. Drinkwater,” Mercy said, still breathless from his assault on her, “no man has ever offered me physical violence merely because of my work.”

“I'll do more than that!” he raged, shaking free of Lon.

Mercy put out a restraining hand, silently asking Lon for no violence. “I will see that you are run out of the Idaho Territory!” Drinkwater shouted. “Madam, either you stick to midwifing from now on or the next time I come to Idaho Bend, I will see you barred from doing even that. Territorial law does not permit women to hold professions such as physician.”

“I believe that thee is making that up.” Mercy rubbed her shoulder where it had bumped the door behind her. “In no state is it illegal for women to practice medicine.”

But Gideon Drinkwater was already stalking away. “I am going to seek payment for my services and then I will be riding back to Boise. You've not heard the last from me!”

“Good riddance!” one of the men yelled after him.

“Are you all right?” Lon asked her, drawing near.

“I'm…I'm merely shaken.” She tried to smile. “Thank thee for helping me.”

“I'm sorry you were subjected to such abuse. I was on my way to visit Digger.”

“Good. He needs cheering.”

Lon nodded his gratitude and headed away. Just before he disappeared inside, he glanced back. His gaze told her much.
Lon, what am I going to do with thee?

As she turned to walk away, a familiar voice stopped her.

“I just don't like that Boise doctor,” Ma Bailey said. “He thinks we're dirt under his feet. If we've decided to let you doctor here, what business is it of his?”

Surprised again by this unexpectedly complex woman, Mercy turned to her. Just the two of them remained.

“And don't worry,” Ma said, glancing around, “I won't blab your secret all around.”

“What?” Mercy asked.

Flushed with obvious triumph and glee, Ma grinned with cat-in-the-cream-pot satisfaction. “About the gambler kissing you last night.” She chuckled. “It's good to see nature taking its course. You and him make a good pair. And he'll give you something more than doctoring to think about.” Ma winked, then walked off, chuckling to herself.

Mercy stared after her, appalled. The most notable gossip in town would keep Lon's kiss a
secret?
Mercy wasn't a gambler, but she thought the odds of Ma Bailey keeping that secret were over a hundred to one.

M
ercy tottered back inside the church, still reeling from Ma Bailey's parting shot. She tried to think of a way to stop the news of Lon kissing her from becoming public knowledge. No idea came to her. It was only a matter of time before the juicy details of her first kiss would pass from gossip to gossip. And it didn't help that at the mere mention of the kiss her lips had tingled and her face flushed with uncomfortable warmth.

Lon sat on a chair beside the pew where Digger lay, speaking in low tones. Should she warn Lon?

The church was nearly empty. All the men who had family had been taken home for nursing care. Later today, Mercy would make her rounds in the community, checking for infection and informing the families about the best ways to help the mine accident victims return to health. Mercy turned her mind to the present challenge—away from Lon.

Indigo was sitting beside Pierre, who had regained consciousness yesterday. But he had said nothing, merely eating and drinking while looking at every one with the most peculiar expression. Mercy had an idea as to why Pierre wasn't speaking, but she hoped she was wrong. Still, she had to test her theory, no matter how painful it might be for Indigo. The truth always became harder to face the longer one delayed in tackling it. Her sympathy for Indigo weighed on her heart. To avoid Lon, she paused to speak to Pierre and Indigo. Unable to stop herself, she tracked Lon's every word and gesture. Finally, Lon departed.

Unwilling still to confront Pierre's condition, Mercy moved to Digger and touched his heated fore head. “Thy fever is expected,” she assured him.

He touched her arm. “I don't know if I can stand this.”

She knew he was referring to the loss of his lower leg. She sat down in the chair beside the pew he was lying on. “It is hard.” She took his hot, dry hand.

He stared at her, tears leaking from his eyes. “I came through the whole war, and now this.”

She wiped his tears with her handkerchief. “Thee is a good man, Digger Hobson. Thee will recover. Thee will still be a good man and a capable mining manager.”

“What woman will want me?” he whispered.

Mercy took a small, dark bottle from her nursing apron pocket and poured a dose of medicine into the
large spoon lying nearby on a square of white cotton. “A woman who loves thee.”

He shook his head, suddenly chuckling. “I know it was a stupid thing to say. I haven't even been thinking of looking for a wife.”

Mercy smiled and held the spoon to his lips while he swallowed the medicine. The memory of Lon's kiss fluttered through her. “From what I've observed of life so far, not many men need to go far to find a bride. ‘And a man who findeth a wife findeth a good thing,'” she quoted.

Digger inhaled long and deep. “How will I walk?”

“I have already ordered a prosthesis for you. Jacob Tarver made out the order form. Thee can pay him when thy fever has left thee.”

“So they'll call me Peg Leg Digger.” His attempt at humor failed as his voice broke on the words
peg leg.

She kept her tone matter-of-fact. This brave man needed calm understanding, not pity. “The new artificial leg will not show in public. Thee will have a slight limp. And remember, thee has much to be thankful for. Thee might have died.”

His face flushed from fever and emotion, Digger nodded. “I'll sleep a little now. I'm so tired.”

She nodded. “The fever does that. Thy body is fighting for thee. And rest with regular food and drink is the best way thee can help thy body win this war.”

He closed his eyes. “You're the doctor.”

Mercy sat, clinging to his words—his precious, truly heartwarming words. The route to this moment had been like scaling a cliff, handhold by handhold, while men and women had taunted her. Now she felt as if she'd swallowed the sun.
Yes, I am the doctor here. Thank Thee, Father.

Silently rejoicing, she rose and checked on several of her other remaining patients. Most were feverish. She had no weapons for fever except for the liquid infusion from the bark of the willow in the dark bottle in her pocket. And no one knew why this worked. The longing for better medicine, better science, twisted through her.

She rose and walked to Pierre—no longer able to put off the inevitable. Indigo was sitting beside him. Mercy looked down at the tanned face that was still handsome in spite of injury. Near the hairline of damp chocolate-brown curls, his head wound had been cleaned. And his arm was in a splint and a sling.

Pierre looked up at her with that odd expression.

“Pierre, can thee hear me?” Mercy asked, wishing she could postpone or deny her hunch.

He nodded, looking uncharacteristically sober.

“Does thee know who I am?” Mercy asked.

Indigo started at these words, her gaze switching back and forth between Pierre and Mercy.

He stared at Mercy for several moments, his face twisted. “No. Why do you talk funny?”

Eyes wide with shock, Indigo looked to Mercy. “What's wrong, Aunt Mercy?”

Her stomach roiling over the unappetizing truth, Mercy went on talking to the injured man. “Thee is Pierre Gauthier. Thee is a miner who was caught in an avalanche. I think thee is suffering what is called amnesia. It can happen after a blow to the head. This young woman is Indigo, my adopted daughter and someone who has been special to you over the past weeks.”

Pierre looked at Indigo and then to Mercy. “Who are you?”

“I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. Thee must not worry. Thy memory will return soon. Just eat and drink as much as thee can and thee will recover thy strength and memory.”

“You're sure?” he asked, sounding relieved.

“Yes, indeed thee shall.” Mercy hoped what she was saying was true. She had seen a couple of victims of amnesia in the war and they had all recovered in time. But there was no guarantee. Unwilling to face Indigo's crestfallen expression, she walked outside, suddenly needing air.

 

Back at her office, Mercy was cleaning her medical instruments after making rounds of a few patients with less dramatic ailments—a man with a case of gout in his foot, a little boy with a broken arm, a three-year-old with an earache. Hearing a timid knock, Mercy turned to see Sunny at her door. “Come in!”

Dressed in the same faded blue dress Mercy had seen her in when she was nursing Lon, Sunny walked in and closed the door behind her.

“How may I help thee, Sunny?”

The girl looked at the floor. “I don't need to tell you what's bothering me, do I?”

“Is thee referring to the fact that thee is carrying a child?” Mercy finished putting the examining instruments into a basin of wood alcohol. She turned and walked to her desk. “Why doesn't thee take a seat and we will talk?”

Sunny did so. Mercy waited, letting the quiet build between them.

“I don't want to raise a kid in a saloon.” Sunny continued to speak to the floor.

“Is that where thee was raised?”

“Yes.” The blunt word was said with a wealth of ill feeling.

“I see.” One of the worst things about how women were treated in this world was the fact that there were no good options for someone like Sunny. She had been born into a situation there was little hope of leaving. Society was very unforgiving of women who weren't deemed “decent,” even though the same stigma didn't attach itself to the men who used these women. “Does thee have any family?”

“No, my ma died a year ago. A few of her friends came here and I came along.” Sunny was slowly shredding a white hankie in her lap.

“Sunny, I will be happy to deliver thy baby when
thy time comes. Does thee want to give up thy child for adoption?”

This question finally brought tears. Mercy took one of Sunny's hands in hers.

Sunny was finally able to speak again. “I don't think anybody would want my baby. And it hurts me to think of giving it away. It hurts to think of it being raised like I was. So lonely. No decent mothers would let me play with their children…” Sunny couldn't speak, her weeping was too strong.

Mercy's heart was breaking for this young woman and for her child. “I have a sister who runs an orphan age near St. Louis. If there is no one else to take thy child, I will write her.” Mercy squeezed Sunny's hand. “But, Sunny, I would prefer to help thee leave the saloon and find a better life where thee can keep thy child.”

Sunny rose, looking suddenly anxious to go. “I'm a saloon girl. I seen how it was with my ma. But thank you anyway, Doc.” Sunny gave her a fleeting smile and then hurried out the door.

Mercy bowed her head and prayed for Sunny, her child and for this world that wouldn't welcome this new life.
God, how can I help her?

The answer came quickly. Not only did she have Felicity, she also had her loving parents. Mercy pulled out paper and her pen, and began writing.

 

For the first time since the mine rescue, Lon walked from the back room into the saloon where the lively evening was in full swing. The mining disaster had interrupted his routine. And he still felt strange, as if someone had taken him apart and then put him back together again wrong. It was like donning a shirt that didn't fit.

But tonight he'd get back to his normal routine. And stay that way. No more interruptions to his easy gambling life.

“Hey!” the nearest man hailed him. “How're you doing? My arms are still aching from moving all that rock.”

Lon recognized him as one of the older men who'd helped with the rescue. The mention of the mine disaster made Lon feel as if he was walking barefoot on hot sand. But he managed a smile for the old guy who'd worked himself to exhaustion. “Fine. You're looking in good fettle.”

“Come on,” the man said, “I'll buy you a drink.”

“Later, friend. I need to make a few dollars first.” Lon headed toward his chair at his usual table. Three more men hailed him with thanks and praise, so he was forced to shake several hands. Each kind word and smile pained him as if he were biting down on a cactus. Couldn't everyone just let it rest?

Finally, he got to his table and did what he always did while waiting for men to sit down for poker—he made a show of shuffling cards. He let the snap
of the cards lull him, mesmerize him. The place wasn't crowded, but conversations hummed at the bar. Laughter punctuated words periodically.

Usually, the friendly sounds of the saloon lightened Lon's mood, made him relax. Now each greeting or comment directed toward him tightened his nerves.

Two men left the bar and walked toward him.
Good.
He smiled. Everything would go back to normal now. He'd spent the past night and day lying on his bunk in the back, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he hadn't left yet. And ignoring the answer.

Sunny had finally come and talked to him, asking if he needed the doctor. That had galvanized him. He'd realized that he had to start gambling again or everyone would think he'd gone strange. And no, he did not want to see Mercy Gabriel.

The two men sat down across from Lon. One was a logger. The other was Slattery with his shock of gray hair.

“We need one more, gentlemen,” Lon said, sending the cards back and forth between his hands.

“How about me?” The voice came from behind Lon and the shocked expressions on the faces across from him made Lon swivel around fast.

“Hello,” said the pastor, who had ferried injured miners to the churches. He slid into the remaining chair at the poker table.

The cards flew out of Lon's hands and scattered over the tabletop.

The pastor chuckled. “Sorry if I surprised you.”

Lon was aware that the saloon was quieting. No doubt not only because of the appearance of this unusual customer, but also because everyone wanted to hear what the tall, thin, blond pastor had come to say to the gambler. Disgruntled, Lon nodded to the pastor and began picking up his cards. “We need a fourth.”

The pastor laughed, looking genuinely amused by Lon's suggestion. “I'm Stephen Willis, and I won't take much of your time. My wife suggested that I invite you to the community dinner this coming Sunday.”

Of all the things Lon had imagined this man saying, that was not one of them. His scalp tightened with surprise. “What's your angle?”

Willis shook his head. “No angle. Just want to thank you for all you did during our recent—”

“Don't want any thanks.” The same anger that had pushed Lon to kiss Mercy into silence flamed inside him.

The pastor nodded, still smiling. “We're going to have a special service of thanksgiving on Sunday.”

“What's there to be thankful for?” Lon snapped. “We lost good men.”

Willis's face grew solemn. “That is quite true. But all the dead have been buried and properly mourned. And there are many who survived because of the
good people of Idaho Bend.” The man raised his voice. “The whole town is invited. The churches are going to come together for the service. This service is for the living. To begin the healing of our broken hearts.”

The man's final words fired up Lon, boosted him upward. He stood up, knocking over his chair. He dragged in drafts of air, his face flaming. Words jammed and stuck in his throat. The anger washed through him in hot waves.

Willis rose, squeezed Lon's shoulder and then walked out of the saloon.

There was silence in the large room and every eye turned to Lon. The heat drained from him. He reached down, picked up his chair and sat down. “We need one more player.” His voice betrayed him by cracking again. Another logger came over, gave Lon a cautious look and sat down.

Lon nodded in greeting and picked up the remaining cards scattered on the table. Then he shuffled and dealt the first hand. The conversations at the bar began again, now buzzing. Lon tried to ignore the sound, knowing all the talk was probably about the preacher singling him out and about his curious and intense reaction to the man's invitation. What had gotten into him? Why had this simple invitation wound him up so fast and so hot?