The Doctor's Newfound Family (10 page)

She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him aside. “I am not about to let your stubborn nature get you killed.” Pointing, she added, “Look.”

Aghast, he stared at the splintered wood. “Is that what I think it is?”

“If you guessed a bullet hole, then yes. It happened last night, after I bid you goodbye. Thankfully, the shot missed.”

That was too much for Taylor. He drew her into his arms and held her close, oblivious to the lack of propriety. “Dear Lord. You might have been killed.”

“Like my father and mother were,” Sara Beth murmured. “I didn’t see anyone out there. Maybe it was merely an accidental discharge of a firearm and I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Whatever the reason, you’re not going outside again. Not until we figure out who is behind all this.”

Instead of agreeing as he had hoped, she pushed him away and stepped back. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t be certain anyone was shooting at me. Besides, I attended church this morning with the others. We walked all the way and nothing bad happened.”

That thought chilled Taylor to the bone. He grasped her shoulders to keep her facing him. “Do you believe you’re safe merely because you’re on your way to worship service? That’s idiotic. So is assuming that the shot last night was an accident.”

He took a deep breath, warring within himself to control his impulse to embrace her again. “If you didn’t agree, you wouldn’t have warned me to stand behind the door.”

“Okay. So maybe I do think it was an attack. That still doesn’t mean I have to live like a prisoner in a dungeon.”

At the end of his patience and so worried he could hardly keep from trying to shake some sense into her, he dropped his arms to his sides, turned and walked away. “I’m going to make my rounds. Are you coming?”

He heard her soft footsteps and the rustle of her skirts behind him. What was he going to do with her? How was he going to convince her that she was in mortal danger? Surely she must not fully realize
the gravity of the situation or she wouldn’t be behaving so irrationally.

Not that he was any more sane, he told himself. Ever since he had first encountered Sara Beth Reese he had been acting as addled and erratic as a Sunday-dinner chicken with its neck wrung.

That colorful analogy did nothing to calm his fears. Neither did the way Sara Beth was acting. To look at her, a person would think she hadn’t a care in the world.

He, on the other hand, was worried enough for both of them. If she continued to insist on going out, there was nothing he could do to protect her. Absolutely nothing.

T
he
Bulletin
had remained silent about the Reese situation for the past week. Each day, Sara Beth had eagerly scanned the evening edition and each time she had been disappointed.

Only Dr. Hayward’s continuing encouragement and pleasing presence buoyed her spirits. He had taken to visiting the orphanage at least twice every day and she was delighted to see him, no matter what news he carried.

“I don’t understand why your friend hasn’t printed my story yet,” she remarked as they tended to ailing children and administered a spoonful of Clara’s homemade horehound cough elixir to each one.

“He’ll get around to it,” Taylor assured her.
“Right now he’s in the middle of a series about corruption and is focusing on James Casey. I told you about Casey. He owns the
Herald
.”

“Can’t Mr. King cover more than one topic at a time?”

“The way he explained it, he figures it will be advantageous to clear the city of Casey’s negative influence and then proceed with cleaning up the rest of the crooks who are in power, including Bein and his cohorts.”

“Are his facts accurate?” She made a face that mimicked the expression of the child who had just tasted the cough cure. Truth to tell, the sinful atmosphere of the city was far more revolting to her than any bitter medicine. Just thinking about the dirty politics was enough to turn her stomach.

“Of course they are. James King is the most honest, careful editor in San Francisco. We’re lucky to have him on our side.”

She nodded, her expression grim. “Until I was wronged, I had never paid much attention to what went on at City Hall. I suppose many citizens are the same. We’re too content to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“These so-called dogs may well be rabid,” Taylor countered. “Did you read any of the exposé on Casey?”

“Most of it. I can hardly believe that he was a
convicted criminal who served prison time in New York. He was elected city supervisor here by a landslide. That’s incredible.”

“I’d agree, if I didn’t believe that the election was rigged like so many others have been.” Washing his hands, Taylor dried them on a small towel before packing up his medical bag. “I told King he’d better be careful. A hardened criminal like Casey can be dangerous, especially if he’s convinced he has nothing more to lose.”

“What can he do? Surely the newspaper articles are not considered defamatory as long as they’re true.”

Taylor set his jaw. “He’s threatened retribution in front of witnesses, for one thing. I wish I could get King to take the threats seriously. He’s carrying his pistol with him at all times and watching where he goes and with whom, but that may not be enough.”

“I disagree,” Sara Beth said. “Casey wouldn’t dare harm him, especially not after issuing public threats. He’d be blamed immediately and probably hung.”

“Would he?” The doctor arched his eyebrows. “Even if Scannell arrested him, I doubt they could find a fair judge and jury for a trial. Casey would have half the town in his vest pocket to start with.”

Sara Beth did not want to believe there was so
much evil all around her, yet the more she learned, the less she believed that she and her family would ever obtain justice.

Praise the Lord for a man like James King who believed her. “Do you suppose it would help if you and I visited the
Bulletin
office again?”

The look Taylor sent her was anything but supportive. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not anything of the kind,” Sara Beth argued. “I’d like to talk with Mr. King again, that’s all.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know. I just feel so helpless, acting as if I’m in hiding. I need to get out, do something, even if it’s futile. Can you understand that?”

“I understand it but that doesn’t mean I think it’s a sensible idea.”

“Sensible or not, I want to go. I will go. With or without you.”

Taylor sighed and nodded slowly. “All right. We’re finished here. Go tell Mrs. McNeil we’re going downtown. I’ll drive you so you don’t have to walk. The less time you’re out on the streets, the better.”

Her spirits soared. “Oh, thank you! I’ve felt so cooped up and frustrated staying inside. And it’s a lovely, sunny afternoon. Perfect weather for a drive.” She didn’t care that she was grinning foolishly. “I’ll get my shawl and meet you at the buggy.”

We’re going for a ride. Together.
Sara Beth’s heart was practically singing and her feet felt as if they barely touched the floor as she hurried to the small chest that held her personal things. She had managed to obtain a second presentable dress and Clara had loaned her several aprons to keep her clothing clean while she worked. Other than that, she had only her coat, a shawl, mother’s reticule and…

That thought focused and brought Sara Beth up short. She had not looked inside her mother’s purse since that awful night when some kindly stranger had handed it to her at the wharf. Mama had been carrying a small, single-shot pistol. If it was still there, as she hoped, it would provide a little extra protection.

True, it had not helped Mama. Not enough anyway. But any weapon of self-defense was better than being totally vulnerable.

The reticule lay in the bottom of the small storage chest, just where she’d stashed it. Sara Beth’s heart pounded as she eased the drawstrings, opened the velvet-lined bag, then gingerly lifted the pistol to study it. To her dismay, it was not loaded.

Because Mama shot the attacker.
Of course. That one bullet had found its mark and had served its purpose well.

The trouble was, she had no idea how to reload safely or where she would find ammunition if she did know how to fit a ball and powder properly into the tiny pistol. As it was, it was about as useful for defense as a hand-size rock would be.

Nevertheless, she slipped the gun into her pocket. Later, after she and the doctor had visited the newspaper office, she’d ask him about ammunition and enlist his expertise. Perhaps they could get it loaded tonight because without a suitable weapon, she
was as useless as that unloaded pistol
.

James King was not a foolish man. Nor was he fearful. He’d always been able to talk his way out of trouble, even in the face of apparently insurmountable odds.

Closing his editorial office, he checked his pocket watch as he descended the stairway on the west side of Montgomery Street. It was just past five. Mist from the bay was starting to roll in and the mournful sound of foghorns echoed off the tall, brick buildings of the business district as well as the surrounding hills.

The hair on the back of his neck suddenly prickled. He whirled. His eyes widened when he saw who was approaching. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I’d kill you if I saw you,” Casey said. He was pointing a revolver.

King held up his hands, palms out. It was too late to draw his own pistol. If he hoped to survive, he’d have to argue his way out of this. “Take it easy. I didn’t print anything that wasn’t true. It was only a matter of time until the whole story came out. You know that.”

“All I know is that you’ve ruined everything,” Casey said. He was eyeing the other man’s bulging coat pocket. “Go ahead. Go for your pistol. I’m willing to shoot it out right here and now.”

“Well, I’m not,” King said, beginning to perspire beneath his top hat. “Be sensible, man.”

At the last second, when he saw his adversary’s eyes narrow and his flushed face tighten in a sneer, he knew he had underestimated Casey. The gun fired. King dropped, hit squarely in the left shoulder.

Before he lost consciousness he was briefly aware that his attacker was approaching. He could only hope and pray that the man did not intend to fire again and finish him where he lay.

Taylor and Sara Beth were almost to the intersection of Montgomery and Merchant streets when they heard a commotion.

She grasped the doctor’s arm. “Was that a shot?”

“Sounded like it.” He pulled the buggy to the side
of the road, passed her the reins and jumped out. “Stay here. I’ll go check.”

Before he disappeared around the corner of the nearby hotel, she had already made up her mind. She was not about to just sit there idle when he might need her help.

Unmindful of danger to her own person, she shed her shawl, carefully gathered her skirts and eased herself down by way of the small metal step at the side of the buggy. In his haste, Taylor had left without his medical bag. That provided a perfect excuse. She would deliver it to him.

What she encountered on Montgomery Street was utter chaos. Dozens of people were milling about. Women wept. Men cursed or shouted or laughed maniacally.

She stared. Her heart pounded and she was barely able to catch her breath.
Taylor. Where is Taylor?

There! In the midst of the throng. That had to be him. Frantic, she pushed through the crowd and immediately saw the full effect of the carnage. The doctor was crouching next to the body of a well-dressed, middle-aged man. Off to the side, another man was being wrestled to a standstill by passersby. She didn’t recognize the second person, but the victim was definitely James King from the
Bulletin
.

The whole scenario was an agonizing reminder of the way her parents had died. For an instant she relived their demise as if she were seeing it again. Would she never have peace? Would the terrible pain and sense of loss never fade?

Forcing herself to focus, Sara Beth blinked to clear her head. She must act. She would act. She willed her feet to carry her closer to the doctor and saw, to her great relief, that the victim, Mr. King, was still moving, although he was groaning and bleeding badly.

She thrust the medical bag at Taylor. “Here. You forgot this.”

The swift look he gave her was chastening in spite of his obvious need of the instruments. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” This was the first time Sara Beth had been present when her mentor was doing anything other than taking temperatures or handing out doses of elixir. She was so fascinated by his deft movements that she momentarily forgot her own distress.

He pressed a thick pad against the patient’s shoulder, then gestured to a couple of men loitering nearby. “We need to get him inside and into bed. Help me carry him to the closest hotel. You take his feet,” he told the first. “And you and I will support
his shoulders,” he said, pointing to the second man. “I’ll handle the injured side.”

Following Taylor inside, toting his medical bag once again, Sara Beth wondered if she could have risen to the occasion as he had. Easing the discomfort of a child with a cold was one thing. Stopping a man from bleeding to death was quite another. Maybe Abe had been right to laugh at her lofty aspirations. Maybe she wasn’t cut out to become a doctor.

Then again, although she had felt her stomach clench at the grisly sight and had momentarily relived the worst time of her life, she had not swooned the way some of the other women in the crowd had. On the contrary, she might be a bit shaky, but she was nonetheless alert and ready to do whatever Taylor told her to do—other than stay behind in the buggy.

She realized she was as stubborn as her brother—and as stubborn as her mother had been. The thought surprised her and she forced herself to focus on the situation at hand.

As the men struggled to carry their limp burden up the stairway and place him in a hotel room, Sara Beth hung back and studied the crowd. Some of those present seemed distressed over the editor’s shooting. Many, however, were smiling and apparently enjoying the excitement. Worse, those who
had captured the assailant had already released him and were behaving as if he had done nothing wrong! James Casey was hiding behind Sheriff Scannell as if the lawman was his personal shield.

Perhaps that was what Taylor had meant when he’d said they would have trouble finding a fair judge and jury. If such a panel were chosen from the men she observed here, there would be a very good chance that King’s foe would be exonerated.

Her feet felt leaden and so did her heart as she finally proceeded up the stairs, pausing at the landing. This was wrong, so wrong. And yet it was happening right in front of her eyes. A good, honest man was injured and might be dying while his attacker had been released and was now standing with his cronies in the hotel lobby below, laughing, talking and smoking a cigar as if nothing untoward had occurred.

Her breath caught. In the rear of that throng, near the door, stood the smug-looking figure of William Bein. And he was leering at her.

Taylor was afraid for his friend. As soon as Sara Beth joined him with his medical bag, he held out a hand. “It’s the subclavian artery. Give me the large hemostats. They’re made like scissors only they clamp instead of cutting.”

“I know what they look like.”

She was not only quick to respond; she seemed quite calm amidst all the bedlam, further impressing Taylor with her bravery and fortitude.

As he worked to stem the bleeding and failed repeatedly to locate and clamp the damaged ends of the artery, he wondered how long poor James could last. It didn’t look good. Not good at all. And there was little anyone could do.

Other doctors, older medical men, had been summoned. They shoved Taylor away and took his place. He would have fought for position if he had not already done all he could. Nuttall and Toland were good men, as surgeons went. Perhaps they would have more success by working as a team.

“Why are you backing off and letting those men tend to him?” Sara Beth asked, frowning as she handed Taylor a damp towel from the washstand so he could wipe his hands.

“Because there’s nothing more I can do. I’d let old Abe Warner himself try if I thought it would help.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t give up on him yet,” Taylor insisted. Though he knew his friend probably didn’t have much longer to live, he also knew that even while unconscious, James could likely hear and understand what was being said. Many a professor had impressed that fact upon him in medical school,
citing instances where dying patients had rallied at the last instant and had later been irate at the conversations they had overheard during their supposed passing.