next train?
Polly stared at John. “What happened to your nose?”
John pushed the hanky into the pocket of his breeches. Looked like it’d stopped bleeding. “Someone punched me.”
Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her boots—guilty—while he shot her a smile of satisfaction.
Polly clicked her tongue with a noisy clatter. “What you men go through in your line of duty.” She focused on Sarah. “You feelin’ all right, miss?”
Sarah pressed her hand against her stomach. “A bit of motion sickness is all. I spent eight days on the train.”
John noticed the pallor beneath her eyes. Why hadn’t she told him she wasn’t feeling well?
Why hadn’t he noticed?
“Where are you from?” asked Polly.
“Halifax.”
“Land sake’s, I had the same thing happen on that steamer we took from Nova Scotia to New York two summers before last. You’ll never get me to sea again. I was heavin’ so much, by the end of it I was beggin’ them to tie the bucket permanently around my neck.”
Sarah nodded then stumbled. John quickly unlocked the front door and led her into the front foyer.
“If I’d known you weren’t feeling well, I would’ve…”
“Would’ve what?”
“…been a bit easier on you.”
She looked at him through cool gray eyes.
He lit the kerosene wall lamp. The glow spread. He watched Sarah glance up the curved staircase, then through the doors into the parlor. Wide oak planks shimmered beneath Turkish carpets, linen curtains adorned the sidelights of the door, and several fine pieces of Victorian furniture that John had ordered from a catalog salesman adorned the hallway, parlor, and upstairs landing.
He felt fortunate that his, and the other officers’, high pay scale allowed them to transport a great deal of personal goods and luxuries not only to their private homes, for those who had them, but to their quarters at the fort. Unlike himself, most commissioned officers were descended from wealthy Eastern families, and had obtained their positions through influential connections. Many were second sons of wealthy Europeans who, having no rights of inheritance, had come to North America to seek their fortune.
Even Charles Dickens’s third son, Francis, up until recently, had been a Mountie; John had worked with him once in passing. John, however, being from a modest family with no connections, had earned his position through hard work and a university education.
His home wasn’t completely furnished yet, but it was comfortable, clean and spacious.
Looking at her ashen face, he realized she must be exhausted. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“On the train sometime around noon.”
John muttered under his breath. “Would you like a bite to eat now?”
“I’m not very hungry, but I should eat something, I suppose. Thank you.”
She wavered on her feet. He lunged forward to catch her, but he’d overreacted. Her brows shot up and a flash of humor lit her face as she steadied herself.
Why did women wear those damn things, anyway? Corsets. As soon as they started breathing hard, the straps tightened around their ribs until they couldn’t catch a breath. No wonder so many of them fainted. It was obviously part of her problem. He had a mind to tell her so, but didn’t feel like getting punched again.
She followed him into the kitchen and sat at the table while he prepared the food. Ham from the icebox, two plums, a loaf of heavy rye from the bread bin and all the butter and preserves she could want.
He got so caught up in the meal preparation that ten minutes later, when he turned proudly to the table to lavish the food on her, she was in a deep sleep. She’d placed her head on the table and was out cold.
He watched her for a moment. Was she unconscious?
Setting down the plates of food, he checked her breathing and her radial pulse. Only sleeping, thank goodness.
What was he supposed to do? Leave her here? Wake her up to eat? Carry her to bed? He pulled out a chair and sat down, staring at her. The hair at her temples gently framed her fringed lashes and the rosy curve of her cheek. The neckline of her red suit dipped low to her curves, and her long red skirt swirled about her heels. She was far from being a spineless mail-order bride that he’d once described to Wesley.
When John had first signed with the force fifteen years ago, he was sent to the forts in Alberta before any settlers had arrived. He’d counted thirty-seven-and-a-half months before he’d set eyes on a woman. Then another eighteen months after that one. Even now, with Calgary’s population hovering around four thousand, women were scarce and mail-order brides were not uncommon. Over the past ten years John reckoned about six or eight had arrived and passed through the area.
What were Sarah’s reasons for responding to the ad? What dreams had she had in meeting him today?
God, the truth must have hurt.
She’d had a very difficult day and his men were to blame. As soon as she was settled, he’d return to the fort and speak to the guilty parties.
With the sting of exhaustion behind his eyes, he knew it’d be another long night. When would John’s pleas for additional medical personnel be answered? Dr. Waters, the town doctor, was useless; his whiskey had gotten in the way of his profession. The man was a hindrance because he couldn’t even help the townsfolk—they were bypassing him and seeking John directly. In the past six months John had been caring for civilians as well as wounded police in the only hospital for hundreds of miles—the fort’s.
But before John went anywhere tonight, he had to take care of Sarah. Slipping one arm beneath her soft thighs and the other beneath her shoulder blades, he lifted her yielding body and carried her up the stairs. When she moaned and settled against his chest, he sighed. Although he’d had his share of women, it’d been a long time since he’d held one in his arms.
When they reached his wide bed, he lowered her down.
The corset wouldn’t do her any good. It impeded her respiration and surely hadn’t helped her motion sickness on the train. How could she feel better if she couldn’t breathe well?
And so, tugging in a breath of air to give himself confidence, wondering if he’d pay for it tomorrow, he did what any good doctor would.
He lowered his hands beneath the covers and, his fingertips brushing against her warm skin, he used his pocket knife to remove her corset.
Chapter Three
“How the hell could you do that to her?” Standing in the stables—the most private place to talk—while his good friend the veterinary surgeon, Logan Sutcliffe, groomed his stallion, John blasted the group of five men. He outranked them all.
The six o’clock sunrise peeked over their shoulders, flooding in from the open doors. They were dressed in their everyday working uniforms—white shirts, suspenders and dark breeches.
“We thought she might go over well, that you wouldn’t mind,” said one of the men.
“You heard my objections to Wesley when he placed his ad. What on earth would make you think I’d feel different now?”
The group was silent. Some kicked at the straw, some fidgeted with the sleek California saddle and the wool blanket slung over the stall.
“Well?” John bellowed. “I want an answer from each of you!”
They glanced uncomfortably at each other. Corporal Reid spoke first, playing with the brim of his wide brown hat. “We thought you’d see the humor.”
“You