You know Sarah always brings one of her apple pies—that’s a large payment for a small favor.” He tried to accompany the statement with a smile but somehow this morning he couldn’t manage it.
The hand on his shoulder tightened. “Don’t mind my sayin’ so, Zane, but you look fatigued. And your eyes...you been drinking?”
“Some,” Zane admitted. More than “some” on the days Celeste’s death cut particularly deep. His medical partner had sharp eyes.
“Celeste’s sister is here from St. Louis.”
Doc Graham’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose. “That so? Must be why you’re frowning. Is she a trial?”
Zane sighed. “She is not.” Winifred was far from a trial, as Samuel put it. She was...he didn’t know what she was, just that he liked having her around.
“She’s older than Celeste. More...mature.”
The keen-eyed physician nodded. “I did rounds at eight this morning. Just leaving now to go back to the boardinghouse. Sarah serves lunch early on Sunday.”
Zane blinked. It was Sunday? Good God, he was losing track of the days again. “Anything new?”
“Mrs. Madsen’s leg ulcer looks better. I’d keep her in bed an extra day, give her some rest from that husband of hers. You’d think he had the only milk cows in the county the way he coddles them.”
“But not his wife,” Zane observed. “That how she fell, a cow knocked her down?”
Doc Graham nodded. “You might look in on Whitey Poletti. Keeps insisting he’s well and itching to get back to his barbershop. Testy, too, so watch yourself.”
Zane had had a bellyful of Whitey. With each haircut the man insisted Zane also needed a shave. He’d tried it once; Whitey had sent him home with some girly-smelling cologne that brought on Celeste’s asthma.
“And Zane,” the older man said. “Cut Nurse Sorensen some slack today, will you? It’s her birthday.”
Graham pivoted toward the hospital entrance and Zane watched his head disappear as he went down the front steps.
He checked on Mrs. Madsen’s leg ulcer, Whitey Poletti’s gall bladder incision and finally Sheriff Silver’s wife and the twins he’d delivered twenty-four hours ago.
“Good morning, Maddie. You ready to go home tomorrow?”
The sheriff’s wife grinned up at him from her hospital bed. “I am ready, Dr. Dougherty. I’m not sure about Jericho.”
“All new fathers feel somewhat overwhelmed. I know I did. I couldn’t quite believe such a tiny human being was my responsibility. And ever since Celeste—” He stopped short.
Maddie Silver gazed up at him with concerned eyes. “I am so sorry about your wife, Doc. I know I’ve said that before, but, well, you’ve been on my mind ever since the funeral.”
Zane took her small, capable hand in his. “And you’ve been on my mind, as well. It isn’t every day a doctor gets to deliver twins. Especially for a Pinkerton agent.”
He checked Maddie over, asked whether the twins were nursing regularly and left to seek out Elvira Sorensen. Elvira was the full-time nurse the hospital employed; Zinnia Langenfelder worked part-time as a nurse’s aide.
“Elvira, I want you to take the rest of the day and evening off.”
“What? But why? You know I always work the Sunday shift.”
“Zinnia can cover for you. You go on over to Uncle Charlie’s bakery for one of those lemon cakes you’re so fond of. Tell him to put it on my account.”
He planted a kiss on the older woman’s cheek. “Happy birthday, Elvira.” Then he strode out of the hospital and down the front steps.
“Well,” Elvira huffed, patting her hot cheeks. “I never did understand that man. But he’s a good ’un, I’d say.”
The doorbell rang on and off all afternoon. By the time Zane returned from the hospital, patients lined the entry hall. First, Noralee Ness tearfully presented two itchy, splotchy forearms and an inflamed forehead. “I was scared to show Mama cuz I thought I had leprosy,” she wailed.
“Why, it’s nothing but poison oak,” Zane assured her. He sent her off to her father’s mercantile with a prescription for calamine lotion.
Next, burly Ike Bruhn unwrapped a torn and bloody thumb he’d smashed while building a chicken coop. Zane cleaned and bandaged the wound, dosed him with two aspirin and a shot of brandy for the pain and sent him off with strict instructions for keeping his thumb clean and dry.
His last patient was Sarah Rose, and he was surprised at her presence. “Oh, it’s not about my grandson, Mark,” the rosy-cheeked woman assured him. “It’s about me. Lately my heart’s been actin’ funny, kinda skittery, and I want to know if...if...well, maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about so much activity at my age.”
Zane had her undo the top buttons of her dress and laid his stethoscope against her chemise. “What do you mean, ‘so much activity’? You doing anything unusually strenuous lately?”
“Well, no. I mean not yet.”
Sarah’s heartbeat sounded strong and regular. “Not yet?”
The older woman’s cheeks grew even more rosy.
“Sarah, why come to me when Doc Graham lives at your boardinghouse?”
“That’s just it, you see. I didn’t want Doc to know I was worried. It’s kinda private.”
“Private? Just what is worrying you, Sarah?”
Sarah wet her lips. “Do you think my heart is strong enough to, well, engage in some, well, spooning?”
Zane sat back. “Spooning? You mean making love?”
“Doc, hush! Someone might hear.”
Zane lowered his voice. “What, exactly, are you contemplating?”
Sarah leaned forward. “Marriage,” she whispered. “I’m thinking about getting married.”
He must have misheard the woman. Marriage? At her age? She must be over sixty! And who—?
“Rooney’s asked me to marry him, Doc. I want to, but I wouldn’t dare accept him and then die of heart failure on our honeymoon. It’d make him mighty unhappy.”
Zane tried like hell to keep a straight face. “Sarah, you’re in no danger of dying anytime soon no matter what you do, honeymoon or otherwise.”
She clasped his hand in both of hers. “Oh, thank you! I was so worried, you see. Thank you.” She rebuttoned her dress and stood up. “I brought an apple pie for you cuz you came to see Mark yesterday. I left it in the kitchen with Sam.”
“Sarah, I do love your apple pies, but you don’t owe me anything.” He squeezed her shoulder and walked her to the door of his office. When he heard the front door close he sank down behind his wide oak desk and poured himself a brandy.
So Sarah Rose wanted to marry again. Well, why not? She’d been widowed almost thirty years; she deserved some joy in life. A lot of joy, in fact. He had a particular soft spot for a woman who could run a boardinghouse year in, year out without becoming soured on humanity. He also had a soft spot for anyone willing to risk their heart in marriage. He’d sure as hell never do it again.
Losing Celeste had left his life so bleak that sometimes he didn’t want to go on. But he knew he had to, for Rosemarie.
He lifted his glass to Sarah Rose, downed the contents in one gulp and poured another. This one he nursed