it isn’t due to an ill air blowing through town?” His large round cookie was sweet, spicy and chewy. He rested his head against the back of the chair.
She inhaled deeply. “Over a decade ago, Dr. John Snow in London did a study of the water supplies of victims of cholera in a poor district in London. The doctor was able to connect all the original cases to a pump in one neighborhood.”
If Lon hadn’t been so tired, he would have shown shock at this calm recitation of scientific information. This woman was interested in epidemics in London? Few men hereabouts would have been. He studied her more closely.
Her petite form had misled him initially, but she was no bit of fluff. Despite death hovering in the room with them, her face was composed. She had taken off her bonnet to reveal pale, flaxen hair skimmed back into a tight bun, though some of the strands had managed to work themselves free. Her eyes—now, they stopped him. So blue—as blue as a perfect summer sky. Clear. Intelligent. Fearless.
He recalled her tireless work over the past hours, her calm orders and take-charge manner. Some men might resent it. He might have resented it once. But not here. Not now. Not in the face of such a wanton loss of lives. This woman might just be able to save people. Maybe even him.
“Do you think you’re having any success here?” he asked in a lowered voice.
She looked momentarily worried. “I am doing my best, but my best will not save everyone who is stricken.”
The swinging doors crashed open. A man holding a rifle burst into the saloon. “She’s dying! I need the doctor!”
Chapter Two
Everyone around Lon and Mercy Gabriel froze.
“Did you hear me?” the man shrieked. “I was told a doctor’s here! My wife’s dying!”
Dr. Gabriel put down her cup, swallowing the last of her cookie. She rose and faced the man. “I am sorry to hear that. Why hasn’t thee brought her here?”
“She won’t come! She won’t come into a saloon!” The man swung his rifle toward the Quaker. “You gotta come with me! Now! Save her!”
Lon leapt to his feet, pulling out his pistol, ready to shoot.
“Friend, I am heartily sorry for thee, but I cannot leave all these patients—” the woman motioned toward the crowded room “—to go to one. Thee must bring thy wife here.”
“What?” The man gawked at her and raised his rifle to his eye to aim.
Lon moved toward the man slowly. He didn’t want to shoot if he didn’t have to.
“Thee must bring thy wife here. And then I will do whatever I can for her.”
Lon marveled at the Quaker’s calm voice. It shouldn’t have surprised him that the man with the rifle was also confounded. The man froze, staring forward.
Dr. Gabriel moved away to a patient and began to give the woman another dose of the saline infusion.
“You have to come with me, lady!” the man demanded. “My wife won’t come here.”
Dr. Gabriel glanced over her shoulder. “Is she still conscious?”
The man lowered his rifle. “No.”
“Well, then what is stopping thee from carrying her here? If she is unconscious or delirious, she won’t know where she is.” The Quaker said this in the same reasonable tone, without a trace of fear. Lon had rarely heard the like.
This woman was either crazy or as cool as they came.
The man swung the gun above Mercy’s head and fired, shattering one of the bulbous oil lamps behind the bar.
Lon lunged forward and struck the man’s head with the butt of his pistol, wrestling the rifle from him. The man dropped to the floor.
“Does he have a fever?” the Quaker asked as she gazed at the fallen man.
Lon gawked at her. Unbelieving. Astounded.
“Does he have a fever?” she prompted.
After stooping to check, Lon nodded. “Yes, he’s fevered. Doctor, you are very cool under fire.”
She gazed at him, still unruffled. “Unfortunately, this is not the first time a weapon has been aimed at me.” She turned away but said over her shoulder, “Set him on the floor on a blanket. Then please find out where this poor man’s wife is and see if she’s alive. I doubt there is anything I can do for her. But we must try. And, Lon Mackey, will thee please keep asking questions? We must get to the source before more people die.”
Lon carried the unconscious man and laid him down, then asked another person where the man’s home was. As he turned to leave, he snatched up the rifle and took it with him. He didn’t want anybody else waving it around.
Since the war, nothing much surprised him. But Dr. Mercy Gabriel had gotten his attention. She could have gotten herself killed. And she didn’t even so much as blink.
Mercy went about her round of injections, thinking of Lon and the ease with which he’d subdued the distraught man. She had never gotten used to guns, yet this was the second time today men had been forced to draw guns to protect her.
A young woman with a little girl in her arms rushed through the swinging doors. “My child! My Missy is having cramping. They said that cramping…” The woman’s face crumpled and she visibly fought for control. “Please save her. She’s only four. Please.” The woman held out her daughter to Mercy.
“Just cramps, nothing else?”
“Just cramps. She started holding her stomach and crying about a half hour ago.” Tears poured down the woman’s face.
“Thee did exactly right in bringing her here so quickly. I will do what I can.” Mercy lifted the child from her mother’s trembling arms, tenderly laid the little girl on the bar and smiled down at her. “Thee must not be afraid. I know what to do.”
Mercy felt the child’s forehead. Her temperature was already rising. Mercy fought to keep her focus and not give in to worry and despair. God was in this room, not just the deadly cholera.
The mother hovered nearby, wringing her hands.
Mercy bent to listen to the child’s heart with her stethoscope. “Missy, I need thee to sit up and cough for me.”
The mother began to weep. Mercy glanced at Indigo, who nodded and drew the woman outside. Then Mercy went about examining the child. Soon she glanced over and saw that Indigo had left the woman near the doors and was continuing her rounds of the patients. Indigo bathed their reddened faces with water and alcohol, trying to fight their fevers.
Mercy listened to the little girl’s abdomen and heard the telltale rumbling. No doubt the child had become infected. Mercy closed her eyes for one second, sending a prayer heavenward. Father, help me save this little life.
A call for help came from the far side of the room. Mercy looked over and her spirits dropped. One of the patients was showing signs of the mortal end of this dreaded disease. A woman—no doubt the wife of the dying man—rose and shouted for help again.
Mercy watched Indigo weave swiftly between the pallets on the wood floor to reach the woman’s side. Mercy looked away. She hated early death, needless death, heartless death. Her usual composure nearly slipped. As the woman’s sobbing filled the room, Mercy tightened her control. I cannot give in to emotion. I must do what I can to save this child. Father, keep me focused.
Mercy mixed the first dose of the herbal medication her mother had taught her to concoct, which was better than any patented medicine she’d tried. “Now, Missy, thee must drink this in order to get better.”
“I want my mama.” The little girl’s face wrinkled up in fear. “Mama. Mama.”
Mercy picked up