a chance.”
Like Frannie, she made promises too easily. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
When she stepped closer, he smelled her fancy lavender soap, reminding him of Frannie. Women were all alike—two-faced Jezebels with heady ambitions and flapping tongues.
Dr. Mitchell took another step, crowding him because he refused to budge as she lectured him. “You, Mr. Garrison, have misjudged me. I don’t care about smudges on a dress. I don’t mind scrubbing floors. But I will not be disrespected.”
Zeb knew the feeling. The need for respect had driven him to build a mill instead of working for wages. Her breathing deepened and slowed as she fought for control. When she clenched her jaw, he imagined her counting to ten. The trick wouldn’t work. Zeb knew, because he used it himself.
He flashed a grin. “Cat got your tongue, Doc?”
She raked his face with those fiery blue eyes. “You need to know what happened after you left.”
“I don’t care.” He’d lied. He cared about everything in High Plains.
The redhead kept yammering at him. “You should care, Mr. Garrison. A girl came into the building. Bess Carter.”
“She can’t speak.”
“That’s right.” Dr. Mitchell spoke in a rush. “I’m a grown woman. I’m accustomed to adolescent pranks from silly little boys—”
“Wait just a minute!”
“No, sir.” She clipped the words. “I will not wait. That building should be boarded up. What if the roof had collapsed on her? You endangered a child today, a girl who couldn’t call for help. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He was, but he’d never admit it. “Anything else, Dr. Mitchell?”
“Yes,” she said. “With or without your help, I intend to find a place to practice.”
“Good luck.” He smirked at her.
“I won’t quit,” she repeated.
Zeb stared at her with a mix of disbelief and envy. Where had that faith come from? Didn’t she know life took dangerous turns? He flung up his hand to indicate the framework of the town hall. “Are you blind, Doc? A tornado blew this town to pieces. There’s not an inch of space that’s not being used except my parlor.”
“I don’t need your parlor,” she countered.
“Good, because you can’t have it.”
She stood ramrod straight. Zeb had a good six inches on her, but he felt no advantage. This woman had courage, the kind that made a small dog chase a bigger one. Of all the aggravating things, she reminded him of someone he used to know…not Frannie, but a young man who’d called on the foremost millwright in America.
I want to be your apprentice, Mr. Gridley.
So do a lot of men, Mr. Garrison. Why should I pick you?
Because I want it, sir.
Zeb had been full of faith that day, faith in God and faith in his dreams. Gridley had seen that confidence and taken him under his wing. A month later, the man arranged a dinner party to introduce his protégé to his upper-crust friends. Zeb had escorted Cassandra, but that night he’d fallen in love with Frannie.
Hammering pulled him back to the present. High Plains needed a doctor, not a debutante from New York. He couldn’t stand the sight of Dr. Mitchell and her red hair. As for her skills, he’d trust her to paint sore throats but nothing else.
She waved her hand to get his attention. “Mr. Garrison? Did you hear me?”
He’d been caught off guard and didn’t like it. “What?”
“I said, when I have a parlor of my own, I expect you to apologize.”
“Sure,” he said, mocking her. “Why not?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He’d never been more sure in his life. “You don’t have a prayer of finding an office, Dr. Mitchell. No one here wants a lady doctor.” Except Pete and Rebecca, Cassandra and Emmeline and Will and anyone with kids.
“I’ll have to change their minds, won’t I?” With a dip of her chin, she headed back to the street.
Her skirts swayed with lady-like grace, but Zeb saw past the poise. He’d just kicked a hornet’s nest. He felt the sting of it now. Even more confusing, instead of running away from the hornet named Nora Mitchell, he wanted to chase after her. He wanted to see the sparks in her blue eyes and the waves of her red hair. That desire couldn’t be tolerated.
“Dr. Mitchell!” he called.
She stopped and turned. “Yes, Mr. Garrison?”
“The Crandalls leave tomorrow. If you’re smart, you’ll go with them.”
She turned fully, giving him a good look at the high-and-mighty dress and the feather that had tickled his nose. “I assure you, sir, the Crandalls will be leaving without me. You may not like my gender. You might not trust my abilities. But I’m a good doctor. I also have a conscience. The people in this town need me.”
Yes, they do.
Pride sealed his lips, but he didn’t turn away. Neither did she. They glared at each other until she gave a ladylike dip of her chin, followed by a smile and a sly wink.
Completely disarmed, Zeb couldn’t think of a thing to say. The redheaded doctor had thrown down the gauntlet. They’d gone to war and he wanted to win. He also imagined kissing that smirk right off her pretty face. He had no right to such a thought, but he couldn’t help it. Dr. Mitchell had gotten to him. For that reason alone, she needed to go back to New York.
Nora kept her chin high as she crossed the street, but her insides were churning. Winking at Zeb Garrison bordered on shameless. What had she been thinking? Even more frightening, what was he thinking? The wink had been a trick she’d learned from male students who’d harassed her. Whenever a man made that presumptuous gesture, she felt flustered. She doubted a wink would fluster Zebulun Garrison, but she hoped so.
“Oh, dear,” she mumbled as she avoided the broken boardwalk. What if he misread the wink as flirting? They’d been alone in Dr. Dempsey’s office when she touched his arm. She’d acted out of concern, but she’d felt something stronger, a connection that made her notice his green eyes, the stubble on his jaw. Winking at Zeb Garrison had been a mistake. Either she’d insulted her new boss, or he’d take it as a brazen invitation. At the thought of seeing him again, she stifled a groan. In a town the size of High Plains, their paths would cross no matter how hard she tried to avoid him.
Eager to escape the prickle of his gaze on her back, she rounded the corner and headed for the boardinghouse. There she climbed the steps, walked into the foyer and smelled fresh bread. The aroma reminded her of her empty stomach, so she went to the kitchen where she saw a tall blonde, presumably Rebecca, stirring a pot of soup. She hoped the cook would be pleasant. Even more than food, Nora needed a friend.
She tapped on the door frame. “Hi, are you Rebecca?”
Recognition lit the woman’s eyes. “You must be Dr. Mitchell!”
Judging by her accent, the cook had recently come from Scandinavia. “That’s right,” Nora replied.
Rebecca indicated a small table by a window overlooking a meadow. “Please, sit down. Mrs. Jennings told me to expect you.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re not,” the cook replied. “I’m eager to speak with you. Pete, my husband, was just here. There’s already talk about you and plenty of it!”
Nora forced a smile. “I’m afraid Mr. Garrison wasn’t expecting