steadying the blonde, he turned back to Nora. His lips thinned to a line. “The interview’s over, Miss Mitchell. You’ll be leaving with the Crandalls.”
“No, sir,” she answered. “I will not be leaving. You promised me an interview. I expect a chance to prove myself.”
“You just did, Dr. N. Mitchell.”
“I never said I was male. You assumed—”
“You didn’t say you weren’t.”
“When you sign a letter, do you tell people you’re a man?”
“Of course not.”
Nora fought to stay calm. “Do you sign your letters, ‘Zebulun Garrison, Member of the Human Race, Male’?”
His stare could have boiled water.
The blonde tugged on his sleeve. “Zeb, please! I want to go inside.”
“Wait here,” he snapped at Nora.
She hadn’t taken orders since medical college, not even from her father. She wanted the respect of her title, but she did not want a public scene when they discussed the terms of her employment. Neither did she want to have that talk wearing the duster, with dirt on her face.
“I’ll be at the boardinghouse as we arranged,” she said to him. “I’ll expect you this afternoon. Is two o’clock acceptable?”
He stared at her for five long seconds. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“I have as much nerve as you.”
His mouth curved into a bitter smile. “I doubt that, Miss Mitchell. I’ll be at the boardinghouse at one o’clock. I have work to do.”
He’d changed the time to make a point. She’d have to hurry to get ready, but she’d manage. “Fine,” she said.
“Fine,” he replied.
The blonde gave Nora a nasty look, then gripped Mr. Garrison’s arm and steered him into the mercantile. As they passed through the door, Mr. Crandall came out. “How ya doing, missy?”
“Just fine,” she answered. “I thought I’d walk to the boardinghouse. Would you deliver my trunk when you’re done here?”
“Sure thing, girl.” He held out his big hand. “It’s been a pleasure hauling ya.”
Nora clasped it in both of hers. “The pleasure was mine. And remember, if you or the missus need a doctor, I’m here.”
His gray eyes turned serious. “I will, miss. But I’m worried about ya. Mr. Garrison’s a mite bent out of shape. If you need a ride back to Saint Joseph, just holler. The wife and I leave in the morning.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I hope so.” He shook his head. “That man doesn’t think much of females. Might be different if he had himself a wife like mine.”
Nora had enjoyed the older couple, bickering and all. “You and Mrs. Crandall were very kind to me.”
He tipped his hat. “Good day, miss. I’ll see to that trunk of yours.”
As he turned to leave, Nora realized she needed directions. She called back to Mr. Crandall. “Would you point me to the boardinghouse?”
“Go that way.” He jerked his thumb down the dusty street. “Turn right at the end and you’ll see it. Mrs. Jennings runs the place. She’s on the crabby side, but you’ll like her cook, Rebecca. She makes the best meals in Kansas.”
“Thank you.”
Gripping her medical bag, Nora paced down the street, avoiding the broken boardwalk as she took in buildings with boarded-up windows. Some of the structures were brand new. Others were a mix of wood weathered by time and fresh lumber. At the end of the street she saw a whitewashed church with glass windows and a perfect roof. A cross topped a bell tower and pointed at the sky. The sight of it gave Nora hope. She refused to be shaken by anything—not tornadoes and not Zebulun Garrison. Before she left New York, she’d prayed for God’s will to be done in her life. Surely the Lord wouldn’t let her down.
As for Mr. Garrison, he’d met his match. When he arrived at the boardinghouse, she wouldn’t be wearing a duster. She’d look her best and be armed with her medical degree, a quick wit and her good intentions. She’d been asked to come for an interview, and she intended to hold him to his word. If he thought he could disrespect her, she’d be glad to set him straight.
Chapter Two
Zeb handed Abigail off to her mother, who ran the mercantile along with Abigail’s father, and left the store. Ever since he’d let it slip that he wanted a wife, he’d felt like a rabbit in a hunt. Abigail had been the most obvious, but he’d received supper invitations from half a dozen families with daughters, including Winnie Morrow and her mother. Either Winnie or Abigail would do for a wife. He just had to choose one over the other.
As he crossed the street, he saw Mr. Crandall driving to the boardinghouse. In the wagon sat a trunk that had to belong to Dr. Nora Mitchell. A woman! Of all the fool things…If Doc Dempsey hadn’t died last week, Zeb wouldn’t even speak to her. As things stood, the town desperately needed a physician. At Doc’s funeral, Zeb had taken comfort in knowing Dr. Mitchell was on his way.
Her way, he corrected himself.
Stifling an oath, he headed for the livery to tell Pete Benjamin the news. Of all the people in High Plains, the blacksmith surely understood the need for a physician most personally. A year ago, Pete’s first wife, Sarah, had died in childbirth, and the baby had been lost with her. Dr. Dempsey, a gentleman in his eighties, had done his best, but his methods were old-fashioned at best and lethal at worst.
At the funeral, the first in High Plains, Zeb had set his mind on finding a skilled physician. He’d received a dozen letters and had interviewed four men. He didn’t think the choices could get any worse, but he’d been wrong. No way would he hire a woman. Zeb dreaded giving the bad news to Pete. The livery owner had remarried and found happiness with Rebecca Gunderson, the boardinghouse cook. One of these days he’d be a father again.
Pete knew the need for a good physician most personally, but Zeb had strong feelings, too. As long as he lived, he’d be haunted by the aftermath of the tornado. How many people had suffered because Doc Dempsey couldn’t keep up? Some had died instantly. Others had lingered for days with festering wounds. Doc had done his best, but he’d lacked the skill and stamina to treat all the injured. On that horrible day, Zeb had renewed his vow to find a skilled physician for High Plains.
As he neared the livery, he gritted his teeth against a flare of temper. Not only had Dr. Mitchell lied about her gender, she’d left him with egg on his face. Just last week, he’d bragged to Will Logan that he’d found the perfect man for the job. Dr. Mitchell had impeccable credentials, including a letter of reference from Dr. Gunter Zeiss, a name Zeb recognized from his cavalier days in Boston. Dr. Zeiss, a famous German neurologist, had praised Dr. Mitchell as a skilled diagnostician and a brilliant clinician. He’d described his “colleague” as talented, dedicated and a true humanitarian.
In Zeb’s opinion, Dr. Zeiss had more brains than common sense. No way could a woman handle the rigors of doctoring.
As he neared the livery stable, he backhanded the sweat off his brow. The day, already warm, turned insufferable as he neared the forge. Heat spilled in waves off the brick table where Pete was pounding a glowing piece of iron. Between caring for horses and making everything from plow blades to door latches, the blacksmith was the busiest man in town.
The men had known each other for years. Zeb saw no need for small talk as he peered into the gloom. “I’ve got bad news.”
Pete kept hammering. “What happened?”
“Dr. Mitchell arrived.”
“You