Cowboy Creek Christmas Read online

  “I am.”

  “We lost touch quite a while ago,” he said, the first one to mention their previous relationship. “And we maintained no mutual acquaintances, so you’ll have to fill me in on your background, and we’ll make the piece interesting.”

  “Will you interview me right now?”

  He spread his fingers in question. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” She smoothed her skirt over her knees.

  “I recall you’re fluent in several languages. That’s an interesting fact. Four, is it?”

  “Latin, French, German, Portuguese, passable Chinese, and I can communicate somewhat in Choctaw, Chickasee and Cherokee.”

  “More than I thought.” He added a note on the paper. “And your education?” He kept his voice studiedly neutral as he mentioned the reason she’d called off their engagement.

  “I attended the Philadelphia School of Eclectic Medicine.”

  His pencil paused. He glanced up. “Did you learn conventional medicine there?”

  “If by conventional you mean cutting, purging, administering harmful chemicals, and adding tar to drinking water, I did not.”

  He sensed he’d opened a can of worms. “By harmful chemicals, you mean...?”

  “Mercury, arsenic. Even in small doses they are harmful at their worst and placebos at best.”

  The pieces he’d read about reformers and botanical physicians had not been favorable. The majority of the population looked upon them as quacks. “So you studied the teaching of...” He’d read the news from all major cities for years, and he had perfect recall. “Wooster Beach?”

  “As well as John King and John Milton Scudder.”

  He nodded. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that she’d followed their practices. She’d always had unconventional ideas and questioned everything.

  “Eclectic medicine promotes botanical therapies with the belief that the body heals itself. I studied medicinal plants of European and American origin to learn remedies. I was encouraged to explore how medicine should work with nature to harness its intrinsic healing capabilities.”

  Marlys was passionate about her studies, about her practice. He didn’t doubt for a moment she believed her methods could help people. She was as caring and compassionate as she was strong-willed and outspoken. She was also the same woman who had broken off an engagement with him, left him to explain to friends and his social circle, wounded his masculine pride and left a crater in his self-respect.

  Sam kept his expression neutral. He was a journalist, and no matter their history, it was his job to report the news in an impartial manner. He offered up a silent prayer for guidance to handle this situation without emotion or prejudice. “Do you have any followers yet?”

  When she didn’t reply immediately, he glanced up. She was eyeing him with a guarded expression. “Don’t you mean patients?”

  “I do mean patients,” he answered firmly.

  “Yes, I do.”

  He held the pencil at the ready.

  Any previous warmth had fled her gold-flecked eyes. “I sense your hesitation to shed a positive light on this subject.”

  “It’s my job to report the news impartially, Miss Boyd.”

  “If you can’t call me Marlys, it’s Dr. Boyd. I don’t expect you to endorse my practice. Your concern is not unfounded—you haven’t seen the effectiveness of this type of medical practice firsthand. A lot of people don’t understand the benefits, but education is power. I can educate them.”

  “You’re not wrong. I am definitely interested in an article. Maybe more than one. It could give you a chance to share information. I’ll choose language carefully to inform readers without insulting Doc Fletcher’s practice.”

  “That sounds fair. It’s not my intention to insult anyone. I’m more interested in education and advanced medicine.”

  He asked her several more questions, and she supplied answers.

  “What was your first impression of Cowboy Creek?” he asked.

  She thought a moment. “The town is laid out efficiently. I had no problem finding my property or locating help to work on my building. The stores are more than adequate, and the boardinghouse is sufficient for my needs until my quarters are ready. I’ve spent all my time and energy on my office and supplies.”

  “What about people? Have you made friends?”

  She flushed a little, which made Sam frown. Had people been unkind to her? He could understand if the townsfolk preferred to continue going to Doc Fletcher rather than trying something new, but that was no excuse for rudeness. She seemed to be struggling for an answer, so he hastened to say, “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. You spoke of locations and not of the people. I was attempting to interest the readers who like to hear about their friendly town.”

  Her posture relaxed, and she faced him. “A lot has happened since we were last...together,” she said. “You know me well enough to know I’m socially awkward. I’m no good at inconsequential chatter—which can make it hard for me to make friends in a new town.”

  “You’re good with patients, I assume.”

  “I try to be.” She stood. “And now, I really should go.” She took her coat from a hook, and he stepped to hold it as she slid her arms into the sleeves. Her shiny waves didn’t touch the collar. She turned and faced him. He didn’t back up, so only two feet separated them.

  He never had the slightest idea what she was thinking behind those golden-flecked eyes, one of the things that had intrigued him from the first. He’d never been certain if she’d broken his heart or injured his pride.

  “I read some of your articles during the war,” she said. “You were in Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, Maine?”

  “And Virginia, too. I pretty much saw it all.”

  “And your parents? How did they fare?”

  “My father died shortly after I enlisted. Mother is well. She’s currently traveling abroad. And your father?”

  She absorbed the information. “My father is alive.”

  Her lack of further information spoke volumes. “He disapproved of your aspirations.”

  “Along with everyone else.”

  Did she mean him? “I suppose that was a strain on your relationship.”

  “We no longer have a relationship.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She turned to watch Pete edge the letters of Sam’s name with a neat gold line, giving him a moment to study her profile. She looked less girlish, of course, but even though she wore no jewelry and her hair lacked sophistication, she was as lovely as he remembered. She still fascinated him, but he’d learned the hard way she wasn’t carved out to be a wife. Even if she’d changed her mind about that—which he doubted—he’d know better than to trust her with his heart again.

  Her gaze wavered, and she lifted her brows in curiosity, drawing his attention to the door where Hannah Johnson and a shivering August peered in. Pete stepped back to allow them entrance, and Sam’s eight-year-old son shuffled in ahead of their neighbor, Hannah, ushering in a gust of cold air.

  “How was your day at school?” Sam said as they approached.

  August glanced uncertainly at Marlys and then up at his father. “Fine. Mrs. Johnson made a pie for our supper. She let me help.”

  Sam knelt and awkwardly touched August’s cold cheek. The child smelled like fresh air, chalk dust and flour. Things had been strained between them ever since he’d returned to his mother’s home at the end of the war. Thanks to his years in the Army, they’d spent too long apart—too many years he’d missed getting to know his son. He believed bringing August here where they could start a new life together would be the answer to bringing them closer. The boy had never known his mother, and his grandmother had been his caregiver until a few months ago. Sam’s
mother deserved the opportunity to travel and see friends. And Sam needed time with his son to re-create and repair their relationship. But the relationship was slow to heal. August was reserved and withheld feelings and affection. Sam’s heart ached at the chasm of years and uncertainly between them.

  “Dr. Boyd!” Hannah said, drawing his attention back to Marlys. “It’s nice to see you.”

  Sam straightened. Hannah was a seamstress with her own dress shop, so it wasn’t unusual that Marlys would already have met her during her initial weeks in town.

  “Mrs. Johnson,” Marlys acknowledged, but her attention was on August.

  “Hannah, please.” The other woman glanced at Sam and handed him a covered pie. “My husband came home to be with the baby, and I thought a brisk walk would do me well, so I accompanied August.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for getting him after school and keeping him for a time.”

  “My pleasure,” she assured him. “I need to stop by the mercantile before heading home, so I’ll take my leave.” She nodded at Marlys and departed.

  “August, this is Dr. Boyd,” Sam said. “Dr. Boyd, this is my son, August.”

  August politely removed his wool stocking cap, and his dark hair stood up in disheveled curls. “How do, ma’am.”

  Chapter Two

  The boy child’s shy expression was enchanting. He had shiny black hair and thick lashes like his father. Who was his mother? If things had gone differently, Sam’s son might have been her child. Nearly a decade had passed since she and Sam had been engaged. He had wanted a family. Of course he had married.

  What kind of woman had Sam chosen? Surely someone with all the admirable feminine qualities Marlys’s father wanted her to possess. Someone focused on a marriage and not schooling and a career.

  Marlys remembered meeting her father’s colleagues as a child, recalled her self-conscious feelings of inadequacy and the discomfort of being stared at. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, August. How old are you?”

  “Eight, ma’am.”

  “Do you enjoy school?”

  “Yes, very much. Miss Aldridge lets me bring home her very own books. I’m careful with them.”

  “I should like to meet Miss Aldridge.”

  “Do you have any boys or girls?”

  “No, I don’t. But if I did, I’d be proud if they were smart and liked to read, like you.”

  August tilted his head to glance up at his father.

  Sam clamped a hand on his shoulder and grinned. “Why don’t you hang your coat and go see if Israel needs a hand sorting the type.”

  “Yes, sir.” August dutifully hung his coat and headed toward the room in the rear with the open door.

  Marlys caught the wistful expression on Sam’s face. “He’s a bright boy,” she said.

  “Yes. He is.”s

  “Do you have other children?”

  “No. My wife died when August was born. My mother helped care for him. He stayed with her during the war, and she continued to look after him when I returned. Until just a few months ago actually.”

  There was a whole history of love and loss in those few words. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife.” She wrapped her scarf around her hair and buttoned her coat. “I will return tomorrow. I would like to pay for an advertisement.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  She lifted her gaze to his midnight blue eyes, puzzled. Fascinated in some unexplainable manner. “Your wife must have been...” She grasped for something comforting because it was expected. Yet she was always at a loss for words in these situations. “Just what you wanted in a life mate.”

  “She was a lovely young woman.”

  “Will you want to do another interview then?”

  “Yes, perhaps in another week or two. We’ll generate interest with this first article, and with your advertisement, and then follow up so people don’t forget.”

  “I read your book,” she said. She hadn’t been going to admit it, but there was no reason to withhold that bit of information. “It’s not my usual reading material, but it held my interest. You’re a very good writer.”

  “I don’t know whether or not that’s a compliment. Your usual reading material is medical journals and field experiments.”

  “I read history and—” She stopped abruptly. He was teasing her.

  He was smiling, the corners of his dark-lashed eyes crinkling. The resulting flutter of anticipation was one she’d only experienced when facing a particularly stimulating curative challenge. How strange. But maybe she was responding to the challenge of convincing him to write about her in a way that would help grow her practice? Sam was no inexperienced journalist looking to make a name for himself. He’d been a city editor in New York, and the book he’d written about his Army experiences had been highly successful. He was well-known and admired.

  “I’ll see you when you return to schedule your advertisement,” he said.

  Pete held open the door for her, and she stepped onto the boardwalk, where the frigid air stole her breath. She glanced back into the newspaper office in time to see Sam’s tall form disappear into the back room where his son waited.

  When faced with the choice between a life as someone’s wife and the challenge of learning and a career, she’d made her decision. She rarely paused long enough to consider what she may have missed. The past was the past, and both of them had moved on. She was satisfied with the path she’d chosen.

  And now here he was, back in her life. Samuel Woods Mason. Still fascinating. Still charming. Still enigmatic and charismatic.

  Still her one regret.

  * * *

  In the days that followed, Marlys’s plans didn’t go as expected, but such was the life of a doctor. She was surprised but gratified when three uniformed soldiers showed up in her office.

  The shortest soldier removed his hat upon seeing her. “How do you do, ma’am. Is the doctor in?” A second man was occupied keeping the third fellow upright, with no free hand available to remove his hat. The patient grimaced and stood on one foot, leaning all his weight on his friend.

  “I’m Dr. Boyd.” She hurried forward. “What is the injury?”

  “You’re the doctor?” the first man questioned, but was cut off by his comrade.

  “It’s my leg and foot,” the man in pain barked. “Horse reared and crushed me against a building.”

  “Let me take a look at it.” She gestured to a narrow hallway. “Take him into the first room.”

  “You sure about this, Ben?” his friend asked, eyeing Marlys.

  “Get me to the room like she said,” Ben demanded, and hopped forward.

  “His name’s Benjamin Cross,” the first man told her. “That’s Enoch, and I’m Jess. There was a note on Doc Fletcher’s chalkboard saying he’d be out all morning. Sheriff told us you were here.”

  “Are you able to remove your trousers, Mr. Cross?” she asked.

  Pain wasn’t enough to dull his discomfort with the suggestion, because the patient flushed, glanced around but finally unbuttoned his uniform pants. His friends helped him remove them and got him situated on the examining table. Marlys took a pair of shears and cut the leg of his gray flannel union suit from ankle to knee. “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Happened right in front of the sheriff’s office,” Jess said. “Took us maybe ten or fifteen minutes to find you.”

  “You’re fortunate, Mr. Cross.” She probed the area of his ankle, which was beginning to swell. “I don’t believe anything is broken. And I can encourage blood flow away from your foot to prevent more swelling and to help the soft tissue heal faster.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Ben asked, looking at his purpling foot. Sweat beaded his forehead.

  “While Enoch go
es to the Cowboy Café for ice, I’ll give you something for pain, and then we will soak your foot in warm water, and I will massage the blood from the injury, upward back toward your heart. When Enoch gets back, we will ice it.”

  “I never heard of such a thing,” Enoch said. “My pa got a crushed foot, and the doc put it in a cast.”

  “How did he walk afterward?” Marlys asked.

  “Well, he limped and used a cane.”

  “Exactly. I don’t think Mr. Cross is ready to retire from his Army position and take to using a cane. I’d rather treat the injury and enable his body to heal the damaged tissue.”

  Enoch just looked at his companions.

  “It’s up to you, Ben,” Jess said.

  Ben didn’t waste any time making his decision. Pain was a strong motivator, and the prospect of losing mobility—and employment—obviously added fuel. “What she’s saying sounds better than being a cripple,” he answered. “Go.”

  Enoch turned and headed out.

  Marlys diluted a pain remedy and gave it to her patient. He grimaced but swallowed it all. She heated water, dissolved Epsom salt, along with drops of hyssop, cypress, yarrow root, parsley and fennel oil, in a pail and had Ben soak his foot and ankle. After a few minutes he was resting somewhat more comfortably on the padded table. Using the oiled water, she massaged his foot and ankle in firm upward motions. He winced once or twice, but for the most part remained at ease.

  “What did you give him?” Jess asked.

  “It’s a boiled mixture of bark, roots and leaves to help with pain.”

  He looked at his chum and then at her. “Seems to have worked.”

  She nodded. “This procedure would have been quite painful without it. It’s necessary, though—motion will help the healing process and prevent his ankle from becoming stiff.”

  Ben opened his eyes and attempted to sit up.