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Courting the Doctor's Daughter
Janet Dean








“Well, well.” Luke Jacobs gave her a lazy smile. “We meet again.”


Mary’s hands curled into fists. “Yes, Mr. Jacobs, we do.”



“Will you tell me where I can find the livery?”



The cocky grin he wore infuriated her. And he knew it.



“Have you a remedy for horses? Or looking for some manure to add to your spiel?” That ought to wipe the smirk off his insufferable face.



He chuckled. “I need to bed down my horse. You wouldn’t want an innocent animal at risk.”



“True, but I wouldn’t mind putting a guilty beast at peril.” She eyed him, making no secret which beast she meant.



Instead of leaving, he took a step closer.



“I can see my presence in this town unhinges you. I assure you, I’m quite harmless.”



Mary pulled her five-foot-two frame erect. “Nothing unhinges me, Mr. Jacobs. Not even the prospect of a charlatan in town.”




JANET DEAN


grew up in a family who cherished the past and had a strong creative streak. Her father recounted fascinating stories, like his father before him. The tales they told instilled in Janet a love of history and the desire to write. She married her college sweetheart and taught first grade before leaving to rear two daughters, but Janet never lost interest in American history and the accounts of the strong men and women of faith who built this country. With her daughters grown, she eagerly turned to inspirational historical romance. Today Janet enjoys spinning stories for the Love Inspired Historical line. When she isn’t writing, Janet stamps greeting cards, plays golf and is never without a book to read. The Deans love to travel and spend time with family.




Janet Dean

Courting the Doctor’s Daughter















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him.

—James 1:5


To Andrea and Heather, fine women, wonderful

wives and mothers, precious gifts from God.

No mother could be prouder of her children.

To my dear brothers, Michael and Philip, without

you, my childhood would have been dull.

To the Seekers, prayer partners, forever friends,

a daily dose of delight.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Questions for Discussion




Chapter One


Noblesville, Indiana, 1898

Mary Graves couldn’t believe her eyes. And the gall of that man. A stranger stood on the seat of his wagon holding up a bottle and making ridiculous claims for its medicinal value with all the fervor of an itinerant evangelist. His Eastern accent grated on her Midwestern ears.

She slipped through the gathering crowd to sneak a closer look. Gazing up at him, Mary pressed a hand to her bodice. The man didn’t resemble any preacher she’d ever seen. Hatless, the stranger’s dark hair lifted in the morning breeze. He’d rolled his white shirtsleeves to his elbows revealing muscled, tanned forearms. He looked more like a gypsy, a member of the marauding bands tramping through the countryside stealing chickens and whatever else wasn’t nailed down—like the Noblesville residents’ hard-earned dollars.

Well, she had no intention of standing by while this quack bilked the town of its money and, worse, kept its citizens from seeking legitimate treatment.

Not that her father needed more work. Far from it. Since Doc Roberts died in the spring, her father often worked from sunup to sundown—and sometimes through the night. With the exception of those folks who’d profited from Noblesville’s natural gas boom, most patients paid with produce or an occasional exchange of services.

The peddler raised the container high above his head. “Just two capfuls of this medicine will ease a nervous headache and an upset stomach. It’ll cure your insomnia, but most importantly, this bottle holds the safe solution for a baby’s colic.”

This charlatan attempted to take money out of her father’s all-but-empty pockets with a potion no doubt containing nothing more than hard liquor or flavored water. Imagine giving such a thing to an infant. But her neighbors nodded their heads, taken in by his nonsensical spiel.

“Imagine, folks, getting a good night’s sleep and waking refreshed to tackle the day,” the peddler went on.

Around her, John Lemming, Roscoe Sullivan and Pastor Foley, of all people, reached in their back pockets for their wallets. Even her friend, Martha Cummings, a baby on her hip and two of her youngsters clinging to her skirts, dug into her purse. And everyone knew Martha could squeeze a penny until it bled.

Mary clenched her jaw. Such foolishness. Why couldn’t these people recognize a sham when they saw one?

“Step right up, folks, for the sum of—”

“Whatever you’re charging is disgraceful,” Mary called, the words pouring out of her mouth. She turned to her neighbors. “Have you forgotten the swindler who came through here last year, promising his tonic would do all that and more? Not one word of his claims proved true.”

The townspeople stilled. Her gaze locked with the fraud’s. Suddenly cool on this sunny October morning, Mary tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “You’re preying on these good folks’ worries, knowing full well what’s in that bottle can be found for less money over at O’Reilly’s saloon.” Her deceased husband, Sam, had hidden his drinking behind the pretext of using it for medicinal purposes.

The man shot her a lazy grin, revealing a dimple in his left cheek, giving him a deceptive aura of innocence. Then he had the audacity to tip an imaginary hat. “Pardon me, Florence Nightingale, but without testing my product, you’ve no cause to condemn it.”

Florence Nightingale indeed. No one in the crowd chuckled as the man had undoubtedly intended. They all knew her, knew she lent a hand in her father’s practice. Knew what had happened to her mother.

Mary folded her arms across her chest. “No right? I’ve seen your kind before….” A lump the size of a walnut lodged in her throat, stopping her words. She blinked rapidly to hold back tears.

Though his smile still remained, the stranger’s eyes darkened into murky pools and every trace of mirth vanished. Good. Maybe now he’d take her seriously.

He leaned toward her. “And what kind is that?”

She cleared her throat, determined not to be undone by this rogue. “The kind of man who instead of putting in a hard day’s work, earns his living cheating others. That nonsense in your hand isn’t worth the price of an empty bottle.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your assessment of my remedy—of my kind—is hardly scientific.”

He jumped to the street, and bystanders stepped back, giving him a clear path—a clear path leading directly to her. He stopped inches away from her skirt, his features chiseled as if from stone, his dimple gone. The starkness of that face put a hitch in Mary’s breathing. Her hand lifted to her throat.

“This isn’t a bottle of spirits as you’ve alleged.” He unscrewed the cap and thrust it under her nose. “It’s good medicine.”

She didn’t smell alcohol, only peppermint and honey, but couldn’t make out the origin of another scent.

“Let’s hear what he has to say,” Roscoe Sullivan said.

Roscoe’s rheumatism had been acting up, and he probably had trouble sleeping. The poor man dreaded the onset of winter, and no doubt hoped to find a miracle in that bottle. But miracles came from God, not from a peddler with a jarring accent.

John Lemming, the owner of the livery, waved a hand toward the remedy. “Our baby cries all evening. I’d give a king’s ransom for something to soothe him.”

“If it worked.” Mary exhaled. How could these people be so easily fooled? “Don’t you see, John, he’s in this to fill his pockets and then move on before you folks discover his claims are meaningless. Just like last year’s peddler.”

The stranger smiled, revealing even, white teeth. “Since you’re so sure of yourself, Miss Nightingale, why don’t you pay the price of this bottle and investigate the medicine yourself?”

Lifting her chin, she met his amused gaze. How dare the man poke fun at her? And worse, ask her to pay for the privilege of disproving his claims? “And line your pockets? Never!”

He stepped closer. If he intended to intimidate her, she wouldn’t give ground, though her heart rat-a-tatted in her chest.

“Well, then, stand aside for those folks who are open-minded enough to give it a try.” He pushed past her and lifted the bottle. “For the price of three dollars, who wants a bottle of my remedy?”

“Three dollars. Why, that’s highway robbery!” She grabbed his arm, then watched in horror as the bottle slipped out of his hand and hit the ground, shattering the glass. Her neighbors’ gasps drowned out her own.

The man pivoted on a booted heel. “I believe you owe me three dollars,” he said, his voice low, almost a tease.

The liquid trickled between the bricks. She lifted her gaze to lock with his. “I’ll pay your price—if you’ll move on to another town.”

His mouth thinned into a stubborn line. “I’m not leaving.”

Perhaps she had a legal way to get rid of this menace. She planted her hands on her hips. “Do you have a permit?”

With that lazy grin and irritating dimple, he reached inside his shirt pocket and retrieved a slip of paper, waving it in front of Mary’s face. Her hands fisted. This rogue had thought of everything.

Nearby, Roscoe and John exchanged a glance, and then both men ran a hand over their mouths, trying to bury a smile and failing. Apparently, her neighbors found the exchange entertaining.

Mary dug into her purse and handed over the money. “You’ve made a handsome profit on this bottle alone, so move on to fleece another town and leave us in peace.”

“I like it here.” He tossed her a smile, as arrogant as the man himself. “I’m staying.”

Though he deserved it, she had no call to give this scoundrel a sharp kick to his shin, but oh, how she’d love to give in to the temptation. Mary closed her eyes and said a quick, silent prayer to conduct herself like a God-fearing woman, not a fishwife. “Well, I don’t want you here.”

John Lemming pulled out three dollars. “If it works, it’ll be worth every cent.”

The peddler gestured to the knot of people crowded around them, opening their purses and wallets. “Looks like you’re in the minority, Miss Nightingale.”

He returned to his wagon, and the good citizens of Noblesville started forking over the money, purchasing the worthless stuff the man had undoubtedly concocted out of peppermint and honey. How could they trust him?

Why had her mother befriended such a man? Her stomach knotted and tears stung her eyes. Even five years later, grief caught her unaware, tearing through her like a cyclone. She bit her lip, forcing her gaze on the hawker.

Surely he didn’t mean to stay. If he did, everyone would discover the worthlessness of his remedy. No, he’d depart in the middle of the night, having a good laugh at the town’s gullibility.

Handing out bottles of his so-called remedy, the stranger glanced her way, shooting her another grin. Obviously, he took pleasure in swindling her friends and neighbors right under her nose. Like a petulant child, she wanted to stomp her foot—right on his instep. That ought to wipe the grin off his haughty face.

As if he read her thoughts, he turned to her. “Best remember the exhortation in the Good Book to love thy enemy.”

How dare he mention the Bible while he duped her neighbors? Still, she had let her temper get the best of her. Love thy enemy was a hard pill to swallow.

Then of all things, the man gave her a wink, as bold as brass. A shimmer of attraction whooshed through her. Aghast at her base feelings, Mary turned on her heel and stalked off.

Behind her, the man chuckled.

Cheeks burning, Mary strode down Ninth Street and then turned right on Conner. Permit or no permit, she’d find a way to run that peddler out of Noblesville. He represented the last thing she and this town needed—trouble.



Opening the side door leading to her father’s office, Mary’s nostrils filled with the smell of disinfectant, a scent she’d grown as accustomed to as the honeysuckle fragrance she wore. The waiting room chairs sat empty. A stack of well-worn Farmers’ Home Journals and Ladies’ Journals cluttered the top of a small stand. She took a minute to clear out the old issues before the whole heap tumbled to the floor.

Finished with the task, she strode through the office and found her father in the surgery, filling a basin with hydrogen peroxide. Henry Lawrence, his hair falling across his forehead, looked tired, as he frequently did of late, even a tad peaked. She believed doctoring weighed him down physically and mentally. Yet he kept working, seeing to the sick, rarely taking time off except to attend church on Sunday. He should take it easy and eat better. His grandsons needed him. Didn’t he know how much they all loved him?

Earlier that day, she’d taken action she hoped would ease her father’s load. And free her to pursue her dream. Thanks to an unexpected inheritance from her late father-in-law, she had the money for medical school. If God wanted her to practice medicine, she’d be accepted at the Central College of Physicians and Surgeons. But she couldn’t leave her father to handle the practice alone.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Her father looked up and smiled, the corners of his gentle hazel eyes crinkling in his round face. “Hello, kitten. Got the boys off and now you’re checking on your old man?”

“Exactly.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s such a pretty day. Want to take your grandsons fishing after school?”

“Wish I could.” He screwed the cap onto the bottle of antiseptic and tucked it into the glass-front cabinet, banging the door shut. “I’ve got office hours all afternoon.”

“Well, at least come to supper tonight.”

“Sounds good. Six okay?”

Nodding, she laid a hand on his arm. “You look tired.”

“I spent the biggest part of the night at the Shriver place, bringing their firstborn into the world. A howling, healthy, eight-pound boy.” He gave a wry grin. “They named him Quincy. Imagine tagging a child with such a name.”

Normally Mary loved to hear about a new baby, sharing her father’s joy of the miracle of birth. But she shook her head, only half listening, thinking about her father’s lack of sleep. “Daddy, don’t you think it’s time to bring someone into the practice?”

Henry’s head snapped up and his gaze met hers. “Now, why would I do that?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re not getting any younger. And for another, you work too hard.”

“I’m fifty-one, not ancient, and I don’t work harder than any other small-town doctor. Besides, I have your help.”

“Doc Roberts didn’t have any warning before his fatal heart attack.” She sighed at the stubborn set of her father’s jaw, then bustled about the room, emptying the wastepaper can, checking and laying out supplies, doing all she could to ease his burden. “You’re handling his patients and your own. You’re not getting enough rest.”

“Babies come when they decide—not to fit my schedule.”

“True, but your days are so full that you have little time for the boys. They need a man’s influence.”

Her father’s brow furrowed. “I know they do, honey,” he said, gathering the instruments out of his bag. “I’ll try to spend more time with them. If no one gets sick, maybe we can go fishing Saturday afternoon.”

How likely would that be in a town this size? Then her heart squeezed. She shouldn’t pressure her father to do more, even if the “more” involved relaxing with his grandsons. “Let me clean those for you.”

“Thanks.” Her father dropped into a chair.

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.” Mary gave a wide smile. “I heard from the placement committee. The Willowbys relinquished their guardianship and asked to assume the role of Ben’s grandparents, instead of his parents.”

“From the look on your face, I’d say the news was good.”

“The committee gave me permanent custody of Ben.” Her vision blurred with tears of gratitude. Ben, the little boy she shared a bond with, was now her son, just as much as Michael and Philip. A wave of tenderness rippled through her. She’d do everything in her power to give her boys the happiness they deserved.

“Even before his apoplexy, Judge Willowby told me they could barely keep up with a four-year-old boy. Since the stroke, he’s naturally troubled they won’t live to see Ben grown.” He frowned. “What about the Children’s Aid Society’s rule against giving custody to a single woman?”

“As a widow with two sons of my own, the committee felt that qualified me to raise another child.” She swiped a hand at her tears. “That I’m already taking care of Ben for the Willowbys worked in my favor. They didn’t want to move him again.”

“Thank you, God. With your brother-in-law sitting on the committee, I felt reasonably sure of the outcome. Still, a couple of those members adhere to rules as if Moses himself brought them down from on high.”

Laughing, Mary gave her father a kiss. “I can always count on your support.”

She returned to the counter to wash, soak in hydrogen peroxide and then dry the equipment her father had used to deliver the Shriver baby. Her father kept his surgery and office immaculate, while his quarters lay in shambles. She tried to keep up with the cleaning, but he could destroy her efforts faster than her boys put together. When she finished, she stowed the instruments in his black leather case then set the bag in its customary spot on the table near the door, where he could grab it on the way to the next house call.

Mary turned to say something to her father. He’d nodded off in his chair. As she prepared to tiptoe out of the room, he roused and ran a hand over his chin. “Guess I’d better shave. Don’t want to scare my patients.”

In the backroom, she filled the ironstone bowl on the washstand with hot water from the teakettle, and then sat at the small drop-leaf table to watch her father shave. He lathered the brush and covered his cheeks and chin with soap. Since Sam’s death, she’d missed this masculine routine, a small thing, but small things often caught her unaware and left her reeling.

If her father didn’t slow down, she could lose him too. Yet, Henry Lawrence was as stubborn as a weed when it came to helping others. No point in beating a dead horse…for now.

She’d tell him about the peddler. Surely he’d share her concern. “You won’t believe what’s going on downtown, Daddy. Why, it’s enough to turn my stomach.”

“Let me guess.” He winked at her in the mirror. “Joe Carmichael organized a spitting contest on the square.” He scraped his face clean with his razor and rinsed the blade in the bowl.

Mary planted her hands on her hips. “I’m serious.”

“Your feathers do look a mite ruffled.” He patted his face dry with a towel. “So tell me, what’s wrong?”

“Some fraud is selling patent medicine. He’s making all kinds of claims. Says it’ll cure upset stomachs and headaches, a baby’s colic. People couldn’t buy it fast enough, even after I warned them the bottle probably held 90-proof.”

“My precious girl, you’ve got to stop trying to protect everybody, even from themselves.”

She lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Her father crossed to her, touched her arm, his hand freckled with age. “Yes, you do. You’ve always been a caring woman, but since you lost Sam, you’re on a mission to save the human race. Trouble is you’re not God. You don’t have the power to control this world, not even our little piece of it.”

Mary covered her father’s hand with her own. “I know that. But I worry about you.”

“Yes, and about the boys getting sick or hurt, about their schoolwork.” He gave her a weak grin. “Why, your worrying worries me, Mary Lynn. Remember the scripture that says we can’t add a day to our lives by worrying.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Forgive me, Lord, for not relying on You. Not trusting You. Give me the strength to change.

These past two years, widowed and raising her sons alone, and now Ben, hadn’t been easy, even with her brother-in-law pitching in with the heavier chores. The money she’d inherited from Sam’s father had made a huge difference, meant she might live her dream, but the added financial security hadn’t eased the constant knot in her shoulders. Hadn’t eased the loneliness. Hadn’t eased the empty space in her heart.

Not that Sam had filled it.

Trying to alleviate the tension of her thoughts, Mary tapped her father playfully on the arm. “Besides, the topic isn’t about me. It’s that traveling salesman. Don’t you find his claims upsetting?”

Her father sat beside her. “Most of those tonics and remedies are worthless, but until I give his a try, I can’t condemn it.”

Her father prided himself on being impartial, as if the past meant nothing. “Think about it, Daddy. How could just anyone concoct a remedy with real medicinal value?” She leaned toward him. “Can’t we do something to protect the town from a quack?”

Her father rubbed the back of his neck. “Does he have a permit?”

“Yes. He’s too cunning to be tripped up that easily.”

“Well, then there’s nothing to be done.”

As if on cue, they both rose. Her father put his arm around her shoulders and they walked into the surgery.

“Doesn’t it bother you that half the town owes you money and they’re squandering what they have on a worthless tonic? If you could collect, you’d have a nice little nest egg for retirement.”

His gaze roamed the room and then returned to her with a smile of satisfaction. “What I do here is important. I have no desire to retire.” Her father snorted. “Besides, I can’t leave this town with one less doctor.”

From the stubborn set of her father’s mouth, she could see her argument fell on deaf ears. “There’s got to be doctors from one of the Indianapolis medical schools who’d be interested in entering your practice.” She took his hand, bracing for his reaction. “I’m so sure of it that I put an advertisement in the Indianapolis News Journal. The ad should draw inquiries from graduates seeking an established practice.”

Her father’s mouth tightened, his displeasure at her actions unspoken but palpable.

Sudden tears stung Mary’s eyes. “I’m sorry you disapprove.”

He walked to the window and rolled up the blinds, letting in the morning sun. “You’ve already admitted there’s no money in doctoring here. That’s not going to draw many applicants. Besides, I’m doing exactly what I want to do. I know these people. Know their ailments, their struggles…their secrets.”

When they had troubles, the folks in this town turned to two people—their doctor and their pastor. She respected and admired her father and the preachers in town who had a knack for listening. Knew how to comfort, and knew how, when necessary, to admonish.

Henry Lawrence not only made a difference in people’s lives but he’d saved quite a few. He had a purpose she admired more than any other and wanted to follow. And once she was a doctor, she’d be dependent on no one.

Her father returned to her side and tweaked her cheek. “If you want to help and can find your way around that pigsty I call a kitchen, then please, darling daughter, make me some breakfast.”

Glad to be useful, Mary smiled. “It won’t take but a minute.”

He hugged her. “You’re like your mother. Susannah could make a feast out of an old shoe.”

Pleased by the comparison, Mary laughed. Even five years after her mother’s death, she missed Susannah Lawrence every day, wanted to be like her serene, unflappable mother. But failed. In her mother’s north-facing kitchen, the walls painted the hue of sunshine, Mary’s spirits lifted. Her mother always claimed she never had a gloomy day working here, but she’d surely be amazed by the condition of her workspace now.

Mary might not know how to fix the problems around her, but she knew what to do here. She donned one of her mother’s bibbed aprons and tackled the mess.

Once her advertisement brought in the ideal doctor to help in the practice, she could go to medical school, knowing someone young and capable would help her father oversee the health of his patients. That is, assuming she got accepted. No guarantee for anyone, especially a woman. Months had passed without word. At twenty-eight, would her age work against her?

She finished clearing a spot on the counter, washed it down and then poked around in the icebox, emerging with a slab of bacon and a bowl filled with eggs. Once she’d fed and helped her father with his patients, she’d complain to Sheriff Rogers about the dark-eyed stranger. Maybe he could find a way to retract the permit. Surely he didn’t want that swindler taking advantage of people’s worries.

Taking advantage of her.

Her hand stilled, and a wave of disquiet lapped at her. The dark stranger had thrown her off balance with that outrageous wink…but only for a moment.

She wouldn’t let that happen again.




Chapter Two


Luke Jacobs snapped the padlock into place on the back of his enclosed wagon and gave it a yank. The last straggler had gone about his day, leaving Luke alone, that meddling woman who’d opposed him heavy on his mind. He’d run into do-gooders like her before.

True, Miss Nightingale happened to be more attractive than most, with glinting green eyes, chestnut hair and a stubborn jaw—shoving into something she knew nothing about. A royal pain who fought what he’d worked hard to achieve.

The remedy stashed inside this wagon had taken him months to formulate. He’d spent untold hours experimenting in a small lab in his house, using himself to test his product. He took pride in what he’d accomplished. The remedy contained good medicine, meant to help people, not to separate them from their money.

That sassy woman probably wanted to drive him back to New York herself. Well, he had no intention of going. Not yet. Not until he learned if the boy lived here.

A band tightened around Luke’s throat, remembering the guilt and shame of his misspent life. If only he could go back and relive all those wasted years—

His eyes stung. Sin brought consequences. He’d gotten off scot-free. Lucy had paid with her life.

His son might still be paying.

Without question, he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood. He had no experience at the job. No stable home. No hope of having one. But he couldn’t leave the boy’s survival to chance.

If only he’d find the boy here.

Amongst thousands of children, somehow his son’s guardianship paperwork had been lost. All Luke knew for certain was the child had ridden west on a train full of orphans. He’d followed the trail for weeks, first riding the train, then buying this wagon and moving from town to town, selling his medicine and searching for the boy. Every lead had come up empty, every clue pointing to another town until he’d landed here in Noblesville, Indiana.

Another town. One more out of dozens. Would this town hold Ben?

If not, he’d move on tomorrow, though the prospect pressed against his lungs. He was tired, bone tired.

But his comfort didn’t matter. Finding his boy did.

God, help me find my son.

“How’s business?”

Luke whirled to face the sheriff, a big man with a friendly face and keenly observant eyes. From his trek across the country, Luke had learned the importance of getting on the right foot with the local lawman. It appeared Rogers had decided to keep an eye on him. “Can’t complain, Sheriff.”

Rogers patted his midriff. “That remedy of yours is easing my touchy stomach.”

Luke smiled. “Glad to hear it.”

“I’ll want to stock up before you move on.”

“I’ll set some bottles aside.”

The sheriff thumped the side of his wagon. “You drove this clear from New York City?”

“I rode the train as far as eastern Ohio, bought the rig and then followed the route of the Erie line.”

The sheriff shoved his Stetson higher on his forehead. “Same route that brought them orphans last year.”

Luke’s pulse leapt. “Orphans?”

“Yep, I’ll never forget the sight of that train. Youngsters poking their heads out the windows, squeezing together on the platform. Why, some had crawled on top of the cars.”

“How many stayed?”

“Twenty-eight. Eleven of ’em live in town. The rest are scattered ’cross the countryside.”

Luke hoped one of the eleven was his son. If so, he’d likely come across the boy without having to make inquiries that would raise suspicion. Or force him into an action he didn’t want to take. “Finding them homes must’ve been lots of work. Did you have to do it?”

“Nope. Fell to a committee.”

Luke forced himself not to push for information. Fortunately, the sheriff was in a chatty mood.

“The committee did its best, but the guardian of two of those orphans physically abused ’em.” Sheriff Rogers shook his head. “Ed Drummond will spend the rest of his days in state prison.”

Luke’s blood ran cold. “Did the children survive?”

“Yep.” The sheriff smiled. “Emma and William Grounds got themselves a fine home now.”

A gentle breeze carried off the breath Luke had been holding. “Good to hear. Sounds like a brother and sister.”

“Yep.”

Which meant Luke’s son wasn’t one of the abused orphans. Thank God.

The sheriff gave him a long, hard look and then slapped Luke on the arm. “Don’t forget to save me them bottles.”

“Sure will.” Luke hadn’t missed Roger’s piercing stare. Had he unwittingly revealed too much interest in the orphans and raised the sheriff’s suspicions? “Say, can you suggest a place to stay while I’m in town?”

“The Becker House’s food is second to none. Classy accommodations, too.”

“Sounds expensive.”

The sheriff rubbed his chin, thinking. “Last I knew the room over the Whitehall Café was empty. Try there.”

“I will. Thanks.”

Whistling, Sheriff Rogers moseyed off, hopefully overlooking Luke’s concern about the orphans. Early on, Luke had learned asking too many questions made folks wary, even led them to ask some questions of their own. He’d have to be more careful.

Pocketing the key to the padlock, Luke headed for the Whitehall Café. Someone waved to him; it was probably one of the morning’s customers. Along the way, he passed prosperous brick buildings, gas streetlamps, paved avenues. Trees on the lawn of the impressive three-story courthouse had changed to hues of gold and orangey-red. A crispness to the air hinted at the approach of winter, but on such a sunny day, winter appeared a long way off.

Noblesville looked like a good place to pause. He’d had an arduous trip, exposing him to the elements—rain, cold, heat. It was hardly his existence back East. In most ways, he’d found the journey good, even pleasurable. The towns where he’d stopped in the past weeks may have blended in his mind, but he’d enjoyed seeing the middle part of the country, meeting everyday people living everyday lives.

Mostly he’d found hard-working, good people who understood what mattered. He’d been glad to give back, to offer them a medicine he believed in. And yet, always searching, seeking that one last piece of his family puzzle.

No matter what that aggravating female thought of his remedy, of him, she wouldn’t thwart his quest to find the boy.

He wasn’t here to ruin a child’s happiness, or get involved. Life had taught him to hold people at arm’s length. He’d learned the lesson well.

If Ben had a good home and was happy with a family, Luke could return to New York and his lab.

Yet he couldn’t help questioning how it would feel to leave his flesh and blood behind. To forsake his responsibility to Ben as his parents had to Joseph.

Could Luke leave and repeat the family history he despised?



Geraldine Whitehall was dying. Again.

Mary bit her tongue, searching deep for a measure of patience, then greeted the café owner with a smile. All afternoon, the office had a constant parade of patients. Hoping to leave when the Willowbys arrived, Mary sighed, resigned to the delay.

Geraldine leaned close, her eyes wide with fright, her face creased with worry. “I need to see Doc.”

“He’s with a patient.”

“I have this cough. It’s worse at night. I’m sure it’s consumption,” she said, her tone hoarse like the words scraped her throat raw on their way out.

Mary patted the woman’s hand. “Have a seat. I’ll get you in as soon as I can.”

The patient collapsed into a nearby chair. Within seconds she flipped through a magazine, stopping at an article. Even back at her desk, Mary could read the title, “Tumors of the Eye.” Soon Geraldine would find enough symptoms to keep her tossing tonight with yet another worry. Awareness thudded in Mary’s stomach. She had no right to criticize.

Mary rose and eased the magazine out of the woman’s clutches. “How’s your daughter?”

“Oh, my poor, darling girl.” Tears welled in Geraldine’s eyes. “What will Fannie do without a mother to help plan her wedding?”

“Fannie’s engaged?”

“No, but she and James are madly in love. It can’t be long until he asks.”

Frances Drummond walked into the waiting room. Another woman saddled with a man who’d hurt her. Fortunately Ed would spend the rest of his life behind bars for the years of abuse he’d heaped on Frances. Not nearly long enough for murdering Frances’ mother last year and all but killing Frances and Addie too. The short time the children lived in the Drummond house had taken a toll on Emma and William. Thank God those orphans were out of Ed’s clutches—and thanks to Frances—in the loving hands of Addie and Charles. God had shown there was hope, even amongst all that pain.

Frances paid her bill, exchanging a few words with Mary, who struggled to keep her mind on the task with Geraldine hovering nearby, coughing into her handkerchief and then examining it, most likely looking for the telltale blood of consumption.

With Frances out the door, Mary led Mrs. Whitehall into the examining room. The woman shadowed Mary so closely she could feel Geraldine’s breath on her neck. At any moment, Mary expected to feel tracks on her back.

Her father greeted Geraldine, keeping his expression blank and emitting only the faintest groan. After his short night, Mary admired his self-control.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Whitehall?”

Mary ducked out the door and returned to her desk. Her father could handle this latest malady alone.

Within minutes, Geraldine returned, having regained the spark in her eyes and the spring to her step. “I’m not dying! Hay fever is giving me this cough. It’ll disappear with the first hard frost.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mary said, but wondered when the café owner would be back wearing a panicked expression, ticking off new symptoms on her fingers.

Geraldine dug through her purse. “With these doctor bills, it’s a good thing I’ve got a renter for the room over my café.”

Mary smiled. “Oh, to whom?”

“To that traveling salesman. He’s taking his meals at the café, too.” She beamed, then paid the fee and scooted out the door.

Mary’s mouth drooped. That peddler was staying, as he’d said.

The door opened and the Willowbys entered. Mary gave them a hug, then gestured for them to follow. Judge Willowby leaned heavily on a cane, his gait unsteady and shuffling. Although it was still a huge improvement from when he’d first had his apoplexy.

In the weeks since the stroke, Mrs. Willowby had devoted herself to her husband’s recovery. If anything, his illness had brought out her gentler side. An outcome appreciated not only by Mary and her father but by everyone who had dealings with Viola Willowby. Mary had come to admire the woman—something she couldn’t have expected a few months ago.

“How’s our…grandson?” Judge Willowby asked.

The Willowbys had wanted Mary to have custody of Ben, but the judge’s tongue still tripped over calling Ben his grandson, rather than his son. Mary smiled. “Fine. No asthma episodes as of late.”

Oh, how Mary enjoyed Ben’s presence. Shy at first, the youngster had taken a few days to adjust but soon settled into the family. He adored her sons, and Michael and Philip loved playing with him and reading him stories.

Mary smiled. “Ben prays for your recovery every night. By the looks of you, God’s answering his prayers.”

Viola’s eyes misted. “We’re so grateful, Mary, for your willingness to raise Ben as your own. Tell Carrie how much we appreciate her watching Ben so you can work in the office. The generosity of the people in this town amazes us. Food brought over, help with chores—we’ve been blessed in countless ways.”

When needed, folks in this town pulled together. Mary loved living here.

Her father appeared in the doorway, scrutinized his patient for a moment and then gave an approving smile. “You’re looking spry, Judge.”

“I’m thinking of trying the new cure, Doc,” the judge said. “Maybe it’ll loosen me up.”

“You’re the second patient to mention that remedy. Guess I’d better buy a bottle.”

Mary could understand the Willowbys looking for answers, but surely her father didn’t believe that nonsense too. “If you don’t need me, I’d like to leave now.”

“Sure.” Her father turned and handed her a capped bottle. “Would you stop by the livery and deliver this medicine to Mr. Lemming? He’s been without it for several days. Make sure he realizes the importance of taking it correctly.”

Mary nodded, tucking the bottle in her purse. “See you at supper.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said with a forced gaiety belying the weariness in his movements. He didn’t fool her.

Before she delivered the medicine, she intended to talk with Sheriff Rogers. See what could be done about that peddler.




Chapter Three


Mary passed the town square and didn’t see that rogue, but his wagon remained where it had that morning. He’d probably gone to the saloon, spending his morning profits on liquor to fill more bottles and, more than likely, himself.

A hand-lettered sign boasted in bold letters: CURATIVE FOR HEADACHE, STOMACHACHE AND INSOMNIA. What some people would do to make a dollar—uh, three dollars.

Though her father’s rebuke stung, his words held a smidgen of truth. She did tend to get wrapped up in worry. But didn’t the Bible instruct her to help others? Surely that meant protecting them from this bloodsucker.

By the time she’d reached her destination, the imposing limestone structure housing not only the jail but also the sheriff’s quarters, she’d envisioned the charlatan tarred and feathered, or at least run out of town.

Inside, Sheriff Rogers turned from tacking up a wanted poster and tipped his hat. The sheriff’s gray-streaked hair and paunch belied the strength of his muscular arms and massive shoulders. Not a man she’d care to cross. But then again, she needn’t fret; she wasn’t the criminal in town.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Graves.”

“Hello, Sheriff.” Mary walked to the wall and checked the poster to see if it held the medicine man’s picture. Not seeing the peddler’s face, she sighed and turned back to him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I hope you know a way to rid the town of a swindler bilking our citizens out of their money.”

He chuckled. “Reckon you’re talking about Luke Jacobs.”

That vile man carried the first name of the doctor in scripture, the follower of Christ? The similarity didn’t sit well with Mary. “I don’t know his name, but the man I’m talking about is selling home-brewed medicine.”

“Jacobs convinced me of his product’s value.” He gestured to his desk. There, as big as life, sat a bottle of that remedy. “I gave it a try, and it’s eased the pain in my gut.”

No doubt the result of wishful thinking. Hadn’t she seen that outcome before?

“Either way,” Sheriff Rogers said, taking a seat behind his desk, the springs whining in protest, “he obtained a permit to sell on our streets, so he’s within his rights.”

“For how long?”

“Believe he said a week.”

“In that length of time, he can filch everyone’s money.” Still, it could be worse. “At least he’ll be gone by week’s end, maybe before, if we’re lucky.”

The sheriff laced his fingers over his chest. “His eyes lit when I mentioned those orphans who came to town last year. Wonder if he’s here for more than peddling.”

A lump thudded to the bottom of Mary’s stomach, and she sucked in a gulp of air. Ben, along with Emma and William, Charles and Addie’s two, had ridden on that train. “Did he ask about any of them?”

“Nope. Reckon I could be wrong, but in my work, I make a point of reading people.”

Mary paced in front of the desk, then spun back to the sheriff. “He can’t come to town and wreak havoc on our children’s lives.”

“Now simmer down, Mrs. Graves.” Sheriff Rogers rose. “I’m not going to let anyone harm our citizens, much less those youngsters.”

Ever since Ed Drummond had beaten Frances, William and Emma, the sheriff took special interest in the orphans, becoming a protective grandfather of sorts. She couldn’t discount his well-honed instincts about Luke Jacobs.

Mary shivered. “Did he say anything else?”

“Nope. Jacobs is closemouthed.” The sheriff gave a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye out. But if he’s half as good as his medicine, we’re fortunate to have him.”

Fortunate? The man meant trouble. Why couldn’t anyone see that?

Mary said goodbye to the sheriff. She hadn’t gotten anywhere with him. What reason would a traveling salesman have to concern himself with the orphans? Could he be a relative of one of them? Surely not to Charles and Addie’s two blond, blue-eyed youngsters, not with the man’s dark looks.

She pictured Ben’s impish grin and dark-brown curls—

She bit her lip to quell its sudden trembling, refusing to finish the thought. She didn’t like what she’d heard at the sheriff’s office, didn’t like it at all. She had to make sure Luke Jacobs did nothing to upset the peace of the children, especially Ben, the little boy who’d staked a claim in her heart.

Charles would know what to do. Before she could talk to him, she had to deliver the medicine to John Lemming over at the livery. To save time, she cut across the courthouse lawn and rounded the corner of the building—all but colliding with her adversary.

Luke Jacobs. Again. The man hovered over her life like crows over a cornfield.

“Well, well, Miss Nightingale.” He gave her that lazy smile of his. For a moment, their gazes locked. “We meet again.”

At her side, Mary’s hands curled into fists, ready to protect the whole town if need be from this man, his smile and his phony charm. “Yes, Mr. Jacobs, we do.”

His brows rose to the lock of dark, wavy hair falling over his forehead. Why didn’t the scoundrel wear a hat like any decent man? “Appears you’ve learned my name, but I don’t know yours,” he said.

A team of horses couldn’t pull the information out of her—any information for that matter. “I believe you do, Mr. Jacobs.” She planted a hand on her hip. “Florence Nightingale.”

“So, Miss Nightingale,” he said, mocking her—teasing her, “will you tell me where I can find the livery?”

That cocky grin he wore affected her. It was like waving a red cape in front of a bull. And he knew it. From the gleam in his eyes, he enjoyed it too.

“Have you a remedy for horses? Or looking for some manure to add to your spiel?”

He chuckled, apparently not at all upset by her words. “I need to bed down my horse.” He put a hand to his chest, feigning distress. “Surely even you wouldn’t want to put an innocent animal at risk.”

“True, but I wouldn’t mind putting a guilty beast at peril.” She eyed him, making no secret of which beast she meant.

A deep belly laugh escaped him. If he’d been any other man, the laugh would’ve been contagious. “You give me too much credit, dear lady.”

Uninvited humor bubbled up inside Mary, but she tamped it down before it reached her lips. She might as well give him directions. He’d find out soon enough, with or without her help. She motioned to the opposite corner. “The livery is at Ninth and Clinton.”

Instead of leaving, he took a step closer. Mary inhaled sharply.

“I can see my presence in this town unhinges you. I assure you that I’m quite harmless.”

Mary pulled every inch of her five-foot-two frame erect. “Nothing unhinges me, Mr. Jacobs. Not even the prospect of a charlatan in town.” She folded her arms. “How long are you staying?”

“Hard to say.”

Her gaze darted to the wagon, loaded with his tonic. Could his claims be valid? The sheriff thought the remedy had value. Even her father wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand. If so, what ingredients made up his concoction?

No, this man had no training qualifying him as a pharmacist. His bottles contained nothing of worth. Still, in an unguarded livery, who knew what could happen to his tonic.

He looked at her with an intensity suggesting he could see right through her skull and into her brain. “Planning mischief, Miss Nightingale?”

Mary’s face burned with shame. For the briefest moment, she’d actually considered dumping the contents of his bottles and breaking the commandment not to steal. She couldn’t meet his gaze.

His laughter lifted her chin. “Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but my remedy will be bunking with me.”

“Not even a reprobate like you could push me into breaking God’s law.”

He flashed a smile. “Wish I had more time to chat, but my horse needs water and feed.”

Without a backward glance, he walked to his wagon, scrambled up, released the brake and pulled on the reins, backing onto the street. Then giving her a jaunty wave, he turned in the direction of the livery.

Mary let out a gust. The man took pleasure in irritating her. Still, Ben remained her chief concern. At the thought of the little boy, Mary only wanted to pick him up at the Foleys’. Talking to her brother-in-law could wait.

Then she remembered the bottle in her bag. The errand would take her to the livery. She’d prefer to deliver the medicine tomorrow, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to shirk the responsibility. She despised having to be anywhere near that peddler, but more than likely she’d find Mr. Lemming in his office and wouldn’t have to set eyes on that no-good.

Or so she hoped.

Outside the livery, Mary waved to Red, the freckle-faced hired hand, dumping a wheelbarrow of manure he’d mucked from the stalls. As the odor reached her nostrils on the brisk breeze, she wrinkled her nose and hurried inside.

Mr. Lemming wasn’t in his office. Mary set the bottle on his desk, tempted to leave. But, her father had asked her to stress the importance of taking the medicine. Her heart skipped a beat. Searching for the owner could bring her face-to-face with that peddler. As she hustled past stalls, the horses’ gazes followed her progress with large doleful eyes, probably hoping for a treat or a pat.

Up ahead, Luke Jacobs filled a bucket from the trough. Mary skidded to a stop, her heart tap-dancing in her chest. The sight of all those muscles rippling beneath his shirt held her transfixed, powerless to move.

Oh, yes, he most definitely was trouble.

He raised his head and their eyes met. Butterflies danced low in her belly. Slowly, he straightened. “Checking up on me?”

A flush crept up Mary’s neck. He had the audacity to imply she’d followed him. “Certainly not. I’m looking for Mr. Lemming, the owner of this livery. Have you seen him?”

The man had the audacity to smirk, like he didn’t believe her. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of explaining her reason for being here.

“Nope, only a freckle-faced youth who offered to see to my horse, but I prefer taking care of Rosie here myself.”

Mary raised a brow.

“Rosie’s an odd name, I know, but it’s the name she came with when I bought her. I don’t believe in changing a gal’s name unless—”

“Unless it suits your purposes,” she said, spitting out the words, “like trying to humiliate me in front of my neighbors.”

“With your overblown interest in the town’s welfare, I’d say Miss Nightingale suits you.” He waved a hand. “Does your husband have a horse stabled here?”

“I don’t have a husband.” The words popped out of her mouth before her brain could squelch them.

He carried the bucket into the stall, gave his horse a pat, closed the lower door and then turned back to her. “Are you renting a conveyance?”

Why the interrogation? “No.”

He shot her a smug grin. “Hmm, then I’ve got to wonder if you’re following me.”

She huffed. “I most definitely am not!”

Chuckling, he headed toward her with a lazy stride. “Then what reason do you have to see Mr. Lemming?”

Rosie craned her neck, turning a stern eye on Mary. To be censored by the man’s horse was too much. “It’s none of your business.”

At Mr. Jacobs’s approach, her heart leapt to her throat, but she refused to be bullied and stood her ground. Even though her insides rolled like a ship tossed at sea.

He stopped in front of her. “Sorry I can’t be more help locating the owner.”

She harrumphed. “I seriously doubt you care a fig.”

His eyes sparked. “I admire a woman who watches out for her neighbor—but lashing out at whomever you deem a threat must get exhausting.”

Her gaze sought the floorboards. Had she behaved that badly?

With gentle fingers he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Angry or not, you’re a caring woman.”

Something about the rapt look in his eyes kept her rooted to the spot, trapping her breath in her lungs.

“An attractive one too.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. No one had said such things to her in years and years. She hooted her disbelief. She wasn’t some naive, giddy schoolgirl. He’d have to find another target to wile with his charms.

Yet, the compliment clung to her like a terrified toddler during a thunderstorm.

Tentacles of mistrust wrapped around her every muscle and tendon and squeezed. “Why are you really here? What do you want?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to sell my remedy.”

“Is that the only reason?”

For a moment, she saw a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes. But then he flashed a smile, and despite herself, Mary’s gaze traveled to that tiny hollow in his cheek. Inhaling his scent, pleasant, with a hint of spices, she pressed a hand against her bodice, felt the pounding of her heart through the fabric of her dress. “I’ll pay you thirty dollars to leave…today.”

He whistled. “That’s a lot of money, ma’am. You must really want me gone.” He leaned closer. She couldn’t help noticing his eyes resembled the color of roasted coffee beans. “Why, you make a man feel downright unwelcome.”

“Ah, you’ve gotten the message.” She raised her brows. “Finally.”

“It’s a message I won’t be heeding. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready,” he said softly, but Mary didn’t miss the stubbornness in his tone, like he dared her to disagree. Then he grinned. “Have a pleasant day. If I see the owner, I’ll tell him you asked for him.” And with that, he returned to his horse.

Mary spun on her heel and left the livery, her head held high, her back ramrod straight and her insides quaking like winter wheat in March winds.

Was Sheriff Rogers right? Did Luke Jacobs have an interest in the orphans?



Luke met his horse’s stare. “You’re a female, Rosie. Do you think she followed me? Or did you believe she had a reason to see the livery owner?”

The mare nudged his shoulder with her muzzle. Mute. Then she dipped to the bucket for a drink.

“Guess you gals stick together.”

For some reason he couldn’t explain, he admired that half pint of a woman with her sassy mouth and flashing green eyes. Maybe because she stood up for her convictions.

“Don’t worry, Rosie. I have no intention of getting involved with Miss Nightingale. Or any woman.”

He gave his horse one last pat and then headed for the Whitehall Café, his temporary home. Mrs. Whitehall loved to talk and knew everyone in town. Perhaps she’d offer up additional information that would lead him to his son.

If not, he wouldn’t stop there. Nothing would keep him from Ben.

Nothing and no one.



Mary picked up Ben from the Foleys’, gathering him close. He grinned up at her, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. “I’m too big to hug,” he said then belied his words by squeezing her so hard he squeaked with the effort.

“What did you do today?”

“I played with the baby kittens. Pastor Foley named a kitty Simon Peter like Jesus’s dis…disapple.”

“Disciple.” She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “That’s a wonderful name.”

“So is Ben.”

“Yes, Ben is a very special name.”

For a very special child. A child who’d endured more than his share of upheaval. Could the sheriff have misread ordinary interest in the children for more? Mary worried her lower lip. But if his instincts were right, she wouldn’t let that no-good peddler rip apart her carefully constructed, orderly life.

Nor would she let him near this boy.

Michael, his green eyes so like her own, his lanky ten-year-old body outgrowing his clothes faster than she could order them from the Sears, Roebuck Catalog, tromped in from school, forcing her mind off Luke Jacobs and his intentions.

Philip, his hazel eyes shining with mischief, followed on his brother’s heels. He grabbed Ben and tickled his belly. “We’re going to pick flowers, Ben. Wanna help?”

“Yes!”

That morning she and the boys had planned their monthly trek to the cemetery. “Before you do, how about some cookies and milk?” All three boys slid onto the kitchen chairs. “Wash your hands first.” They scrambled down, racing toward the sink, jostling for first in line, reminding Mary of playful puppies. If only she had their energy.

Back at the table, they gobbled her molasses cookies and slugged down the milk.

Swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Michael removed his milk mustache. “I recited the preamble to the Declaration of Independence,” he said. “I got it the first time.”

Mary smiled at her older son. “I’m proud of you. All that practicing helped.”

“I cleaned the erasers,” Philip said, then reported the highlights of his school day, none of which had anything to do with his lessons. Philip would rather play than study.

Ben listened, wide-eyed, hanging on to every word. “I wanna go to school.”

Philip drained his glass. “You aren’t old enough.”

Ben puffed out his chest. “I’m four!”

“You have to be six. That’s two more years.”

The little boy’s face fell.

Always the peacemaker, Philip jumped from his chair and put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “But you get to play with the preacher’s kittens while we’re in school. That’s lots more fun.”

All smiles now, Ben finished the last bite of his cookie while Michael, always aware of what needed to be done, cleared the glasses from the table.

Mary dug under the sink, retrieved two canning jars and filled them with water. “Michael, get the shears. Cut the flowers for Ben and Philip.”

She set the containers on the back porch. The boys hurried past on the way to her garden. Within minutes, they ambled back clutching asters in their now grubby hands, and stuck the stems into the jars.

The boys enjoyed tending their father’s and grandmother’s plots. Mary encouraged their efforts, hoping the activity would help them remember Susannah and Sam. Not that she wanted her boys to dwell on the past. She’d tried to show them that even after losing a loved one, life went on. Doubt nagged at her, tightening the muscles in her neck. Had she always lived that example?

They set off with Ben in the wagon, two flower-filled fruit jars wrapped in a burlap bag hugged to his chest. The water sloshed over the top, dampening Ben’s shirt. His giggle told her he didn’t mind.

When they reached Crownland Cemetery, Michael and Philip each carried a jar with Ben tagging along behind. They put their offerings on the graves. Then they gathered the dried, crackling leaves blown against the headstones, their solemn faces eager to help, and stuffed them into the burlap sack to dump on the compost pile at home.

Finished with the task, Michael and Ben leaned against the trunk of a tree, studying the clouds overhead. Philip ambled over to where Mary knelt pulling the tall grass away from her mother’s headstone, his mouth drooping.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Could you…” He studied his hands. “Find us a new dad?”

Mary’s heart plunged. She enfolded her son in her arms. “I know you miss your dad, but we’ll be fine, Philip. Just fine.”

He sighed, then pulled away and plodded to his brothers. His words lingered in Mary’s mind, gnawing at her peace. Philip wanted a dad, but she knew a bad choice was far worse than living alone.

Eleven years ago on this very day in October she’d married Sam. The raven-haired stranger who’d come into her father’s office one sultry afternoon in August, his thumb split open from an accident at a factory in town. It’d been his first day on the job. “A dumb accident,” he’d said, but then with a smile that captivated her, added, “A lucky one.” She’d asked why he called his gaping wound requiring six stitches lucky and he’d said, “If I hadn’t torn up my thumb, I might never have met the prettiest filly in these parts.”

Samuel Graves had been a smooth-talking, charming man. She’d fallen for him on the spot. They married in a matter of weeks, long before she had any idea of her husband’s terrible past. And of his compulsion.

Sighing, her thoughts turned to Luke Jacobs. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase him from her mind. Maybe a dip in White River would cleanse that man from her system.

Regardless, she would not make the mistake of giving her heart to another handsome, persuasive man.




Chapter Four


Mary stepped into the backroom of Addie’s millinery shop and the monthly gathering of the Snip and Sew quilters. Five pair of inquisitive eyes lifted from basting the Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt to the frame and focused on her. Mary loved these ladies and they loved her, so why did she feel like a rabbit caught in the sights of a cocked rifle?

Her sister-in-law smiled. “Glad you could make it this afternoon.”

Addie’s baby girl slumbered in a cradle a few feet away, her little mouth making sucking motions as she slept. Mary placed a kiss on the top of her niece’s fuzzy blond head. “Lily gets more adorable every time I see her.”

“I can’t keep her awake during the day. But in the middle of the night, she’s all smiles and coos. Fortunately for me, Charles can’t resist walking the floor with her until she falls asleep.”

Sally Bender poked Mary’s arm. “What kept you? Still trying to chase that handsome peddler out of town?”

Had everyone heard about her encounter with that reprobate? “I wish. How could you call that troublemaker handsome?”

“What woman wouldn’t notice, right, Sally?” Martha Cummings pulled a length of thread from her mouth, her eyes twinkling with amusement. At Martha’s feet, her youngest sat on a blanket gnawing on a bell-shaped rattle. “I may be happily married for ten years, and have five children eight and under, but I can appreciate a fine-looking man.”

A flash of dark eyes, muscled forearms and a dimpled cheek sparked in her memory. Averting her face, Mary opened her sewing box and took out her needle, avoiding the question, but her stomach tumbled. She had noticed and didn’t like it at all.

Raising her head, she met Martha’s stare.

“By the look on your face, Mary, I’d say you’ve noticed too.”

Once again the women turned toward her, their expressions full of speculation. Heat climbed Mary’s neck, but she forced a calm, indifferent tone. “His looks are unimportant. He’s pilfering hard-earned money out of our neighbors’ pockets.”

Martha poked the damp end of the thread through the eye of her needle. “Are you sure you’re right about that? I bought a bottle myself, and the sheriff’s wife claims that tonic eased his sour stomach after only one dose.”

With all this talk about the peddler and his remedy, Mary barely kept her hand steady to thread her needle. “The sheriff’s probably getting relief from the peppermint I smelled in that bottle.”

“Peppermint never helped the sheriff before. No reason it should now,” Martha said.

Successful at last, Mary knotted the end of her thread. “I’ve read about people believing in something so much the concoction works—for a while.”

Sally guffawed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Whether his potion works or not, you’re wasting your energy, Mary, trying to run that peddler out of town. Men don’t have any inkling when they’re not wanted.”

How could he not? Hadn’t Mary made her feelings abundantly clear?

Fannie Whitehall moaned. “More like, men don’t have any inkling when they’re wanted.”

Sally patted the young woman’s shoulder. “Having trouble hog-tying that young reporter, Fannie dear?”

“James still hasn’t proposed. I’ll be old and gray before I’m married.” Fannie heaved another heavy sigh.

Sally skimmed a palm over her grizzled head. “I’m thankful Leviticus and Proverbs have a more positive view of getting old and gray.”

Laura Lawson’s silver-streaked hair sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the shop window. “I prefer salt over pepper, don’t you, Sally?”

“Yep, every one of these silver hairs represents a lot of living,” Sally said. “I’m right proud of ’em.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks. Sally, Laura, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean getting old and gray is bad. It’s just I’m tired of waiting to start my life.”

Fannie frequently had to make amends for speaking before thinking, but the girl had a good heart and everyone quickly forgave her.

“Time rushes by, Fannie,” Laura said. “Best not waste a minute longing for the future, instead of enjoying the here and now.”

Mary gulped. How much time did she spend fretting about what could happen, instead of enjoying the hugs of her sons, who grew as fast as weeds in an untended vegetable garden?

“Besides, James is young. Boys don’t become men until they’re at least twenty-five,” Sally grumbled, then brightened. “Say, Fannie, with three grown sons, none of them married, I’d be beholden if you took one of them off my hands. I could use help skinning and dressing the game they kill. Why, you could move in with us—”

Eyes wide with horror, Fannie gasped.

Sally laughed. “I’m only teasing. Truth be told, my boys have lost their bragging rights as marksmen.”

“Your sons are…very nice, but I love James.” Fannie’s face glowed, verifying her statement. “I don’t want to wait forever to be his wife.”

An aching loneliness gnawed in Mary’s belly. Two years had passed since she’d lost Sam. Years before his death, more years than she cared to think about, she’d spent her evenings alone. To have someone to talk to, to share a sunset with, the small things she’d expected to share with a husband and never had, left a huge void that children, no matter how much she loved them, could not fill.

Still, she couldn’t imagine caring for another man. Sam’s death had hurt too much. Living with him had hurt even more. She’d never risk a second marriage.

The image of Luke Jacobs flitted through her mind. A hot day. Him on her porch, holding a glass of cold tea with a smile and an invitation to sit awhile. A shared kiss—

Her pulse leapt.

How could she even think of that man? The answer rattled through her mind. Luke Jacobs possessed charm, a way about him that wrapped her around his every word—just like Sam.

But Sam’s charm had covered a deep pain from a childhood of abuse, leading him to swig patent medicines. Later when he gave up the pretense, it led him into saloons to forget. She and the boys and endless years of prayer hadn’t been enough to keep Sam home.

Best to remember frosting can cover a bitter cake.

“Mary?” Addie said. “You look like you’re off somewhere. Is everything okay?”

A pair of dark, piercing eyes reappeared in Mary’s mind. With all the strength she possessed, she forced her thoughts away from Luke Jacobs and back to Addie’s question. “Fine. Fine. Say, how are William and Emma doing in school?”

“William is at the head of his class. I can’t say the same for Emma.” Addie rolled her eyes heavenward. “Charles says not to worry. She’ll charm her way through life.”

Sally snipped a thread. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Mary saw plenty wrong with charm. “Emma may not be a leading student, but she’s already designing hats. Mark my words, Addie, one day you’ll turn the shop over to her capable hands.”

“Whatever path they take,” Laura said. “We’re all grateful to you, Adelaide, for saving those orphans from a life of terror.”

The group quieted, each face growing somber, remembering how Addie’s suspicions had led to Ed Drummond’s arrest for not only beating Frances half to death but for murdering Frances’s mother. Ed had planned to kill Addie and hide the act by starting a fire. Charles not only saved her life, but he won her heart. Now Charles, Addie and their children lived happily ever after. A storybook ending Mary couldn’t imagine.

Laura inched her needle along a gingham petal, adding a white edge to the pink and white design. “I saw Frances at the grocery. Now that she’s healed up and that awful man she’s married to is in jail for life, she looks ten years younger.”

“Ed Drummond should’ve hung,” Martha said. “How could a man go to church as regular as a ticking clock yet kill his mother-in-law and beat on his family? I can’t believe how he had us all fooled.”

Tears stung the back of Mary’s eyes. In his childhood, Sam had lived with abuse—Charles too. This town had suffered more than its share of violence. People’s lives had been changed, some for the better, but for others, life would never be the same. “Do you ever wonder…why God allows evil to touch good people?”

Laura reached over and squeezed Mary’s hand. “That’s a hard one, dear. One of those things we may never understand in this life.”

Mary forced a smile, but worry churned in her gut. Laura’s pat answer didn’t solve a thing. She’d learned in the blink of an eye that life could end. If only she could know what lay ahead so she could keep misfortune at bay. But only God knew, and He wasn’t telling.

Then again, she didn’t need God to tell her that peddler was up to no good.



With the office closed while her father made rounds in the county, Mary and Ben visited the Willowbys then stopped in at the post office to retrieve the mail.

With a jab of her index finger, the postmistress shoved her reading glasses up her thin nose. “Morning, Mary. Morning, Ben.”

“Hello, Mrs. Hawkins.”

The postmistress shoved three envelopes across the counter. “Can’t say I’ve seen these return addresses before.”

Mary merely smiled and thanked the postmistress, giving no hint of what she hoped the envelopes contained. Once outside, she sat Ben on the bench. Dropping down beside him, she tore open the flaps. Her pulse leapt. Each envelope held a request for a job interview. Finally, her father would get the help he needed.

She’d hoped for another letter—

Right now she’d give thanks for these answers to prayer.

The three applicants promised to arrive on consecutive Saturdays, the day she’d specified for interviews. Perfect. Within three-weeks’ time, her father could interview the candidates and handpick his replacement, then ease the young doctor into the practice until he’d earned the town’s trust. But in her heart, Mary knew the hardest citizen to convince would be Henry Lawrence.

“Come along, Ben. We need to get home.” Mary tucked the letters into her purse, then took Ben’s hand and scanned the street, looking for her nemesis.

Logan Street swarmed with buggies and wagons. A horse tied to a nearby hitching post nickered and stomped a hoof. The door of the Whitehall Café opened and closed as satisfied diners came and went, patting full stomachs and chewing on toothpicks. She didn’t see Luke Jacobs, which eased the tension between her shoulder blades.

Ben tugged at her hand, pulling her toward Hudson’s General Store window. “Wait, Mary. I wanna see.”

The Willowbys had spoiled Ben. Every time he passed a shop, he wanted a new toy or book. Usually Mary didn’t give in to his demands, but she’d let him look.

They stood in front, the sun glinting off the top of the glass, reflecting slivers of gold. Her gaze traveled to Ben’s reflection. That small, timid boy who’d arrived on the orphan train had become a taller, healthier child with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes and an air of happiness about him that no one could resist.

Ben scanned the display, and Mary marveled at how he’d taken his new life in stride, become part of the town, part of their family. Part of her heart.

Her throat clogged with emotion, and she wrapped a hand around his shoulders, drawing him close. Ben didn’t know they shared a connection, but Mary understood what it meant to be unwanted then welcomed into a family. With all her being, she prayed the road ahead would be smoother for Ben than the one left behind.

“Oh, Mary!” Ben pointed toward something. “That big ball’s my favorite colors: red and yellow. And it has stars, bright blue stars.” Ben tugged her hand. “Can I have it? I could bounce it clear to the sky!” He clapped his hands and glanced up, hope shining in his eyes. “Please?”

Listening to Ben’s clever reasoning made Mary smile. “You have a ball. Now let’s get home for lunch, sweetheart.”

Ben’s chin lolled toward his chest. “I don’t want lunch. I want to go into the store.”

Her stomach growled. She tousled his curly hair then took his hand. “Well, I’m hungry, and by the time we get home, you will be too.”

“My tummy doesn’t want food. My tummy wants the big ball.”

Mary laughed. “We don’t eat toys, Ben. But after lunch, you can play with the ball you have. Before you know it, Michael and Philip will be home from school.”

A huge smile took over Ben’s face. “Michael and Philip want you to get the ball for me.”

Biting back a smile, Mary started up the street, but Ben lagged behind for one last look.

“Why, hello again, Florence Nightingale.”

Mary’s head snapped up, and she stared into the dark, mesmerizing eyes of Luke Jacobs. Remembering the sheriff’s words, her heart raced faster than a thoroughbred at the county fair.

Then his stare slid to Ben and stayed.

Ben giggled. “That’s not her name. Her name is Mary Graves.”

“Mary Graves.” Her name rolled off Luke’s tongue. “Is this boy your…son?”

Why would he ask such a question? Unless—

Unable to continue the thought, Mary’s heart jumped into her throat and wedged there, closing off her speech. Still gripping Ben’s hand, she took a step, but the peddler blocked her way, looming over her. “Let me pass,” she said.

But he didn’t move aside. If anything, he looked more determined. Warning bells clanged in Mary’s head.

“Yoo-hoo! Mary!”

Mary whirled toward Carrie Foley, eager for the interruption, for anything that’d take the focus off Ben.

Carrie reached them and chucked a gloved hand under Ben’s chin. “Hello, dearest.”

The little boy beamed at the woman who cared for him while Mary worked at the office.

Carrie turned to Luke Jacobs. “Aren’t you the man peddling that remedy?”

Luke tipped an imaginary hat, all smiles. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“The sign on your wagon boasts your tonic will cure headaches and stomachaches. Does it work?” She waggled a finger at him. “Now, before you answer, I’ll have you know I’m a pastor’s wife.”

“Yes, my remedy works.” He chuckled. “Even for pastor’s wives.”

Mary shifted her eyes heavenward. As if the rogue didn’t grasp Carrie’s meaning.

“Did you hear that, Mary? You ought to get a bottle for your headaches.”

Luke Jacobs turned toward Mary, flashing the dimple in his cheek. Of all things, her legs turned to jelly, like she didn’t have the gumption to stand on her own two feet.

“I’d be happy to give Miss Graves a free sample. She need only ask.” Mary started to protest, but before she could, the scalawag gave a nod. “Good day, ladies,” he said, striding away.

Ben grimaced. “Ouch, you’re hurting my hand.”

Mary eased her hold. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart, I…” What excuse could she give? She’d been so unnerved by Mr. Jacobs’s presence that she’d wrung Ben’s hand like the neck of a Sunday fryer.

“Isn’t he the nicest man?” Carrie said. “I should’ve invited him to church.”

Mary wouldn’t find Luke Jacobs’s name under Webster’s definition for nice. Nice would be seeing the man drive his rig out of town.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about my nephew’s rash. Is something going around?” Carrie said and then shot her a curious look.

Heat rose in Mary’s face. “Ah, not that I know of.”

“It’s probably that homemade soap. I told my sister it’s too strong for that boy’s skin, but it’s cheaper than store-bought and…”

As Carrie chatted about the boy’s rash, Mary nodded, barely able to concentrate. Luke Jacobs exhibited interest in Ben beyond ordinary courtesy. Instinct urged her to rush Ben home.

Evidently satisfied that lye soap caused her nephew’s mysterious rash, Carrie said goodbye, then touched Mary’s sleeve. “Oh, look. That peddler’s coming back.”

Still clinging to Ben’s hand, Mary pivoted, almost colliding with Luke Jacobs. Wobbling on her feet, she gasped. He reached out a hand to steady her, then let go. A warm sensation shot through her and fluttered against every nerve.

In his other hand, Mr. Jacobs held the ball Ben wanted. Mary swirled to the store window, to the empty spot where the toy had been.

“This is for you.” The rogue bent down and put the ball into Ben’s outstretched hands. “I saw you admiring it.”

“Thank you!” Ben beamed, clinging to it with both hands. “Look, Mary, look what the nice man gave me!”

Hot anger sliced through Mary. Surely he’d heard her refuse to buy the toy. While she’d talked to Carrie, he’d gone into the store and bought it. She wanted to snatch the ball out of the youngster’s arms, but he’d raise a ruckus. Besides, that would be cruel. She couldn’t blame Ben that this cad took pleasure in undermining her authority.

The peddler sat on his heels in front of her son. “I’m Luke. What’s your name?”

“Ben.”

“Ben. Ben,” the man repeated, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

Mary’s heart tripped in her chest. He’d used the gift as a way to obtain Ben’s name. She took a step closer.

“Red’s my favorite color,” Ben said, still smiling at Luke, chattering on as if he’d made a new friend. “I have a red truck, and now I have a red ball with yellow stripes and blue stars.”

Under Ben’s direct gaze, Luke wavered, as if he didn’t know the first thing about children. Well, good.

“Ah, red’s my favorite color too,” he said.

Ben smiled. “Do you like stars?”

“Yes, ’specially stars in the night sky.”

“Mary showed me the Big Dipper.” Ben lowered his voice. “I didn’t see it, but I pretended cuz Mary is real nice.”

The vendor chuckled, his expression exhibiting fascination with Ben, his gaze never leaving the boy’s face. “You’re a smart young fellow.”

Touched by Ben’s obvious delight at the man’s words, Mary’s heart twisted, then unfurled. Luke Jacobs wasn’t above using every trick at his disposal to entice Ben, a boy hungry for a man’s attention.

Ben nodded. “I know my colors and I can count by tens.” He took a deep breath. “Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, seventy, oh, ah, I mean sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred.”

“Excellent.”

“Michael taught me.” Beaming, Ben’s small chest puffed with pride. “Want to play catch? Mary can’t play good cuz she wears dresses. Girls don’t like playin’ catch.”

Luke Jacobs glanced around, as if uncertain how they’d manage a game on the walk.

Mary tugged Ben closer. “We don’t have time to play.”

The boy’s lower lip trembled and his eyes glistened.

Luke ruffled Ben’s hair, then dropped his hand to his side. “Maybe next time.” He rose and turned his dark gaze on Mary, full of interest, sending a shiver down her spine. “Would you allow me to take you and Ben to lunch, Miss Graves?”

The nerve of that man. Shaking her head, Mary scooped up Ben, pushed past her adversary and hurried up the street, listening for his footsteps, but she heard nothing but her breath coming in harsh spurts.

She glanced over her shoulder. The peddler remained where she’d left him. Still, she couldn’t risk letting him know where she lived. Her hands trembled. He could show up at her door, demanding to see Ben.

Instead of going home, she’d go to The Ledger. Charles would know how to get that man out of this town.

The sooner, the better.



Realization crashed over Luke, kicking up his pulse like a runaway mustang. The boy’s name was Ben. He looked to be around four. The fact he called Mary by name and the resemblance to his childhood pictures left no doubt in his mind. This boy was his son.

Luke’s throat clogged. I’ve found him. I’ve found Ben.

The youngster looked well cared for and happy. He’d give Mary Graves that much. As soon as he determined Ben’s condition and sold the rest of his inventory, he could return to New York and his lab, assured the lad would be fine.

The prospect of never seeing his son again twisted in his gut. Odd how he’d found the boy’s every word and action enchanting. Ben’s innocence and delight tugged at Luke. That pull left him shaken, unsteady, as if the earth had shifted under his feet. He tossed the strong feeling aside, refusing to be drawn into Ben’s life.

If he did, he’d only ruin it.

But before he could leave, Luke had to know if the child had inherited the family curse. Only then could he depart in good conscience, knowing he’d armed the child’s new family with the proper knowledge, so Ben wouldn’t suffer as Luke’s brother had.

Yet, something else nagged at Luke. Why did his son call Miss Graves Mary, instead of mother? Did Ben feel unconnected?

Luke knew the feeling, knew the necessity of keeping his distance. Until he could leave, he vowed to maintain his reserve in a town that appeared woven together as tightly as a well-made blanket.

He’d already seen wariness in Mary Graves’s flashing green eyes. He suspected she could make trouble for him. How much trouble remained to be seen.




Chapter Five


Holding Ben in her arms, Mary hustled toward The Ledger, greeting the people she knew but avoiding conversation. She couldn’t waste a moment in idle chitchat, not after that disturbing encounter with Luke Jacobs.

Inside the newspaper office, Teddy Marshall, Charles’s typesetter, ran the printing press. The noise drilled into Mary’s aching head until it throbbed. The strong smell of ink hung in the air, as if the printed words hung there too. In her mind, frightening headlines swirled: “Medicine Man Makes Off With Orphan. Local Boy Claimed By Peddler.” At the prospect of losing Ben, Mary could barely breathe.

Charles rose from behind his desk, and Mary put Ben down. Still clutching the ball, the little boy ran to his uncle, throwing his free arm around Charles’s legs, and beamed up at him. “A nice man gave me a new ball!”

Charles shot Mary a puzzled look, and then smiled at Ben. “That’s a great ball, Ben.”

Though taller and leaner than Sam, her brother-in-law looked enough like her deceased husband to have been his twin instead of his older brother. Some days the resemblance hurt, fueling Mary’s regrets, but today the likeness brought comfort. Since Sam’s death, Charles had been her rock. He would help her.

He kissed Mary’s cheek. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“I’ve got a headache.”

“One of your bad ones?”

She nodded. If only Charles knew. This time her headache was six feet tall and refusing to leave town.

Without a word, Charles ushered her into a chair, then led Ben into the back where he kept treats and toys for his children. Ben could play freely there while she unburdened herself to Charles.

He returned and gave her a smile. “Ben’s nibbling graham crackers and rolling his ball into the wall.” He motioned across the street. “You just missed Addie. She finished her column, then walked over to her shop to go over the accounts. Why don’t you join her for a cup of tea? I know she’d like a break, and a visit might do you good. I’ll keep an eye on Ben.”

Charles’s wife had become Mary’s best friend. She’d like nothing better than to confide in Addie. But her thoughts about Luke Jacobs were mere speculation. Still, they would alarm her sister-in-law, especially after what she’d been through with William and Emma.

“Actually, I want to talk to you.” Mary glanced out the window, relieved to see no sign of Luke Jacobs. “Alone.”

The crease deepened between Charles’s brow, and he took a seat across from her. “Sounds serious.”

“Have you heard about the new peddler in town?”

He nodded. “We’re always looking for news. Today, he was it.” He smiled. “From what my reporter said, you weren’t on the town’s welcoming committee.”

Mary bit her lower lip. “That man has me in a tizzy, Charles. First selling a remedy he concocted himself, making all kinds of claims about what it can do. Folks can’t throw their money away fast enough.”

Charles took Mary’s hand. “Just because your mother took ill from nursing a peddler isn’t a reason to judge them all.”

Mary couldn’t think about her mother. Not now.

But Charles’s words reminded her that the Bible had plenty to say about judging others—none of it good. Still, how could she protect her loved ones if she wasn’t alert when problems came knocking?

“Ben and I ran into him a few minutes ago. From the rapt expression on his face, he has a special interest in Ben. He even went against my wishes and bought him a ball.”

“I’m surprised he disregarded your authority, but I can’t see any harm in being generous.”

“I do, if he bought the ball to get into Ben’s good graces and discover his name. Why would he do that? What does he want?”

She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. Luke Jacobs meant trouble. Not merely for her or this town but perhaps for Ben, an innocent little boy she loved like her own.

Charles rose and crossed to the window, staring out on the street. Her brother-in-law guarded his opinions until he had all the facts, which Mary found both endearing and frustrating. But today she wished he’d drop his editor hat and share her apprehension, instead of refusing to sense a threat when it stared him in the face.

“Other than his expression, did he say something to alarm you?”

“Well, no, but Sheriff Rogers said when he mentioned the orphans, Luke Jacobs’s eyes lit.”

“I’d hardly call that evidence of a particular interest in our orphans.”

“Mark my words, Charles. Nothing good will come from that peddler’s presence in our town. I can feel it in here.” She tapped the spot over her heart.

Yet, if she hadn’t been taken with Luke Jacobs, why did she get lost in his dark, captivating eyes? How could that scoundrel have that control over her?

The man was a magician, pure and simple.

Charles crossed to her and took her hand. “Let’s not panic. Still, we should pray about this, asking God to put His shield around Ben.”

But even as she heard Charles’s words and admitted their wisdom, Mary knew she would not stand by waiting on God and let Luke Jacobs destroy Ben’s world.



Saturday afternoon, Luke climbed the stairs to the room over the Whitehall Café, his home in this town whether Mary Graves liked it or not.

His landlords had equipped the space with old, mismatched furniture, shabby but surprisingly comfortable and clean. When he crawled into the iron bed at night, the springs creaked, but a cozy quilt covered the mattress. Quite a change for him, a man accustomed to posh dwellings and elegant restaurants. This trip had been yet another in a long string of lessons on what mattered. With a roof over his head and food in his stomach, he had everything he needed.

When he’d spoken to the café owner Monday, she’d appeared glad to have him move in, gladder still to get his money, though disappointment he’d rent by the week had clouded her eyes. She’d asked for cash in advance, no doubt seeing him as shiftless.

Not so long ago, her description would have fit him like a glove. If only he’d done right by Lucy. If only he could undo his past. How could he have repeated the family history he despised?

He slumped into a chair by the window, staring aimlessly at the street. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t erase those years when he’d rejected God. He’d tried to make up for his past. Spent months searching for Lucy and his child, only to learn she’d died from complications not long after delivering his son. Every piece of the puzzle since that revelation had shaken him to the core.

His eyes stung. That he could never ask her forgiveness for covering his responsibility with a pile of dollars rippled through him. His only recourse now was to ensure Ben was loved and would not pay for his father’s sins. Luke’s breath caught.

Father. Luke could barely wrap his mind around the word. He didn’t feel like a father. He didn’t know how to be a father. He didn’t want to be a father.

He rose and paced the room. His central goal, to find a cure for epilepsy without potent narcotics like laudanum, had evaded him. He’d interrupted his quest to find Ben. Now that he’d found him, he’d stay just long enough to evaluate his health and make certain he received good care.

He couldn’t believe the aggravating woman who’d claimed his medicine contained spirits was Ben’s guardian. She’d be surprised to learn his remedy was a concoction of catnip, peppermint, chamomile and honey. Despite what catnip did to cats, he’d found the herb a safe and effective tranquilizer for humans and an excellent treatment for insomnia, colds, colic, upset stomachs, nervous headaches and fevers. This trip gave him the opportunity to test his remedy’s effectiveness on a considerable number of people. Its success pleased him. When he returned to New York, he’d expand production.

In the meantime, unless Luke planned to give up eating, he needed money. Setting up his lab had devoured most of his savings. The rest went to producing his medicine and buying his rig. He had no choice but to wire his housekeeper and ask her to close up his house. He could no longer afford to pay her salary.

His sorry financial state was exactly what he deserved, according to his father, who ridiculed Luke’s refusal to spend a dime of the family money.

But nothing came without a price and the price of sharing in the Jacobs wealth was more than Luke was willing to pay. First thing tomorrow he’d look for work.

In the meantime, he’d find ways to spend time with his son without raising Mary Graves’s suspicion.



Mary shifted in her chair, wishing she could be anywhere but here. Luke Jacobs had turned her life upside down, and she’d let her chores slide. The list grew longer every day: washing, ironing, mending, cleaning. She’d promised to take food to the Shriver family, to make sure Mr. Lemming took his medicine and then tonight she had a Sunday school lesson to prepare. Even with the boys’ help, she wouldn’t be finished by nightfall.

But her father had pointed out it had been her idea to find another doctor for the practice and insisted she be present at the interviews with each candidate who’d answered her newspaper ad. She hoped this interview would bring the help Mary sought.

The first applicant sat across from her. The hunched set of his shoulders and the way he twisted his hands gave Mary a bad feeling.

Her father looked up from reading the young doctor’s résumé and shoved his reading glasses farther along his nose. “You finished last in your class, Dr. Edgar.”

“Yes, but I passed the course.”

“I’m not willing to turn my patients over to a doctor who barely passed medical school, especially a regional school like Central College of Physicians and Surgeons.” He rose. “I’m sorry, but I have to terminate this interview.”

Dr. Edgar’s face flushed. “No offense, Dr. Lawrence, but are you in a position to be so selective?”

“Yes, I believe I am, young man, as long as I’m alive and kicking.” He handed the paperwork to the doctor, then ushered the red-faced applicant out of the office.

When he returned, Mary said, “Maybe the other two applicants—” Her father’s scowl stopped her.

“If a doctor is to take over this practice, Mary, he must be competent, honorable and care about people. If such a man exists, I’ll hire him on the spot.”

Mary nodded. The first interview hadn’t been a positive beginning, but surely one of the other two applicants would meet her father’s high standards.

She found the boys in the waiting room playing hide-and-seek. Michael counted to ten, while Ben and Philip scurried for cover. As soon as Ben saw her, he forgot the game and plunged into her skirt. “Is it time to go home?”

“Remember, we’re having lunch here with Grandpa.”

A hank of dark brown hair tumbled over Philip’s brow, covering a hazel eye. He swept it off his forehead. “Ben wants to play ball.”

Michael’s green eyes fixed on her. “Why can’t we take him outside? We do at home.”

Mary glanced through the window. The sun shone bright for October; the wind had died. A perfect fall day. But with Luke Jacobs snooping about town, she couldn’t bear letting Ben out of her sight.

Ben jumped up and down, his pleading eyes melting her resolve. “Can I? Please?”

If the boys played out back, no one could see them from the street. “All right, just until we eat lunch. Here’s your ball.”

Ben whooped and trotted alongside her as they headed for the door. She had work to do, but the beauty of the day and the boys’ shiny faces pulled her. Chores shouldn’t come before her children but sadly often did.

A few minutes later, her father joined them and raked leaves while her sons tossed the ball. As soon as her father gathered a pile, the boys tumbled into it, hollering with delight. Even her father, who saw his efforts undone in minutes, chuckled at their antics.

“Children and leaves go together,” he said, resting a forearm on the rake. “When you were young, every fall you collected leaves and pressed them in the pages of my medical books.” He smiled then tugged her close. “Daughter, you’ve brought indescribable joy to your mother and me.”

Mary leaned into him, wanting to be that carefree girl, instead of a woman weighed down by the past and what the future might hold. “You and Mother gave me a wonderful life, Daddy.”

Leaving the boys to their fun, Mary and her father ambled indoors arm-in-arm. “I’ll clean the surgery before I start lunch,” Mary said.

“You have your own chores to do. I can manage here.”

“We’ll work together.”

Her father crossed to the counter where a familiar bottle sat.

Too familiar.

A knot formed in Mary’s stomach. Luke Jacobs’s potion reminded her of their confrontation in the square. Of his unsettling interest in Ben. And his accusation that she’d followed him to the livery. Every time they met fire or ice erupted in her veins, leaving her reeling. Feeling wrung out. Confused or frightened.

Her father picked up the container. “I decided to give that peddler’s tonic a try. He told me the secret ingredient is catnip. Imagine that?”

“How could you purchase that man’s remedy, knowing I worry about his interest in Ben?”

“Kitten, I’m a doctor. I must be open to anything that’ll help my patients, whether I like the seller or not.” He smiled. “I took a dose last night and got the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. I plan to buy a couple more bottles.”

“I didn’t know you had trouble sleeping, Daddy.”

“Ever since your mother—” He looked away, blinking hard, then cleared his throat. “I fall asleep in my chair, but by the time I get to bed, I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling.”

To learn the fatigue on her father’s face had more to do with the pain he carried in his heart than the patients in his practice banged against Mary’s lungs. She slipped her arms around his waist and gave him a hug. “Delivering babies and making house calls in the middle of the night doesn’t help either. What you need is another doctor in here.”

He ignored her comment. “All I need is a couple nights of taking this stuff. That should break the cycle.” He gave her a smile. “That medicine might do you some good too, with those severe headaches of yours.”

She stepped away from her father. “Never!”

He laughed and tweaked her chin. “You’re a stubborn woman, Mary Lynn Graves.”

In his humorous tone, Mary heard his approval and basked in its warmth. She laid a soft palm on her father’s cheek. “Like you, Daddy. Just like you.”

“Goes to show, the Good Lord knew what He was doing when He brought you to us.”

Moisture filled her eyes. Her father always made her feel special, loved. She’d expected all men to be like Henry Lawrence.

How wrong she’d been.

She craved the happiness her father had shared with her mother, happiness she’d never found with her husband.

At night with the boys tucked in bed, she ached with loneliness, reliving all those endless evenings she’d spent waiting for Sam, dreading his shuffling steps, his hands fumbling at the door, his blurry eyes resting on, yet not seeing, her. Even with him in the house lying beside her, he was lost to her. Alcohol took her place as his companion, as the love of his life. She couldn’t compete with a mistress that enabled him to forget the suffering of his childhood.

What had she become? A woman focused on regrets, instead of counting her blessings—her father and her sons. They were the only men she needed in her life.

What if she lost Ben? A shiver snaked down her spine. She met her father’s gaze. “I’m afraid of what Luke Jacobs could do to all of our lives.”

“I’m sorry. I know that peddler has you upset, but I suspect you’re overreacting.” He gave her a smile. “The Good Lord will work it out. Give Him time.”

Obviously, her father didn’t grasp the enormity of the situation. “Given enough time, Ben could be riding on the seat of that peddler’s wagon—on his way out of town.”

Her father frowned. “Guess I’ll have another talk with that fellow. See what I make of him.”

Henry Lawrence wouldn’t let anyone harm her or the boys. A load of worry shifted from her shoulders to his. With a lighter step, she scrubbed the surgery and then headed to her father’s quarters to prepare lunch.

After they’d eaten, Mary set about cleaning her father’s rooms. Michael and Philip had joined their grandfather out back, once again raking leaves but this time burning them in a barrel. Mary kept Ben inside, away from smoke, a trigger for his asthma. Nearby her new son stacked the wooden blocks she’d loved as a child. Her parents saved everything she’d ever touched, no matter how insignificant. She soaked up that realization like a thirsty sponge. She owed them everything, God even more. She hadn’t come close to paying the debt.

When she became a doctor, she’d keep her father’s legacy alive in this town, long after he couldn’t care for his patients.

True, going to school and studying, taking care of her sons wouldn’t be easy, but she could and would manage it all, as soon as her father had help in the practice. She’d prayed for God to send a doctor. Surely one of the two remaining applicants would be His answer.

Finished with the cleaning, she strolled into the office and peered out the back window. The boys and her father had made progress but still had work to do. She might as well catch up with the accounts. Her work at home could wait another day.

She sat at her desk and delved into the sorry state of her father’s books. He rarely collected cash. Now Luke Jacobs picked her father’s pockets. As she recorded the payment of a bushel of apples, her hand shook and ink splotched the page. If only that man would leave town.

Right then, outside the window, Luke Jacobs strode past. Slowly, trying not to alert Ben, she rose and inched closer. At the sign alongside the path leading to her father’s office, he paused, reading Henry Lawrence, M.D. Then he glanced toward the entrance. Mary caught her breath, held it, her body unbending as steel, ready to spring into action to shield Ben. A second later, he moved on.

Mary sagged against the frame. Could he be looking for her home? Hoping to find Ben? Or merely searching for another place to sell his remedy?

Either way, Mary had a sinking feeling that he’d be back.




Chapter Six


Luke left the Whitehall Café, his stomach full and his mind grappling with a sense of responsibility toward Ben. As he strolled along the sidewalk, lost in thought, he wondered if he could find a way to see his boy without giving away his fatherhood. Would Miss Graves allow him within a mile of Ben?

Not likely. The woman had it in for him. She might be attractive, but she appeared tauter than an over-wound clock. Luke suspected more than his interest in Ben had her in an uproar. His medicine would probably do her good. But he didn’t want to get involved with her problems, whatever they might be. He had enough of his own.

This morning at the livery, John Lemming had turned down his request for a job. Mr. Hudson had done the same at the general store. His housekeeper had wired back that she had no place to go and wanted to remain in the house without pay. That didn’t sit well with Luke. He planned to take the train back to New York. No point in hanging on to his rig. He’d sell it and send his housekeeper the money. Once the local doctor recommended his remedy—

A whinny, then a blood-curdling scream sliced through the air. Luke whirled toward the sound. A child, half lying in the street, half cradled in a woman’s lap. Screaming, she waved her hands over the child’s head. A dark stain spread across her skirt. Off to the side, a horse stomped. Bystanders stopped, frozen in place.

Luke broke into a run, dodging wagons and buggies, mentally preparing the next steps before he reached the child. He crouched at the mother’s side. “What happened?”

Wide-eyed with shock, she didn’t appear to see him. “The horse,” the woman said, tears running down her face. “Something spooked the horse. He kicked.” She rocked back and forth, holding her son in her arms. “Oh, Lord, my boy! My sweet boy!”

“Ma’am, let me.” His gaze met hers, firm enough for her to release the grasp she had on her son. A circle of people crowded around them. “Get the doctor. And get me some rags.”

“I’ll git Doc Lawrence!” A passerby sped off.

Luke guessed the injured boy to be seven or eight. He checked his pulse. Steady and strong. Good. He lifted one eyelid. The pupil dilated. He checked the other. A concussion.

“Oh, God, save my son!” the mother cried.

Luke eased the boy’s head to the side. The horse’s hoof had laid open a section of scalp, and a lump formed on his skull. Thankfully, the horse caught the child from the back, not at the temple.




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