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Smoke River Family
Lynna Banning
A BABY TO BRING THEM TOGETHER…When Dr Zane Dougherty swept Winifred Von Dannen’s sister off to Smoke River she was resentful, but now she wants to be part of her late sister’s baby’s life. That means dealing with Zane, and with the shadows of loneliness – and the incredible hunger – she sees in his eyes.Zane knows he and his infant daughter are truly blessed. But he wants more. He wants Winifred! Is there a way he can mend this broken family and care for them for ever?


She watched his hands on the reins. His skin was tanned, his fingers long and capable-looking.
Winifred was in awe of this man. And she liked sitting close to him.
She edged toward him a few inches and laid her head against his shoulder. No one would see them; they had not yet reached the road back to town.
Zane made a sound in his throat, pulled the horse to a stop and wound the reins around the brake handle. He turned to her, his gray eyes dark and smoky. He caught her mouth under his, moving his lips over hers slowly, purposefully. She wanted it to go on forever.
He deepened the kiss and she opened her lips. He tasted of lemons and something sweet, and all at once she wanted to weep.
She touched his arms, felt the muscles bunch and tremble. She ached for something more—something … closer.
“Zane,” she murmured against his mouth. “Touch me.”
Author Note (#ulink_77b12094-5f2b-52d2-9dbe-35b0121e291c)
It wasn’t always easy to face the realities of life in the Old West—especially when it came to loss and pain. And when it came to falling in love again, matters could get extremely complicated.
I hope you will enjoy this story of heartache and hope.
Smoke River Family
Lynna Banning


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LYNNA BANNING combines her lifelong love of history and literature in a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she graduated from Scripps College and embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at PO Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, email her at carowoolston@att.net (mailto:carowoolston@att.net) or visit Lynna’s website at lynnabanning.net (http://lynnabanning.net).
For my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins.
Contents
Cover (#u46552499-2343-5024-8a95-f7f6f10ac27e)
Introduction (#ue7b1ee31-8b7f-5c26-b794-5da6945cd05a)
Author Note (#ulink_163dfa96-2c74-55cb-98d6-2a9d1751f7d0)
Title Page (#u04562eeb-889b-551a-954a-1c36d43e4f68)
About the Author (#ucaccdfbc-5484-54c7-90c8-2412eb2df185)
Dedication (#u7dafc919-392a-51a6-85ef-32eb5cd9de23)
Chapter One (#ulink_c19ec012-79cb-5280-821e-9ed8bfab49f4)
Chapter Two (#ulink_1d7f8d42-0f56-5d60-be62-9696777f4435)
Chapter Three (#ulink_a31a1610-e73a-5ff8-a8da-8fd6c6613dcd)
Chapter Four (#ulink_91235daf-0d2a-58c3-8ec3-19feb7f9aa9b)
Chapter Five (#ulink_d712b334-5835-520f-b7e3-ece96802a2f9)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_29ea0926-cb21-5d4a-a907-252b7feca187)
Smoke River, Oregon August 1871
The train chuffed to a stop and Winifred peered out at the town. A seedy-looking building with two large dust-covered windows faced the station; Smoke River Hotel was emblazoned across the front in foot-high dirty white printed lettering. Winifred groaned at the sight. The thought of two whole weeks in this rough Western town made her stomach tighten.
“End of the line, miss,” the conductor bawled.
She blew out a shaky breath and straightened her spine. Most definitely the end of the line. Where else on God’s earth would one see such an array of ramshackle structures leaning into the wind? Could Cissy really have been happy in such a place?
The passenger car door thumped open. “Ya might wanna catch yer breath a minute when you get to the station. Heat can get to ya, ya know.”
No, she did not know. She eyed the purple-hazed mountains in the distance. St. Louis was flat as a sadiron and the downtown area was extremely well kept. She had no idea Oregon would be so...well, scruffy.
She twitched the dirt from her forest green travel skirt and set one foot onto the iron step. The conductor, a short, squat butterball of a man, extended a callused hand.
“Watch yer step, now. Can’t have any passenger fallin’ on her—” He coughed and cleared his throat. Winifred noted his cheeks had turned red. She grasped his outstretched hand and stepped onto the ground.
Her head felt funny, as if her brain were stuffed with wet cotton. Her ears rang. She released the conductor’s hand and took a single step, then grabbed the man’s beefy hand again.
“Dizzy, are ya?” He steadied her arm and peered into her face. “Happens all the time. Folks don’t notice the climb on the train, but the el’vation rises up little by little and then, kapow! With this heat, feels like dynamite’s exploded inside yer body.”
It felt, she thought, like stage fright, only her hands didn’t shake.
“Ya wanna set a spell at the station house while I get somebody to tote yer portmantle?”
Portmanteau, she corrected automatically. “N-no, I am quite all right.” She took three unsteady steps and stopped.
“Hard to breathe, ain’t it? Kinda hot today.”
Hot? The air seemed to smother her every breath, as if she were trapped inside a bell jar. She struggled for oxygen, opening her mouth like a hungry goldfish. It didn’t help that her corset was laced too tight.
“Where d’ya want yer luggage toted, miss?”
“Dr. Dougherty’s residence.” She panted for a moment, fighting the whirly sensation in her brain. “Dr. Nathaniel Dougherty.” She swallowed hard to keep inside the bitter words she’d like to level at the man.
“Right. Top of the hill, past the new hospital, ’bout six blocks. Ya sure you’re all right?”
“I will be quite all right in a moment.” She could see the large white house at the end of the main street. It looked to be at least a mile away, and straight up a mountainside.
“Suit yerself, miss.” The conductor stepped past her.
“Charlie,” he yelled to a gray-bearded man lounging on the station house bench. “Carry this lady’s bag up to Doc Dougherty’s, will ya?”
The man nodded, hefted her travel bag onto his rounded shoulder and set off at a fast clip. She took a step in the same direction. Oh, my. Could she really walk that far with her head reeling like this?
She followed the man up the hill, trying not to totter even though she felt disturbingly unsteady. She would not arrive at Dr. Dougherty’s doorstep shaking and out of breath. She would need all her wits about her.
She plodded up past the new-looking two-story building. Samuel Graham Hospital, the sign said. That was where Cissy...
She swallowed hard.
The last fifty yards up the hill she slowed to conserve her energy and met the man—Charlie—tramping back down.
“I put yer portmantle on the doc’s porch,” he said jauntily. “Good luck to ya, miss. He’s home, so I’m bettin’ ye’ll need it.”
An odd juxtaposition, Winifred thought. Why would she need luck because Dr. Dougherty was at home? The doctor must be extremely bad-tempered.
The lawn swing on the wide front porch beckoned, but to reach it she had to climb five—no, six steps. She paused before the first step to catch her breath. Then she managed one-two-three-four—and... She halted at the fifth step, panting, then heaved herself up onto the sixth.
Such thin air was surely not good for a baby. Especially a newborn. She propelled herself up onto the porch and sank down in the swing.
* * *
Zane laid his fingertips on either side of the bridge of his nose and pressed hard. The headache throbbed behind his eyes and deep within both temples, and he shut his eyes against the relentless pain. It came upon him every afternoon ever since Celeste—he could not finish the thought. He gulped the half glass of whiskey at his elbow and bent his head. God in heaven, help me.
He refilled the glass and sat staring at his shaking hand as it replaced the stopper on the cut glass decanter. He could see the veins, the tendons of each finger, but it was as if the hand no longer belonged to him.
Never again would he pat a bereaved husband or wife on the shoulder and reassure them their grief would pass. He knew better now; grief did not pass. It would never pass.
He sipped from his glass and bowed his head again.
* * *
Winifred heaved herself out of the swing and stepped unsteadily to the glass-paneled front door. Hung to one side on a metal arm was an old ship’s bell with a clapper of tarnished copper. She winced at the sound it made, raucous as a hungry crow.
The door swung open and a young Oriental man looked at her inquiringly. She took a breath to steady her voice. “Is this Dr. Nathaniel Dougherty’s residence?”
The houseboy gave a quick nod. “Yes, missy. But too late for appointment.”
“I do not wish to make an appointment. I wish to speak to the doctor.”
“Come in, please, missy.” He gestured her inside and closed the door behind her. “You sick?”
“No, I...” Her breath ran out before she could finish explaining. “I...” Her vision went watery and black spots swam before her eyes. In the next instant the floor rushed up to meet her.
“Boss!” Wing Sam yelled. “Come quick! Lady has fainted.”
Zane thrust open his office door to see Sam on his knees beside a young woman. “Get my smelling salts,” he ordered.
He knelt and bent over the motionless form, slipped free half the buttons down the front of her dress, then searched for her corset lacings. Sam thrust the lavender salts into his grasp and he uncapped the bottle and waved it under her nose.
The woman twisted her head away and batted feebly at his hands as he was unlacing her stays. “Stop that!” Her voice was unsteady, but the intent was clear.
His hands stilled. “I’m sorry, miss, but you fainted in my hallway. I am trying to aid your breathing.”
She opened her eyes and his heart jolted against his ribs. My God, they were the same clear blue-green as Celeste’s. The unexpected rush of pain was like a knife blade.
He pressed two fingers on her wrist. Pulse fast but irregular. Heat exhaustion, probably. Wouldn’t be the first time a woman had succumbed to a too-snug corset. Why did young women persist in such foolishness?
“Help me sit her up, Sam.” Together they raised her shoulders. Her lids drifted closed and he gave her another whiff of smelling salts.
“Miss? Take a deep breath, now. It’s only the heat, I think,” he said to Sam. “Must be a flatlander.”
“Pretty lady,” Sam observed.
Zane hadn’t noticed. He watched the young woman slowly regain consciousness again. She jerked when she realized her front buttons were undone.
“I undid them,” he reminded her. “To loosen your corset.”
“You must be Dr. Dougherty,” she said slowly.
“That I am.”
“Dr. Nathaniel Dougherty?”
She was fully awake now. He watched those not green, not blue eyes focus on his face.
“Yes. And you are...?”
She drew in a long breath and expelled it, all the while scrabbling to close her front buttons. “Do you always undress your visitors?”
“As I said, I undid them to— Answer my question, please. Who are you? Are you ill?”
“I am not ill. At least I wasn’t when I arrived at the train station. I am Winifred Von Dannen. Celeste’s sister.”
Zane sat back on his heels and stared at her. Of course. Same pale skin and high cheekbones, the same determined chin, the same... He found he couldn’t look into those eyes.
Something ripped inside his chest. “I see.” Dammit, his voice shook. “I would welcome you to my home, Miss Von Dannen, but you are lying flat on my floor.”
“I must get up,” she said in a decisive tone. “This is most undignified.”
Sam took the vial of salts from his hand and Zane helped the woman sit fully upright. Then he clasped both her elbows and lifted her to her feet.
“Thank you,” she breathed. She gazed at him and waited.
“I—forgive me, you were not expected so soon.”
“Did you not receive my telegram from St. Louis?”
“Yes, I—” He had read it three times but he could not remember what it said.
“I left earlier than I had planned. I wanted to...” Her eyes looked shiny. “I wanted to see Celeste’s grave. And the baby. I came to see the baby.”
“Of course.” He had not been able to revisit his wife’s grave site. After watching them lower the coffin into that dark hole that day, he doubted he would ever be able to visit. The pain behind his eyes throbbed.
“This is most awkward,” she said. “If you do not mind, I need to sit down.”
He guided her to one of the straight-backed chairs in the wide hallway that served as his waiting room. “Sam, bring some tea.”
“No, please. I am quite all right now.”
He tipped up her chin and peered into her chalk-white face. “And some sandwiches,” he called. “You look half-famished, Miss Von Dannen.”
“Yes, I am, now that I think about it. I was in such a hurry to get here, you see.”
Zane nodded. He did not see. She had not come for the funeral; the wire he’d received had explained she was away on tour. Still, she must be anxious to see the baby.
Sam appeared with a tray of tea and a plate of tiny sandwiches, the kind he served when Zane skipped too many meals or spent too many long hours at the hospital.
“Come into the dining room, Miss Von Dannen.” Zane guided her to an upholstered chair at one end of the carved walnut table. She fell on the sandwiches at once and he poured the aromatic tea into the blue china cups. Sam had used the good china, he noted. It reminded him of when Celeste— His hand shook, and he clattered his own cup back onto the saucer.
She ate in silence, and he sipped his tea and watched her. Couldn’t help watching her, in fact. She was a bit older than Celeste, more settled somehow. Less excitable. Then he remembered that Winifred Von Dannen was a professor of music in St. Louis, at the same academy where Celeste had studied. Of course, someone of her stature would not be young, at least not as young as his wife had been. In fact, Winifred Von Dannen was well-known in the East. A pianist, like Celeste.
“I was more hungry than I thought,” she said. She replaced her cup on the blue-flowered saucer and looked up, straight into his eyes. The ripping inside his chest tore at him. She looked so much like Celeste.
“Now,” she said. “May I see the baby?”
Chapter Two (#ulink_3a3973a8-1719-5ede-a2c2-99bcf9d1feba)
The doctor paused outside one doorway in the spacious upstairs hall, laid one hand on the brass knob and hesitated. Winifred waited. Did he have some intimation of why she was really here?
“I think she is asleep,” he said softly. “At least for the moment.”
“Oh?” Winifred knew absolutely nothing about babies.
“She rarely sleeps through the night,” the doctor explained.
Ah. That would explain the dark circles beneath his tired gray eyes. He looked as if he had not slept in weeks. Months, perhaps. But of course there was his grief, too.
For a moment her throat grew tight. She had been in Europe when she had heard the news of her sister’s death. She had cried and cried for weeks. But a man losing his wife...she could scarcely imagine such anguish. Even for a man she detested.
The doctor quietly opened the door and preceded her into a warm, comfortable room with a large bed and a paper-strewn desk under the window. Oh! This must be his bedroom.
Next to the quilt-covered bed stood a white wicker bassinet on wheels. He gestured toward it. “She sleeps in here so I can hear her when she cries at night,” he said. “She likes to be rocked.”
Holding her breath, Winifred tiptoed forward. A tiny face peeked out from the pink flannel blanket, her eyes wide open. Blue-green, just like her own and Cissy’s. Winifred’s heart did something odd, and a clenching feeling under her breastbone left her short of breath.
“She’s so beautiful,” she murmured. Tears stung her eyes.
“Yes.” He smoothed a long, slim forefinger against the pink-and-white skin of the baby’s cheek. “Her name is Rosemarie.”
“Rosemarie,” she breathed. After their mother.
“Rosemarie... Winifred,” he added after a slight hesitation.
Winifred’s tears spilled over. “Cissy named her after me? Really?”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “I would not lie when it comes to my daughter. It was Celeste’s last wish.”
Oh, God. Oh, Cissy. Cissy. For a moment she could not speak.
“Would you like to hold your niece?” He reached into the bassinet, lifted out the pink bundle and offered the baby to her.
“Oh, no. I mean, yes, I would. But—but I really don’t know how to—I mean, I know very little about handling babies.”
The doctor gave her a long look, then laid Rosemarie into her arms. “You can learn.”
Winifred looked down into the blue-green eyes. “Can she really see me?”
“Probably not, at least not clearly. But if you talk to her, she will hear your voice.”
“Oh.” How did one talk to a baby? All at once she felt awkward and out of place and ignorant of the most basic things of life. All she knew about was music and teaching.
“Go on,” he urged in a quiet voice. “Try it.”
Winifred inhaled and exhaled twice, working up her courage. She felt as fluttery as on the opening night of a concert, excited and terrified and thrilled at the same time.
“H-hello, Rosemarie. My, you are so beautiful. You look like Cissy, did you know that?”
“Cissy?” the doctor murmured.
“Celeste. I call—called her Cissy. She called me Freddie.”
“That I would never have guessed. She always referred to you as Winifred.”
A tiny fist waved toward Winifred’s hand. She extended her forefinger and the baby latched onto it. “Oh, just look,” she whispered.
“She likes fingers,” the doctor said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Thumbs, especially.”
Winifred could not speak. The small hand, the knuckles wrinkled and rosy, the tiny fingernails so perfect, kept its grip on Winifred’s finger. Her senses swirled again; she must still be dizzy from the altitude.
“Shall I take her?” the doctor asked.
“No, I— Could we wait until she releases my finger?”
He laughed softly and nodded, watching her.
“Rosemarie,” she breathed. “I am your aunt Fred—your aunt Winifred. And you are my only, most precious, most beautiful niece.”
The little mouth opened and a soft cry came out.
“She’s hungry,” the doctor said. He walked to the door and opened it. “Sam?”
In three heartbeats, the houseboy appeared, a glass bottle of milk in one hand and a towel in the other. Expertly he lifted the baby out of Winifred’s arms and cradled her in his own. Then he began walking up and down in front of the curtained window, crooning something in a strange language while Rosemarie gulped milk through the rubber nipple.
“Does he—Sam—have children of his own?” Winifred asked quietly.
“Sam? Sam is not married. Not many Chinese women are admitted into this country. And an American woman would not be acceptable. The Chinese are proud that way, they wish to preserve their heritage.”
Winifred’s eyes rested on the Chinese man’s slim form. “How sad that must be.”
The doctor did not answer. Instead, he gestured her into the hallway and quietly closed the door. “The guest bedroom is next door. Sam has already brought up your travel case.”
He opened another door into an airy room with pretty yellow curtains and a crocheted yellow coverlet on the bed.
“Would you like to rest awhile? Sam will call you when supper is ready.”
“Yes, I suppose I should. I feel quite shaky after my travels.” After meeting Rosemarie, she amended. That had been the biggest shock of her life. Well, perhaps the second biggest. The biggest surprise had been when Cissy had eloped with Dr. Nathaniel Dougherty and ruined everything.
* * *
That evening, Winifred entered the dining room determined to discuss her plan with Dr. Dougherty. Instead, she found herself alone at the huge walnut table. Sam had tapped on her bedroom door twenty minutes earlier to announce supper, and she had roused herself from an exhausted sleep, rebraided her hair and donned her travel skirt and a fresh shirtwaist. As she descended the staircase she rehearsed what she had come to say.
She acknowledged a distinct nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach. She also admitted she felt torn between dislike and an unexpected attraction to the tall, square-jawed physician. She resented the man. And feared him. Would he stand in her way when she confessed her purpose?
Sam stepped into the dining room. “Missy like glass of wine?”
“Not now, thank you. I will wait for the doctor.”
“Doctor not come,” Sam replied.
“Oh? Why not?”
“Go to hospital. Wife of sheriff having twins.” He grinned at her, revealing straight white teeth and an unexpected dimple in one cheek.
Disappointment swept over her. She had worked up her courage to speak with him; now the matter would have to wait.
“You like fish, missy? Catch fresh from river and cook quick.” Sam waited, his hands folded together at the waist of his blue knee-length tunic. “Or I cook chicken, very nice fat hen.”
Winifred nodded. “Chicken, please.” She wasn’t the least bit hungry. In fact, her head still ached, but she knew she must eat to keep up her resolve. She could not argue her case on an empty stomach.
“I go cook chicken.” The houseboy bobbed his head and turned away.
“Sam, wait. When do you expect the doctor?”
“Not know. Sometimes baby take long time.”
“What about Rosemarie?”
“Sam take good care of baby. Feed, rock, change and more feed.” He grinned again. “I good mother.”
Winifred bit her lip. No one but a real mother was a good mother, she thought. She and Cissy had known that from the time her sister was barely out of diapers. That was why—never mind. Her head hurt too much to think about it now.
After her meal of succulent chicken breast and wonderfully flavored green peas and rice, she retired to her room, listening for the doctor’s step in the hallway. Sam brought up hot tea for her headache, and the last thing she remembered before falling asleep was his queer crooning from the next room as he walked up and down with the baby.
The next morning when she came down for breakfast, the doctor was already seated at the table.
“Good morning,” she offered. She slid onto her chair, then glanced at the man sitting opposite her. His face was chalk-white with fatigue. Dark stubble masked the lower part of his chin and dark circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes. His once-white shirt was rumpled and open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He gazed at her with unfocused gray eyes as Sam bustled in with a pot of coffee. The doctor stirred three spoons of sugar into his cup while the houseboy poured Winifred’s cup full. She lifted the brew to her lips. Now. I must speak to him now.
But he looked so completely spent she hesitated. He was in no state to hear her out.
Sam tapped the doctor’s shoulder. “Boss want eggs now?”
He dropped his head into a loose-necked nod.
“Missy?”
Winifred stared at the man across the table from her. It was obvious he was only half-awake.
“Missy, you like eggs?”
“What? Oh, yes, thank you.” She turned toward the Chinese man for an instant, then swung her gaze back to the doctor. His head was tipped back against the high ladder-back chair, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even. Good Lord, the man was sound asleep!
“Up all night,” Sam murmured. “Babies come slow.” He moved the coffee cup away from the doctor’s hand and tiptoed into the kitchen.
Winifred stared at Nathaniel Dougherty. She could not tell him what she had come all the way from St. Louis to say. Not while he was this tired.
In a few moments, Sam slid a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her, motioned for her to eat, then laid one long finger across his lips to signal silence. She nodded, picked up her fork and quietly devoured the perfectly cooked eggs.
She studied the plate of toast at her elbow and lifted a slice to her mouth but could not bring herself to take a single bite. The crunching sound might wake him.
He slept on, his breathing guttural, his chest rising and falling. Winifred drank her coffee in silence and watched him. Her throat felt tight each time she swallowed.
A faint wail floated from the floor above and suddenly the doctor jerked awake and bolted for the stairway.
Sam shot into the dining room and shook his head at the empty chair. “I feed baby. Doctor must sleep.” On silent black slippers he padded up the stairs after the doctor.
Winifred couldn’t help smiling at the houseboy’s retreating back. Sam was obviously devoted to Dr. Dougherty. Perhaps he had also been devoted to Cissy. As for the doctor...
Well, she had to admit she had been prepared not to like Nathaniel Dougherty. But since breakfast, a tiny niggle of doubt had lodged in her brain.
“Missy like read book?”
Sam’s voice brought her bolt upright, and her coffee cup clanked onto the saucer.
The houseboy’s black eyes snapped with delight. “Baby sleep. Doctor sleep. Maybe you read book? We have library.”
“Why, yes.” She needed something to do with herself until she could speak with Rosemarie’s father. A book was just the answer.
“You come see book room,” Sam invited. “Fine books. You come. Bring coffee.”
Winifred followed him through the wide entry hall and past a set of sliding pocket doors into a large parlor lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Sam swept one arm in an expansive circle. “Here many fine books. You choose.”
But she had spied the dark cherrywood grand piano in the corner and her breath stopped. Cissy’s piano! She had forgotten how beautiful the instrument was, the wood polished to a gleaming burgundy color, the upholstered bench carved to match the ornate piano legs. It looked untouched, as if Cissy had just finished playing and left the room only a moment before. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Doctor’s favorite books here, lady’s books there.” Sam pointed to the shelf behind the piano.
Cissy’s music books. Mostly familiar worn volumes—Brahms. Mozart. Beethoven. The corners of some pages were turned down. The ache in her heart flared into rage. How could she? How had she dared?
Winifred set the cup and saucer on a side table and began to thumb through the Brahms as Sam glided away. Yes, the waltzes, the intermezzos they both loved, all arranged for four hands.
Abruptly she slapped the volume shut. Oh, Cissy. Cissy.
She couldn’t look at the music any longer. Instead she moved to the doctor’s book collection and ran her hand over the leather-bound volumes. She selected a volume of Wordsworth. Next to it, Milton’s Paradise Lost caught her eye. “How prophetic,” she murmured. A stab of bitterness knifed through her.
We had it all, Cissy, everything we had dreamed of. And you threw it away for this man. Why?
She fled into the hallway. “Sam?” she called. “I am going out for a walk.”
She heard no answer, but it didn’t matter. She opened the front door and the heat hit her like a fist. Just as she was about to give up the idea, Sam appeared with a wide-brimmed straw hat in one hand. Cissy’s hat. A wide pink ribbon banded the crown, and her heart caught. Winifred never wore pink. The Chinese man offered it without a word.
She tied it beneath her chin and stepped out onto the porch, then resolutely marched down the front steps, past the hospital and on down the tree-lined street toward town.
It wasn’t much of a main street. A single mercantile with bushel baskets of apples and squash out in front; the Smoke River sheriff’s office; a scruffy-looking barber shop; Uncle Charlie’s bakery, with a large, many-paned window through which she glimpsed a glass case of cakes and cookies.
Next door to the bakery hung a sign with large block letters printed in royal blue: Verena Forester, Dressmaker. A handsome challis morning dress was displayed in the window, and she hesitated. But no. She did not plan to be here long enough to warrant adding to her wardrobe.
By the time she reached the Smoke River Hotel, she was wilting and dizzy from the heat. A young man with a silver badge on his plaid shirt glanced at her as she passed, then doubled back and fell into step beside her.
“You all right, ma’am? Look kinda, well, peaked. I thought maybe you’d—”
“I am quite all right. Just a bit... Is it always this hot here in the summer?”
“Usually much worse. Oh, ’scuse me, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “I’m Sandy Boggs, the deputy sheriff. Sheriff’s at the hospital with his wife. Had twins this morning. Kin I escort you some place?”
She nodded. “A place with cold lemonade, perhaps?”
“That’d be right here, ma’am. Restaurant’s next to the hotel.” He tipped his hat again and strode off down the street.
Inside the restaurant Winifred sank down at a table and fanned herself with Cissy’s hat. Without even asking, the waitress brought a large glass of cold water and plunked it at her elbow.
“Must be from somewheres else, I’d guess,” the plump woman said. “Otherwise you’d be used to it. The heat, I mean.”
“St. Louis,” Winifred volunteered. “Would you have any lemonade?”
“Got gallons of it, ma’am. ’Spect we’ll need to make another batch or two before noon. Never been this hot in August.” The woman whipped a pad and pencil from her checked apron pocket. “You want anything else?”
Oh, yes. She wanted a great deal. “No, thank you. Wait! Where is the cemetery?”
“The graveyard, ya mean? Top of the hill.” She gestured a thick arm in the opposite direction from the doctor’s house.
Winifred drank two glasses of excellent cold lemonade, then donned her hat and started up the other hill. Thank goodness she hadn’t laced her corset tight this morning. She didn’t fancy fainting twice in Dr. Dougherty’s entrance hall.
At the top of the rise she spied a neatly fenced area with leafy green trees and chiseled headstones. A spreading oak shaded the area, and she sank down on the thick grass beneath it to catch her breath.
At the sight of the mound of fresh dirt indicating a recent burial, she closed her eyes tight and began to cry. She thought she would be over these bouts of weeping she’d fought this past month; perhaps she would never get over Cissy’s death.
Maybe not, but now there was Rosemarie. And, she acknowledged, swiping tears off her cheeks, Rosemarie was the reason she had come.
Chapter Three (#ulink_a5511247-e228-5329-846b-8435d3ebfade)
A handful of yellow roses lay on top of Cissy’s grave. Winifred’s heart squeezed at the sight. Dr. Dougherty must have paid an early morning visit after delivering the sheriff’s twins. She swallowed a hiccupped sob. Even in death, her sister was fortunate.
She still resented Nathaniel Dougherty’s sweeping Cissy off to this rough, uncivilized place, but a small part of her ached at the man’s obvious sorrow. She knew how devastating it was to lose someone you loved; it must be doubly so if you had pledged to share your life with that person.
She sank down beside the grave site and struggled to compose her thoughts. You knew I would come, didn’t you, Cissy? Was your husband so crushed by your loss that he could not tell me of your death until after the funeral?
She yanked up shoots of the green grass poking up from the earth beside her and crushed them in her palm. I would have come, Cissy. You know I would.
She removed the straw hat and bowed her head. The angle of the sun shifted and she felt its rays warm her shoulders and then burn slowly through the light muslin shirtwaist she wore. She did not care. She rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and stayed where she was beside her sister’s grave.
She tried to stop feeling, stop thinking. Instead, she steadily shredded the grass under her hand and stared at those yellow roses. They were beginning to wilt in the sunshine.
Suddenly a chill swept through her. How strange loss could be. When Mama was killed, Papa straightened his shoulders and went back to his desk at the bank. He had provided for Cissy and herself, sent them to private schools and later to the music conservatory. They had maids and cooks and tutors, but the hole in their hearts yawned like a chasm. Papa bore it best. He never wept, as she and Cissy had.
Remembering those black days, she turned her face up to the sun and lost track of time.
* * *
“Ah, glad you back, missy. Doctor go see boy who have chicken spots.”
“You mean chicken pox?”
“Ah. ‘Pox,’” he pronounced carefully. “Learn new English word. Make stew for your supper. Tonight I play fan-tan with friend Ming Cha. You stay here with baby?”
“Me? But I know noth—”
“Not hard, missy. I show.”
Sam demonstrated how to heat the nippled bottle of milk and sprinkle some on her wrist to check the temperature, and then, with a wide grin that showed his elusive dimple, he was gone.
Oh, well. How hard could it be to feed a month-old baby?
Besides, she must learn these things if she wanted to bring her plan to fruition.
She dawdled over her stew and the fluffy dumpling Sam had added, listening for Rosemarie’s hungry cry from upstairs and praying desperately for the doctor’s return.
But Dr. Dougherty did not return. When Rosemarie’s faint wail rose, Winifred heated the milk as Sam had shown her and flew up the stairs to feed her precious niece. By the time she opened the door to the doctor’s bedroom where the baby lay in the ruffled wicker bassinet, Rosemarie had worked up to quite a lusty yell.
“There, there, little one,” Winifred crooned. She set the warmed milk on the book-cluttered nightstand and lifted the child into her arms. A sopping wet diaper plastered itself against the front of her shirtwaist and instantly she held the baby away from her. Oh, dear. She would have to exchange the wet garment for a dry one; but how, exactly, did one accomplish this? Sam had left no instructions concerning wet diapers.
She riffled through the handsome walnut chest of drawers until she found clean diapers, then laid Rosemarie on the doctor’s bed and studied how the safety pins were arranged. Rosemarie screamed and grew red in the face, and Winifred began to perspire.
She unpinned the soaked garment, prodded the ceramic chamber pot out from under the bassinet with her foot and dropped in the diaper. It landed with a splat and Winifred heaved a sigh of relief. Then she pinned the dry garment onto the now-squirming infant, praying she would not prick the soft skin. Then she stuck the rubber nipple into Rosemarie’s open mouth.
Instant silence. Thank the Lord! The blue-green eyes popped open and gazed into Winifred’s face as the level of milk in the bottle steadily diminished. The baby sucked greedily while she hovered over her, mesmerized by the whole process. Perhaps it wasn’t that difficult to care for an infant.
Long before the bottle was empty, Rosemarie fell asleep. Winifred cuddled her against one shoulder and settled into the rocking chair by the window. Not difficult at all, she mused. In fact, she felt exactly like she did after a successful concert—tired and proud and happy.
* * *
Zane stepped quietly into his bedroom and stopped short. Winifred sat in the rocker, asleep, with a slumbering Rosemarie nestled against her shoulder. Very gently he lifted his daughter into his arms, felt her diaper—dry—and laid her in the bassinet beside his bed. Then he stood staring down at Celeste’s sister.
How different this woman was from his wife. Celeste had been petite, golden-blonde and frail-looking. Winifred had dark hair. And whereas Celeste had been slim to the point of boyishness, Winifred’s breasts under the white shirtwaist were lushly curved.
She slept quietly, her breath pulling softly in and out without a hint of the asthma that had plagued Celeste in the summer months. His wife had been pretty, extremely pretty; but Winifred’s bone structure approached real beauty. He could not help wondering how far the differences between the two sisters went. Was Winifred—? He caught himself. He wouldn’t allow his mind to go there. He recognized that he was desperately unhappy. Lonely. Hungry, even. Not for physical release but for emotional comfort. And, yes, he supposed, some plain old body hunger was involved. It amazed him that his spirit could feel so broken and his physical self could still feel normal. Or almost normal.
Since Celeste’s death he hadn’t felt a twinge of interest in food or riding or swimming or reading or any of the things that had sustained him through the long, dry months of her pregnancy. He supposed he would come back to life eventually; for the time being, it was a blessing to feel nothing.
He reached out and touched Winifred’s wrist and she jerked upright with a little cry. “Oh, it’s you.”
Zane surprised himself with a chuckle. “Who were you expecting?”
She surged out of the rocker. “The baby! Where is—?”
“Sleeping,” Zane replied.
She took a single step forward and her knees gave way. Zane snagged one arm around her shoulder to steady her. “Easy, there. Foot go to sleep?”
“What? Oh, no, I...” She swerved toward the bassinet. “I feel somewhat unsteady, and my head is pounding like it does when I have a migraine.”
Zane tightened his grip and steered her through the doorway and down the short hallway to the guest bedroom. Her skin was hot. Even through the shirtwaist he could feel she was over-warm. He shot a glance to her flushed face.
“Winifred, undress and get into bed. I’ll bring up something to cool you down.”
When he returned, she was stretched out under the top sheet, her eyes shut. “What’s wrong with me? Am I ill?”
“You’re sun-sick. Got a bad sunburn on your face and arms. Here, drink this.” He leaned over, slipped his arm behind her to raise her shoulders and held a glass to her lips.
“What is it?”
“Water, mostly. You’re dehydrated. What did you do today to get this sunburned?”
She sipped obligingly, then grasped the glass with both hands and gulped down four huge swallows. “I went to visit Cissy’s grave. I must have sat there for longer than I thought.”
Zane said nothing. Her next statement drove the breath from his lungs.
“I saw your roses. It was a lovely gesture.”
“What roses?”
“The yellow ones you left on her grave.”
“But I did not—”
Even in the semidarkness he could see her eyes widen. She finished the water. “Then who did?”
He set the glass aside and slid her shoulders down onto the pillow. “I have something for your sunburn.” Carefully he unrolled the three napkins he’d soaked in water and witch hazel; one he laid directly over her face and with the other two he wrapped her forearms. “I’m afraid you’re going to hurt some tomorrow. Your skin is pretty badly burned.”
“It was worth it,” she said on a sigh. “I said goodbye to Cissy.”
Zane flinched. He still couldn’t face seeing Celeste’s grave. Maybe he never would.
“Nathan—”
“Zane,” he corrected. “It’s been Zane ever since I was ten years old and my baby sister couldn’t say ‘Nathaniel.’”
“Zane, then. If you didn’t leave the roses, then who did?”
“Damned if I know,” he muttered.
“You haven’t visited her grave, have you?” Even muffled under the wet napkin, her voice sounded accusing.
“No, I have not.”
“Why?”
He lifted the cloth from one of her slim forearms and swung it in the air, then settled it again. “I don’t know why. Well, yes, I do know.”
He swung the other napkin to cool it. “I— As long as I don’t see her grave, she’s not really gone.”
Winifred pulled the cloth from her face and stared up at him. “But you saw her buried!”
Zane took the napkin from her hand and turned away to flap it in the air. “Yes, I know that I was there, or at least my body was there. Much of it I don’t remember.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “I felt that way when our mother died. Cissy was probably too young to remember much, but for years afterward it was as if I had dreamed it, the funeral, and Papa weeping. There are still parts I don’t recall clearly.”
Zane folded the cooled cloth and laid it across her forehead. Her hair was loose, he noted, spread out on the pillow in a tumble of dark waves. It smelled faintly of cloves. Carnations, he guessed. Celeste’s hair had smelled like some kind of mousse.
“Nath—Zane—you must visit Cissy’s grave. I think it would help.”
He choked back a harsh laugh. Help? Nothing would help. Nothing would ever be the same again.
“No,” he said at last.
She held his gaze, the blue-green eyes he knew so well unblinking. Celeste had never challenged him like this. He found he didn’t like it.
“No,” he said again. “You have more guts than I do, Winifred. And while I take exception to your bluntness, I envy you your courage.”
By the time Winifred had thought up a proper retort, she heard the door to her bedroom close behind him.
* * *
In the morning, Winifred found the skin of her face and arms stiff and so parched her cheeks and arms stung. And her nose... She could not bear to look at it in the mirror over the yellow-painted chest in the bedroom. Gingerly she drew on a soft paisley skirt and shirtwaist, braided her hair and descended the stairs. She’d overslept. And, oh, how she needed a cup of Sam’s coffee!
But Sam was not in the kitchen. And the saucepan she’d used to heat the baby’s bottle still sat on the stove.
The back door swung open and Zane tramped in, a load of firewood stacked along one arm. “Morning,” he said. “Sam’s not going to be with us for a few more hours.”
“It isn’t chicken pox, is it?”
“Hardly. Too much hard cider at Uncle Charlie’s last night.” He dumped the wood into the wood box and bent to stir up the coals in the stove. “I’ll make the coffee this morning.”
The doorbell clanged.
“Damn that thing.” Zane clunked a hefty piece of oak into the firebox and went to answer it.
Voices drifted from the entrance hall, a man’s deep baritone and a child’s trilling chatter. Winifred laid out plates and silverware on the dining table and tried not to listen.
“How’d she get up into the tree, Colonel?” Zane’s voice.
“How does she get anywhere, Doc? She climbs or crawls. Some days I think she can fly.”
She heard Zane’s chuckle, then, “All right, Miss Manette, let’s have a look at your arm.”
“It hurts,” the child said.
“I bet it does. Nevertheless, let me feel along the bone and see if you can make a fist. Ah, good. What were you doing up in the apple tree, hmm?”
“Looking for worms.”
“Worms? Anyone ever tell you there’s plenty of worms in the ground?”
“Not the right kind of worms,” the girl insisted.
“Colonel, did she hit her head when she fell?”
“Don’t know. Knocked the wind out of her, though,” the man said.
“Might have a concussion,” Zane said quietly. “Manette, does your head hurt?”
Silence. Apparently she was shaking her head.
“Now I want you to watch my finger.”
More silence. Winifred set two cups down on the china saucers, taking care not to make any noise.
“Now, you look right into my eyes, all right?” Zane again.
“Your eyes are all shiny, Dr. Dee. And they’re gray, just like Maman’s.”
“So they are. My mama’s eyes were gray, too. Give me your wrist, now. That’s it. No, don’t jerk it away. I want to feel your pulse.”
“What’s a pulse?”
“A pulse is your heart beating. It goes tha-lump, tha-lump. Here, you can feel mine.”
“Yours is real loud!” Manette exclaimed.
“And yours is as normal as apple pie,” Zane said.
Winifred had to smile. Zane was wonderful with the child.
“She’s just fine, Colonel,” Zane said. “Try to keep her out of the orchard from now on.”
“Thanks, Zane. Jeanne will be in town tomorrow with a blackberry pie for you.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Zane protested.
The man laughed. “Jeanne will never believe that.”
The front door shut and Zane reappeared in the kitchen. “Spirited little tyke,” he said with a smile. “Likes bugs and worms and everything else that crawls. Drives her father wild.”
“And her mother?”
“Jeanne’s used to it. Mothers get that way after a while. I know mine did.”
“Did you like bugs?”
“No. I liked horses and swimming. And books.” He grabbed the coffeepot. “I’ll make some coffee.”
“What about your baby sister? Did she like bugs?”
Zane looked purposefully at the handle of the coffeepot, then stared past her shoulder out the kitchen window. “Maggie died when she was five. Scarlet fever. That’s when I decided to become a doctor.”
Winifred could have bitten off her tongue. To lighten the pall that had fallen, she opened her mouth and blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I will scramble you some eggs this morning.”
His dark eyebrows rose. “You can cook?”
“Well, not much. Growing up, we always had a cook. But I wager that eggs are easy to scramble.”
“Celeste couldn’t cook a damn thing,” he said quietly. And then he smiled.
It was the first real smile she’d ever seen on his face. For some reason it made her so happy she wanted to do something extra nice. Sam seemed to scramble eggs with no apparent effort; they must be easy to fix. She decided to make lots of them.
While Zane made coffee, Winifred found an iron frying pan and four eggs. She shooed Zane out of the kitchen and set to work. She heated the pan over the hottest part of the stove, cracked all four eggs into it at once and smashed them together with a fork.
They congealed instantly into rubbery globs that looked nothing like the creamy golden eggs Sam had set before her.
Apprehensively she scooped the mess out onto Zane’s plate and set it before him. He sat looking at it for a long minute, gulped a swallow of coffee and looked up into her eyes.
“You can’t cook a damn thing, either, can you?” he said softly.
And then he smiled again.
Chapter Four (#ulink_1a08fc65-5799-56b0-a471-d2b13398b915)
Zane didn’t want to hurt Winifred’s feelings about the plate of hard, dry scrambled eggs she’d served him. But when Sam staggered into the kitchen full of apologies for sleeping late, Zane left him in charge of Rosemarie and walked down to make hospital rounds, check on Sarah Rose’s grandson and his chicken pox, then ended up, as he’d planned, at the Smoke River Hotel dining room.
“Scrambled eggs, please, Rita.”
“Sure, Doc. Just come from the hospital, didja? How’s the sheriff’s new twins?”
“Maddie and the babies are doing well. Can’t say the same for the sheriff, though. Seems he’s been at the hospital the last twenty-four hours. Can’t seem to take his eyes off his twin sons.”
A wide grin split the waitress’s round face. “Don’t blame him, Doc. Our Johnny’s never been a father before. New babies take some gettin’ used to.”
A plate of perfectly scrambled eggs appeared within minutes, and after he doused them liberally with catsup, he dug in. Rita hung at his elbow with the coffeepot.
“Guess you heard Johnny’s been studyin’ those law books Miss Maddie gave him. Gonna run for judge next election.”
“When will that be?” Zane bit a half circle into his toast. Jericho Silver—Johnny, as Rita called him—was a good man. Honest. Intelligent. Hardworking. He’d make an excellent judge.
“If he gets elected he can stay home nights, feeding those twins.”
Rita grinned. “Oh, he’ll get elected all right, Doc. I’m his campaign manager.”
Zane saluted her with his empty cup. Just as Rita lifted the pot to fill it, Zane froze. Good God, Winifred was entering the restaurant. The moment she spied him she frowned, wiped it off her face, then let it return and crossed the room to his table.
“Are those scrambled eggs?” she demanded.
He rose and invited her to sit down. “Rita, bring another plate, will you?”
“And some scrambled eggs, please,” Winifred added.
They stared across the table at each other for a long minute.
“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” he said at last. “Meeting here like this.”
“Maybe not so much. We’re probably both hungry after my disastrous attempt in the kitchen this morning.”
“Yes,” he said. “We are. Both hungry, I mean.” He wondered at himself the instant the suggestive word crossed his lips. Thank God she didn’t seem to hear.
Rita plopped a plate down in front of Winifred, and with an apologetic look at him, she lifted her fork. “This afternoon Sam is going to teach me how to scramble eggs.”
Zane stared at her. Celeste had never exchanged more than two sentences with Sam, and she’d certainly never asked him to teach her anything about cooking.
“But before my egg lesson,” Winifred continued, “there is something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Zane’s nerves went on alert. “Now?”
“No, not now. Later.”
“I’ll be at the hospital later.”
Very deliberately she laid her fork on the plate. “The truth is you don’t want to talk to me, do you? I can understand your not liking me, but—”
“I do like you.” Oh, God, had he really said that? He drew in a long breath. “I apologize. That came out wrong. What I mean is we have nothing to discuss.”
“It’s about Celeste.”
“Especially if it’s about Celeste. She wanted the piano and all her music books shipped back to you at the conservatory, and her clothes—”
“Her clothes are too small for me, Zane. And she loved the color pink. I detest pink.”
“I detest pink, too, but...” His voice thickened. “But I loved it on Celeste.”
Winifred nodded. “I don’t need the piano,” she said quietly. “It brings back painful memories.”
“Oh? What the hell do you think it does to me?” Instantly he regretted snapping at her. He waited, watching her coffee cup jiggle when she picked it up. Her fingers were trembling.
“Sorry. Guess I’m strung up a little tight these days.”
“Well, so am I.”
They stared at each other across the table for a long minute, and then Winifred dropped her eyes.
“Zane, when Cissy met you, she and I were about to go on tour. London, Paris, Vienna. Even Rome, which Cissy didn’t want to visit because she feared it would be too hot. Did you know about this?”
“No, I did not know. She never told me. All I know is that there was a piano recital one night at the medical college and Celeste was playing. She wore some kind of flowing pink gown, chiffon, I guess it’s called. And she was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. I fell in love with her during her first piece. Chopin, I remember. An étude.”
“In A-flat,” Winifred supplied.
“Is that what you want to discuss—the music tour you and Celeste were planning?”
“No, it isn’t. It’s, well, something else.”
Their eyes met and held. Hers were distant. Troubled. He didn’t know what his eyes betrayed, but all at once she blinked and bit her lip.
“Zane, I am trying to understand about Celeste. She was so smitten she left everything we had planned to run away with you. I...” She swallowed. “I am trying hard to forgive her for leaving it all behind. And for dying,” she added, her voice pinched.
“I am trying, as well,” he said quietly. “Part of me is hurt and angry that she—that she is gone.” Another part of him, the part he could scarcely acknowledge to himself, much less share with Winifred Von Dannen, was his weariness. He was tired of the constant grinding pain. And he was hungry. Yes, that was the word, hungry for something else. The trouble was, he didn’t have the slightest idea what that might be.
Winifred sipped her coffee and looked at him over the rim of the cup. “It must be very hard,” she said at last.
For a moment he couldn’t speak over the ache in his throat. “It is hard,” he said at last. “You have no idea how hard.”
She looked at him with tears pooling in her eyes and all at once he could take no more. “I’ll be at the hospital.”
Without another word he shoved back his chair and strode out the door onto the street.
Winifred watched him through the front dining room window, his long-legged gait decisive, angry, his shoulders hunched forward as if warding off a chill wind. What wouldn’t she give to have met him before Cissy had.
Her coffee cup clanked onto the saucer. Where on earth had that thought come from?
“Somethin’ wrong with your breakfast, ma’am?” Rita stood frowning at her elbow. “Never seen Doc bolt outta here like that.”
“Oh, no, Rita. The eggs were very good, just right in fact. Dr. Dougherty said he had to go to the hospital.”
“Huh,” the woman said. “That man’s working too hard, if ya ask me. Never takes a day off, up all hours of the day and night. Ever since his wife died it’s like he never stops runnin’.”
Winifred tried to smile, but her mouth wouldn’t work right. She clenched her lower lip between her teeth to stop its trembling. She was a silly, sentimental fool.
“I’ll jest put the meal on his account. Yours, too.”
Outside on the boardwalk she stood surveying the streets of the small town she found herself in, then on impulse started down a pretty maple-lined lane. Five houses from the corner an attractive yellow two-story house caught her eye. The white picket fence surrounding the property was thick with yellow roses, the same roses she’d found on Cissy’s grave yesterday.
Just as she drew abreast of the gate, the front door opened and a handsome gray-haired gentleman descended the steps. Clutched in his hand was a bouquet of the same yellow roses.
“Mornin’,” he said as he unlatched the gate. “Another fine day we’re havin’.”
Winifred stared at the man. “What? Oh, yes. Excuse me, but...forgive my asking, but what will you do with those roses?”
He dropped his gaze to the bouquet. “These? Why, I’m takin’ these to the graveyard where Miss Celeste—” He broke off and peered at her with startling blue eyes.
“Say, you must be her sister from the East.”
“Why, yes, I am. How did you guess that?”
“Weren’t hard, seein’ as how you look a lot like her. Name’s Rooney Cloudman, ma’am. I was an admirer of yer sister.”
She held out her hand. “Winifred Von Dannen.”
Mr. Cloudman shifted the roses to his left hand and grasped hers in a finger-crunching grip. “Miss Celeste, she liked roses, so I take some to her grave every day. Sure do miss her piano-playin’. Used to sneak up on Doc’s porch and set in the swing jest listenin’. Most beautiful music I ever heard.”
Winifred swallowed hard, unable to speak for a long moment. “Yes, she was quite gifted.”
“I never let on ’bout me listenin’. Figured Doc wouldn’t mind, but I was afeared she’d stop playin’ if she knew.”
“I am sure she would have been pleased, Mr. Cloudman.”
He gave her a wide smile. “Whyn’t you go on into the house and introduce yerself to Sarah Rose. She loved Miss Celeste’s music, too. Me, I’m off to the cemetery.” He tipped his battered wide-brimmed hat and ambled on down the street.
Winifred didn’t feel like talking to anyone, especially about Cissy, so she decided to return to the doctor’s house on the hill and take her cooking lesson from Sam. She snapped off a single yellow rose from the stems rambling along the fence, spun in place and marched back to the big hill and Dr. Dougherty’s beautiful white house.
* * *
In the hospital foyer, Zane was stopped by Samuel Graham, the physician whose name the hospital bore. The older man laid a gentle hand on Zane’s shoulder.
“How are you managing, son?”
“Well enough, I suppose.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be here when Sarah’s grandson took sick. I was called away to Gillette Springs for an emergency appendectomy.”
“Don’t give it a thought, Samuel. You know Sarah always brings one of her apple pies—that’s a large payment for a small favor.” He tried to accompany the statement with a smile but somehow this morning he couldn’t manage it.
The hand on his shoulder tightened. “Don’t mind my sayin’ so, Zane, but you look fatigued. And your eyes...you been drinking?”
“Some,” Zane admitted. More than “some” on the days Celeste’s death cut particularly deep. His medical partner had sharp eyes.
“Celeste’s sister is here from St. Louis.”
Doc Graham’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose. “That so? Must be why you’re frowning. Is she a trial?”
Zane sighed. “She is not.” Winifred was far from a trial, as Samuel put it. She was...he didn’t know what she was, just that he liked having her around.
“She’s older than Celeste. More...mature.”
The keen-eyed physician nodded. “I did rounds at eight this morning. Just leaving now to go back to the boardinghouse. Sarah serves lunch early on Sunday.”
Zane blinked. It was Sunday? Good God, he was losing track of the days again. “Anything new?”
“Mrs. Madsen’s leg ulcer looks better. I’d keep her in bed an extra day, give her some rest from that husband of hers. You’d think he had the only milk cows in the county the way he coddles them.”
“But not his wife,” Zane observed. “That how she fell, a cow knocked her down?”
Doc Graham nodded. “You might look in on Whitey Poletti. Keeps insisting he’s well and itching to get back to his barbershop. Testy, too, so watch yourself.”
Zane had had a bellyful of Whitey. With each haircut the man insisted Zane also needed a shave. He’d tried it once; Whitey had sent him home with some girly-smelling cologne that brought on Celeste’s asthma.
“And Zane,” the older man said. “Cut Nurse Sorensen some slack today, will you? It’s her birthday.”
Graham pivoted toward the hospital entrance and Zane watched his head disappear as he went down the front steps.
He checked on Mrs. Madsen’s leg ulcer, Whitey Poletti’s gall bladder incision and finally Sheriff Silver’s wife and the twins he’d delivered twenty-four hours ago.
“Good morning, Maddie. You ready to go home tomorrow?”
The sheriff’s wife grinned up at him from her hospital bed. “I am ready, Dr. Dougherty. I’m not sure about Jericho.”
“All new fathers feel somewhat overwhelmed. I know I did. I couldn’t quite believe such a tiny human being was my responsibility. And ever since Celeste—” He stopped short.
Maddie Silver gazed up at him with concerned eyes. “I am so sorry about your wife, Doc. I know I’ve said that before, but, well, you’ve been on my mind ever since the funeral.”
Zane took her small, capable hand in his. “And you’ve been on my mind, as well. It isn’t every day a doctor gets to deliver twins. Especially for a Pinkerton agent.”
He checked Maddie over, asked whether the twins were nursing regularly and left to seek out Elvira Sorensen. Elvira was the full-time nurse the hospital employed; Zinnia Langenfelder worked part-time as a nurse’s aide.
“Elvira, I want you to take the rest of the day and evening off.”
“What? But why? You know I always work the Sunday shift.”
“Zinnia can cover for you. You go on over to Uncle Charlie’s bakery for one of those lemon cakes you’re so fond of. Tell him to put it on my account.”
He planted a kiss on the older woman’s cheek. “Happy birthday, Elvira.” Then he strode out of the hospital and down the front steps.
“Well,” Elvira huffed, patting her hot cheeks. “I never did understand that man. But he’s a good ’un, I’d say.”
Chapter Five (#ulink_06b0af30-e592-5fcb-8ffd-5a635b10d0dd)
The doorbell rang on and off all afternoon. By the time Zane returned from the hospital, patients lined the entry hall. First, Noralee Ness tearfully presented two itchy, splotchy forearms and an inflamed forehead. “I was scared to show Mama cuz I thought I had leprosy,” she wailed.
“Why, it’s nothing but poison oak,” Zane assured her. He sent her off to her father’s mercantile with a prescription for calamine lotion.
Next, burly Ike Bruhn unwrapped a torn and bloody thumb he’d smashed while building a chicken coop. Zane cleaned and bandaged the wound, dosed him with two aspirin and a shot of brandy for the pain and sent him off with strict instructions for keeping his thumb clean and dry.
His last patient was Sarah Rose, and he was surprised at her presence. “Oh, it’s not about my grandson, Mark,” the rosy-cheeked woman assured him. “It’s about me. Lately my heart’s been actin’ funny, kinda skittery, and I want to know if...if...well, maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about so much activity at my age.”
Zane had her undo the top buttons of her dress and laid his stethoscope against her chemise. “What do you mean, ‘so much activity’? You doing anything unusually strenuous lately?”
“Well, no. I mean not yet.”
Sarah’s heartbeat sounded strong and regular. “Not yet?”
The older woman’s cheeks grew even more rosy.
“Sarah, why come to me when Doc Graham lives at your boardinghouse?”
“That’s just it, you see. I didn’t want Doc to know I was worried. It’s kinda private.”
“Private? Just what is worrying you, Sarah?”
Sarah wet her lips. “Do you think my heart is strong enough to, well, engage in some, well, spooning?”
Zane sat back. “Spooning? You mean making love?”
“Doc, hush! Someone might hear.”
Zane lowered his voice. “What, exactly, are you contemplating?”
Sarah leaned forward. “Marriage,” she whispered. “I’m thinking about getting married.”
He must have misheard the woman. Marriage? At her age? She must be over sixty! And who—?
“Rooney’s asked me to marry him, Doc. I want to, but I wouldn’t dare accept him and then die of heart failure on our honeymoon. It’d make him mighty unhappy.”
Zane tried like hell to keep a straight face. “Sarah, you’re in no danger of dying anytime soon no matter what you do, honeymoon or otherwise.”
She clasped his hand in both of hers. “Oh, thank you! I was so worried, you see. Thank you.” She rebuttoned her dress and stood up. “I brought an apple pie for you cuz you came to see Mark yesterday. I left it in the kitchen with Sam.”
“Sarah, I do love your apple pies, but you don’t owe me anything.” He squeezed her shoulder and walked her to the door of his office. When he heard the front door close he sank down behind his wide oak desk and poured himself a brandy.
So Sarah Rose wanted to marry again. Well, why not? She’d been widowed almost thirty years; she deserved some joy in life. A lot of joy, in fact. He had a particular soft spot for a woman who could run a boardinghouse year in, year out without becoming soured on humanity. He also had a soft spot for anyone willing to risk their heart in marriage. He’d sure as hell never do it again.
Losing Celeste had left his life so bleak that sometimes he didn’t want to go on. But he knew he had to, for Rosemarie.
He lifted his glass to Sarah Rose, downed the contents in one gulp and poured another. This one he nursed while idly leafing through the stack of medical journals on the corner of his desk. Nothing startling and nothing new. Sometimes he thought medicine back East would benefit from a dose of Out West Indian remedies.
He continued to sip and read until he heard the front door open and saw Winifred glide past his window. After a moment he heard the rhythmic creak-creak of the porch swing. She had wanted to speak with him about something, he remembered. Now would be as good a time as any. He gulped the last of the brandy and pushed away from the desk.
A breeze had come up, scented with pine and the honeysuckle that drooped from the porch posts. Celeste had loved the smell of honeysuckle, even though in the summer it made her sneeze. He sucked in a breath at the bolt of anguish that laced across his chest.
Winifred sat rocking in the swing with a sleeping Rosemarie cradled in her arms. She looked up when he closed the front door.
“May I join you?”
“Of course. It’s your porch, and your swing.”
Zane frowned. That sounded unusually crisp for Winifred. Or perhaps he just did not know her well. He settled an arm’s length away and they rocked in silence for a while. He hoped she couldn’t smell the brandy on his breath.
“At breakfast you said you wanted to talk to me about something?” He didn’t really want to talk, but whatever she had on her mind it was better to get it over with.
“Yes, I did. I wanted to... I want...”
Ah. She didn’t really want to talk, either. “We don’t have to talk, Winifred. We could just watch the sun go down behind the hills.” He didn’t like it when a woman “wanted to talk.”
“We do have to talk.” Her voice was oddly flat and a ripple of unease snaked up his spine.
“About?” he prompted.
She bent her head over his daughter, then raised it and looked straight into his eyes. “About Rosemarie. I—I want to take her back to St. Louis with me. I want to raise her.”
He stopped the swing so abruptly her neck jerked back.
“Are you crazy? What on earth makes you—?”
“Think this is a good idea?” she finished for him.
“For starters, yes.” Zane kept his tone civil, but inside he seethed. Suddenly he wished he had another shot of brandy in his hand.
“It is a good idea, Zane. I think Cissy might have wanted it.”
“You know nothing about what Celeste wanted.” His voice was low and angry, and he didn’t care.
“A child,” she continued. “Especially a girl, should have a mother. Cissy and I grew up without a mother, and it was like...like always feeling hungry for something.”
Zane wrapped one hand around the chain supporting the swing and clenched the other into a fist. “I am Rosemarie’s father, Winifred. She is mine. My daughter. My responsibility.”
“But I could give her advantages, living in the East. Good schools. Music lessons. You cannot offer such things out here so far from civilization.”
He counted to twenty to keep his temper from making him say something he’d regret. “What gives you the right to disparage the life I can offer my child? We have a school. I can hire music teachers or art lessons or anything else my daughter needs.” His voice shook with fury and something else. Fear. He could not face losing Rosemarie, too.
“But—”
He waited until she looked directly at him. “Dammit, Winifred, you waltz out here and expect me to give up my daughter to a citified stranger with expensive clothes and high-faluting conservatory training? What do you take me for?”
That hit home. He could see the hurt in her eyes, but he was too angry to soften his words.
“The answer is no,” he shot. “It will always be no. Rosemarie is all I have of Celeste, and I will never—”
“Zane, please listen to me.”
“Winifred, for God’s sake, I love my daughter more than anything on this earth. Nothing, nothing you or anyone else could offer her can make any difference.”
Tears now sheened her cheeks, and while he felt a small hiccup of regret inside his chest, he couldn’t respond. Very slowly she placed Rosemarie in his lap and, keeping her face averted, slipped out of the swing and stepped quickly into the house.
Zane finished two more brandies before Sam called him to supper. Winifred did not appear, and he sent the houseboy upstairs to check on her.
“Lady say she not hungry, Boss.”
“Take her a chicken sandwich and some tea,” he ordered.
Sam folded his hands at his waist. “She not eat it.”
“Take it up anyway, dammit!”
He found he wasn’t hungry, either. His head began to pound with the familiar ache he’d felt ever since Celeste died, and after sitting and staring for an hour at the plate of food before him he stalked into the kitchen, grabbed the warmed baby bottle out of Sam’s hand and plodded up the stairs to feed his daughter.
* * *
The next morning when Winifred entered the dining room, Sam poured her coffee and shook his head. “Eyes look red, missy.”
Winifred brushed her fingers over her swollen eyelids. She had wept most of the night and slept little. “It’s—it’s my hay fever, I expect.” She lifted the cup to her lips.
Sam bent at the waist and tipped his head to peer into her face. “Maybe so,” he pronounced. “Boss eyes look funny, too.”
The houseboy’s keen black eyes glinted.
Winifred took a swallow of coffee. “You don’t miss much, do you, Sam?”
“Miss not much,” he agreed with a grin. “Boss never fool me.”
Nor, Winifred reflected, had she. She huffed out a sigh. Knowing that Zane was distressed did not ease her own anguish. She’d done more than make a mess of her offer to raise Rosemarie; she’d alienated the doctor, perhaps even made him resent her. Lord’s sake, would he prevent her from visiting her niece in the future? She couldn’t bear that.
She clamped her mouth shut and pushed away the plate of eggs and toast Sam laid before her. She couldn’t eat. If she opened her mouth she knew a sob would erupt.
“Must eat, missy. Good fight need full belly.”
She blinked at Sam in surprise. A good fight?
He planted his slippered feet at her side and propped his hands on his hips. “You eat,” he ordered. “Then I teach how to make biscuit.”
“Biscuits!”
Sam nodded. “Next lesson after tumbled eggs.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. All right, she’d eat something.
Sam was as stubborn as Zane.
“Doctor leave early,” the houseboy volunteered. “Go on horse to make home calls. You watch baby, I do washing of diapers.”
After breakfast, Winifred settled in the library to read, keeping her eye on Rosemarie where she slept beside her in a pink flannel-lined laundry basket. When the baby woke, she sat on the floor beside her and let her play with her forefinger. “Oh, you darling, perfect child, do you know how exquisite you are? You have eyes just like my sister’s, yes, you do.”
She picked the baby up and buried her nose against the child’s soft neck. “And you smell so sweet, like...like a little rose.”
She rocked the soft bundle in her arms until a faint cry signaled the baby was hungry. Before she could stir, Sam laid a warm bottle of milk in her free hand and padded quietly away.
By evening, after she had changed and fed Rosemarie again, Zane still had not returned. After a supper of thick potato soup and hunks of fresh-baked bread, Winifred moved the wheeled bassinet from Zane’s room into her own. If the baby woke during the night, Winifred could tend to her. She hoped he wouldn’t mind.
She lay awake reading the volume of Wordsworth poems by candlelight until long past moonrise, then puffed out the light and closed her still-swollen eyes.
For the next two days she did not catch even a glimpse of the doctor. She knew he came in from the hospital late at night because Sam reported on his activities. And he left the house before she was awake.
To pass the time each afternoon she talked to Rosemarie and let her play with her fingers, fed her and rocked her for hours with a fullness in her throat. Whenever she lifted the baby into her arms, an absurd bolt of joy bloomed inside her chest, and when Rosemarie opened her extraordinary eyes and looked at her one evening Winifred knew she had fallen head over heels in love with her niece.
When the baby was fussy Winifred found herself humming half-remembered lullabies, and when she couldn’t remember the words, she simply made them up. Mornings, while Rosemarie slept, she spent time in the kitchen with Sam. In two days she mastered not only biscuits but pancakes and bread and even piecrust. Piecrust! Just imagine. She might be the only concert pianist in the country who could roll out a piecrust! She couldn’t wait for the next basket of blueberries or blackberries a patient brought for the doctor; she would bake the most delicious pie he ever ate.
Every morning the entry hall filled up with waiting patients, and every afternoon Sam stepped in to send them all down to the hospital because the doctor had left. After two days without a glimpse of Zane, Winifred knew with certainty that he was avoiding her.
At breakfast the following morning, Sam clucked over her like a mother hen. “Doctor visit lady wife’s grave yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“Then come home drink brandy all night.”
The houseboy closed his lips with finality and sloshed hot coffee into her cup. “Boss sleep late today. Go to hospital in afternoon, then see patients here today.”
One of them, young Noralee Ness, brought a quart jar of fresh-picked blackberries. All afternoon Winifred labored in the kitchen over her piecrust, while Sam offered cryptic comments every now and then. “Not more rolling, missy. Make crust like shoe leather.”
The pie emerged from the oven golden and bubbling purple juice from between the lattice strips. Winifred inhaled the fruity scent and smiled. It would be a peace offering for Zane.
By suppertime, Zane still had not returned from the hospital. Winifred ate a quiet, solitary supper with Rosemarie sleeping in her basket on the chair next to her. Disappointment gnawed at her.
She fed and rocked the baby, cut a huge slab of her pie and left it on a plate in the doctor’s office, along with a fork and a napkin. Then she dragged herself up to bed with legs that felt like wooden fence posts. She had made an enemy of Cissy’s husband and Rosemarie’s father. She crawled into bed and pulled the bassinet close.
She closed her eyes but couldn’t sleep. Was Zane so put out with her he wouldn’t let her visit again?
In the morning, the bassinet was gone. Winifred sat bolt upright in bed and stared at her closed bedroom door. Zane must have come in while she slept and rolled the bassinet back to his bedroom. At least that meant he was home. She prayed he wasn’t angry with her for moving the baby to her room. And for once she could do what she’d waited days to accomplish, make an apology.
She dressed in a light blue dimity wrapper, hurriedly braided her hair and pinned the coils at her nape and sped down the stairs to breakfast.
Zane rose as she entered the dining room. A telltale smear of purple juice on his lower lip hinted that he’d sampled her pie this morning. Something inside her began to sing.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning. One of your patients brought some blackberries yesterday, so I—”
His dark eyebrows rose. “Are you saying you made the pie?”
“Yes, I... Sam showed me how and—”
His sudden smile startled her into silence. “I’m surprised,” he said. “And impressed.”
Winifred knew she was blushing. The distinctly odd expression in Zane’s gray eyes confirmed it. Instantly she found it hard to breathe. He looked and looked at her without speaking until the flesh on her bare forearms formed tiny goose bumps.
“Winifred?”
“Y-yes?”
Zane watched her eyes widen. They were like Celeste’s, yes, but a shade darker. And at this moment they looked...apprehensive.
“I owe you an apology.”
The morning air was already stifling, and the sun had scarcely cleared the mountains to the east. Perhaps that was why her cheeks were so pink. He loosened his shirt collar in the oppressive heat.
She looked down at the tablecloth, at the door leading to the kitchen, everywhere but at him. He held his breath until she spoke.
“I rather thought I owed you the apology. I had no right to...” She swallowed and looked up at him, her eyes shiny. “Perhaps a child’s place really is with her father.”

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