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Her Healing Ways
Lyn Cote


A female physician with an adopted black daughter? The townsfolk of Idaho Bend will never accept Dr. Mercy Gabriel–even when faced with a deadly cholera epidemic. But all Mercy needs is one man willing to listen…and to trust.Four years of war command turned Lon Mackey into a footloose gambler who can't abide attachments. Yet he can't help getting riled by the threats Mercy keeps receiving. Her trailblazing courage could reignite his faith and humanity. And his loyalty could make her dream–for the first time–of a family of her own….









“It is so predictable. I’ve heard it all before. ‘You’re just a woman. What could you possibly know?’ Over and over.”


“Why do you put up with it?” Lon asked. “You should be taken seriously.”

Mercy sighed. “Human nature is funny. Even when confronted by the truth about the cause of the epidemic, the average male and most females refuse to believe a woman would know more than a man would.”

“But your idea about the cause of cholera is based on what male doctors have discovered, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “But I could have gotten it wrong. I am, after all, just a poor, inferior, weak female who must always defer to men, who always know better than women do.”

Her words grated against his nerves like sandpaper on sensitive skin. Why? Was he guilty of thinking this, too? How many people would they have lost if Dr. Mercy Gabriel hadn’t shown up? Was he the only one who wondered this?

He found himself moving toward this woman. He didn’t want to know more about Dr. Mercy Gabriel. He didn’t want to walk toward her, but she drew him. He offered her his hand to cover how confused he felt by his own reaction to her….




LYN COTE


and her husband, her real-life hero, became in-laws recently when their son married his true love. Lyn already loves her daughter-in-law and enjoys this new adventure in family stretching. Lyn and her husband still live on the lake in the north woods, where they watch a bald eagle and its young soar and swoop overhead throughout the year. She wishes the best to all her readers. You may email Lyn at l.cote@juno.com or write her at P.O. Box 864, Woodruff WI 54548. And drop by her blog, www.strongwomenbravestories.blogspot.com, to read stories of strong women in real life and in true-to-life fiction. “Every woman has a story. Share yours.”




Her Healing Ways

Lyn Cote





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


There is no difference between Jews and Gentiles, between slaves and free men, between men and women; you are all one in union with Christ.

—Galatians 3:28

Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone?

Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.

—Ecclesiastes 4:11, 12


To Irene, Gail, Lenora, Patt, Carol, Kate, Val, Lois and Marty! Thanks for being my friends.




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

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion




Chapter One


Idaho Territory, September 1868

High on the board seat, Mercy Gabriel sat beside the wagon master on the lead Conestoga. The line of the supply train slowed, pulling into the mining town Idaho Bend. Panicky-looking people ran toward it with bags and valises in hand. What was happening here? Like a cold, wet finger, alarm slid up Mercy’s spine.

She reached down and urged her adopted daughter Indigo up onto the seat beside her, away from the onrushing people. Though almost sixteen now, Indigo shrank against Mercy, her darker face tight with concern. “Don’t worry,” Mercy whispered as confidently as she could.

She looked down at a forceful man who had pushed his way to the front. He was without a coat, his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his colorfully embroidered vest buttoned askew. From the flamboyant vest, she guessed he must be a gambler. What would he want with them?

With one sweeping glance, he quelled the people shoving each other to get closer to the wagons. A commanding gambler. In her opinion, an unusual combination.

“Are there any medical supplies on this train?” he asked in a calm tone at odds with the mood of the people crowding around. “Two days ago, we telegraphed to Boise, asking for a doctor to come. But no one has. We’ve got cholera.”

The dreaded word drenched the brave, brawny wagoners; they visibly shrank back from the man. It set off the crowd clamoring again.

Mercy’s pulse raced. No, not cholera. Yet she hesitated only a second before revealing the truth about herself. Until this moment, she’d just been another traveler, not an object of mirth, puzzlement or derision. She braced herself for the inevitable reactions and rose. “I am a qualified physician.”

Startled, the frantic crowd stopped pushing. As usual, every head swiveled, every face gawked at her.

“You?” the gambler challenged. “You’re a woman.”

Mercy swallowed a number of sardonic responses to this silly comment. She said, “I am a recent graduate of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania. I also worked alongside Clara Barton as a nurse throughout the Civil War.”

“You nursed in the war?” The gambler studied her, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Yes.” Leaning forward, she held out her gloved hand. “I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. And this is my assistant, Nurse Indigo.”

He hesitated only a moment. Then, reaching up, he grasped her hand for a firm, brief handshake. “Beggars can’t be choosers. I’m Lon Mackey. Will you come and help us?”

She wondered fleetingly why a gambler was taking charge here. She would have expected a mayor or—

Renewed commotion from the crowd, almost a mob now, grabbed her attention. People were trying to climb aboard the supply wagons. “Get us out of this town!” one of them shouted.

No, that would be disastrous! “Stop them,” Mercy ordered, flinging up a hand. “No one from this town should be allowed to leave. They could infect everyone on the supply train and spread the disease to other towns.”

At this, the wagoners rose and shouted, “Keep back! Quarantine! Quarantine!”

This only spurred the people of the mining town to try harder.

The head wagoner put out an arm, keeping Mercy and Indigo from getting down. “Wagoners, use your whips!”

The drivers raised their whips and snapped them expertly toward the mob. Mercy was horrified. Still muttering mutinously, the crowd fell back until safely out of range. Mercy swallowed her fear, her heart jumping.

“We will unload the shipment of supplies,” the wagon master barked, “then we’re leaving for the next town right away. And we’re not taking on any new passengers.”

People looked ready to make another charge toward the train, their expressions frantic, desperate.

“Thee must not give in to fear,” Mercy declared. “There is hope. I am a qualified physician and my nurse is also trained.” A silent Mercy stood very straight, knowing that her petite height of just over five feet didn’t add much to her presence.

“You have nothing to fear, Dr. Gabriel,” Lon Mackey announced, pulling a pistol from his vest. “I came to see if anyone could send us assistance. I didn’t expect a doctor to be on the supply train. Please come. Lives are at stake.”

Mercy moved to descend from the high buckboard. The wagon master let her go, shaking his head. Again he raised his whip as if ready to defend her. Barely able to breathe, Mercy descended, with Indigo in her wake. She addressed Lon Mackey. “I have medical supplies with me. Someone will need to get my trunk from the wagon.”

“Get her trunk!” Lon ordered. “We need help. Thirteen people have already died in only three days.”

The wagon master roared names, and another two wagoners got down and started to unload Mercy’s trunk, one cracking his whip to keep people back. The sullen mob still appeared ready to rush the wagons.

“No new passengers! Now back off or I start shooting!” The wagon master waved his pistol at the people about to surge forward. The sight of the gun caused a collective gasp. The mob fell back.

A wagoner pulled Mercy’s bright red trunk, which was on casters, to her and Indigo. He touched the wide brim of his leather hat. “Good luck, ma’am.”

Lon Mackey, also brandishing his pistol, led Mercy and Indigo through the crowd.

Indigo hovered closer to Mercy. They both knew what damage a bullet could do to flesh. And how a crowd could turn hostile. Mercy held tight to her slipping composure. Father, no violence, please.

Mercy called out a thanks and farewell to the gruff yet kind wagoners who had been their traveling companions for the past ten days on their way to Boise.

Lon Mackey led Mercy into the charcoal-gray twilight. She drew in the cool mountain air, praying for strength. The crowd milled around them, following, grumbling loudly, angrily.

Mercy tried to ignore them. She understood their fear but knew she must not get caught up in it. “Lon Mackey, has the town set up an infirmary?”

“We have concentrated the sick in the saloon. It was where the cholera started and it’s the biggest building in town.”

Mercy touched Lon’s shoulder. “Cholera can snatch away life within a day. I’ll do my best, as will my nurse-assistant. But people are going to die even after treatment. Cholera is a swift, mortal disease.”

“That’s why we got to get out of town, lady,” one of the people in the surrounding crowd complained.

She looked at them. “Go to thy homes. If there has been anyone sick in thy house, open all the doors and windows and begin scrubbing everything—clothing, walls, floors, ceilings. Everything! Scrub with water as hot as thee can stand to use and with enough lye soap mixed into it to make thy eyes water. Use a scrub brush, not a cloth. That’s thy only defense.”

The crowd gawked at her.

“Now! Go!” Mercy waved her hands at them as if shooing away children. Several in the crowd turned and began to leave. The rest stared at her as if unable to move. “If thee acts quickly, thee and thy families may not succumb!”

This finally moved the people. They began running in several directions.

Lon Mackey started walking faster, waving for Indigo and Mercy to follow him. Mercy didn’t complain about the brisk pace he set, but she had trouble keeping up. She forced herself on. People were dying.

The sun was sliding below the horizon of tall green mountains. How many evenings like this had she been faced with? People were dying. And she must help them. It was her calling and her privilege.

The gaudy front of the saloon loomed above the street, sticky with mud. Mercy and Indigo followed Lon Mackey inside, where another man was lighting the hanging oil lamps. Mercy gazed around and assessed the situation. Perhaps twenty people lay on blankets spread over the floor and the bar. Most were alone, but some were being ministered to by others, probably relatives.

Many of the patients’ faces were bluish, the sign that cholera had already accomplished its pitiless, deadly work. The gorge rose in Mercy’s throat. Father, let my knowledge—as flimsy as it is—save some lives. Help me.

Mercy took off her bonnet. “Good evening!” she announced in a loud, firm voice, though her stomach quivered like jelly. “I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. I am a graduate of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania. I nursed with Clara Barton throughout the war. I am here to see if I can save any of the sick. Now first—”

As she expected—dreaded—hoped to avoid, a sudden cacophony of voices roared in the previously quiet room.

“A woman doctor!”

“No!”

“Is this a joke?”

Mercy had heard this so many times before that it was hard not to shout back. A sudden wave of fatigue rolled over her. She resisted the urge to slump against the wall. As was common on most wagon trains she and Indigo had walked most of the ten days from the nearest railhead. She’d been looking forward to a hotel bed tonight. And now she must face the ridiculous but inevitable objections to her profession. The urge to stamp her foot at them nearly overwhelmed her good sense.

She endeavored to ignore the squawking about how she couldn’t be a doctor. Who could trust a female doctor, they asked, and was that the best the gambler could do?

“Quiet.” Lon Mackey’s solid, male voice cut through the squabbling voices. He did not yell, he merely made himself heard over everyone else. The people fell silent. “What should we do to help you, Dr. Gabriel?”

In this chaotic and fearful room, Lon Mackey had asserted control. He was an impressive man. Mercy wondered what made him so commanding. She decided it wasn’t his physical appearance as much as his natural self-assurance.

Mercy cleared her throat and raised her voice. There was no use sugarcoating the truth and doing so could only give false hope. “I am very sorry to say that those who have been sick for over twenty-four hours are without much hope. I need those cases to be moved to the far side of the room so that I can devote my energies to saving those who still have a chance to survive.”

Again, the babble broke out.

Lon Mackey silenced all with a glance and the lifting of one hand. “We don’t have time to argue. You wanted help, I got a doctor—”

“But a woman—” someone objected.

He kept talking right over the objection. “The mayor’s dead and no one else knew what to do. I went and got you a doctor, something I thought impossible.” He propped his hands on his hips, looking dangerous to any opposition. “If Dr. Gabriel nursed in the war, she knows more than we do about taking care of sick people. If you don’t want her to nurse your folks, then take them home. Anyone who stays will do what they’re told by this lady doctor. Do you all understand that?”

Mercy was surprised to see the opposition to her melt away, even though Lon Mackey’s pistol was back in his vest. She looked to the man again. She’d been distracted by his gambler’s flashy vest. Now she noted that the shirt under it was of the finest quality, though smudged and wrinkled. Lon Mackey had once bought only the best.

He wasn’t in his first youth, but he was also by no means near middle-aged. His face was rugged from the sun and perhaps the war—he had that look about him, the look of a soldier. And from just the little of him she’d seen in action, he was most probably an officer. He was used to giving orders and he expected to be obeyed. And he is a man who cares about others.

Mercy raised her voice and repeated, “I will set up my medical supplies near the bar. If thee isn’t nursing a friend or loved one, I need thee to get buckets of hot water and begin swabbing down the floor area between patients.

“And get the word out that anyone who has any stomach cramps or nausea must come here immediately for treatment. If patients come in at the start of symptoms, I have a better chance of saving their lives. Now please, let’s get busy. The cholera won’t stop until we force it out.”

The people stared at her.

She opened her mouth to urge them, but Lon Mackey barked, “Get moving! Now!”

And everyone began moving.



Lon mobilized the shifting of the patients and the scrubbing. And, according to the female doctor’s instructions, a large pot was set up outside the swinging doors of the saloon to boil water for the cleaning.

He shook his head. A female doctor. What next? A tiny female physician who looked as if she should be dressed in ruffles and lace. He’d noted her Quaker speech and the plain gray bonnet and dress. Not your usual woman, by any means. And who was the young, pretty, Negro girl with skin the color of caramel? The doctor had said she was a trained nurse. How had that happened?

“Lon Mackey?”

He heard the Quaker woman calling his name and hurried to her. “What can I do for you, miss?”

“I want thee to ask someone to undertake a particular job. It has to be someone who is able to write, ask intelligent questions and think. I would do it myself, but I am about to begin saline infusions for these patients.”

“What do you need done?”

“In order to end this outbreak, I need to know its source.”

“Isn’t it from the air?” Lon asked.

She smiled, looking pained. “I know the common wisdom is that this disease comes from the air. But I have done a great deal of study on cholera, and I believe that it comes from contaminated water or food. So I need to know the water source of each patient, alive or dead—if they shared some common food, if there was any group gathering where people might have drunk or ingested the same things. You said that the cholera appeared here in this saloon first. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” He eyed her. Contaminated water? If there had been time, he would have liked to ask her about her research. But with people in agony and dying, there was no time for a long, scientific discussion. He rubbed the back of his neck and then rotated his head, trying to loosen the tight muscles.

“Was the person first taken with cholera living on these premises or just here to socialize?” she asked.

He grinned at her use of the ladylike word socialize. Most people would have used carouse or sin for stepping inside a saloon. This dainty woman continued to surprise him.

“It was the blacksmith. Comes in about twice a week for a beer or two. I think McCall was his name.”

She nodded. “Has anyone at his home fallen ill?”

“Yes, his whole family is dead.”

Her mouth tightened into a hard line. “That might indicate that his well was the culprit, but since the cholera seems to be more widespread…” She paused. “I need someone to question every patient about their water and food sources over the past week. And about any connection they might have had with the first victim.” A loud, agonizing moan interrupted her.

“Will thee find someone,” she continued, “to do that and write down the information so that I can go over it? This disease will continue to kill until we find its source and purify it. I assure you that the cholera epidemics that swept New York State in the 1830s were ended by cleaning up contaminated water sources.”

He nodded. “I’ll do it myself.” From his inner vest pocket, he drew a small navy-blue notebook he always carried with him.

“I thank thee. Now I must begin the saline draughts. Indigo will try to make those suffering more comfortable.” She turned to the bar behind her and lifted what he recognized as a syringe. He’d seen them in the war. The thought made him turn away in haste. I will not think of syringes, men bleeding, men silent and cold…

Several times during the long day, he glanced toward the bar and saw the woman kneeling and administering the saline solution by syringe to patient after patient. The hours passed slowly and painfully. How much good could salt water do? The girl, Indigo, was working her way through the seriously ill, speaking quietly, calming the distraught relatives.

He drew a long breath. He no longer prayed—the war had blasted any faith he’d had—but his spirit longed to be able to pray for divine help. Two more people died and were carried out, plunging them all into deeper gloom. He kept one eye on the mood of the fearful and excitable people in the saloon. A mob could form so easily. And now they had a target for blame. He wondered if the female doctor had thought of that.

Would this woman, armed with only saline injections and cleanliness, be able to save any lives? And if she didn’t, what would the reaction be?



Much later that night, candles flickered in the dim, chilly room. When darkness had crept up outside the windows, voices had become subdued. Lon saw that for the first time in hours the Quaker was sitting down near the doors, sipping coffee and eating something. He walked up to her, drawn by the sight of her, the picture of serenity in the center of the cruel storm. Fatigue penetrated every part of his body. A few days ago he had been well-rested, well-fed and smiling. Then disaster had struck. That was how life treated them all. Until it sucked the breath from them and let them return to dust.

As he approached, she looked up and smiled. “Please wash thy hands in the clean water by the door, and I’ll get thee a cup of fresh coffee.”

Her smile washed away his gloom, making him do the impossible—he felt his mouth curving upward. She walked outside to where a fire had been burning all day to heat the boiled water for the cleaning and hand-washing. A large kettle of coffee had been kept brewing there, too. If he’d had any strength left, he would have objected. She wasn’t here to wait on him. But it was easier to follow her orders and accept her kind offer. He washed his hands in the basin and then sank onto a wooden chair.

The Quaker walked with calm assurance through the swinging saloon doors as if she were a regular visitor of the place, as if they weren’t surrounded by sick and dying people. She handed him a steaming cup of hot black coffee and a big ginger cookie. “I brought these cookies with me, so I know they are safe to eat.”

It had been a long time since anyone had served him coffee without expecting to be paid. And the cookies reminded him of home, his long-gone home.

He pictured the broad front lawn. And then around the back, he imagined himself walking into the large kitchen where the white-aproned cook, Mary, was busy rolling out dough. But Mary had died while he was away at war, a sad twist. He shrugged his uncharacteristic nostalgia off, looking to the Quaker.

She sat across from him, sipping her coffee and nibbling an identical cookie. He gazed around him, smelling the harsh but clean odor of lye soap, which overpowered the less pleasant odors caused by the disease.

“You’re lucky to have a maid who can also nurse the sick,” he said. Ever since the unlikely pair had entered the saloon, the riddle of who the young black girl was had danced at the edge of his thoughts.

“Indigo is not my maid. She is my adopted daughter. I met her in the South during the war. She was only about seven at the time, an orphaned slave. Now she is nearly a woman and, as I said, a trained nurse.”

He stared at her, blowing over his hot coffee to cool it. He’d never heard of a white person adopting a black child. He knew, of course, that Quakers had been at the forefront of abolitionism, far ahead of popular opinion. What did he think of this unusual adoption?

He shouldn’t be surprised. Just like him, Dr. Mercy Gabriel obviously didn’t live her life guided by what others might think. A woman who had nursed in the war. He recalled those few brave women who tirelessly nursed fallen soldiers, both blue and gray. As he sipped more bracing hot coffee, he studied this courageous woman’s face. The resolve hardened within him. I won’t let any harm come to you, ma’am.

“Will thee tell me if thee has found any connection between the first victim and the others?” she asked.

Glad for the distraction from his contemplation of her, Lon pulled the notebook out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. “The first victim, McCall, had just butchered and sold a few of his hogs to others in town. But some people who have died were not connected with this hog butchering or sale.”

She nodded, still chewing the cookie. She daintily sipped her coffee and then said, “Once a contagion starts, others can be infected by coming into contact with those who have fallen ill.”

“Are you certain it isn’t due to an ill air blowing through town?” His large round cookie was sweet, spicy and chewy. He rested his head against the back of the chair.

She inhaled deeply. “Over a decade ago, Dr. John Snow in London did a study of the water supplies of victims of cholera in a poor district in London. The doctor was able to connect all the original cases to a pump in one neighborhood.”

If Lon hadn’t been so tired, he would have shown shock at this calm recitation of scientific information. This woman was interested in epidemics in London? Few men hereabouts would have been. He studied her more closely.

Her petite form had misled him initially, but she was no bit of fluff. Despite death hovering in the room with them, her face was composed. She had taken off her bonnet to reveal pale, flaxen hair skimmed back into a tight bun, though some of the strands had managed to work themselves free. Her eyes—now, they stopped him. So blue—as blue as a perfect summer sky. Clear. Intelligent. Fearless.

He recalled her tireless work over the past hours, her calm orders and take-charge manner. Some men might resent it. He might have resented it once. But not here. Not now. Not in the face of such a wanton loss of lives. This woman might just be able to save people. Maybe even him.

“Do you think you’re having any success here?” he asked in a lowered voice.

She looked momentarily worried. “I am doing my best, but my best will not save everyone who is stricken.”

The swinging doors crashed open. A man holding a rifle burst into the saloon. “She’s dying! I need the doctor!”




Chapter Two


Everyone around Lon and Mercy Gabriel froze.

“Did you hear me?” the man shrieked. “I was told a doctor’s here! My wife’s dying!”

Dr. Gabriel put down her cup, swallowing the last of her cookie. She rose and faced the man. “I am sorry to hear that. Why hasn’t thee brought her here?”

“She won’t come! She won’t come into a saloon!” The man swung his rifle toward the Quaker. “You gotta come with me! Now! Save her!”

Lon leapt to his feet, pulling out his pistol, ready to shoot.

“Friend, I am heartily sorry for thee, but I cannot leave all these patients—” the woman motioned toward the crowded room “—to go to one. Thee must bring thy wife here.”

“What?” The man gawked at her and raised his rifle to his eye to aim.

Lon moved toward the man slowly. He didn’t want to shoot if he didn’t have to.

“Thee must bring thy wife here. And then I will do whatever I can for her.”

Lon marveled at the Quaker’s calm voice. It shouldn’t have surprised him that the man with the rifle was also confounded. The man froze, staring forward.

Dr. Gabriel moved away to a patient and began to give the woman another dose of the saline infusion.

“You have to come with me, lady!” the man demanded. “My wife won’t come here.”

Dr. Gabriel glanced over her shoulder. “Is she still conscious?”

The man lowered his rifle. “No.”

“Well, then what is stopping thee from carrying her here? If she is unconscious or delirious, she won’t know where she is.” The Quaker said this in the same reasonable tone, without a trace of fear. Lon had rarely heard the like.

This woman was either crazy or as cool as they came.

The man swung the gun above Mercy’s head and fired, shattering one of the bulbous oil lamps behind the bar.

Lon lunged forward and struck the man’s head with the butt of his pistol, wrestling the rifle from him. The man dropped to the floor.

“Does he have a fever?” the Quaker asked as she gazed at the fallen man.

Lon gawked at her. Unbelieving. Astounded.

“Does he have a fever?” she prompted.

After stooping to check, Lon nodded. “Yes, he’s fevered. Doctor, you are very cool under fire.”

She gazed at him, still unruffled. “Unfortunately, this is not the first time a weapon has been aimed at me.” She turned away but said over her shoulder, “Set him on the floor on a blanket. Then please find out where this poor man’s wife is and see if she’s alive. I doubt there is anything I can do for her. But we must try. And, Lon Mackey, will thee please keep asking questions? We must get to the source before more people die.”

Lon carried the unconscious man and laid him down, then asked another person where the man’s home was. As he turned to leave, he snatched up the rifle and took it with him. He didn’t want anybody else waving it around.

Since the war, nothing much surprised him. But Dr. Mercy Gabriel had gotten his attention. She could have gotten herself killed. And she didn’t even so much as blink.



Mercy went about her round of injections, thinking of Lon and the ease with which he’d subdued the distraught man. She had never gotten used to guns, yet this was the second time today men had been forced to draw guns to protect her.

A young woman with a little girl in her arms rushed through the swinging doors. “My child! My Missy is having cramping. They said that cramping…” The woman’s face crumpled and she visibly fought for control. “Please save her. She’s only four. Please.” The woman held out her daughter to Mercy.

“Just cramps, nothing else?”

“Just cramps. She started holding her stomach and crying about a half hour ago.” Tears poured down the woman’s face.

“Thee did exactly right in bringing her here so quickly. I will do what I can.” Mercy lifted the child from her mother’s trembling arms, tenderly laid the little girl on the bar and smiled down at her. “Thee must not be afraid. I know what to do.”

Mercy felt the child’s forehead. Her temperature was already rising. Mercy fought to keep her focus and not give in to worry and despair. God was in this room, not just the deadly cholera.

The mother hovered nearby, wringing her hands.

Mercy bent to listen to the child’s heart with her stethoscope. “Missy, I need thee to sit up and cough for me.”

The mother began to weep. Mercy glanced at Indigo, who nodded and drew the woman outside. Then Mercy went about examining the child. Soon she glanced over and saw that Indigo had left the woman near the doors and was continuing her rounds of the patients. Indigo bathed their reddened faces with water and alcohol, trying to fight their fevers.

Mercy listened to the little girl’s abdomen and heard the telltale rumbling. No doubt the child had become infected. Mercy closed her eyes for one second, sending a prayer heavenward. Father, help me save this little life.

A call for help came from the far side of the room. Mercy looked over and her spirits dropped. One of the patients was showing signs of the mortal end of this dreaded disease. A woman—no doubt the wife of the dying man—rose and shouted for help again.

Mercy watched Indigo weave swiftly between the pallets on the wood floor to reach the woman’s side. Mercy looked away. She hated early death, needless death, heartless death. Her usual composure nearly slipped. As the woman’s sobbing filled the room, Mercy tightened her control. I cannot give in to emotion. I must do what I can to save this child. Father, keep me focused.

Mercy mixed the first dose of the herbal medication her mother had taught her to concoct, which was better than any patented medicine she’d tried. “Now, Missy, thee must drink this in order to get better.”

“I want my mama.” The little girl’s face wrinkled up in fear. “Mama. Mama.”

Mercy picked up the child and cradled her in her arms. “Thy mama’s right beside the door, see?” Mercy turned so the child could glimpse her mother. “She wants me to make thee better. Now this will taste a little funny, but not that bad. I’ve taken it many times. Now here, take a sip, Missy. Just a little sip, sweet child.”

Missy stared into Mercy’s eyes. Then she opened her mouth and began to sip the chalky medicine. She wrinkled her nose at the taste but kept on sipping until the small cup was empty.

“Excellent, Missy. Thee is a very good girl. Now I’m going to lay thee down again, and thy mama will come and sit with thee. I will be giving thee more medicine soon.”

“It tasted funny.”

“I know but thee drank it all, brave girl.”

About half an hour later, Mercy was kneeling beside the man who had burst into the saloon and was still unconscious. She carefully gave him a dose of saline water. It seemed a pitiful medicine to combat such a deadly contagion. But it was the only thing she knew of that actually did something to counteract cholera’s disastrous effect on the human body. And no one even knew why. There’s so much that I wish I knew—that I wish someone knew.



It was nearly dawn when she heard her name and glanced up to see Lon Mackey. “Did thee find this man’s wife?”

His face sank into grimmer lines. “She’s dead.”

The news twisted inside Mercy. She shook her head over the loss of another life. Then she motioned for him to lean closer to her. She whispered, “We must find the source or this disease will kill at least half in this community.”

The stark words sank like rocks from her stomach to her toes. She forced herself to go on. “That is the usual death rate for unchecked cholera. Has thee found out anything that gives us a hint of the source?”

“I’ve talked to everyone. The little girl’s mother told me something I’ve heard from several of the others.”

“What is that?” Mercy asked, turning to concentrate on slowly infusing saline into the man’s vein.

“Wild blackberry juice was served at the church a week ago Sunday. There was a reception for the children’s Sunday-school recitation,” he murmured.

Mercy looked up into his face. “Wild blackberry juice? Who made it?”

“It was a concoction Mrs. McCall made from crushed berries, their good well water and sugar. Mrs. McCall was the wife of the first victim. And the whole of his family was ailing first and all succumbed.”

Mercy sat back on her heels. Closing her eyes, she drew in a slow breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Lon Mackey may have found her the answer. “That tells me what I need to know. Thee must do exactly as I say. Will thee?”



Hours ago Lon wouldn’t have done anything a female stranger told him to do. But he would do whatever Mercy Gabriel asked. He just hoped it would work—passions were running high outside the saloon. “What must I do?”

“Go to the McCall house and examine the water source. Examine the house and the grounds with great care. Take a healthy man with thee as a witness.”

“What am I looking for?” he asked, leaning closer. The faint fragrance of lavender momentarily distracted him from her words.

“After the 1834 cholera epidemic, New York State passed laws forbidding the discarding of animal carcasses in or near any body of water. Does that help thee?” she asked.

Without a word of doubt, Lon rose and strode outside. He motioned to the bartender, Tom Banks, who was adding wood to the fire under the kettle of water the Quaker required to be kept boiling. “We’ve got a lead on what might have caused the cholera. Come with me. She told me what to look for and where,” Lon said.

The two of them hurried down the empty street. Dawn was breaking and normally people would be stirring, stepping outside. But every shop in town was closed up tight and all the houses were eerily quiet. No children had played outside for days now. Even the stray dogs lying in the alleys looked bewildered.

“Do you think this Quaker woman, this female doctor, knows what she’s doing?” the bartender asked.

Lon shrugged. “Proof’s in the pudding,” he said. But if he had to wager, his money would be on Mercy Gabriel.

At the McCalls, the two of them walked around the empty house to the well. He was used to violent death and destruction but the unnatural silence and creeping dread of cholera was getting to him. Everything was so still.

“The Quaker told me to examine the well and any other water source.”

“Doesn’t she know that contagions come from bad air?” Tom objected.

“She knows more than we do,” Lon replied. “Every time I talk to her, I know more about this scourge than I did before.” Of course, that didn’t mean she could save everyone. In times like these, however, he’d found that a show of assurance could avert the worst of hysteria. He didn’t want anyone else bursting into the saloon and letting loose with a rifle.

The two of them approached the well. It was a primitive affair with the pump sitting on a rough wooden platform.

“I don’t know what we’ll find that’s not right,” Tom grumbled. “From what I heard, the McCalls always had sweet water. That’s why they always brought the juice.”

Lon stared down at the wooden platform. Part of it was warping and lifting up. “Let’s find a crow-bar or hammer.” They went to the barn and found both. Soon they were prying up the boards over the McCalls’ well.

Both of them cursed when they saw what was floating in the water.

They cleaned out the well and then pumped water for a good half hour. Then they capped the well cover down as tight as they could. Tom and Lon walked silently back to the saloon. Lon hit the swinging door first and with great force, his anger at the senseless loss of life fueling a furious fire within. The two swinging panels cracked against the wall. Every head turned.

Lon crossed to the Quaker doctor. “We found dead rats floating in the McCalls’ well.”

The Quaker rose to face him, looking suddenly hopeful. “That would do it. Had the well cover become compromised?”

“It was warped and loose.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “We need to find out if everyone who is ill has been brought here. Anyone who drank the juice or who came in contact with a person falling ill from it should be checked. Then we need to make sure that every house where the illness has presented is scrubbed completely with hot water with a high concentration of lye soap.”

“That will end this?” Lon studied her earnest face, hoping against hope that she would say yes.

“If we kill off all the bacteria that carry the disease, the disease will stop infecting people. The bacteria most likely move from surface to surface. I believe that in order to become ill, a person must ingest the contaminated water or come into contact with something an infected person has touched. Does thee need anything more from me to proceed?”

“No, you’ve made yourself quite clear.”

She smiled at him. “Thee is an unusual man, Lon Mackey.”

He couldn’t help but smile back, thinking that she was unusual herself. He hoped she was right about the cause of the cholera. Only time would tell.



The last victim of the cholera epidemic died seven days after Mercy and Indigo came to town. When people had begun recovering and going home, the few remaining sick had been moved to one of the small churches in town after it had been scrubbed mercilessly clean. And the vacated saloon was dealt with in the same way. The townspeople doing the cleaning complained about the work, but they did it.

Eight days after getting off the wagon train, Mercy stood in the church doorway. She gazed out at the sunny day, her body aching with fatigue. She had slept only a few hours each day for the past week, and her mind and body didn’t appreciate that treatment. Only three patients lingered, lying on pallets around the church pulpit.

The new mayor came striding up the path to the church. “The saloon is clean and back in business.”

She gazed at him. Even though she was glad there was no longer a need for a large hospital area, did he expect her to say that the saloon being back in business was a good thing?

“I took up a collection from the people you helped.” He drew out an envelope and handed it to her. “When do you think you’ll be leaving town?”

Mercy made him wait for her answer. She opened the envelope and counted out four dollars and thirty-five cents. Four dollars and thirty-five cents for saving half the lives in this town of over a thousand. She wasn’t surprised at this paltry amount. After all, she was a female doctor, not a “real” doctor.

Mercy stared into the man’s eyes. “I have no plans to leave.” She had thought of going on to Boise, but then had decided to stay where she had shown that she knew something about doctoring. Many would discount her efforts to end the epidemic, but others wouldn’t—she hoped. “And, friend, if this town doesn’t want a recurrence of cholera, thee should have all the people inspect their wells and streams.”

The mayor made a harrumphing sound. “We’re grateful for the nursing you’ve done, but we still believe what real doctors believe. The cholera came from a bad wind a few weeks ago.”

Mercy didn’t bother to take offense. There are none so blind as those who will not see. “I am not the only doctor who believes that cholera comes from contaminated water. And thee saw thyself that the McCalls’ well was polluted. Would thee drink water with a dead rat in it?”

The mayor made the same harrumphing sound and ignored her question. “Again, ma’am, you have our gratitude.” He held out his hand.

Mercy shook it and watched him walk away.

“The thankless wretch.”

She turned toward the familiar voice. Lon Mackey lounged against the corner of the small white clapboard church. He looked different than the first time they’d met. His clothing was laundered and freshly pressed, and his colorful vest was buttoned correctly. He was a handsome man. She chuckled at his comment.

“It is so predictable.” She drew in a long breath. “I’ve heard it all before. ‘You’re just a woman. What could you possibly know?’ Over and over.”

“Why do you put up with it?”

She chuckled again.

The sound irritated Lon. “I don’t know what’s funny about this. You should be taken seriously. How much did the town pay you?”

Mercy sighed, handing him the envelope. “Human nature is what’s funny. Even when confronted by the truth about the cause of the epidemic, the average male and most females refuse to believe a woman would know more than a man would.”

They’d paid her less than five dollars. He voiced his disgust by saying, “But your idea about the cause of cholera is based on what male doctors have discovered, isn’t it?”

She nodded, tucking the envelope into the small leather purse in her skirt pocket. “But I could have gotten it wrong. I am, after all, just a poor, inferior, weak female who must always defer to men who always know better than women do.”

Her words grated against his nerves like sandpaper on sensitive skin. Why? Was he guilty of thinking this, too? He found himself moving toward this woman. He shut his mouth. He didn’t want to know more about Dr. Mercy Gabriel. He didn’t want to walk toward her, but she drew him. He offered her his hand to cover how disgruntled and confused he felt by his reaction to her.

She smiled and shook it. “I thank thee, Lon Mackey. Thee didn’t balk very much at following a woman’s directions.”

He didn’t know what to say to this. Was she teasing him or scolding him? Or being genuine? He merely smiled and turned away. The saloon was open again and he had to win some money to pay for his keep.

He would be staying in the saloon almost round the clock for the next few days—he’d seen the men of the town coming back full force. How had he come this far from the life he’d been born to? The answer was the war, of course.

He walked toward the saloon, hearing voices there louder and rowdier than usual. No doubt watching the wagons carrying people to the cemetery made men want to forget the harsh realities of life with lively conversation and laughter. Nearly seventy people had succumbed to cholera. How many would they have lost if Dr. Mercy Gabriel hadn’t shown up? Was he the only one who wondered this?

And why wouldn’t the Quaker woman leave his mind?

Images of Mercy over the past few hectic days popped into his mind over and over again. Mercy kneeling beside a patient and then rising to go to the next, often with a loud, burdened sigh. Mercy speaking softly to a weeping relative. Mercy staggering to a chair and closing her eyes for a short nap and then rising again. He passed a hand over his forehead as if he could wipe away the past week, banish Mercy Gabriel from his mind. But she wasn’t the kind of woman a man could forget easily. But I must.




Chapter Three


The morning after the final patient had recovered, Mercy decided it was time to find both a place to live and a place to start her medical practice. She wondered if she should ask Lon Mackey for help.

As she stood looking down the main street of the town, Indigo said, “Aunt Mercy?”

Mercy looked into Indigo’s large brown eyes. Indigo had always called her Aunt Mercy—the title of “mother” had never seemed right to either of them. “Yes?”

“Are we going to stand here all day?” Indigo grinned.

Mercy leaned her head to the side. “I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.” She didn’t reveal that the thoughts had been about Lon Mackey. He had vanished several days ago, returning to the largest saloon on the town’s one muddy street. His abrupt departure from their daily life left her hollow, blank, somehow weakened.

Indigo nodded as if she had understood both Mercy’s thoughts and gaze.

Mercy drew in a deep breath and hoped it would revive her. This was the place she had been called to. Only time would reveal if it would become home. “Let’s pull the trunk along. There must be some rooming houses in a town this size.” The two of them moved to the drier edge of the muddy track through town.

Mercy’s heart stuttered as she contemplated once again facing a town unsympathetic to a female doctor and a black nurse. Lon Mackey’s withdrawal from her sphere also blunted her mood. As she strode up the unpaved street, she tried to center herself, calm herself. God is a very present help in time of trouble. Lon Mackey helped me and accepted me for what I am—there will surely be others, won’t there?

A large greenwood building with big hand-painted letters announcing “General Store” loomed before her. Mercy left the trunk on the street with Indigo and entered. Her heart was now skipping beats.

“Good day!” she greeted a man wearing a white apron standing behind the rough wood-slab counter. “I’m new in town and looking for lodging. Can thee recommend a boardinghouse here?”

The man squinted at her. “You’re that female doctor, aren’t you?”

Mercy offered her hand. “Yes, I am Dr. Mercy Gabriel. And I’m ready to set up practice here.”

He didn’t take her hand.

She cleared her throat, which was tightening under his intense scrutiny.

“I’m Jacob Tarver, proprietor. I never met a female doctor before. But I hear you helped out nursing the cholera patients.”

“I doctored the patients as a qualified physician,” Mercy replied, masking her irritation. Then she had to suffer through the usual catechism of how she’d become a doctor, along with the usual response that no one would go to a female doctor except maybe for midwifing. She could have spoken both parts and he could have remained silent. People were so predictable in their prejudices.

Finally, she was able to go back to her question about lodging. “Where does thee suggest we find lodging, Jacob Tarver?”

He gave her an unhappy look. “That girl out there with you?”

Mercy had also been ready for this. Again, she kept her bubbling irritation hidden. If one chose to walk a path much different than the average, then one must put up with this sort of aggravation—even when one’s spirit rebelled against it. “Yes, Indigo is my adopted daughter and my trained nursing assistant.”

The proprietor looked at her as if she’d lost her mind but replied, “I don’t know if she’ll take you in, but go on down the street to Ma Bailey’s. She might have space for you in her place.”

Mercy nodded and thanked him. Outside, she motioned to Indigo and off they went to Ma Bailey’s. Mercy’s feet felt like blocks of wood. A peculiar kind of gloom was beginning to take hold of her. She saw the boardinghouse sign not too far down the street, but the walk seemed long. Once again, Mercy knocked on the door, leaving Indigo waiting with the red trunk.

A buxom woman in a faded brown dress and a soiled apron opened the door. “I’m Ma Bailey. What can I do for you?”

Feeling vulnerable, Mercy prayed God would soften this woman’s heart. “We’re looking for a place to board.”

The interrogation began and ended as usual with Ma Bailey saying, “I don’t take in people who ain’t white, and I don’t think doctorin’ is a job for womenfolk.”

Mercy’s patience slipped, a spark igniting. “Then why is it the mother who always tends to sick children and not the father?”

“Well, that’s different,” Ma Bailey retorted. “A woman’s supposed to take care of her own.”

“Well, I’m different. I want to take care of more than my daughter. If God gave me the gift of healing, who are thee to tell me that I don’t have it?”

“Your daughter?” The woman frowned.

Mercy glanced over her shoulder. “I adopted Indigo when she was—”

“Don’t hold with that, neither.”

“I’m sorry I imposed on thy time,” Mercy said and walked away. She tried to draw up her reserves, to harden herself against the expected unwelcome here. No doubt many would sit in judgment upon her today. But she had to find someone who would take them in. Lon Mackey came into her thoughts again. Could she ask the man for more help? Who else could put in a good word for them?

Heavenly Father, plead my case. For the very first time, she wondered if heaven wasn’t listening to her here.



Midafternoon Lon took a break from the poker table. He stepped outside and inhaled the cool, damp air of autumn. He found himself scanning the street and realized he was looking for her. He literally shook himself. The Quaker was no longer his business.

Then he glimpsed Indigo across the mud track, sitting on the red trunk. As he watched, the female doctor came out of a rough building and spoke to Indigo. Then the two of them went to the next establishment. Dr. Gabriel knocked and went inside. Within minutes, she came back outside and she and the girl headed farther down the street to the next building. What was she doing? Introducing herself? Or trying to get a place to stay? That sobered Lon. No one was going to rent a room to a woman of color. Lon tried to stop worrying and caring about what happened to this unusual pair. This can’t be the first time the good doctor has faced this. And it’s not my job to smooth the way for them. In fact, it would be best if they moved on to a larger city.

He turned back inside, irritated with himself for having this inner debate. The saloon was now empty, sleepy. Since his nighttime schedule didn’t fit with regular boardinghouses, he’d rented a pallet in the back of the saloon. He went there now to check on his battered leather valise. He’d locked it and then chained it to the railing that went upstairs, where the saloon girls lived. He didn’t have much in the valise but his clothing and a few mementoes. Still, it was his. He didn’t want to lose it.

Mentally, he went through the few items from his past that he’d packed: miniature portraits of his late parents, his last letter from them as he fought in Virginia and the engagement ring Janette had returned to him. This last article wasn’t a treasured token but a reminder of how rare true love was in this world. He wondered if Mercy Gabriel had ever taken a chance on falling in love.

That thought ended his musing. Back to reality. He’d have to play some very good poker tonight and build up his funds again. He lay down on his pallet for a brief nap. The night was probably going to be a long, loud one.



Mercy faced cold defeat. She had been turned away at every boardinghouse door and had been told at the hotels that they had no vacancies. She sensed the reason was because of Indigo’s skin color, a painful, razor-sharp thought. A cold rain now drizzled, chilling her bone-deep. She and Indigo moved under the scant cover of a knot of oak and elm trees.

“Well, Aunt Mercy, this wouldn’t be the first time we’ve slept under the stars,” Indigo commented, putting the unpleasant truth into words.

Mercy drew in a long breath. She didn’t want to reply that those days had been when they were both younger and the war was raging. Mercy had found little Indigo shivering beside the road, begging. Mercy had turned thirty-one this January. The prospect of sleeping out at twenty-one had felt much different than sleeping without cover nearly a decade later. Both she and Indigo sat down on the top of their trunk. Father, we need help. Soon. Now. Then defeat swallowed her whole.



The acrid smoke from cigars floated above the poker table. Lon held his cards close to his chest just in case someone was peeking over his shoulder for an accomplice, cheating at the table. So far he hadn’t been able to play for more than chicken stakes. Piano music and bursts of laughter added to the noisy atmosphere. He was holding a flush—not the best hand, but not the worst, either. Could he bluff the others into folding?

“You got to know that strange female?” the man across from him asked as he tossed two more coins into the ante pile. The man was dressed a bit better than the other miners and lumberjacks in the saloon. He had bright red hair and the freckled complexion to match. Lon thought he’d said his name was Hobson.

Lon made an unencouraging sound, hoping to change the topic of conversation. He met the man’s bid and raised it. The coin clinked as it hit the others.

“You know anything about her?” Hobson asked.

Lon nodded, watching the next player, a tall, lean man called Slattery, with a shock of gray at one temple. He put down two cards and was dealt two more.

“You know anything about her? I mean, can she really doctor?” redheaded Hobson asked again.

“She’s a doc all right,” Lon conceded. “I saw her certificate myself. She showed it to me the second night she was in town. It’s in her black bag.”

“We need a doc here,” Hobson said as the last of the four players made his final bet of the game.

“Don’t need no woman doctor,” Slattery replied. “She’s unnatural. A woman like that.”

Lon started a slow burn. Images of Mercy Gabriel caring for the cholera victims spun through his mind. “She’s a Quaker. They think different, talk different.”

The other player, a small man with a mustache, grunted. “Forget the woman doctor. Play cards.”

“She’s honest and goodhearted.” Lon heard these words flow from his mouth, unable to stop them.

“I don’t hold with Quakers’ odd ways,” Slattery said.

Hobson glared at Slattery as he laid down his cards. “My grandparents were Quakers. You could look your whole life and not find finer people. So what if they say ‘thee’ and ‘thy’? It’s a free country.”

As Lon laid down his own hand, he sighed. His flush beat every other hand on the table. A tight place within him eased—winning was good. He scooped up the money in the ante pile.

“Well, nobody would take them in,” Slattery said, looking irritated at losing but satisfied to be able to say something slighting about Dr. Gabriel. “She has a black girl with her. Tells everyone she adopted her. If nobody takes them in, they’ll have to go elsewhere. And good riddance, I say.” Slattery shoved away from the table and headed toward the bar.

Hobson looked after him and turned to Lon. “We need a doctor in this place. Logging and mining can be dangerous. Anybody see where those two women went?”

“When I came in, they were wrapped in blankets, sitting on the trunk under that clump of oaks at the end of the street,” Lon said.

Hobson stood up and headed toward the door.

The quiet man with the mustache looked to Lon. “Let’s find a couple more—”

Two other men came and slid into the seats left vacant by Hobson and Slattery. Out of the corner of his eye, Lon glimpsed Hobson leaving.

Lon hoped Digger was going to help out the two stubborn women. He didn’t like to see anyone homeless, but they had chosen a path that put them at odds with popular sentiment. In any event, how could he provide them with a place to stay? Would they want to bunk in the back of the saloon, as he did? Of course not. With regret, he turned his mind to his new competitors.



Mercy shivered as the night began to fold them into its cool, damp arms. She and Indigo had wrapped themselves in their blankets and perched on top of the trunk, which was wedged between two trees so it wouldn’t move. Oil lamps and candles shone in the dwellings so they weren’t sitting in complete darkness. Mercy kept her eyes on those lights, kept praying that someone would offer them a place, someone would come out—

A man was striding down the street in their direction. Was he headed past them for home? She heard him coming, splashing in the shallow puddles. A lantern at his hip glimmered.

“He’s heading straight toward us,” Indigo whispered.

Mercy caught the fear in Indigo’s voice, and it trembled through her. Was violence to be added to insult here? She leaned against Indigo, her voice quavering. “Don’t be afraid. No one is going to harm us.”

“You that woman doctor?” the man asked in a brisk tone, his copper hair catching the lantern light.

“Yes, I am.” Mercy didn’t know whether she should stand, or even if she could.

“You two can’t sleep out here all night. Follow me.” The man turned and began striding away.

His unforeseen invitation sent her thoughts sprawling. “Please, friend, where is thee going?”

He turned back and halted. “I’m Digger Hobson, the manager of one of the mining outfits hereabouts. I’m going to take you to the mining office for the night.”

She didn’t want to turn the man down, but how would they sleep there? Her nerve was tender, but she managed to ask, “Mining office?”

“Yeah, I bunked there till I got a place of my own. Now come on. Let’s not waste time.” The man strode away from them.

With a tiny yelp, Indigo jumped off the trunk, swirled her blanket higher so it wouldn’t drag in the mud, and began hauling the trunk behind her.

Coming out of her shock, Mercy followed Indigo’s example and grabbed the valises, hurrying on stiff legs through the mud. The two of them caught up with Hobson where he had stopped. The building had a hand-painted sign that read “Acme Mining Office.”

“Come on in. It’s not much, but it’s better than sleeping out under the trees all night. I can’t understand why no one would take you in.”

Mercy could only agree with him. But she was so unnerved she didn’t trust herself yet to speak.

“Some people don’t like me because of my color,” Indigo said, surprising Mercy. Mercy hadn’t mentioned the rude comments people had made about Indigo. But since none of them had kept their voices down, Indigo had probably overheard them. The area around Mercy’s heart clenched.

“I fought in the war to set you free,” Digger said. “Some folks think you all ought to go back to Africa. But I don’t think I’d like to go there myself.”

“Not me, either, sir. I’m an American,” Indigo stated.

“Thee is very kind, Digger Hobson.” Mercy found her voice. She wondered why this welcome hospitality still left her emotionless inside. Perhaps rejection was more powerful than kindness. But that shouldn’t be.

“We need a doctor here. I wouldn’t have asked for a female doctor, but if you really got a certificate and everything, then we’ll make do with you. Mining can be a rough trade.”

Mercy tried to sort through these words but the unusual numbness she hoped was due to the chill and fatigue caused her only to nod. Certificate? Who knew she had a certificate?

Her dazed mind brought up a scene from the saloon infirmary. Lon had been looking over her shoulder as she had dug into the bottom of her black bag. She’d taken out her framed certificate so she could search better.

So Lon had been talking about her? What had he said?

“Dr. Gabriel is tired,” Indigo said. “Where are the beds?”

Mercy realized that she had just been standing there, not paying attention to this kind man.

“There are two cots in the back room. I’m going farther up the mountain now, to get to bed. Have a busy day tomorrow.” As he spoke, he led them through an office area into a back room where there was a potbellied stove and two bare cots.

“Do you have bedding with you?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Indigo stammered.

As Hobson turned to leave, he lit a tall candle on the stove. “Good night, ladies.” He handed Mercy the key. “Lock up behind me. Two women alone can’t be too careful.”

When Mercy did not move, Indigo took the key and followed him back through the office. Mercy waited, frozen in place, watching the flickering, mesmerizing candle flame. She had heard of people falling asleep standing up. Was that happening to her?

Indigo entered, helped Mercy off with her blanket and steered her into a wooden chair beside the stove. “You sit here, Aunt Mercy. You look really tired.”

Mercy sat, the numbness still clutching her. This was more than the usual fatigue, Mercy sensed. Indigo began humming “Be Thou My Vision” as she opened the trunk, got out their wrinkled sheets and pillows, and made up the two cots. “God has provided for us again.”

Mercy wanted to agree. But her tongue lay at the bottom of her mouth, limp and wayward. Then Indigo was there in front of her, kneeling to unbutton her shoes. “You’re just very tired, that’s all. I think you need a few days of rest and good food. And you’ll be right as a good spring rain.”

Indigo led Mercy over to the cot nearest the stove. “I think I’ll make up a small fire and brew a cup of tea for both of us. Then we’ll go to bed and let the fire die down on its own. It’s not that cold, not as cold as it can be in Pennsylvania in late September.”

Indigo kept up small talk as she cared for them both. Mercy let herself sit and listen. She could do nothing more. She was tired, not just from the cholera epidemic or walking behind the wagons to get here. She was tired to the marrow of her bones from the unkind way people treated each other.

The mayor’s insults the other day, diminishing her role in stopping the epidemic which could have killed him. The unfriendly and judgmental way people had looked at them today as they walked down Main Street. And Lon Mackey, who she’d begun to consider an ally, disappearing from her life when she most needed help. These had leeched the life from her.

In this whole town, they had encountered one kind man out of how many? The others, when they had ample room to take them in, would have let her and Indigo sleep outside. Well, she shouldn’t be surprised. There had been no room at the inn for Mary and Joseph. And baby Jesus had been born among the cattle. Lon Mackey’s face came to mind clearly. She had been hoping he would come to their aid, clearly. Foolish beyond measure. She sighed and closed her eyes. Whatever connection she had felt with him had been an illusion. Something inside her flickered and then went out, extinguished.



Despite his best efforts, Lon woke while it was still morning. Dr. Gabriel’s face flashed before his eyes. He rolled over. Around four o’clock in the morning, when the saloon had finally shut its doors, he’d been unable to keep himself from going out with a lantern and checking to see if the two women were still sitting under the tree. This concern for their welfare could only spring from the life-threatening circumstances under which they’d met and nothing else, he insisted silently.

When he’d found, in the early morning light, that they were no longer under the tree, he’d been able to go to his bed and sleep. He would let the God they believed in take care of them from now on.

Though it was much earlier than he ever cared to be awake, he found he could not go back to sleep. He sat up, disgusted with himself. After shaving and donning his last fresh collar, he strode out into the thin sunshine to find breakfast. The town was bustling. He stood looking up and down the street. Then drawn by the mingled fragrances of coffee, bacon and biscuits, he headed for breakfast at a café on the nearest corner.

On the way, he saw Dr. Gabriel step outside a mining office and begin sweeping the wooden platform in front of the place. Something deep inside nudged him to avoid her, but he couldn’t be that rude. Tipping his hat, he said, “Good morning, Dr. Gabriel.”

“Lon Mackey, good morning.”

“Is this where you stayed last night?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “A man, Digger Hobson, let us stay. I’m just tidying up a bit to thank him for his kindness.”

“I’m glad to hear you found a place. Yesterday, I saw you going door to door…” He caught himself before he said more.

“It is always difficult for Indigo and me in a new place.” She also paused and gazed into his eyes.

He glanced away. “You still think you can establish yourself here?”

“I do. I hope…” Her voice faded.

He denied the urge to try to talk sense into her. Still, he lingered. This woman had earned his regard. And the feeling of working together to fight the cholera had taken him back to his previous life when he’d had a future. He broke away from her effect on him. “I’ll bid you good day then.”



Mercy wanted to stop him, speak to him longer. But even as she opened her mouth, she knew she must not. Their paths should not cross again except in this casual way. Why did that trouble her? Just because she had found him so easy to work with meant nothing to her day-to-day life. She went on sweeping, quelling the sudden, surprising urge to cry. Lon had believed in her abilities and trusted her in a way that few other men ever had, and it was hard to simply let that go.

At the sound of footsteps on the office’s wooden floor, she turned to greet Indigo. “Thee slept well?”

“Yes. I feel guilty for lying in so long. You know I never sleep late.”

“I think thee needed the extra rest.” She watched as Lon Mackey walked into the café on the corner. She had no appetite, which was unusual, but the two of them must eat to keep up their strength. “Indigo, would thee go down to the café, buy us breakfast and bring it back here?”

Indigo’s stomach growled audibly in response. The girl grinned. “Why don’t we just go there and eat?”

Because he’s there. “I’m not in the mood for company this morning.” That wasn’t a lie, unfortunately. Mercy pulled her purse out of her pocket and gave it to Indigo. She gave Mercy a penetrating look, then left, singing quietly to herself.

Mercy walked inside the office and looked out the smudged front window. She thought of going around town again this afternoon, trying to get to know all the residents, trying to begin to soften their resistance, to change their minds about a woman doctor. But the thought of stepping outside again brought her near to tears.

For the first time she could recall, she had no desire to go out into the sunshine. No desire to go on doing what she must in order to change opinions about her. To carry out her mission. This sudden absence of purpose was alien to her.

The fact was she didn’t want to talk to or see anyone save Indigo. Or, truth be told, Lon Mackey. Though she’d been hurt that he hadn’t come to her aid, the fact that he’d gone looking for her in the early morning had lifted her heart some. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered in spite of the lingering warmth from the potbellied stove.

She went over in her mind the brief conversation with Lon about his concern and about his opposition to her way of life. What they had said to each other wasn’t as telling as what they hadn’t said. She couldn’t have imagined the strong connection they’d forged, and she couldn’t believe it had ended when the cholera had.

Something was shifting inside her. And she was afraid to venture toward its cause.



A week had passed. Friday was payday and the saloon was standing room only. The poker table was ringed with a few farmers, but mostly miners and lumberjacks watched the game in progress. In the back of Lon’s mind, the fact that he hadn’t seen Dr. Gabriel on the street since she’d moved into the mining office niggled at him. Had she fallen sick? Should he go check on her?

He brushed the thought away like an aggravating fly. He’d done much this week to rebuild his reserves. And tonight’s game was not for chicken stakes. Nearly a hundred dollars in gold, silver and bills had been tossed into the ante. If Lon lost this game, he’d be broke again.

His three competitors included the same small, mustached man whom Lon had gambled with every night the past week. The other two were a tall, slender young man and a dark-haired miner. The young half breed spoke with a French accent. Perhaps he was a mix of Métis, Indian and French. Either way, Lon pegged him as a young buck out to have all the fun he could, no doubt with the first good money he’d ever earned. The miner looked ill-tempered, old enough to know better than to cause trouble. But wise enough? Time would tell.

Lon stared at his cards—just a pair of red queens. That scoring combination was all he had worth anything among the five cards dealt him. He hissed inwardly in disgust. A pair was just above a random hand with nothing of scoring strength.

He gazed around at the other players, trying to gauge by their expressions and posture how good their hands were. Could they have gotten even worse hands? Was that possible?

The small man was tapping the table with his left hand and looking at Lon in an odd way. Lon decided he would lay two cards facedown and deal himself another two. He hoped they’d be better than the pitiful ones he’d dealt himself first.

The miner hit the other man’s hand, which was tapping beside him. “Stop that. You tryin’ to fiddle with my concentration?”

Lon held his breath. He’d seen fights start with less provocation than this.

The small man hit back the offending hand. “If you been drinking too much, don’t take it out on me.”

The miner lurched forward.

Fortunately, the onlookers voiced loud disapproval of the fight—it would spoil their fun. The miner scowled but sat back in his chair.

Reminding himself of the pistol in his vest pocket, Lon put two cards facedown and drew two more cards. His pair of queens became a triple, two red and one black. Better. But not much.

Then, as the dealer, he went from player to player asking if they wanted to draw again. There was another round of calling and betting. The small man was still watching Lon with an intense gaze. Was there going to be trouble?

The man asked, “You fight in the war?”

Lon shrugged. “Most of us did, didn’t we?”

This appeared to aggravate the small man even more. He looked at Lon with narrowed eyes. Lon tried to ignore him. Winning the game was what mattered. Nothing was going to distract him from that.

The final round ended and each player laid down his cards. Lon wished he could have had another chance to make his hand better, but he laid down his three queens. And nearly broke his poker face when he saw that he had won. Victory and relief flowed through him.

The sullen miner’s face twisted in anger. “You sure you’re not dealing from the bottom of the deck?”

Lon looked at him coolly. “If you don’t want me to deal, you deal.” He began shuffling the cards with rapid and practiced hands. The men standing around liked to watch someone who could handle cards as well as he could. He didn’t hold back, letting the cards cascade from one hand to the other and then deftly working the cards like an accordion. He held his audience in rapt attention.

The young Métis who’d lost his gambling money rose, and another man slid into his place. Lon nodded to him and began dealing cards for another game. One of the saloon girls came over and tried to drape herself around Lon’s shoulders. Not wishing to be impolite, he murmured, “Not while I’m working, please, miss.” She nodded and moved over to lean on the dark-haired miner.

Lon hoped she would sweeten the man’s temper but the miner shrugged her off with a muttered insult. Lon looked at the cards he’d dealt himself and nearly revealed his shock. He held almost a royal flush: jack, queen, king, ace and a four.

The odds of his dealing this hand to himself were incredible. The other players turned cards facedown and he dealt them the number of cards they requested. Lon put the four down and drew another card. He stared at it, disbelieving.

The betting began. Lon resisted the temptation to bet the rest of his money on the game. That would signal to the other players that he had good cards, which in this case was a vast understatement. He bet half the money he had just won. The other players eyed him and each raised. The second round of betting took place. Then Lon concealed his excitement and laid out the royal flush—ten, jack, queen, king, ace.

He reached forward to scoop up the pot. The small man leaped from his seat, shouting, “You can’t have dealt honestly. No one gets a royal flush like that!”

Lon eyed the man. He’d played cards several times with him over the past days, and the man had been consistently even-tempered.

“You’re right!” The dark-haired miner reared up from his chair and slammed a fist into Lon’s face. Lon flew back into the men crowding around the table. He tried to find his feet, but he went down hard on one knee. He leaped up again, his fists in front of his face.

The gold and silver coins he’d just won were clinking, sliding down the table as the miner tipped it over. “No!” Lon bellowed. “No!”

The miner swung again. Lon dodged, getting in two good jabs. The miner groaned and fell. Then the small mustached man pulled a knife from his boot.

A knife. Lon leaped out of reach again. He fumbled for the Derringer in his vest. The small man jumped over the upended table. He plunged his knife into Lon just above the high pocket of his vest.

As his own warm blood gushed under his hand, Lon felt himself losing consciousness. The crushing pain in his chest made it hard to breathe. He looked at the man nearest him, a stranger. He was alone in this town of strangers.

No, I’m not.

Lon blinked, trying to get rid of the fog that was obscuring his vision. “Get the woman doctor,” he gasped. “Get Dr. Gabriel.”




Chapter Four


Pounding. Pounding. Mercy woke in the darkness, groggy. More sights and sounds roused her—the sound of a match striking, a candle flame flickering to life, padding footsteps going toward the curtains. “Aunt Mercy, get up,” Indigo commanded in the blackness. “Someone’s nearly breaking down the front door and shouting for the doctor.” The curtain swished as Indigo went through it to answer the door.

Mercy sat up. Feeling around in the darkness, she started getting dressed without thinking, merely reacting to Indigo’s command. With her dress on over her nightgown, she sat down to pull on her shoes. She found she was unable to lift her stockinged feet. The listlessness which had gripped her over the past week smothered her in its grasp once more.

She had not left the mining office—in fact, could not leave it. She knew her lassitude had begun to worry Indigo. Her daughter had given her long looks of bewildered concern. Yet Mercy had been unable to reassure Indigo, had been unable to break free from the lethargy, the hopelessness, the defeat she’d experienced deep, deep inside. And somehow it had been connected with Lon Mackey, but why?

With the candle glowing in front of her face, Indigo came in with three men crowding behind her. “Aunt Mercy, Lon Mackey has been knifed in the saloon.”

Cold shock dashed its way through Mercy. As if she’d been tossed into water, she gasped and sucked in air.

“It’s serious. We must hurry.” Indigo set the candlestick on the potbellied stove and began pulling a dress on over her nightgown. Then in the shadows, she bent, opened the trunk at the end of the room and pulled out two black leather bags, one with surgical items and one with nursing supplies.

Mercy sat, watching Indigo by the flickering candlelight. Her feet were still rooted to the cold floor.

“Ain’t you gonna get up, lady—I mean, lady doctor?” one of the men asked. “The gambler’s unconscious and losing blood. He needs a doc.”

Indigo turned and snagged both their wool shawls from a nail on the wall. “Aunt Mercy?”

“Yeah,” one of the other men said, “the gambler asked for you—by name. Come on.”

He asked for me. The image of Lon bleeding snapped the tethers that bound her to the floor. Mercy stirred, forcing off the apathy. She slid her feet into her shoes and dragged herself up. “Let’s go.”

Outside for the first time in days, she shivered in the October night air, shivered at once more being outside, vulnerable. Thinking of Lon and recalling how he’d done whatever she needed, whatever she’d asked during the cholera outbreak, she hurried over the slick, muddy street toward the saloon. In the midst of the black night, oil lamps shone through the swinging door and the windows, beckoning.

The men who’d come to get them hurried forward, shouting out, “The lady doc is coming!”

Mercy and Indigo halted just outside the door. Having difficulty drawing breath, Mercy whispered, “Pray.” Indigo nodded and they entered side by side. The bright lights made Mercy blink as her eyes adjusted. Finally, she discerned where the crowd was thickest.

She headed straight toward the center of the gathering, her steps jerky, as if she were walking on frozen feet. “Nurse Indigo,” she said over her shoulder, “get the bar ready for me, please.” But a glance told her that Indigo was already disinfecting the bar in preparation.

The gawking men parted as Mercy swept forward.

One unfamiliar man popped up in front of her. “Hold it. A woman doctor? She might do him more harm than good.”

Before Mercy could respond, the dissenting man was yanked back and shoved out of her way, the men around all chorusing, “The gambler asked for her.”

Unchecked, Mercy continued, her strength coming back in spurts like the blood surging, pulsing through her arteries. Her walking smoothed out.

She had never doctored with such a large crowd pressing in on every side. She sensed the men here viewed this as a drama, a spectacle. Still, she kept her chin up. If they’d come to see the show, she’d show them all right.

Then she saw Lon. He had been stretched out on a table, a crimson stain soaking the front of his white shirt and embroidered vest. An invisible hand squeezed the breath from her lungs and it rushed out in a long “Oh.”

A young woman in a low-cut, shiny red dress was holding a folded towel over the wound. She looked into Mercy’s eyes. “This was all we had to stop the bleeding.”

Mercy nodded, drawing up her reserves. “Excellent.” She put her black bag on the table beside Lon and lifted out the bottle of wood alcohol. She poured it over both her trembling hands, hoping to quiet her nerves as she disinfected. To hide the quivering of her hands, she shook them and then balled them into fists. “Let me see the wound, please.”

The young woman lifted the blood-soaked towel and stepped back. She was the only one who did so—everyone else pressed in closer. “Please, friends,” Mercy stated in a firm tone, forcing the quavering from her voice, “I must have room to move my arms. I must have light. Please.”

The crowd edged back a couple of inches. The girl in the low-cut dress lifted a lamp closer to Lon.

Mercy wished her inner quaking would stop. She sucked in more air laden with cigar smoke, stale beer and sweat. She looked down into Lon’s face.

She had tended so many bleeding men in the war, yet her work then had been anonymous. She had never before been called to tend someone whom she knew and whom she had depended on, worked with. Seeing a friend like this must be what was upsetting her. She must focus on the wound, not the man.

In spite of her trembling fingers, Mercy unbuttoned and tugged back his shirt. She examined the wound and was relieved to see that the blood was clotting and sluggish. The wound, though deep, had not penetrated the heart or abdomen. That would have been a death sentence. Her shaking lessened. This was her job, this was what she had been called to do.

As she probed the wound, she felt a small part of the lung that may have collapsed. She had read about pulmonary atelectasis—once she closed the wound, the lung would either reinflate or compensate. But she needed to act quickly.

She turned toward the bar. “Nurse Indigo, is my operating table ready?”

“Almost, Dr. Gabriel.” While working in public, both women used these terms of address. The dean of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania had insisted on using their titles to imbue them with respect.

“Please carry the patient to the bar, and bring my bag, too,” Mercy asked of the men. “I will operate there.” Mercy turned and the way parted before her. She was accustomed to disbelief and disapproval, but never before had she been forced to endure being put on display. Her face was hot and glowing bright scarlet.

She had heard of circuses that had freak shows, displaying bearded women and other humans with physical abnormalities. Here she was the local freak, the lady doctor. But her concern for Lon’s survival outweighed her embarrassment and frustration. He was depending on her.

For a moment, she felt faint. She scolded herself for such weakness and plowed her way to the bar. Now Indigo was helping the bartender position the second of two large oil lamps.

“How bad is it, Doctor?” Indigo asked.

“Can you do anything for him? Or is he a goner?” asked the bartender.

The word goner tightened Mercy’s throat. “The wound may have collapsed part of the lung. I will need to stitch up the wound.”

There was a deep murmuring as everyone made their opinion of this known, discussing it back and forth. Mercy focused on Lon and her task. In the background, the voices blended together in a deep ebb and flow, like waves on a shore.

Indigo laid out the surgical instruments on a clean linen cloth. Mercy looked to the saloon girl, who was hovering nearby. “What is thy name, miss?”

“Sunny, ma’am—I mean, Doc.”

“Sunny, will thee help me by unbuttoning the shirt and vest the rest of the way and helping the bar tender remove them? I must scrub my hands thoroughly before I begin surgery.”

Sunny nodded and began undoing Lon’s vest buttons.

Mercy moved farther down the bar, where Indigo had poured boiled water and alcohol into a clean basin. She picked up a bar of soap and began scrubbing her hands and nails with a little brush, hating each moment of delay.




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