Beloved Physician

W
hen the challenge of the Western frontier began luring men and women westward from the eastern, northern, southern, and midwestern states in the middle of the nineteenth century, they found a land that was beyond what they had imagined. From the wide Missouri River to the white-foamed shore of the Pacific Ocean, wherever they settled, they clung to the hope of a bright new beginning for their lives.

Often their hopes were dashed by fierce opposition from the Indians who had inhabited the land long before them. At times there was also struggle for survival against the hard winters and the loneliness of the vast frontier.

Those determined pioneers who braved the elements, the loneliness, and the attacks of the Indians, proved themselves to be a hardy lot and were unknowingly entering upon a struggle that would ultimately give their descendants control of half a continent.

In his book
The Winning of the West
, Theodore Roosevelt said, “The borderers who thronged across the mountains, the restless hunters, the hard, dogged frontier ranchers and farmers, were led by no one commander. They were not carrying out the plans of any far-sighted leader. In obedience to the instincts working half-blindly
within their hearts, they made in the wilderness homes for their children.”

These commendable accomplishments, however, were not without tremendous cost of life. Of all the perils confronting the settlers of the Wild West, serious illness, injuries from mishaps of countless number, and wounds from battles with Indians and outlaws were the most dreaded. The lack of proper medical care resulted in thousands of deaths.

The scarcity of medical doctors on the Frontier in those early years made life extremely difficult and sometimes unbearable. As towns were being established in the West, little by little, medical practitioners east of the wide Missouri caught the challenge of the Frontier and headed that direction.

Communities that grew around army posts and forts had the military doctors to care for them. But many towns had no doctors at all. However, as time passed, this improved. By the mid-1870s, towns of any size at all had at least one doctor. The larger towns had clinics, and a few even had hospitals.

Often the frontier doctor had to travel long distances at any hour—by day or night—in all kinds of weather. Time and again the doctors own life was in jeopardy. He might ride on horseback or drive his buggy thirty miles or more to a distant home in the mountains, to a home in a small settlement on the prairie, or to a ranch or farm where he would care for a patient. He would perform surgery when needed, set broken bones, deliver a baby, or administer necessary medicines. Most of the time, he would sit with his patient for hours before leaving his or her side, then sleep on the return trip while his horse found the way home.

Quite often the frontier doctor’s only remuneration consisted of fresh vegetables from a garden, maybe a jar or two of canned corn or beans, a plucked chicken, or a chunk of beef cut from a recently slaughtered steer. The successful frontier doctor was not only a hardy man, but was obviously dedicated to his profession.

In our third book of the Orphan Trains Trilogy,
Whispers in the Wind
, we introduced teenagers Dane Weston and Tharyn Myers, who were orphans living on the streets of New York City in the spring of 1871. After a period of separation, Dane and Tharyn eventually find each other again and decide to marry, and the story of the extraordinary events leading up to their wedding is told in
One More Sunrise
, book one of the Frontier Doctor trilogy.

I
n Denver, Colorado, the sun shone down from a crystal blue sky on Saturday, June 25, 1881. It was two o’clock in the afternoon.

To the west stood the magnificent Rocky Mountains with their snowcapped peaks and the restful green of pine and fir trees amid the cool gray of their stony crags. These mountain features seemed distant, yet were companionably close.

Puffy white clouds drifted on the summer breeze, and birds chirped in the branches of the tall cottonwoods and evergreens outside the white frame church building.

Inside, the pump organ was playing softly in accompaniment to Dottie Carroll as she sang a special wedding song. Dottie was the wife of Dr. Matthew Carroll, chief administrator of Denver’s Mile High Hospital, and sister to Breanna Brockman, a longtime nurse at the hospital and wife of the best man.

Pastor Nathan Blandford stood on the platform, Bible in hand, and smiled at the happy faces in the packed sanctuary. He then looked down at Dr. Dane Logan, who stood on the floor to his left, sided by his best man, Chief United States Marshal John Brockman.

The pastor saw the nervousness in Dane Logan that grooms
always experienced when the bridal procession was about to appear.

Dane’s heart was pounding in his chest as he fixed his gaze on those closed doors, and suddenly his mind flashed back just thirty-six days, to Saturday, May 21, when he stood on that very spot, expecting to see the bridal procession come through the doors any second.

His mouth went dry as he envisioned that awful moment when suddenly Tharyn’s father, David Tabor, burst through the doors and ran into the auditorium, announcing that Tharyn had been abducted by four outlaws who left the message behind that they were going to kill her. Dane thought of how Tharyn had escaped the outlaws’ hideout by the hand of God, and recalled the sweet reunion with her in Denver.

Suddenly, Dane was brought back to the present as the organist began playing the wedding march. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and focused once again on the doors at the rear of the auditorium, just as they were coming open.

He watched, a slight smile on his handsome face, as the wedding party wended its way forward, and told himself one would hardly guess that the first bridesmaid, Leanne Ross, was blind. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead and her hand was placed in the crook of the groomsman’s arm. Her serene face was a joy to behold. The groomsman was Kenny Ross, her adoptive brother. They had both been adopted by the Ross family in Denver, who had also adopted other handicapped children. Kenny limped slightly on his wooden leg, but carefully guided his sister slowly down the aisle.

Leanne’s dress was powder blue organza that dipped and swayed with each step. It had a square neck, trimmed with a satin ribbon that was a shade darker than the dress.

A few steps behind Leanne and Kenny were the second bridesmaid, Melinda Scott Kenyon, and her fiancé and second
groomsman, Dr. Tim Braden. Melinda’s dress was a copy of Leanne’s, and a smile of delight was on the lips of both young women.

Standing close to the groom, the tall, dark John Brockman uttered a small gasp when his wife stepped through the doorway a few steps behind Tim and Melinda. She was even more beautiful than the day he had married her in that same church building ten years ago.

Breanna Brockman was Tharyn’s matron of honor. Her organza dress was a light periwinkle blue with satin trim a shade darker around the neckline. Her blond hair was a shining halo on top of her head, and Johns heart skipped a beat as he watched her move down the aisle, smiling at him.