Two Brides Too Many (8 page)

Hand in hand, Kat and Rosita walked out of the hospital and turned the corner to climb the hill to Golden Avenue. The wind had cleared out the smoke, and the sun had given way to a nearly full moon. Kat breathed in deep swallows of the fresh, crisp air. It was the first relief she’d had from the stench of smoke in several hours. She and Rosita both needed a good cleaning and a fresh change of clothes. The whole town could use a nice long bath.

Nightfall cloaked the devastation below, but the darkness hadn’t brought silence. Search and cleanup efforts continued in spotty moonlight
and lamplight, and desperate voices echoed off the ring of hillocks that cradled Cripple Creek. In startling contrast, a chorus of cheers drew Kat’s attention to the reservoir two blocks above them. Swinging lanterns flashed light like fireflies on a summer evening. Then in the eastern hills, Kat glimpsed the glow of the train charging toward town, bringing relief supplies. Tears stung her eyes. The destruction was swift and merciless, and the need dire, but help was on the way.

Please, Lord, let that be true for me and Nell too
.

Surely they’d find Judson Archer soon, and he’d take Nell to be his wife. And Kat had to believe that even though trusting Patrick Maloney had turned out to be a mistake, she’d be all right.

“I like ba-bies.” Rosita said, though she wasn’t much more than a baby herself.

“I do too.” It was true as long as she didn’t have to push or pull one out, or watch it being done. And the child should not have been in the room, watching. She and Rosita should both have their ears cleansed of that woman’s bawdy ranting.

“But you no like the baby man.”

“I don’t know him, Rosita.” But Kat didn’t have to know the man for his words to hound her.
“This woman and her baby could’ve died because you were too timid to take action.”

He’d thought she was a midwife. She had met men like this one before, wearing fancy herringbone vests with shiny watch chains dangling from their pockets, believing they knew everything. Some of those men wore handlebar mustaches and bowlers with peacock feathers. That doctor didn’t know her any more than Patrick Maloney did. She wasn’t timid. Eight days ago, she’d left the comforts of Maine—the only life she’d known—to live in the unknown. Why,
she’d even been in a saloon just last night. But she was no midwife, he was right about that. The birthing room was no place for her or for a child. All she’d wanted was to be a writer. Then her father’s company turned their world upside down, and she’d given up her dream to forge a life for her and her sisters.

More cheers from the reservoir crowd pulled Kat out of her stewing and told her the train had rounded another curve, and food and supplies would be here soon.

Turning onto Golden Avenue toward Hattie’s, Kat thought about what she’d say to Nell and the woman who housed them. Hattie. Kat didn’t want to worry Nell, but a child hadn’t been part of their arrangement with their landlady. She’d have to reassure them it was only for the night.

The two-story clapboard house looked especially inviting tonight. Lights glowed in the windows and the chimney belched smoke as they approached.

She looked down at the child, who peered up at her, sadness etched in her coal black eyes. “This is where Nell and I live right now.”

“And me?”

“Yes, until we can get you back with Miss Sunny and her…uh, girls.” They walked up the steps while Kat prayed that the reunion would be tomorrow.

A mouth-watering whiff of a hearty soup and fresh bread greeted Kat as she opened the door, and so did the squeal of children. The two couples boarding here had expected to return to Colorado Springs on the afternoon train, but even if their plans had changed, they were both childless.

Taking Rosita’s hand, she stepped inside and led the little girl to
the parlor doorway. Hattie’s phonograph played while a mother rocked and nursed a baby, her eyes closed. A little boy stacked wooden blocks in the corner while two little girls giggled over dolls on the sofa.

Rosita tugged Kat’s arm, hiding behind her skirts. “Your Nell?”

Kat shook her head and whispered, “No, I don’t know who that is.” She guessed Nell was helping Hattie in the kitchen, working to feed these unexpected guests. “But let’s go find Nell.”

The hallway opened up into a large dining room where two women set plates and soup bowls on the table. Kat recognized one of them from the train—she was Lucille’s mother. Had they fallen prey to the fire too?

Lucille’s mother looked up at Kat, a hint of recognition lighting her eyes and inspiring a smile. “Hello. I was so exhausted on the train, I don’t think we even exchanged names. I’m Edith Reger.”

Kat returned the woman’s smile and gestured toward the other woman. “Is this your sister?”

“No. She’s the one in the parlor, feeding my nephew. Their house is gone, and so is Thelma’s here.” Edith squeezed the shorter woman’s hand.

“I’m so sorry.” Kat’s heart sunk. Her troubles paled in comparison. “I’m Kat Sinclair.”

“Nell’s sister.” Thelma’s voice was as thin as her soot-smudged face.

“I am.” Kat took a step toward the source of all the stomach-stirring aromas, her wee shadow clinging to her skirt. “Is Nell in the house?”

Edith shook her head. “She went back over to the church, but she shouldn’t be long.”

Nell wasn’t here? A lump formed in Kat’s throat. She needed her
sister. Just to see her. To touch her to know for sure that she was all right. To talk to her about all that had gone on. Kat moistened her lips, hoping to soften her anxiety.

“Your sister was concerned about you.” Edith glanced down at Rosita. “I see you’ve been busy too.”

“Yes.” Kat didn’t want to get into her experience right now. She would tell the story once. “Nell’s at the church?”

“She and Sister Veronica took food over to the woman and children staying at St. Peter’s.” Thelma spoke as she set the bowls on the plates. “I don’t know what we would’ve done without her. She’s so good with the children. Had them calmed down and laughing in no time.”

That sounded like Nell. She’d always been good with children, and helping others seemed to feed Nell’s soul.

Edith set spoons beside the plates. “When St. Peter’s started running out of room, Nell brought us here to Hattie’s.”

Sister Veronica must have been the one who came to them in the bucket line, looking for help. Just as Kat began piecing the puzzle together, Lucille whooshed into the room carrying a bread basket and a crock of butter. “Miss Kat! There you are! Where have you been?”

Kat sighed. “It’s a long story.” Glancing down at the little girl at her side, she rubbed her temple where a headache had suddenly lodged. “This is Rosita.”

“I want my house.” Rosita hung back, burying her face in Kat’s skirt. “I want my mama.”

“Oh, honey, I want my mama too.” Hattie rushed into the dining room, carrying a pink tureen with steam rising from it. “And my stars, am I glad to see you. Nell will be too.”

“You have a mama?” Rosita’s shoulders relaxed a bit as she peered up at the gray-haired woman in front of her.

“I did.” Hattie set the dish on the table, smiling at the child. “But she’s gone now.” She cocked an eyebrow in Kat’s direction.

“This is Rosita.” Kat wondered if the woman knew the child’s mother was gone too, and if so, how? “She’s…she’s with me. Just until tomorrow,” she added.

“My mama gone too.” Rosita’s lip began to quiver again.

Tears filled Hattie’s eyes. “Oh, child.” She patted Rosita’s raven black hair and looked over at Kat. “Today?”

Nodding, Kat wiped at the tears that began to spill over her own eyelids.

“Well then, Rosita, you and I have a lot to talk about. I’ll put you in the chair right beside me for supper. Is that all right with you?”

The child nodded, and then followed Hattie to the table. Soon, five children, including Rosita, and five women gathered around the food set before them. Rosita sat between Hattie and Kat. The chair on Kat’s other side remained empty, and she fought the urge to go to St. Peter’s Church and bring her sister home.

“Let’s talk to the good Lord, shall we?” Hattie reached for Rosita’s hand on one side and Lucille’s on the other. Taking her lead, they all joined hands.

Just as Hattie was about to say amen, the front door burst open and Kat jumped up from her seat.

“Kat? Are you here?” Nell ran into the room, rambling on about bucket brigades, burning houses, and women and children needing cared for. Kat met her halfway, just as Nell started to cry.

“I’m here.”

She wrapped her sister in a warm embrace, ignoring the ache in her shoulder. When they’d dried their tears, Kat led Nell to the table where the other women thanked Nell for all she’d done for them and for so many others.

Nell looked a mess—her clothes soiled and smoky and her hair mussed—but as she sat down, her eyes sparkled with a kind of satisfaction that Kat didn’t feel. Helping others seemed as natural to Nell as blossoms were to spring. Nell had found her place here.

Kat sighed. Now all she had to do was to figure out where she belonged in this new territory.

N
INE

M
organ finished scrubbing his hands in the washbowl and grabbed the only towel he could find. He tried to block out the mews and coos of the newborn and his mother. Some doctors weren’t meant to birth babies.

And neither were some midwives. He scrubbed the rough cotton against his hands, thinking of the helpless woman. She was a pretty girl, he remembered, but clearly scatterbrained.

“You done real good, Doc.” At least the new mother wasn’t swearing at him anymore. “You saved my boy.”

Thank You, Lord
.

“By the grace of God.” Morgan balled up the towel. If only he understood why His grace helped some and not others.

“Don’t know nothin’ about that, but me and my boy are alive, and us women are lucky to have a doc like you ’round here.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She let out a guffaw, and her son whimpered. “I look like a ma’am to you?”

Not one iota
. Morgan turned away from the bare leg that curled out around the sheet.

“Didn’t think so.”

She also didn’t look like a woman who should be mothering a baby. Opal, on the other hand, would’ve made a fine mother. The world was upside down.

“Name’s Iris. And you’re much too stuffy for the miners and the cowboys around here.”

“If behaving in a proper and respectful manner is stuffy, then I’m guilty. I’ll thank you to cover yourself proper-like. We run a respectable hospital.” At least he hoped they did. How would he know? He’d tended to burns and delivered a baby, but he still hadn’t met anyone in charge.

She flipped the thin sheet over her leg.

“Thank you.” This culture of familiarity and impropriety would take some getting used to.

“You’ll get used to things around here soon,” Iris said, adjusting her son in her arms. “Even learn to like it.”

He wasn’t sure he possessed enough imagination to believe that.

“I need to check on my patients in the burn ward.” He laid the towel over the back of a chair and headed for the door. “I’ll send someone in to help you clean up.”

As soon as Morgan stepped into the hallway, a beak-nosed man planted himself in front of him. “Well, aren’t you something?” The man’s imperious look told Morgan that
being something
in his eyes was more reprimand than praise.

“Sir?” Morgan unrolled his shirt sleeves. He wished he had the suit coat he’d left in the burn ward.

“Sir?”
The deep grooves above the bridge of the man’s nose formed a permanent scowl. “Folks around here call me Doc Hanson.”

“Morgan Cutshaw.” Morgan stretched out his arm for a handshake, but when his new boss didn’t reciprocate, he withdrew it and stuffed it into his pocket.

“I presume you met Miss Sinclair.”

“I only got her given name, but she and her son seem well.”

Hanson chuckled. “That was Iris, one of Blanche Barton’s girls. Miss Sinclair is the young woman who nearly knocked me down in her rush to get away from you.”

“The midwife. I wanted to talk to you about her.”

“Save your rant.” Hanson raised a gnarled hand. “Miss Sinclair isn’t a midwife.”

“But she was—”

“Here as a patient.”

Morgan flinched. A patient? Why didn’t she say something? Not that he’d given her much of a chance.

“She saved a little Mexican girl from a spray of glass, and a piece dug into her shoulder. She was here recovering.”

No wonder she’d looked so shocked at his reprimand. He’d barked at a good Samaritan. Remorse knotted Morgan’s stomach.

“I didn’t know—”

Dr. Hanson interrupted him. “You a gambler, Dr. Morgan Cutshaw?”

Morgan watched Dr. Hanson for a moment, trying to read his new boss.

“Apparently so.” He’d gone all in, leaving everything and everyone he knew to pursue the unknown. An act of faith or a gamble? He
couldn’t say for sure. He’d already played his cards wrong. He had meant to avoid entanglements with women, but thus far he’d hit a swarm of them. The fair Miss Taggart. Miss Iris, who was most comfortable without a stitch of clothing on, no matter the company. And Miss Sinclair—to whom he owed an apology. “Why do you ask?”