Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (13 page)

“So now you presume to know how I think.” She couldn’t make up her mind whether to be annoyed or amused.

“If I’m wrong, I apologize.” He tilted his head. “If not, your chariot awaits.” He bowed from the waist. “And this charming and admittedly annoying driver is at your service.”

She tried to maintain a cool demeanor but she had a hard time keeping a straight face. “Your modesty overwhelms me,” she said. Why did she always feel like she was on the verge of losing control in his presence?

His grin widened. “I’ll have to be more careful in the future. Did you know that modesty ruins more kidneys than whiskey?”

Donny gazed up at the doctor, his eyes bright with admiration. “And did you know that the moon has caused more insanity than syphilis?”

Molly’s mouth dropped open. “Donny! We mustn’t talk of such things.”

Donny didn’t look the least bit chagrined. “It’s true.”

“I believe it is, but your sister is right. Such talk should be left to doctors, moral reformers, and rumormongers.” Caleb gave Donny’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze and turned his attention to Molly. “About church . . . it’s not every Sunday that the circuit preacher is in town.”

“Sorry, not interested, but thank you anyway.” She turned toward the house.

“I am.”

Her brother’s voice stopped her in her tracks. She stared at him in astonishment. “You never wanted to go to church before.”

He glanced at the doctor. “I do now.”

She leaned over the wheelchair and lowered her voice. “Remember what happened last time we went to church?”

“He’ll protect us,” Donny whispered back.

She caught her breath. Not only did Donny’s faith in the doctor surprise her, but it was woefully misplaced.

“So what’s the verdict?” Dr. Fairbanks asked.

She straightened. “Perhaps another time.” She started toward the door again but Donny grabbed her skirt, beseeching her. They stared at each other for a moment before he released her.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he said.

She could hardly believe her ears. He was dismissing her? Just like that?

She met the doctor’s gaze. His serious expression could not hide the warm light of triumph in his eyes. He had her over a barrel and he knew it.

“Your brother will be perfectly safe with me if you choose not to come.” When she made no reply he added, “You can trust me.”

Trust this man with Donny? How could she? At the moment she was having trouble trusting herself with him. The man could charm the bark off a tree.

“I’ll go to church with you,” she said. “I . . . just need to change.” Her divided skirt and man’s shirt would hardly pass muster in polite company, let alone church.

She dashed inside and up the stairs before realizing she was
shaking. Her nerves were due to the prospect of walking into a church after she swore never to set foot in one again, and had nothing—absolutely nothing—to do with the kindhearted doctor.

If only she didn’t feel that she was about to travel down an unfamiliar and maybe even a dangerous path.

Chapter 12

T
he vehicle jiggled, shimmied, and bounced down the bumpy road and it was all Molly could do to hang on or risk being tossed in the air.

Horseless carriage indeed! A bone-shaking monster was more like it. Why, oh why, had she agreed to ride in this dreadful, awful thing?

She gripped the side until her knuckles turned white, but nothing could prevent her teeth from rattling. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Engine smoke stung her eyes and her throat closed in protest. The sickly reek of gasoline fumes and burning rubber made her want to gag. Ear-splitting vibrations pounded her head.

None of it seemed to bother her brother sitting in the backseat holding Magic in his arms. His smile reached from ear to ear.

Molly was just about to fling herself over the side when, mercifully, they pulled up to the church. Dr. Fairbanks parked behind a row of carriages, drawing curious stares from people standing outside. The engine made a strange choking sound before convulsing to a stop.

Molly slumped against the seat, fanning herself with her hand. Her stomach churned but whether from motion sickness or anxiety, she couldn’t say. Probably both.

It was a surprisingly large church given the size of the town. The high adobe steeple looked like hands lifted in prayer. Stainedglass windows circled the building and a tidy cemetery spread out like a board game in back, the gravestones staggered like chessmen.

The doctor jumped to the ground and hurried around the front of the vehicle to her side. “See? Nothing to worry about. I got you both here safe and sound.”

The quirk of his mouth told her he was enjoying himself at her expense. He held out his hand to help her from the buggy.

She took her time before placing her hand in his. “That . . . was the worst ride I’ve . . . ever . . . had,” she huffed.

He leaned forward to whisper in her ear, his breath sending warm and surprisingly pleasant shivers down her spine. “Don’t let Bertha hear you say that. You’ll hurt her feelings.”

She lowered her foot to the ground and, distracted by his nearness, lost her balance. His large hands nearly circled her narrow waist as he lifted her the rest of the way down, holding her in his arms until she gained her footing.

Before she had time to recover from the ride—or maybe even his touch—he had already reached for the wheelchair tied to the back.

Straightening her tilted blue hat that matched her bright blue frock, she swallowed hard in an effort to brace herself for the inevitable stares. Already a crowd gathered around them, but much to her surprise no one seemed to notice either her or Donny. Men, women, children— everyone—all gawked at the motor buggy.

“I say, old chap, how fast does it go?” asked a man with a British accent and dressed in a pin-striped suit and derby hat.

“Fifteen miles an hour on good roads,” the doctor replied as he transported Donny from the backseat of the auto to the wheelchair.
Molly envied the ease with which he was able to move her brother so quickly and smoothly while she had to struggle, more now than when he was younger.

A white-haired man discounted the claim with a wave of his hand. “A horse can go that fast.”

“Indefinitely?” Dr. Fairbanks asked.

“Of course not,” the man admitted.

“I can go that speed for as long as the fuel lasts. Ten, twelve hours, it doesn’t matter.” His statement was met with a murmur of amazement.

A white-haired matron examined Bertha through a tortoiseshell lorgnette. “Unbelievable.”

A man held a hearing horn to the side of the auto as if he expected it to say something. “Incredible.”

Dr. Fairbanks pushed Donny’s wheelchair away from the crowd. An older woman, dressed in a plum-colored gown better suited to someone half her age, broke away from a knot of people standing off to the side and hurried to greet them.

“There you are,” she said to the doctor. She clapped her hands together and her triple chins shook like a stack of books about to topple over. Her felt sugar-bowl hat was surprisingly plain with none of the feathers or froufrou of other women’s hats.

“I heard you leave the house early and I thought you had a medical emergency.” Her gaze swept Molly up and down, curiosity carved into every buttery line of her pleasant face.

“Mrs. Adams, I want you to meet Miss Hatfield and her brother, Donny.”

Mrs. Adams extended a bejeweled hand. “Pleased to meet you.” She nodded at Donny. “You too, young man. But please, everyone calls me Aunt Bessie.”

“She insists upon being called
aunt
whether or not you’re related to her,” Dr. Fairbanks explained in an aside.

Molly shook the woman’s hand. “Please call me Molly.”

Aunt Bessie was one of the few people who looked Donny in the eye. That alone would have been enough to earn Molly’s approval if the woman’s brightly colored dress hadn’t already done so.

“Dr. Fairbanks was good enough to give us a ride to church,” Molly said politely.

“Dr. Fairbanks is what his patients call him. You are obviously a friend and should call him by his given name, Caleb.”

Molly blushed. “Well, I—”

“
Molly
,” Caleb said, obviously approving the use of first names, “is staying at the ranch.”

“Oh, so you’re the one,” Aunt Bessie exclaimed. “I heard Miss Walker had another heiress. That makes how many now?” She looked to Caleb for an answer but he simply shrugged.

“Don’t ask me, I’m new in town,” Caleb said.

“It’s at least eight or nine,” Aunt Bessie said in a chatty tone that suggested she had much to say on the subject. “Most didn’t last but a day or two. Except for Kate Tenney, now betrothed to my nephew. You must meet her. I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about.”

“I’d like that,” Molly said, though she had little time to socialize.

“She’s a writer, you know,” Aunt Bessie continued, lowering her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “She writes
dime
novels. You’ll love the one that was banned in Boston.”

Molly tried to suppress a giggle but couldn’t. She’d never expected to meet anyone quite like the older woman, certainly not in church.

In a louder voice Aunt Bessie said, “You must come to the wedding. Your brother too. I’ll send you an invitation.”

Molly had no intention of attending the wedding, but Aunt Bessie was so warm and friendly she couldn’t bring herself to decline, at least not to her face. Better to drop her a polite note later. “Thank you.”

“Come along or all the good seats will be taken.” Aunt Bessie slipped an arm through Molly’s and whispered, “You must tell me your secret for such lovely pink cheeks and red lips. Is it beet juice?”

“Carmine,” Molly whispered back.

Aunt Bessie blinked. “Really? But it looks so natural.”

“You have to brush it on with a light hand,” Molly explained. Until recently, only actresses and prostitutes openly wore face paint. Respectable women wishing to obtain “natural beauty” were forced to kiss red crepe paper, pinch cheeks, and use burnt hair pins to darken lashes on the sly.

But that was gradually changing. Women in the workforce or living in large cities such as Denver shunned the pale skin that had been popular for most of the century. They openly wore rouge and tinted zinc oxide face powder, much to the disapproval of their elders. A woman could even purchase bust cream to enhance her figure.

“Where can I purchase carmine?” Aunt Bessie asked.

Molly was surprised by the question. Only young women painted. Surely Aunt Bessie wasn’t serious about doing something that many still considered scandalous. “Montgomery Ward now carries cosmetics,” Molly whispered back.

Aunt Bessie’s eyes grew round as a child’s on Christmas morn. “I had no idea you could order such things by mail. Whatever will they think of next?”

They entered the church and Aunt Bessie hurried off to join her husband while Molly followed Caleb.

“I really like her,” Molly said. If only more church people were as down-to-earth and friendly.

He grinned. “She does tend to grow on you, doesn’t she?”

Whispered voices spoken behind gloved hands floated to her in bits and pieces.

“Who is that?”

“. . . looks like a harlot.”

“The nerve . . . in a house of worship no less.”

If Caleb hadn’t already parked her brother’s wheelchair next to a wall out of the way of traffic, she would have left right then and there. Instead she followed him and took her place at the end of the pew between Caleb and Donny.

The horseless carriage no longer a diversion, she and Donny were clearly the center of attention. All around them people whispered and stared, just like they did at the church back home.

The wheelchair never failed to solicit attention, but what would she have done without it? When she was fourteen and Donny six, she played hooky from school to travel to Denver. There she met with a doctor known for miracle cures—some of the miners swore by him. That doctor studied Donny’s medical records but gave her no hope. He did, however, offer her the use of a chair with wheels that had belonged to his deceased grandfather. She hadn’t even known that such a chair existed and was ecstatic.

People stared at her as she pushed that chair through the streets of Denver to the stage depot. At first the Concord driver refused to allow the chair on the crowded coach. But she insisted and he finally relented after she greased his palm with a gold coin. For most of the journey, she hung out the window to keep her eye on the chair rattling and jostling in back of the coach with each rut of the road.

As she feared, the chair eventually fell off and she banged on the roof with pounding fists until the driver stopped. By the time she’d
retrieved it, the stage had left her behind. She was forced to walk the remaining five miles pushing the chair uphill all the way.

Sheer hope got her up that mountainside. She was so certain that the chair would make a difference in Donny’s life she would have swum across the ocean to get it to him. But after their first outing, it was two years before he agreed to sit in the chair again. He didn’t like people gawking at him.