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“As best we can.” Briefly, she detailed Granny Mae’s cooking and her role as the local folk medicine specialist and occasional veterinary consultant. She also told him about the fire that burned the contents of chamber pots, and the boiling kettles of sheets. “Granny Mae prefers traditional remedies to science, but she has unbent a little. And some of her advice has been rather helpful, although I did draw the line at letting her put sulfur in the patients’ shoes to ‘burn’ the illness out of them.”

  He continued to stare in moderate horror. Jessica didn’t want to scare him off, but it was a pleasure to watch his gasbag attitude deflate a little.

  “Obviously, this influenza epidemic is an unusual situation. Once it passes”—if it passes, she thought—“things will return to normal.”

  “Normal—but what about surgeries, such as cholecystectomies and bowel obstructions? Real emergencies?”

  She permitted herself a smile, thoroughly enjoying every moment of this. “Oh, well, those you’ll handle in the back room of the office. There is no operating table, but I’m sure you could order one. My father was the doctor here before his death, and sometimes he performed caesarian deliveries and such on a kitchen table if the patients couldn’t travel to him.”

  Frederick Pearson’s face acquired such a scarlet, pinched appearance, Jess thought he looked as if he’d either swallowed a box of alum or was having an apoplectic fit.

  “Are you all right, Doctor?”

  He uttered an incomprehensible sound.

  “I gather that you’re not accustomed to a more modest practice style.”

  “Hardly.” It seemed to be the only word he could choke out.

  She brightened. “Oh, I just remembered—the medical office does have a telephone. Unfortunately, most other people here don’t, and it’s only operational during daytime hours.”

  “Hmm.” He managed a very sour smile.

  “I’d offer to take you on rounds and update you on the current patient census here, but I’m sure you must be tired after your long trip. Shall we meet again tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes—tomorrow. That would be better.”

  Frederick Pearson walked back to the hotel with dragging steps and climbed to the second floor where his room was located. Once inside, he planted his generous posterior on the worn cushion of the wing chair, wishing all the more desperately to be delivered from this provincial grease spot on the map.

  He was so offended and outraged by what he’d seen and heard so far, he thought his head might explode. Surely, Charon had ferried him across the Acheron into Dante’s first level of hell.

  He wished yet again that he had never been forced to leave his civilized Connecticut for the savage, gauche wilds beyond the Eastern Seaboard. He missed desperately the Pearson manse in Hartford, with its large, manicured grounds, its deferential, efficient servants, and other such basic amenities he’d not known since his hasty departure.

  He yearned for the pleasant summers spent at the Pearson cottage in Newport, Rhode Island. Cottage was the foolish but endearing term for the grand homes of marble and gilt owned by the best families, where he’d enjoyed the convivial company of other summer vacationers such as the Vanderbilts, the Berwinds, and the Astors. The winter season brought concerts and the theater, elegant Christmas soirées, smart dinner parties and weekly salons, and trips into New York City. That life of refined comfort was just a memory now, one that he fervently wished to make real again. And it seemed that the farther west he’d traveled, the more primitive the country became. It wouldn’t surprise him to see cowboys and Indians whoop down the muddy street beneath his hotel windows.

  He stood and walked to the coat tree that held his jacket. From the inside pocket he withdrew a silver flask which contained the last of the cognac he’d carried with him across the country. Searching the room, he found not so much as a plain drinking glass, so he was forced to drink the choice French brandy straight from the flask. Glum, he flopped into a slick horsehair wing chair that had seen far better days.

  Although it wasn’t in Frederick’s nature to look on the bright side of irremediable situations, he could acknowledge the fact that through his father’s political connections, a particular senator had permitted him to be spared from the army and thus the war. So at least he wasn’t in some French field hospital, working under even worse conditions than those offered by Powell Springs.

  Of course, no good deed went unpunished. To his misfortune, he hadn’t realized that in exchange for this boon, he’d been expected to accept the matrimonial hand of the senator’s eldest and most socially awkward daughter. So unattractive and lacking in grace was this female—despite a score of tutors, dance instructors, and finishing schools, and an incalculable number of suitors who’d escaped—at age twenty-eight, she remained unmarried. The good senator’s wife had even gone so far as to “let slip” the spinster’s engagement to him, which of course, Frederick found intolerable. After an ugly scene that had included the renewed threat of military service—as an infantryman—Frederick Pearson had agreed to leave the East for any available position in a faraway American locale.

  In his correspondence with Mayor Cookson, he had been led to believe that Powell Springs was a thriving community immediately adjacent to Portland, where timber barons and newspaper tycoons lived in the luxurious style to which he was accustomed. But Willets, the hayseed stationmaster, had told him that the city was a good fifteen to twenty miles west, with not much between but farmland and a few other towns just like Powell Springs. From what little he’d seen, Powell Springs itself was nothing more than a country hamlet.

  “‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’” he muttered. Then he took the last swallow of cognac from his flask, letting the drops run out onto his tongue.

  Adam Jacobsen sat on a rocker in Laura Donaldson’s parlor, facing Amy Layton. He balanced his clipboard on his knee, which held a sheaf of papers. He had made this call to secure the older woman’s signature on his petition. She’d given it gladly and invited him to lunch.

  “Do you have enough names, do you think?” Amy asked him. Though dressed, she reclined in an overstuffed chair with her feet propped on a needlepoint stool. She wore a large pale-blue shawl draped around her shoulders and looked very much the convalescent.

  He tapped the pages of names. “Not yet, maybe, but I’ll collect more at tonight’s town meeting, and I’m sure those will give us more than we need. Anyway, now that Dr. Pearson is here, it really should be only an administrative matter.”

  He’d had a visit from Whitney Gannon about the property damage that had occurred at the medical office. Of course, he couldn’t condone that kind of violence, and he’d been annoyed that James Leonard had done something so stupid. It would only hurt their cause, not help it. He’d assured Sheriff Gannon that he’d do everything possible to keep his followers from committing further vandalism. In return, Gannon said he wouldn’t arrest Leonard, but only fine him with the provision that he pay for the repair. Besides, that office would soon be occupied by Dr. Pearson, and what good would it do to break the windows?

  Adam put on an expression of regret. “It’s a shame that your own sister, a woman from a fine family, has proven to be so immoral and faithless. This must all be very distressing for you, Amy, especially since you’re still recovering from your illness. To discover that Jessica and Braddock have been consorting behind your back while you were in your sickbed—well, I can imagine that it’s a bitter blow.”

  “And the lies they accused me of—sending a forged telegram to Jess to steal Cole away from her.” She pressed her palm to her forehead. “You can’t begin to know how that crushed me. But then, she was unfair to you, too. I can’t understand what happened to the sister I remember. Those years back East must have changed her. She said they did—I just didn’t realize how much.”

  A clucking Mrs. Donaldson walked in just then, bearing a tray of tea and clever little double-layer sandwiches with the crusts cut off. “I’ve brought you a bit
of lunch. You probably don’t get many home-cooked meals now, Mr. Jacobsen, since Nettie quit.”

  “I’m doing the best I can, Mrs. Donaldson, but I appreciate your kindness. Nettie Stark worked for us for so long, I never dreamed she would side against me in this. Being a shepherd for the Lord’s flock can be a lonely job sometimes.”

  Mrs. Donaldson put the tray on a small table between him and Amy, and handed him a plate that held two egg sandwiches and a cup of tea. “Well, don’t you worry, you know you’re welcome here anytime at all. And I’m sure Amy would enjoy your visits.”

  Amy adjusted the folds of her woolen shawl. “Oh, I would! I’m afraid I’m not completely recovered just yet, but I know I’ll be back to my old self soon. Mrs. Donaldson takes such good care of me.” She took the teacup the woman put in her hands and stirred two spoons of sugar into the dark amber beverage. “In fact, if I could get a ride to city hall, I’d like to come to the meeting tonight.”

  Adam stared at her, surprised. He hadn’t even asked her to sign his petition—that would be more than he could expect. “Are you sure? After all, it’s your sister we’ll be talking about.”

  She gave him a sweet smile. “Yes, but I can love the sinner without loving the sin, can’t I? Isn’t that what you would teach us, Reverend?”

  Heat rose to his face. Even in her wanness, she was still a lovely young woman. “Well, yes, of course. That’s the best way to look at things.”

  “Besides, I want Powell Springs to remember that this is my hometown, and even though Jessica has let me down, I still care about the people here.”

  “What a generous, courageous woman you are.” He smiled too, and Mrs. Donaldson folded her hands, positively beaming. “I can bring my buggy for you tonight at, say, six thirty? I’ll try not to keep you out too late.”

  “More than one good thing might come from this,” Mrs. Donaldson said, still grinning like a matchmaker. “If you really feel you’re up to it, Amy.”

  “I think it will do me good to get out. I’ve been cooped up for so long.”

  Adam devoured the silly sandwiches and drank his tea, eager to be about his business. “Well, then. I’ll call for you at six thirty. I don’t mean to rush off like this, but I have a couple of important things to attend to before the meeting.” To Laura he said, “Make sure Amy rests up this afternoon.”

  Nodding eagerly, she replied, “Oh, yes, I will, I will.”

  Amy lifted a limp hand and waved. “I’m so glad you stopped by—Adam.”

  He paused, then reached for her hand and kissed it. “Until this evening, then.” Then he walked out into the chilly noon weather.

  Emmaline sat on her iron bed and patted the spot beside it. “Come on, Frank. Come and sit beside me.” The influenza epidemic had slowed business to a crawl for the past few weeks, and she hadn’t been able to deposit any money in the bank for her boys. Just earning enough to buy food had been a challenge. Tanner had visited to give her an update about the kids and had told her not to worry about the account. There was enough in it for their care. After he’d gone, she’d even found a five-dollar bill that he’d tucked under the sugar bowl on her table. But she worried anyway. So seeing Frank Meadows again came as a relief, even though she still thought he was a little odd.

  Huh, as if all her other customers didn’t have their quirks. Just so they didn’t get too drunk or hurt her, she was willing to put up with almost anything. At least Frank washed.

  He smiled and settled next to her, unknotting his tie as the bedsprings sank beneath his weight.

  “You haven’t been to see me in a while. How are those tractor sales going?”

  “What? Oh.” He shrugged. “Things have been difficult lately. Farmers aren’t much interested in tractors and tillers with their families sick.”

  “Yeah, I don’t suppose so. It’s been pretty slow around here, too.”

  He turned and reached for her, snaking a hand inside her dressing gown to stroke her breast. Then pushing her back on the thin mattress, he kissed her while wriggling out of his own clothes. He flung them over the high foot of her bed, willy-nilly. Usually he was like a fussy old aunt about folding them. Now she sensed an urgency that she hadn’t noticed in him before, as if something besides lust had brought him up here. It almost bordered on violence.

  “Emmaline, it’s been so long,” he said next to her ear. He wasted no time on preliminary groping, but instead entered her with a forceful jab that surprised her.

  Like a marionette, Em gave the impression of being involved in this moment, matching her movements to accommodate Frank’s thrusting hips, but in reality, her thoughts were far away. That she could separate herself from the grunting, sweating men who paid for her time and body, she saw as a blessing. Without that ability, she’d probably go crazy. So although she might see over Frank’s shoulder to his white, flexing buttocks, in her mind she stood in the endless green pasture on the farm where she’d grown up. Above her the sky was deep blue, the way she imagined the ocean might look, and a soft June breeze ruffled the grass around her feet as she—

  Suddenly, the door to her shanty flew open so hard the doorknob bounced off the wall behind it. Frank jumped, withdrawing from her, his erection shriveling up like a slug that had had salt poured on it. Irrelevantly, she noticed that although naked, he’d kept his socks on.

  “Now there you go, Gannon! Didn’t I tell you something rotten was going on up here?”

  In the doorway, Emmaline saw that lowdown scoundrel Lambert Bauer. Whit Gannon stood behind him.

  “Lambert!” she shrieked, frightened and furious.

  Whit, a tall, wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair and a big mustache, looked mortified. His voice boomed up from his chest. “Damn it, Bauer, is this why you dragged me all the way out to Emmaline’s place? You told me she was breaking the law—you made it sound like she murdered someone. Em minds her own business and we let her do it!”

  “Well, Jesus Christ, Gannon! She’s my wife! That can’t be legal, what she’s doing. Are you gonna stand here and tell me there isn’t some law about whoring or something you can arrest her for? And what about that son of a bitch with her on the bed, his cock hanging out like—” Lambert pulled up short in his tirade and peered at Frank, who scrambled to cover himself. “Hey—hey now, wait just a minute. I know you!”

  Whit took a closer look at Frank as well and immediately looked away, embarrassed. “Look, Bauer, I’m not going to pursue this, and if you make any more trouble for this woman, I’m going to lock you up for thirty days. This is my jurisdiction and I don’t care what you want to claim. Emmaline is a friend of mine and she doesn’t hurt anyone.”

  “She shot at me once! What about that?” Lambert was nearly purple with rage.

  “Too bad she missed. You probably had it coming. Besides, I’ve been hearing suspicious talk about you and some jewelry you’ve been using to buy drinks. I think I’ll have to check into where you got it.” Whit grabbed him by the scruff of his skinny neck and pushed him out the door. With a brief, backward glance he said, “Sorry about this, folks. I didn’t realize why Bauer brought me here or I never would have come. Emmaline, you let me know if he pesters you again. I’ll kick his ass all the way to the county line.” He shut the door behind him. There was a sound of scuffling feet just outside, and then the slamming of car doors.

  Em’s heart beat like a frightened bird’s, and she felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. “Oh, God, Frank. I’m so sorry. That Lambert is no good. He never has been.”

  But Frank, as pale as milk, was already scurrying back into his clothes. “I’ve got to go, Em.”

  “No, please don’t leave. I’m really sorry. I’ll even let you have it on the house. I feel terrible about this!” Beyond the blackberry brambles, she heard the sound of an automobile engine turning over, then the crunching of gravel under the car’s wheels.

  Frank had his pants, shoes, and shirt on, half-buttoned and untucked. His tie was looped over one arm, an
d his jacket hung over the other. If word of this got out, of crazy Lambert Bauer kicking in her door and scaring away her customers, she’d be out of business, and what would happen to the boys? They were all she had in this lousy world, even if she never got to see them.

  Frank flung open the door and raced out, not bothering to close it. A moment later, his horse and buggy lurched from her yard at a fast clip.

  Emmaline dragged herself up from the bed, and with a hand braced on the doorframe, she watched Frank Meadows’s retreat.

  Goddamn that worthless Lambert Bauer. If he’d been even half the man he should have been, her kids would be safe and she wouldn’t have to worry about doing this degrading work.

  For the first time in a very long while, she pressed her face against her arm and cried.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Jessica leaned toward the mirror over her bathroom sink to pin up straggling wisps of her hair. This morning, she’d had to meet with Dr. Pearson again at the infirmary to discuss the current cases and turn over her notes to him. In a profession dominated by men, she had experienced her share of haughty disdain, but given the circumstances, his was especially galling. His quiet scorn for everything she showed him about the facility had radiated from him. Nothing, apparently, was up to his standards or expectations.

  After they’d toured the infirmary, she had brought him back here to show him the office and upstairs apartment, with its two convenient rooms for patients requiring round-the-clock care, such as typical surgery cases or those too ill to return home immediately. There was no doubt that he found it all to be lacking.

  When he left, she’d stomped back upstairs for a moment of calm and to start packing her things, still furious with the insufferable man. These were urgent times, times that called for cooperation and the willingness to work toward the common goal of saving lives. Egos and prejudices only hampered those efforts. No, the high school gym wasn’t Bellevue Hospital, but they had to make due with the facilities and equipment available.