When the Heart Heals (7 page)

“Rosemary?” The girl's high-pitched voice warbled from the porch steps. “Where are you?”

Bodie's ears perked up when he heard Jolene. He bounded across the yard and stopped at her feet, wagging his tail.

Rosemary ducked through the opening and fastened the door behind her. “I found the greenhouse open and went to check.” She rubbed her forehead as she crossed the yard. “I don't understand how I could have been so forgetful.”

“Maybe the door blew open. The wind howled last night.” She shuddered. “I don't like that noise. Sounds like ghosts.”

Rosemary slipped an arm around the girl's shoulders. “There's no such thing as ghosts. Besides, this house is stout. We won't blow away.”

She locked the back door, grateful for the heat radiating from the cookstove.

“I got the fire going,” Jolene said. “The kettle's on for tea. I think after a cup and a bite of toast I'll be able to help you.” Her pale skin belied her brave words.

Rosemary glanced at the corner of the worktable where she'd left a block of lard and a can of lye. “We'll start this afternoon. Drink your tea and rest for a bit.” She blew out a long breath. “First, I'm going to see Dr. Stewart.”

Dr. Stewart met Rosemary when she entered the waiting area. “Good. You changed your mind. I hoped you would.” He strode toward her, a broad smile on his face. “I'm willing to give you a little time to find a home for Miss Graves. Perhaps a week?”

She wondered why he hadn't noticed she was wearing her gray silk dress and spoon bonnet rather than her normal work attire of plain calico. “Miss Graves's situation need not concern you further. I came to collect my share of the payment from Mr. Haggerty.”

His eyebrows shot upward. “You're not coming back?”

“No.” She kept her voice steady, but her throat tightened. Spending the days with him had been educational as well as pleasurable. If Jacob were correct, she'd gained the respect of some of the townspeople in the process. She prayed their favorable regard wouldn't disappear along with her employment.

“Miss Saxon . . .” He held out a hand toward her, then dropped it. “How about two weeks?”

The pleading in his deep brown eyes unnerved her. He looked like a boy—quite a tall, burly boy, but a boy nonetheless. She straightened her shoulders, determined not to weaken. “Miss Graves will remain with me as long as necessary. Now, I'd appreciate my wages, if you please.”

“Of course.” He strode to his office and took a small envelope from his desktop. “Here's your share from Mr. Haggerty. I set it aside last evening.” He placed the sum in her hand, but held on to an edge of the envelope. “You're sure?”

“I am.” She kept her tone brisk and dropped the money in her handbag, hoping her uncertainty didn't show on her face. The next stop would be the mercantile for a talk with Faith. She'd find another way to remain independent. She had to.

R
osemary stood on her back porch, wearing an apron and wrapped in a shawl. She held a wooden spoon over a large glass bowl half-filled with water. “Be careful. Pour slowly,” she said to Jolene.

“I know. I did this for my ma all the time. Just never had store-boughten lye—we always made soap from stove ash.” Holding the container close to the surface of the water, she poured the concentrated lye while Rosemary stirred.

As the mixture dissolved, the sides of the bowl warmed. Rosemary wrinkled her nose as she set the water aside to cool. “Let's go in. The lard should be melted by now.”

Once in the kitchen, she removed the pot from the stove and carried it outside, placing it on a bench next to the glass bowl. When the liquefied fat cooled, they'd be ready to combine ingredients for her special shaving soap.

Jolene sank into a chair and sniffled. “I miss my ma. Wish I'd never left home.”

Understanding pierced Rosemary's heart. “It's the little memories that pain us the most, isn't it? I remember my mother teaching me about herbs and plants. She loved growing things.”

“Oh, I'm sorry!” Jolene's eyes filled with compassion. “I didn't know your ma had passed.”

“She hasn't.” At least, not that she knew.

“But you said—”

Rosemary replaced her shawl over her shoulders. “I need to check the lard. We can't let it get cold.” She escaped out the door, berating herself for letting memories run away with her. Her own mother might be unreachable, but surely Jolene's would welcome her daughter back. The next time she saw Curt she'd ask to borrow his buggy.

Jolene trailed her onto the porch, carrying a second glass container. She cast a curious glance at her before raising the pot and pouring the cooled lard into the empty bowl.

Grateful for her help, and her silence, Rosemary lifted the lye mixture. “Ready?” This time she poured while Jolene stirred. When the spoon left traces in the white compound, she uncorked a vial of sassafras oil and tipped in two teaspoonfuls, then placed a square wooden box on the bench. A sweet licorice aroma rose when Jolene poured the soap into the mold.

“Now what?” she asked. “Ma always made soft soap, nothing fancy like this.”

“We'll let this cure for a few days, then cut it into circles to fit shaving mugs.”

Rosemary lifted the box and carried it indoors, remembering with a pang the elegant scented soaps her mother made as gifts. She wondered whether she'd approve of Rosemary's intention to sell one of her recipes as a shaving compound.

She pictured a shelf in the mercantile filled with soaps, herbal teas, and tinctures. In no time, she'd compensate for the loss of income from Dr. Stewart.

On Sunday, Rosemary tucked her arm under Jolene's as they walked to the end of the block and crossed the street to the church. Reverend French stood at the top of the stone steps greeting his flock while the bell pealed from the steeple atop the square brick building. When they approached, he descended to the lawn and bowed in their direction.

“Miss Rosemary. Always a pleasure.” His thick eyebrows raised in inquiry. “Who is your guest today?”

She introduced Jolene and smiled through the reverend's welcoming words. She'd never known anyone with such an ability to put people at ease. She sensed the tension leaving Jolene's body.

A younger man, his face a duplicate of Reverend French's, stepped next to them. His empty left sleeve was pinned up at the elbow. The reverend took his good arm. “Miss Graves, this is my son Galen. He teaches at the academy with Miss Rosemary's brother.”

Galen's eyes brightened. “Happy to know you, Miss Graves. Will you be visiting our area for very long?”

Jolene's face flamed. “I . . . I'm not sure.” She turned a frantic gaze on Rosemary. “Shouldn't we go in?”

Rosemary squeezed her arm. “Certainly.”

Once inside, she scanned the pews. “There they are.” She nodded her head in the direction of her brother and Faith, sitting next to Judge Lindberg.

When Faith noticed them, she patted an empty space on the seat beside her. After a whispered introduction between the judge and Jolene, Rosemary settled next to her sister-in-law.

At the front of the sanctuary, Clarissa French, the reverend's wife, stroked the keys of a piano. The hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy” rose over the sound of worshipers' footsteps entering the building.

Faith poked Rosemary in the side. “Look,” she whispered, pointing discreetly at a pew in front of them where Sheriff Cooper sat with Amy Dunsmuir. Although she couldn't see the child over the couple's shoulders, Rosemary knew Amy held her young daughter on her lap. Faith leaned close to Rosemary's ear. “He's at the house nearly every night. Amy seems happy with him, but needless to say, Curt's not thrilled.”

“As long as the sheriff has stopped trying to arrest him, he can relax.” They smiled at each other, remembering their campaign to clear Curt's name after a robbery at the mercantile.

A husky man with curly hair walked past, apparently seeking an empty seat. Rosemary sucked in a breath. “Do you know who that is?”

Faith nodded. “The doctor. I've never seen him here before.”

They watched while he entered a pew close to the front. “Wonders will never cease,” Rosemary said. “Maybe he'll—”

Reverend French faced the congregation and motioned for everyone to stand while his wife played the introduction to “My Faith Looks Up to Thee.” Out of the corner of her eye, Rosemary watched Dr. Stewart fumble through a hymnbook seeking the song. Her heart gave an unexpected twist. If she were standing beside him, she'd show him the place. She blinked, surprised at the direction her thoughts had taken.

Jolene's hand on her arm broke her reverie. “Sometimes Ma and Pa took us to church in Hartfield. I'm glad you brought me here today,” she said in a soft voice.

“So am I.” She'd done the right thing in God's eyes. That's all that mattered.

When Clarissa left the piano, Reverend French stepped to the pulpit and opened his Bible. “Our text today is from
the Epistle of James, second chapter, sixteenth verse. Here James is speaking of caring for the needs of others. ‘And one of you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit?'”

Rosemary nodded as he read the verse. The subject matter had to be more than a coincidence. She hoped Dr. Stewart was listening.

Elijah hunched over what had been Miss Saxon's desk, grumbling to himself as he made entries in the ledger. Her pages contained tidy figures and dates, with patients' names included. Each sheet was totaled at the bottom. He raked his fingers through his hair. If there was anything more tedious than record keeping, he didn't know what it could be. Two weeks without her help, and already he'd fallen behind.

The outside door opened and a man entered, rain dripping from his oilskin coat. “Mornin', Doc.” His gaze darted around the room. “Where's that pretty nurse? I come to show you both how good my burn healed. Used that comfrey root she told me about—and the ointment you gave me, o'course.”

After a moment's pause, Elijah recognized him as Mr. Eldridge, the patient who'd injured himself when he threw kerosene on a fire. “Miss Saxon has gone on to other pursuits,” he said, using the response he'd perfected after answering the same question almost daily since she left. He rose and met the man near the door. “But I'd like to take a look at your arm.”

Mr. Eldridge draped his coat over a hook, rolled up his sleeve, and held his bare arm toward Elijah. The new skin looked pinker than the surrounding tissue. In all other
respects, he'd healed without a scar. “Looks good, don't it? Tell Miss Saxon my wife made a poultice of some of the root, like she said.”

Elijah shook his head. “You used the Hansen's Ointment too, didn't you? I suspect that had the greater effect.”

“Maybe.” He looked doubtful. “Stung something fierce, so I pretty much stuck to the comfrey root.”

Knowing better than to argue with a patient, he patted the man's arm. “Glad you're healed. Be careful with kerosene, now.”

“Don't have to tell me. Say, do you know where I'd find Miss Saxon? The wife sent her some wild grape jelly.” He shoved his arms into his coat sleeves and then drew a stubby jar from one pocket. “Figgered she deserved some thanks.”

“I believe she's at Lindberg's Mercantile most mornings. The store's across from the courthouse on King's Highway.” As he spoke, Miss Saxon's earnest face floated in front of his eyes. He'd thought himself charitable when he hired her, but now that it was too late, he recognized her value. The fact that she was attractive had nothing to do with his sense of regret. Nothing at all.

“Thanks, Doc.” Mr. Eldridge clapped his hat on and stepped out into the sodden morning.

Elijah watched him walk north toward King's Highway. Miss Saxon told him she had few friends in Noble Springs. He wondered whether she knew how many people missed her once she left his practice.

He walked to her desk and slammed the ledger closed.

Rosemary tilted her head and surveyed the row of shaving soaps displayed at the front of a shelf near the door of the mercantile. Each blue calico-wrapped disk was tied at
the top with green ribbon. On a shelf below she'd arranged fabric bundles of herbal teas, with names like “Calm Afternoons,” “Blissful Sleep,” and “Memory Enhancer” written on attached tags.

Faith stepped up behind her. “Everything looks so pretty. Like little flowers in my store.”

“You're looking at pieces of an old skirt I used to garden in. It made the supreme sacrifice.” She sighed. “Now if only customers would buy something, the effort would be worthwhile.”

“Except for the man who brought you the jelly, no one seems to be venturing out in this rainstorm. Even the woodstove regulars stayed home this morning.”

“I'm not talking about today.” Rosemary folded her arms over her waist and stood next to the stove. “I've only sold fifty cents' worth this past week.”

“Give it time—”

The bell over the door jangled and Cassie Haddon and her mother pushed into the store, shaking water from their wet umbrellas.

“There you are!” Cassie's mother marched up to Rosemary. “We've been all over town looking for you. That waif you've got at your house said you were spending time here again. And of course we found
that
out after we'd already called at the doctor's office and didn't see you there.” She paused to draw a breath.

“I didn't know you were coming to call, Mrs. Bingham, or I would have made it a point to stay home. What can I do for you?” She hadn't seen the woman in several months. With concern, she noted that she'd lost much of her ample flesh, and hollows surrounded her eyes. If it weren't for her unnaturally bright red hair, Rosemary wouldn't have known her.