“Who’s teasin’? I’m warnin’. I make mention outa the good of my heart.”
“Who’s got a good heart?” The question came from Dr. Havers, descending the stairs and entering the room, for once so cat-footed that the sound of his steps had not been audible.
“You do, Gabriel, dear. Come, sit down, have some coffee, and please—tell us—” Camellia, hovering between stove and table and three big men in her kitchen, felt her resolution quaver as to whether she really wanted to hear the worst.
Gabriel, exhausted to the marrow of his bones, collapsed onto a nearby chair. In the course of one day—actually, in the course of just a few hours—he was having to deal with not one, not two, but three of the Burton sisters. And it was too much. All he’d need was the fourth one to show up, haranguing and complaining, as she normally did.
It had begun with Letitia’s importunate insistence upon his medical skills. Not professional, but professorial. During the time he had spent, attempting to impart just a tiny percentage of his knowledge and experience, she had asked at least a thousand questions, criticized his teaching methods, and demanded access to patient records for a fuller understanding of diagnostics.
When she finally decided she wanted to inspect—and rearrange—his precious supply of both pharmaceuticals and herbals—and managed to spill the contents of several small containers—was when he’d had enough.
Politely, but firmly, he had thrown her out of the office.
Only to be confronted by a new calamity involving these newcomers to his town.
For Molly, however, he could only feel a great deal of sympathy and patience. He had even put aside his usually brusque manner at the door of the bedroom where she was hiding out.
Few people realize just what a physical and emotional toll doctoring takes, if one truly cares for the sufferer needing attention. Would it be sacrilegious to compare a good physician to the healing Christ, for whom every touch to the arm, every grasp of the robe, meant depleted energy and a surge of actual pain?
“Thanks, Cam,” he said, accepting the cup of fresh hot coffee whose stimulant he so desperately needed. “That’ll help.”
Ben managed to wait for at least four gulps to hit the lining of Gabriel’s stomach before he once again brought up the subject everyone wanted to discuss, albeit succinctly. “And?”
Scrubbing at the face that had been freshly shaved a lifetime ago, but now felt prickly with afternoon stubble, the doctor harrumphed. “She’s gonna have to have time.”
Camellia and her husband exchanged a bewildered glance. Just what did that mean?
“Sorry, didn’t mean to sound so all-fired mysterious.” His look intercepted those of his hosts, and then swerved to the plate of cookies. “Can I have some of those? Good. Haven’t had any solid food since—well, I dunno.” No breakfast, little sleep, and he was still functioning off the blunt end of a hangover.
“How you can eat—” murmured Camellia, taken aback. “No, please, have more. Just—”
Get on with it!
“Sit down,” Gabe advised gently. “Sit down, Cam, and stop lookin’ like you’re gonna take flight out into the wild somewheres. Your sister is scared to death, and she wouldn’t tell me half of what happened in that cabin. Scared...and ashamed, I think.”
“Ashamed?” Camellia had, fortunately, taken a seat before this astonishing revelation was made. Otherwise, her legs might not have supported her upright. “But—I don’t understand. What has she to be ashamed of?”
“Oh, the whole thing, I reckon. Goin’ about this mail order business on her own, without listenin’ to anybody. Makin’ such a hasty marriage, even though so many were agin it. Harin’ off with somebody she didn’t even know, without no surety of finances or location. Or the temperament of a new husband.”
At this, Paul, listening in silence, stirred. “So he is responsible.”
“Yeah, sure ’nough.” He waggled his brows at Camellia, not in humor, but in concern. “And she’s worried what you’re gonna say to her, for actin’ so foolish.”
“But I—I wouldn’t say—” She began an immediate protest, then guiltily backed down. “Blame. Recriminations. Yes, you’re right. Perhaps I would...”
“Ahuh. Most people can’t help an I-told-you-so, no matter how much pity might be involved. Well, anyway. You’re married now, Camellia; you know what’s goin’ on in the world. But my tellin’ you what little bit that Molly shared with me gets a tad indelicate in places.”
“I understand.” Her pallid complexion suddenly flushing with color, Camellia straightened her spine with boarding-school correctness and nodded. “Go on, Gabe.” Unseen, under the table, Ben reached out one comforting hand to hold hers.
“He hit her. Once they got to the shack—b’cause that’s all the place is, really, just some boards nailed together—and she dared question more about livin’ there, in such squalor,
he hit her. Hard. Several times. Then he dragged her inside, threw her on the floor, and—well, you can imagine the rest. Several times for that, too,” Gabe finished off in disgust.
Camellia’s left hand, held imprisoned in her husband’s, had tightened to a white-knuckled grip; her right hand was clenched against her mouth, to muffle the little moan that had slipped free.
“Reckon we none of us ever saw that side of Quinn Hennessey,” Paul said quietly. “Put on a right good act, that whole week he was in town. Reckon he had to be alone, with a helpless victim, to let all that rottenness pour out.”
Gabriel needed another few sips of the blistering coffee to continue. “That’s how the rest of the night went on, accordin’ to what Molly told me. And accordin’ to what I was able to see.”