The Surgeon

A dog barked in the Fitzgibbon yard. Sarah and John turned to look and saw Polly drawing the shades.

John shrank in his boots. He felt awful about what Polly had witnessed on the stair landing. As a single woman alone in Calgary, Sarah’s reputation was nothing to laugh about.

When he looked up the path two of his men, dressed in civilian clothes, were walking toward them. A wagonload of hay, pulled by oxen, creaked down the rutted street behind them. The cattle calls of the stockyards ten miles away echoed in the early morning mist.

Corporal Reid removed his broad brown felt hat and shifted his weight from one dirty black boot to the other. “Nice to see you again, ma’am.”

Sergeant O’Malley dipped his hand into the inside breast pocket of his wool jacket. When he removed a thick envelope, he passed it to Sarah.

“What’s this?” She squeezed the envelope between her fingers. The lace trim at her wrist bounced.

“We were comin’ to see the doc here, to have him pass this on to you. We had no idea that in our good fortune, we’d catch you here ourselves.”

“Yes, it is a very fortunate morning, isn’t it?” Her voice lacked the humor of her words. “It appears to be an envelope of money.” She frowned.

Mrs. Fitzgibbon, who’d managed to sneak outside without being heard, peered cautiously over the fence. John refused to be intimidated by her scowls.

“It’s the least we can do for you,” said the corporal. “It was Dr. Calloway’s idea. He thought the men should take up a collection, considering what we did to you.”

Mrs. Fitzgibbon sniffed, then went back into her house.

What must the old lady think now? Sarah clicked her tongue at Mrs. Fitzgibbon, then at him. “I don’t want your money.”

“Please take it, ma’am. And our apologies for treatin’ you…like you were a heifer for sale.”

Sarah shook her head. “I wish I could say thank-you for the apology and all’s well that ends well, but it isn’t, is it?”

The two men lowered their heads. “No, ma’am.”

Sarah colored beneath her bonnet. “I’d be most obliged if you’d return the letters I wrote.”

“Oh!” The sergeant dug into his pocket again and handed her several envelopes.

She counted them. “One, two, three, four.” She glanced at the sergeant.

He dug in and handed her one more.

“Five. Thank you.”

“Please take the money, ma’am. It’ll help you buy your return ticket, maybe a night or two in a fancy hotel, and it would sure make us feel better.”

“Well, if it’s to make you feel better—” She glared at the men with disapproval and it was the first time John had seen either of them blush with shame.

She tossed the envelopes into her satchel. “Thank you all for the most enjoyable eight days of nauseating travel. Good day.”

While she stalked away, deserting them in the street, the three men gaped after her. Recovering quickly, John shooed away the other two while he ran to catch up. How on earth could she manage alone in town, knowing no one?

“Sarah, will you please allow me to help you?”

She fumbled with her bags, half dragging one of them on the back of her leg, balancing her satchel beneath her elbow and yanking on her bonnet to keep it straight in the gentle blowing wind. Silently they marched down the block to Macleod Trail and its wide boardwalk. Passersby nodded hello to him, gazing quizzically at the odd combination of the woman carrying everything while the man accompanying her strode empty-handed.

“Sarah.”

“Ah, here’s one.”

She glanced up at the wood-burnished sign. Alice’s Boardinghouse. John knew the woman inside to be older than the hills, but there was no telling what the two of them together might accomplish.

Much to Sarah’s annoyance, he insisted on staying at the front desk while she registered for a room. The room wouldn’t be available for two hours, though, so Sarah agreed to leave her baggage while she went outdoors again to run an errand.

Until Sarah was settled and he knew she’d calmed down enough so that she wouldn’t do anything drastic, he couldn’t leave her. It was getting awfully close to his two hours being up. He figured he had another half hour before returning to the hospital ward.

“You know, David told me he’s a novelty writer.” John tried to break through the danged wall of silence she’d erected.

“What’s that?”

“He takes photos for postcards and novelty buttons, then writes captions beneath the photo, for amusement. That’s how he earns his living.”

“You mean, at this morning’s photo, he might have written something like, ‘Sarah gets her mounted man’?”

John laughed at her unexpected sense of humor. “How about, ‘Another Eastern tourist arrives on the plains’?”

“‘Another Mountie is brought to his knees.”’

“‘A mail-order bride responds to an ad.”’

She laughed at that one. You never knew what would strike the woman funny, and what wouldn’t. When she laughed, her entire face sparkled with warm spontaneity, her gray eyes glistened with flecks of blue and there wasn’t an inch of skin that didn’t glow with pleasure. The sound of her good humor rippled through him, gently arousing his senses.

They stopped at the corner to let a horse and rider pass. She followed the laughter of a group of children as they chased a mangy mutt around the water troughs.

Looking up at the buildings, they stood between Melodie’s Bath and Barber House and Rossman’s Mercantile.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Work.” She lifted her long skirts to descend the boardwalk and cross the road. “We passed a jeweler’s on our way to the boardinghouse. Didn’t you notice?”

“What do you call this one?” Standing inside the jewelry store, John leaned his bulky arms against the glass case.

Sarah laid her bonnet on the counter. “It’s a singing bird box. You wind it up and a toy bird sings to you.” She carefully lifted the gilded oval cover. A small bird with iridescent hummingbird feathers popped up, making her and John smile. “It’s Swiss, I believe.”

“That’s correct, madam,” said a female clerk, sidling up to the two of them. “It’s vintage, and over sixty years old.”

Sarah gently removed her hand from the box. “It’s beautiful.” She thought it strange that the clerk, who was about the same age, had called her madam and not miss.

“Good morning, John,” said the clerk then, in a much more casual tone, causing Sarah’s lashes to rise with suspicion. Not many people called him by his first name, Sarah had noticed. She had that privilege, but she’d almost married him.

“Mornin’, Clarissa.” John straightened, tall and lean, removing his Stetson but looking ill at ease.

“What brings you here?” Clarissa rubbed the waistline of her satin dress, fumbling with the pleats. She was pretty, with long brunette hair that she’d clasped at her temples with butterfly clips, and skin so white and smooth it looked like ice cream. When she swept her disapproving gaze over Sarah’s best housedress, Sarah felt dowdy in comparison.