The Surgeon

“I’ve got two fine watches…I might sell.” The ones passed down from her grandfather in Ireland, the ones she’d vowed she’d never sell. Her stomach knotted as he appraised her.

After a moment of silent deliberation, he seemed to come to some sort of decision. “I’ve got a place you can stay.”

“Where?”

“In my town house until we figure this out. I’ll pay for your return ticket and anything else you need till you get home.”

Home? Where was home?

“I’ll see that the men responsible reimburse you extra for your troubles.”

She scoffed. How much extra should she charge for a life turned upside down? She didn’t recognize anyone or anything in this town. The noises were strange—tinny saloon music, eerie howls coming from the prairie grasses, the tap-tap-tap of cowboy spurs behind her. Glancing at the cold faces of strangers milling by on the boardwalk, Calgary suddenly seemed like a very lonely place.

John was the only person she sort of knew, and he was a doctor. Could she trust him to stay in his home? What choice did she have? Insecurity trembled down her spine.

As John picked up her bag, amusement lit his brown eyes. Was a smile hovering on his lips? “Did you tell me how you lost it?”

“Lost what?”

He leaned in next to ear and whispered. “Your virginity.”

He didn’t seem bothered by the news as many men would be, but then she no longer meant anything to him. She never had.

She wasn’t ready to forgive him for the situation, and gave him a cutting glare. “No, but I felt sure you’d understand.”

“Too bad you missed the party, John,” his neighbor called over the fence from the wooden swing on her porch, greeting him and Sarah as they strode up his stairs to his weather-beaten door.

Heavy-set and in her early fifties, Mrs. Polly Fitzgibbon sat among a menagerie of pets. Her beautiful Irish setter panted at her wide-boned feet, the Siamese cat slinked behind her and her knotted black bun, the two newest kittens sitting on her lap pounced at her stubby fingers, and that irritating nuisance of a monkey was hopping along the handrail, eating an onion.

John groaned, wishing Polly would be inside her door for a change when he walked through his.

“Good evening, Polly,” he hollered in the warm evening air. “What party are you talking about?”

“You remember, I told you two weeks ago my young nephew David was arriving from New York City. I know you’ve been awfully busy, but we had a birthday party for him last night. I baked an apple pie and George found streamers at the general store. We hung them all over. David’s a nice kid, you’ll like him.”

“How old is the boy?”

“Just turned thirty-six.”

“Oh.”

“Who’s your friend?”

John slid Sarah’s satchel to the ground and, with his hand tucked around Sarah’s slim waist, led her forward. She jolted at his touch and lurched away. It irked him. He was only being hospitable.

“Mrs. Polly Fitzgibbon, meet Miss Sarah O’Neill.”

He watched Sarah nod slowly. A smile finally lit her face as she followed the movements of the scheming monkey over the fence, up one wall of John’s house to peel off a piece of cedar roofing, then back to the ground. If the monkey kept this up, he’d soon have enough stripped pieces of the house to build one of his own.

“Now cut that out,” John said, hiding his temper for Sarah’s sake, diving for the shingle and grabbing it out of the pesky, hairy paws.

“Is that a monkey?” Sarah called over the fence.

“A chimpanzee, actually. There’s a difference, you know.”

He was still a scheming monkey in John’s mind.

“I’ve never seen one before,” said Sarah. “Where did you get him?”

“He followed us home from the carnival. ’Course, he hid in the trees for a couple of days, so by the time we noticed he’d flown the coop, it was too late to return him. His people were halfway to Minnesota.”

“What’s his name?” Sarah asked.

“Willie,” said Polly. “He’s our wee little Willie.”

Sarah laughed softly but John rolled his eyes.

“Polly is my housekeeper,” John explained to Sarah. “I’m glad I caught you, Polly. Looks like I’ll be needed at the barracks for a bit longer still. Sarah’ll be staying here for a day, maybe two. I’d appreciate if you kept your eye on her.” And be the proper chaperone, he added silently.

“Be mighty glad to. Maybe I’ll send David over to say hello. He’s an accomplished photographer, you know. I’ll ask him to bring one of his cameras and take your picture.”

Polly’s tendency for matchmaking never stopped. “Sarah prefers to rest.”

Sarah shot John a quizzical look.

Now why had he said that?

“Well, I didn’t mean tonight,” said Polly. “Maybe me and George and David will all come callin’ tomorrow, after I wash your floors. I’ll make them nice and shiny for company—for us,” she added with a laugh.

Sarah called, “That would be lovely.”

John shook his head in exasperation. Why should Sarah bother to get to know the neighbors when she was leaving on the next train?

Polly stared at John. “What happened to your nose?”

John pushed the hanky into the pocket of his breeches. Looked like it’d stopped bleeding. “Someone punched me.”

Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her boots—guilty—while he shot her a smile of satisfaction.

Polly clicked her tongue with a noisy clatter. “What you men go through in your line of duty.” She focused on Sarah. “You feelin’ all right, miss?”

Sarah pressed her hand against her stomach. “A bit of motion sickness is all. I spent eight days on the train.”

John noticed the pallor beneath her eyes. Why hadn’t she told him she wasn’t feeling well?

Why hadn’t he noticed?

“Where are you from?” asked Polly.