Kansas Courtship

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

June 1860

High Plains, Kansas

Zeb Garrison didn’t think much of church or preachers. Still, he had to give Reverend Preston credit for striking a chord that hadn’t stopped echoing since Sunday morning. Zeb had been sitting in the back pew, alone because he’d overslept and his sister, Cassandra, had left without him. He’d been half asleep when the reverend jarred him awake with a single statement.

If you died tomorrow, what would you leave behind?

The reverend hadn’t shouted the words. He hadn’t even raised his voice. He’d made a statement, but the question had stayed in Zeb’s mind for five solid days as he went about the business of running Garrison Mill. It hung there now, dangling like a ripe apple ready to drop.

Positioned at the standing desk in his mill’s office, a custom piece of furniture built to match his height, Zeb dragged his hand through his dark hair. He needed a haircut, badly. As always, he’d put it off to the point of rebellion. A glance at the wall clock told him the town barber would be open, but a look out the window confirmed what he’d noticed earlier. Bad weather was coming. Fast. Through the window, he saw clouds racing across the grasslands, picking up speed like a runaway horse.

He had no desire to get stuck at the mill in a storm. His workers had finished early and he’d sent them home to their wives and families. Zeb had no such obligations, beyond his responsibility to his sister. It was better that way. Females, he’d learned, were treacherous. Frannie, his former fiancée, had taught him that painful lesson.

Instead, he’d poured his soul into building Garrison Mill. Along with his friend Will Logan, Zeb had founded High Plains eighteen months ago. Someday the town would be a hub for farms and businesses. Once the wheat crops became plentiful, he’d turn the sawmill into a gristmill. Eventually he’d be shipping flour all over America.

The thought humbled him. Who’d have thought a poor kid from Bellville would ever own a mill? Zeb owed everything to Jon Gridley, a renowned Boston millwright. Pleased to have a protégé, Gridley had filled Zeb’s head with the mechanics of gears and water power. When the old man died, he’d left everything to Zeb, making him a rich man in spite of his humble beginnings. With wealth came a burden Zeb hadn’t expected. If Garrison Mill succeeded, High Plains would prosper. If it failed, the town could turn to dust. Not an hour passed that he didn’t feel responsible for the families he and Will had brought west.

Zeb walked to the window and studied the sky. If he hurried, he could get home before the storm struck. Frowning, he lifted his broad-brimmed hat from a wooden peg, locked the door behind him and stepped into the yard. What he saw sucked the air from his lungs. Funnel clouds were reaching down from the sky like bony fingers. Twisting. Turning. White and gray, they looked like a hand ready to snatch innocent victims from the earth. Zeb froze in amazement. He’d heard about twisters, but he’d never seen one.

In a blink, the storm turned and picked up speed. The fingers were coming for him. Blood rushed to his brain and he ran back to the mill for cover.

Will had cautioned him to build a cellar for such an event, but Zeb had been arrogant. He had only one place to hide, his office, and he’d locked the door. Fumbling for the key, he heard a roar unlike anything he’d ever heard. The wind grabbed at his coat. Twenty feet away, a stack of shingles exploded into a flock of birds.

Fumbling, he found the key and turned the knob. As the door opened, the wind ripped it from its hinges and shoved him to his belly. He couldn’t breathe. He could only lay sprawled on the floor, twisting to put his back against the wall as he watched the chaos of the wind.

One thought came to him, only one. If he died today, who would care? What would he leave behind? A pile of rubble, that’s what. Loneliness whipped through his soul with the force of the wind. Cassandra would miss him, but someday she’d marry.

And he himself? He’d have sawdust and splinters. A black wind hurled debris past the open door. No sons or daughters. A wagon somersaulted and broke apart. More shingles flew by, a hundred of them. Hail pounded the roof, and the window blew out. The mill groaned as it fought to stand. He heard the waterwheel going berserk and the clatter of gears.

As suddenly as the tornado struck, the wind stilled. In the silence, he heard the soft echo of Reverend Preston’s question and thought of that dangling apple. The storm had knocked the ripe fruit to the ground, forcing Zeb to admit to a need. If he died tomorrow, he wanted to leave behind more than splinters. He wanted a son to carry on the Garrison name. If it meant putting up with a wife, so be it.

Chapter One

August 1860

High Plains, Kansas

“Look over yonder, missy,” said the old man driving the freight wagon. “That’s where the twister snatched up those children.”

Dr. Nora Mitchell turned on the high seat. With the dusty bonnet shielding her eyes, she looked past Mr. Crandall’s gray beard to a lush meadow. A breeze stirred the grass and she smelled loamy earth. With the scent came a whiff of the mules pulling the three freight wagons the last miles to High Plains. In her black medical bag she had the precious letter from Zebulun Garrison inviting her to interview for her first position as a paid physician.

If, that is, he’d overlook that she’d signed her letter to him as “Dr. N. Mitchell.” Her gender made no difference when it came to practicing medicine, but it mattered terribly to men with old-fashioned ideas.

She’d lived with that prejudice since the day she’d entered Geneva Medical College, the alma mater of Elizabeth Blackwell, the first female doctor in America. The prejudice had become even more challenging once she graduated. She’d interviewed for fourteen positions in the past year and received fourteen rejections, all because of her gender.

You’re female, Dr. Mitchell. That makes you unqualified.

Women shouldn’t be subjected to the vulgarities of medicine.

Perhaps you can find work as a midwife. That would suit you as a woman.

She’d been close to despair, when a cousin wrote to her about an advertisement in the Kansas Gazette.

Wanted: a licensed physician for a new Kansas town. Compensation dependent on experience. Contact Zebulun Garrison, High Plains, Kansas.

She’d posted a letter to Mr. Garrison immediately. Not only had he offered “Dr. N. Mitchell” an interview, he’d sounded enthusiastic. “Our current doctor is retiring,” he’d written back. “We are a growing community in need of a skilled practitioner with an adventurous spirit.”

Nora had pictured bustling shops and a busy church. She’d imagined delivering babies, setting broken bones and treating croup and sore throats. Those expectations had changed as she’d traveled with the Crandalls. She’d split the riding time between Mr. Crandall and his wife, a buxom woman who’d birthed nine children and never stopped talking. As they’d traveled from Saint Joseph to Topeka, south to Fort Riley and on to High Plains, the woman had told horrific tales about Kansas weather. Two months ago, a tornado wiped out half of High Plains and devastated a wagon train. Most frightening of all, it had snatched away a set of eight-year-old orphan twins, traveling with one of the families on the wagon train. According to Mr. Crandall, the last person to see the twins, a young girl named Bess Carter who now lived in High Plains, had been so horrified by what had occurred that she hadn’t spoken since.

Nora knew how it felt to have someone taken without warning. When she was ten years old, her younger brother died of asthma. Grief-stricken, she’d looked at the stars and told God she wanted to be a doctor. When a meteorite shot across the sky, she’d taken it as a sign of His blessing.

She still felt blessed, but the road to this moment had been harrowing. At Geneva Medical College, she’d endured pranks ranging from crass to cruel. She’d tolerated ridicule from professors and mockery from fellow students. She’d also lost friends. Women with whom she’d grown up called her unladylike and turned their backs. Hardest of all, she’d lost some of her father’s affection.

Is it worth it, daughter? You should be attending dances and teasing young men. You should be seeking a husband.

She had, but the search for a spouse had been as futile as her hunt for a position as a doctor.

Nora wanted a husband and family as much as any woman, but the men who courted her hadn’t respected her career. To her father’s chagrin, she’d turned down two proposals including one from his business partner, a man named Albert Bowers, when the men had insisted she stop practicing medicine after she was wed. Mr. Garrison’s letter had arrived two days after Nora refused Albert’s offer. She’d danced around the room, waving the letter under her father’s nose while her mother wrung her hands with worry. With her life in pieces, much like the devastated wagon train, Nora had written back immediately to confirm the interview.

Now here she was…perched on a splintery wagon seat next to Mr. Crandall, facing the aftermath of a tornado. No physician in the world could have stopped the suffering. The Lord alone gave life and took it away. Whatever gift Nora had for healing, she never lost sight of the one true Healer.

Mr. Crandall shouted “whoa” and reined the mules to a halt. As the wagons rattled to silence, he removed his hat and held it over his heart. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed to the other wagons. “Let us pray.”

As Nora bowed her head, Mr. Crandall spoke to the sky. “Father God, we pray for mercy for the injured and the lost, especially those two children, Mikey and Missy. We pray they would be found. We pray for Your hand on their tender lives. Amen.”

“Amen,” she whispered.

A chorus of “amens” echoed from Mrs. Crandall and the four children she had with her. As Nora looked again at the empty meadow, Mr. Crandall jammed his hat on his balding head, gave the reins a shake and shouted at the mules. The wagons rolled forward, creaking as they stumbled in ruts. Awed by the vastness of the land, Nora contemplated the next step in her journey.

Within the hour, she’d meet Mr. Garrison. The tone of his letter had been terse, his penmanship bold. As she’d traveled from New York, enduring grime and crowded trains, she’d imagined their meeting. Judging by his responsibilities, she pictured him as a man in his middle years, perhaps portly with a balding head like Mr. Crandall. Her belly churned as she contemplated their first encounter. If necessary, she’d fight for her right to be a doctor, but the battle would take a toll.