Mollie: Bride of Georgia (American Mail-Order Brides 4) Page 9

  A chilling shudder shook him, even as sweat soaked his shirt nearly as thoroughly as did the rainstorm. He couldn’t remember feeling this miserable in a very long time. A sinister thought crawled into his head and took hold. Wouldn’t it be better if he’d just gone to Glory with the rest of them? His father, his brother, his granddaddy? God knew he’d left too much of himself on Bald Hill. Why had he fought so hard to stay alive? One more slash of that Yank’s bayonet and he’d have had everlasting peace. Instead, what had he done? Sunk his Bowie knife to the hilt between the man’s ribs. Taken life to live.

  For what?

  Now, this was what he had to show for it. The torment of a man who’d taken the heart and body of an innocent, loving woman and then abused her. Nick’s eyes closed in pain, and a tortured groan escaped his lips. Judas Priest, what was he going to do? What could he do?

  Lost in his grief and misery, Nick came back to himself with a start when Magnolia balked and stomped fretfully in her harness, refusing to go any farther in the pastern-deep, gravelly mud. Wearily, he climbed from the driver’s seat, his boots squelching in the nearly impassable muck. He stumbled forward to Magnolia’s head, taking hold of her bridle and urging her forward. He tried to ignore the pain that shot through his leg with every step, but he knew it was growing worse. He’d been too upset and ashamed that morning to clean the wound again before fleeing the house.

  Well, he thought numbly, there was nothing to do about it now except finish the dairy inspection and get back to the zoo treatment room, where he could more carefully clean and dress the wound. As though it mattered any more. As though anything mattered any more.

  Physician, heal thyself.

  Would to God that he could.

  Slowly, Nick cajoled Magnolia to drag the sodden buggy down the lane, past the fenced pastures where dairy cows tried to graze in muddy plots of marsh and bog grass. He sighed in disgust. Hadn’t he’d warned the dairy owner, one Ponce DeLeon Buford, called “Delly” by most, about using the bogland for pasture? Those animals would need to be moved to higher ground, even though Buford would complain – again – that the higher sections of the farm were too far away to bring the cows in twice a day for milking.

  Finally arriving in the barnyard, Nick sheltered Magnolia and the buggy as best he could under the roof of an open-sided wagon shed. He secured her feedbag, then retrieved his testing equipment from the buggy. Slogging painfully through the muddy yard, he entered the dairy barn.

  Buford and two other dairymen had eight cows secured for milking along the main aisle of the barn, and they were working their way down the line. Each time a bucket was filled, it was dumped into a larger tin milk can.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Buford,” Nick said evenly, reining in his sorely fraying temper.

  Buford looked up, scowled, then spat a wad of tobacco juice into the dirty straw on the barn floor. “Y’all back again already, Doc?” he said, his tone full of belligerence. “Ain’t y’all got nobody else’s business to ruin?”

  Though every bone in his body already ached with weariness, Nick fixed Buford with a steely eye. “You know the public health laws, Delly. God knows I’ve explained’em to you often enough. Y’all want to keep selling your milk to the public, you’ve got to expect regular inspections and follow the health code. And it doesn’t look to me like y’all paid much attention to the code violations I cited you for last time. And now we got reports of your customers comin’ down with scrofula.”

  “That’s a damn lie!” With a curse, Delly jumped to his feet, knocking over the milking stool. He snatched the bucket from beneath the cow, shook it at Nick, slopping milk over the side. “Ya see them there cans?” he snarled, jabbing his finger at a line of large milk cans off to one side. His hands were raw and red, his fingernails grimy. “We been rinsin’em out just like y’all said! Every damn time!”

  He called over his shoulder to one of his dairymen, a scraggly-bearded fellow in filthy overalls. “Ain’t that right, Jubal?”

  “Sure’nuff, Delly,” Jubal said, nodding emphatically. “Rinse’em out with a bucket of pond water every goldurn time we use’em.”

  Judas Priest, Nick thought in exasperation. Give me patience. He took a long breath, shook his head. “Well, now, I appreciate that, gentlemen,” he said coolly, “but as I explained before, you’ve got to use water from the well, not the pond, and lye soap as well, then rinse again with well water. It’s got to be clean, cold water, else you’re going to spread sickness.”

  When Buford glowered at him but said nothing, Nick went on. “Look here, Delly, I’m not here to make trouble for y’all or to force you to shut the dairy down.” Which, given the vagaries and ineptitudes of the legal system, was harder than hell to do, anyway, but Nick wasn’t about to share that fact with Buford. Sternly, he continued, “But when people are getting sick from DeLeon Dairy’s milk, I won’t stand by and ignore it, either.”

  “Whatta y’all talkin’ about? What folks is gettin’ sick?” Buford blustered. “Ain’t nobody complained to me ’bout nobody gettin’ sick from this here milk! It’s Grade-A damn quality!”

  “The complaints come to the Animal Industry Bureau, Delly. You know that. Be sensible, man. The more y’all cooperate, the sooner I can leave y’all be to get on with your work.” Though he’d begun feeling light-headed and woozy, Nick set his jaw and stonily stared Buford down.

  “Well, Hell’s pitchfork,” Buford muttered, but he finally gave a sullen nod.

  “Very well,” Nick said. “Delly, I want your word you’ll clean these milk cans properly, and also that you’ll move your herd out of the bog and pasture them on higher ground.”

  Buford heaved a put-upon sigh, then shrugged. “That all?” he snorted mutinously.

  “Won’t know until I see the milk house and the feed bins,” Nick said. As Buford started forward angrily, Nick held up his hand and the man stopped, though his face had gone from red to purple and he was puffed up like an angry bear.

  Nick ignored Buford’s posturing. “Y’all go on ahead and take care of those milk cans while I finish my inspection,” he ordered, and his tone brooked no defiance. If Buford burst his buttons, well, so be it. “I don’t need any company. I know my way around.”

  When he turned his back to the men and strode from the barn, careful not to let them see him limp, Buford whirled and booted a pail of milk halfway across the floor. When Jubal and Ernie, the other dairyman, both looked up at him with gaping mouths and wide eyes, he snarled, “What the hell you two lookin’ at? Y’all heard the doc-tor.” He exaggerated the word, nearly spitting it out. “Now go on an’ wash out the damn cans, and this time, do it right!”

  • • • • •

  It was nearly another two hours before Nick finished inspecting the dairy, and by then, the rain was finally letting up. He was surprised, and grudgingly pleased, to see that Buford was using at least rudimentary Pasteurization methods, heating the milk to just above 140º and holding it at that temperature for twenty minutes. The milk house was also adequately cooled by a cold-water spring, but Nick found that the empty bottles waiting to hold the processed milk were as poorly washed out as the milk cans, thus completely negating the benefits of Pasteurization.

  Relieved that only one of the feed bins held moldy feed that had to be discarded – even at that, Buford looked likely to burst a passel of blood vessels – Nick wrapped things up as quickly as he could. He was all but staggering now, the lightheadedness turning queasy and dizzying. His leg had gone from merely steadily aggravating him to throbbing like hell with the hide scraped off, and he was, for once, of a like mind with Buford. He just wanted to get the bloody blue blazes out of there.

  Leaving the fuming dairyman with a list of required improvements, Nick struggled not to sway on his feet as he said, “I’ll be back in thirty days, Mr. Buford. See that these issues are resolved by then.”

  Delly spat on the muddy ground once again, but Nick didn’t care. He removed Magnolia’s feedbag, heav
ed his kit into the buggy, and dragged himself up onto the seat. With a nod, he flicked the horse’s reins, and praying he wouldn’t pass out before he got back to the zoo, he turned Magnolia down the drive. They slogged their way along until the buggy finally left the dairy lane and emerged out onto Peachtree Road. By then, Nick’s head was lolling and he could no longer see straight.

  “Please come home, Nick. Please come home now.”

  Nick blinked at the sound of Mollie’s voice. Woozily he turned his head to the side, but he could not see her anywhere. He shifted the reins into one hand, wiped sweat from his eyes with the other. When he looked again, she seemed to materialize in a blurry haze.

  “I can’t, Mollie,” he rasped. “You know I can’t. I … I hurt you. Even if you could forgive me, I can’t … forgive myself.”

  “No matter how long, Nick, I’ll be waiting,” the vision whispered, and then it was gone. Nick shuddered, scrubbed his hand across his face. His head felt as though his skull was splitting wide open, and thinking clearly was too great an effort, costing more than he had. Every jolt of the wagon sent a shock of agony from his knee to his hip. Gritting his teeth, Nick flicked the reins again and, slumping on the bench, sent Magnolia into as fast a jog as the slick road would allow.

  CHAPTER 16

  Mollie stepped from the streetcar, opening her umbrella. She made her way quickly across Whitehall Street to the imposing stone building housing M. Rich & Brothers dry goods emporium. As she entered the store, a gentleman in starched white collar and formal frock coat greeted her.

  “Good day, madam,” he said. “May I have the honor of assisting you?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, handing him her umbrella, which he took and placed in a stand by the door. “I should like to place an order for furnishings and some specialized medical office equipment, please.”

  The man nodded. “Of course, madam. If you will please come right this way.”

  He led her through a maze of long, wooden counters holding displays of everything from clothing to hats and accessories to china, household appliances, and beautiful pieces of porcelain and leaded crystal. Tall banks of polished wooden drawers held fine kid gloves and trays of jewelry. Mollie promised herself that one day she would spend an entire day simply looking at all the wonderful items Rich’s had to offer, but for today, she had little time to spare.

  She followed the floor clerk to the back of the store, where a short hallway led to a large, ornately carved wooden door. The clerk opened the door and ushered Mollie inside to a richly-appointed reception room, where a trim, immaculately-dressed woman sat at a large mahogany desk. The desk was stacked high with paperwork and order books.

  “Mrs. McCook,” the clerk said. “Would you be so kind as to assist Miss….” He looked at Mollie questioningly.

  “Mrs. Avinger,” she said. “My husband is Dr. Nicholas Avinger.”

  “….Mrs. Avinger,” the clerk continued. “She wishes to place a special order.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Mr. Phillips.” The lady stood, held out her hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Avinger? Thank you so much for entrusting Rich’s with your business. How may I help you?”

  Mollie took Mrs. McCook’s hand and returned her greeting. Once seated, she took a list from her reticule and handed it to the older woman. Mrs. McCook looked over the list, then said, “This is to be quite a project, is it not?”

  When Mollie nodded, Mrs. McCook smiled and said, “I’m quite sure we can help you, but I believe that, given the scope of the purchase, Mr. Rich will wish to assist you personally.” She stood and said, “Please, do come this way, Mrs. Avinger.”

  Five minutes later Mollie sat in an even more luxurious office, where Daniel Rich, the youngest of the three brothers who owned the store, was ticking off the items on her list with great interest.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, almost more to himself than to Mollie, “I believe we have all of the household pieces in stock. The medical furnishings and equipment, however, we shall have to special order.”

  “How long will that take?” Mollie asked.

  Rich smiled. “Most, if not all, of the items can be transported here by train from Baltimore and be ready to deliver to you within a week. Ten days at most.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Mr. Rich. I’m most obliged to you, suh,” Mollie said.

  “Nonsense,” Rich responded, stroking his luxuriant mustache thoughtfully. “Dr. Avinger has had an account here at Rich’s for several years, and we are likewise very obliged for your business.” He swiveled his chair toward the long ranks of shelves that ran below the windows behind him. He selected a few catalogues and turned back to Mollie.

  “Now, Mrs. Avinger,” he continued, “perhaps you’d care to look through these catalogues as a start. If you don’t find suitable items there, we will look further. Also, I have a few items out on the floor you may be interested in, particularly for the pigeonhole desk and the glass-front cabinets.”

  “Thank you again, Mr. Rich. You are most kind.”

  “It is my pleasure, ma’am. Now, just take your time and let me know if there’s anything more you require. A cup of tea, perhaps?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, that would be lovely.”

  Rich smiled again, got to his feet. He crossed the office to the door, opened it, and called out, “Mrs. McCook, would you bring in some tea and cakes, please?”

  When he returned to his desk, Mollie was already absorbed in a catalog, jotting notes on a small pad of paper. She looked up at him, and a slow smile spread across her face. “This is going to do very nicely, Mr. Rich. In fact, I believe this will suit perfectly.”

  • • • • •

  Despite the chill in the air, the rain had stopped by the time she got home, so Mollie decided there was plenty of time left in the day to go over to the zoo. If Nick had returned there from his dairy inspection, they could have a serious talk. She had to make him understand that she was not afraid of him, that he could count on her as an ally. Perhaps between the two of them, they could find a way to dispel his nightmares. After all, what better way to lay bad memories to rest than to create wonderful new ones to replace them?

  Confident that Nick’s mind would not be so clouded in the daylight, Mollie changed into a simple wool dress and sturdy, buttoned boots with rubber covers. In a large, drawstring purse she placed a clean, heavy cotton apron, a little money, and other small personal items. Donning her hat and shawl, grabbing the umbrella, and looping the purse strings over her wrist, she left the house and walked down the drive, heading for the streetcar once more.

  If she arrived at the zoo before Nick returned, well, there was always plenty to be done. The keepers would scold her, of course, if they caught her cleaning cages or preparing animal feed. Just days earlier, Mose Thompson, the head keeper, had taken her to task.

  “A fine lady like yourself oughtn’t be doin’ such messy work, Miss Winters,” he’d cautioned, shaking his head, but she’d protested that she enjoyed the animals, and she welcomed the chance to help keep them as healthy and as content as they could be in their captive state. Perhaps she hadn’t entirely convinced Mr. Thompson that it was acceptable for her to work in the enclosures and in the zoo kitchen, as well as assisting in the treatment room, but he had nonetheless finally accepted her presence and said no more about it.

  A thirty-minute streetcar ride brought her to the entrance to Grant Park. Though the chill, biting wind made her wrap her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, Mollie was content to walk along the carriageway to the zoo. The Christmas season had arrived, and wreaths and garlands had been hung on gas lamps throughout the park. The bandstand, gazebos, monuments, even the memorial cannon had been festooned with seasonal greenery and potted poinsettias.

  Despite the cheerful holiday decorations, few visitors cared to face the cold and damp of the wind or the muddy lanes of the park. Mollie seemed to have much of the place to herself.

  It had been a long time since Christmas had been a s
eason of cheer for Mollie. She said a silent prayer that she could find a way to bring comfort and healing to Nick, so that they might, indeed, have a merry Christmas and a loving start to both their marriage and the new year.

  We must start as we mean to go on, my dearest, she thought, practicing her argument. Then she squared her shoulders and added, I have spent enough nights of my life in cold, lonely beds. I do not want to do that anymore.

  Lost in thought, Mollie soon found herself at the footbridge that led to the zoo. When she reached the paddocks, she saw Mose Thompson and his young assistant, Jemmy Benson, both men bundled in heavy clothing and Wellington boots, tending to the hoofed stock. Shaggy in their winter coats, the animals appeared fit, and she gave a quick wave to the men, then moved on. The two men tipped their hats and returned to their chores.

  Mollie continued down the walkway to the row of enclosures, passing a few hardy zoo visitors, all swathed in furs and woolens, peering into the cages. She slowed her pace, checking on each animal as she made her way through the exhibit. Approaching her favorites, the two pumas, she was pleased to see the gate between their adjoining cages was open. Miss Peaches and her mate Cream lay companionably alongside one another. Cream was sprawled on his back, his great, thick tail twitching lazily, as Miss Peaches scraped the last bits of meat from a goat haunch with her rasplike tongue.

  The big cat stilled, lifted her head, and gazed at Mollie with huge copper eyes. “Hello, my sweet Miss Peaches,” Mollie crooned. “You are looking very well today, as is your handsome beau.”

  Miss Peaches blinked, then began to purr – a rough sound that always reminded Mollie of an enormous steam saw cutting through lumber. Cream rolled to his feet in one lithe motion and padded to the front of the cage. Standing between Mollie and his mate, he began to rub his muzzle along the bars of the cage.