“He was a real charlatan, eh?” Adam followed.
“Worse.” The shopkeeper’s hands trembled a bit as he fit a key into a door in the wall separating the store and the office beside it. “He . . . but you’ll learn all that soon enough. Here we are.”
The door stuck a bit, then swung open. Adam stepped into the musty warmth of a closed-up building. Sunlight beamed through dusty windows, illuminating a desk, several chairs, and an examining table. A cabinet stood in the corner with a few bottles and boxes inside.
Adam opened the cupboard and took out a small brown glass flask. He examined the faded label, then opened the bottle and sniffed. He shook his head. “Calomel.”
“Oh yes. He dosed that stuff out like candy, said it was a regular cure-all. He gave it to me when I had a bellyache, but it made me so sick that I threw it out.”
“You were wise to. It’s mercurous chloride, a form of inorganic mercury. It’s still in use by many physicians, fraud or no, but I and others believe it to be highly toxic and dangerous.” Adam examined the rest of the bottles. Some patent medicines—mostly whiskey but otherwise fairly harmless, if ineffective. A handful of homeopathic remedies. And in the back, a small bottle each of quinine and digitalis.
“Well, those could actually be useful.” He organized the bottles by habit. “But I’d need to order in most of my own supplies. You could do that through the store?”
“Certainly. You’re interested, then?”
Adam glanced around the space. “I’d like to see the rooms upstairs, but yes, I’m interested, if you’ll have me.” He met Mr. Jorgensen’s gaze. “I understand it may take a while to gain the town’s trust after your last experience.”
If he wasn’t mistaken, tears glistened in the corners of the older man’s eyes. “Any man Mr. Caldwell thinks well of has my confidence. You’d be an answer to many folks’ prayers.”
Is this the answer to mine, Lord? Adam climbed the dusty steps after Mr. Jorgensen, Caldwell remaining below in deference to his leg. Two rooms, small but serviceable. A bedroom with a window toward the back and a sitting room with a wood stove and space for a cot for Jesse. Not much, but it would do till he could buy or build a house.
Back down in the store, he and Mr. Jorgensen discussed the rent, and Adam promised to bring the deposit by that evening. With a lightened heart, he placed his first order for medical supplies, then looked around for something to bring back to the wagons, something that would make the children smile. And Forsythia.
“Do you have any sweets for sale, Mr. Jorgensen? It’s been a while since we’ve had a treat on this journey.”
“My wife is finishing up a batch of her cherry fritters in the kitchen. Our cherry tree is bearing a heap this year, but as soon as I set out her fritters in the store, they’re gone before you can say Jack Robinson.” His eyes twinkled. “Good thing you caught them early. Lucretia!” he hollered into a hallway that seemingly connected the store with the Jorgensens’ living space. “Got those fritters ready?”
“I was just bringin’ them out. Needn’t holler my ear off.” A woman as comfortably round as her husband was slim emerged from the doorway, bearing a tray of hot fritters dusted with sugar.
Adam’s mouth watered at the aroma. “Those smell delicious. I’ll take a dozen, if I may.”
“Twenty-five cents.” Mrs. Jorgensen dropped the pastries into a paper bag and handed it over.
“Thank you.” The price seemed a bit steep, but he didn’t care just now. Adam handed over the coins with a smile, hoping to garner one in return. “We’ll look forward to them.”
“Lu.” Her husband laid a hand on her arm. “This is Dr. Brownsville. He’s going to take up practice in the office next door. Isn’t that a piece of news?”
Mrs. Jorgensen stopped arranging fritters and for the first time looked Adam straight in the eyes. Her expression caught him in the chest. Grief and—hatred?
“Well, let’s hope he doesn’t kill anyone fool enough to enter those doors. I told you we shoulda sold that building when we had a chance.” She snatched her tray and hurried back down the hallway.
Mr. Jorgensen watched her go, his shoulders slumped. With a sigh, he turned back to Adam and Mr. Caldwell. “You’ll have to forgive Lucretia, Dr. Brownsville.” He retied his apron, face drawn in regret. “You see, she blames Dr. Edson for the death of our daughter—and she’s likely right.” The older man seemed about to say more, then shook his head. “I’d best go see to her. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Adam watched the little man hurry after his wife. What on earth had this so-called physician done to this town?
“As you can see, you are needed here,” the attorney said after they showed themselves out. “Though the road may not be smooth.”
“Few roads are.” Adam extended his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Caldwell. For everything.”
“Call me Henry.” Caldwell shook his hand firmly. “I feel you may be a gift from the Lord to this town, Doctor.”
“Then please call me Adam.” He returned the grip.
He bid Caldwell good day and wove his way back through the town on his own, headed out to the campsite. When he reached the open space of the prairie once more, a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding released from his chest. It was strange to be in civilization again, even as rustic as this. So much was happening so fast. And yet, Lord, your hand seems to be in this. At least I hope so. And now, what to do about Forsythia?
He cared for her, that was certain. It seemed so soon after losing Elizabeth—the woman he’d thought the one love of his life. And yet he’d heard of such things happening, especially out on the frontier, where life was precious and love still more so. Love.
