A Touch of Flame Page 3

  For an odd moment, she was seized by the idea that she was still falling. The cascading thud of the books disoriented her into thinking the sound was her hitting the porch face-first. She shook her head slowly, steadying herself, and then found a similar equilibrium for her scattered thoughts.

  “Thank you,” said Ridley. She was aware of Ben’s arm looped around her waist. Her spine was pressed solidly against him. It was rather more comfortable than not, and the longer he held her in place, the more intimate the gesture seemed. That was not comfortable. “I’m fine, thank you. Really, you can release me.”

  He did. “Careful you mind the books that I dropped. Better yet, let me get them out of your way.” He stooped and began to pick them up, starting with those that had fallen in her direct path. “Go on.”

  Ridley hurried into the house. She was almost sure she heard him chuckling, but believed it was the wiser course to let him have his fun without commenting. She was not one for blushing. It was a blessing that she rarely showed any outward signs of embarrassment. She’d been accused of being unnaturally self-possessed, and while her ability to remain composed in difficult circumstances made her an asset in the operating theater, that same sangfroid in social settings made her seem aloof, untouched and untouchable.

  Ridley set her armful of books on the stairs leading to the second floor. When Ben entered the house, she directed him to do the same. “I’ll decide where I want to put them once I am familiar with the house.”

  Shrugging, Ben set them down and left again to get another stack. Ridley trailed behind him. It took three trips to unload enough books to make the trunk light enough for Ben to carry. Her offers to assist fell on deaf ears, so she made sure there was a clear space in the vestibule where he could set it.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to unload the last of the books and carry this upstairs? You’ll probably have use for it for blankets and linens and such.”

  It was a good suggestion, but it meant she’d have to clear the stairs of all the books that were currently blocking his path. “Just put it down for now. I’d like to think about how best to use it before it’s moved upstairs.”

  “All right.” He dropped the trunk after making sure his toes and hers were out of the way. The floor vibrated beneath his feet. “You want to look around?”

  “I do.” She opened her reticule and began rummaging inside again.

  Ben held out the trunk key. “Here. You gave it to me, remember?”

  She nodded but made no move to take it. “I’m not looking for that. But thank you. You can drop it in.”

  Ben did. “Kinda adds to the clutter, doesn’t it?”

  “Nothing in here is clutter, Mr. Madison,” she said with some asperity. “Necessity. All of it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She ignored him. “Found it.” Ridley extracted her change purse and unclasped it. She removed two carefully folded bills and some coins and held them out to him. “For your trouble.”

  Ben stared at her offering and then at her. He gave a bark of laughter that communicated real enjoyment.

  Ridley frowned. She was certain what she was holding in her hand was a generous tip. No doorman, bellboy, cab driver, or porter would have laughed at it. Could things really be so different here? “I’m sorry,” she said. “Not enough?” When she opened the change purse again, he stopped her by placing a hand over hers. The contact startled Ridley and her head snapped up. Her reaction was not enough for Ben to remove his hand so she slid it out from under his. She thrust the money and the change purse back inside her reticule and lowered her arms. “Where I come from, it is customary to tip. I’m afraid I am not familiar with how things are done here.”

  Ben’s laughter had faded away but his grin had not. “Mostly people just help each other out. That’s what I was doing and what plenty of others would have done if Doc had asked them. Save your money, and when there is someone doing a service for you, offer him a third of what you were holding out to me. You don’t want to get a reputation for throwing money away. People will think you’re foolish, not generous.”

  She nodded once. “I understand. Did I insult you?”

  “Insult me? No. I don’t even know if that’s possible.”

  “Thick-skinned?”

  “Dull-witted. I don’t know an insult even when it’s poking me in the chest.”

  Ridley knew that was an outright lie. He was neither thick-skinned nor dull-witted. What he was, was unflappable. She had tried to dismiss him with the tip, but he was not having any of that. He was just waiting her out, staying put until he was satisfied that she was at least partially settled.

  “You’re familiar with the house?” she asked.

  “I am. Spent my fair share of evenings here jawing with Doc.” He rubbed the back of his neck where the faint webbing of old scars puckered and made his skin tighten. “Spent some time being tended by him, too.”

  “Would you show me around, then?”

  “It’d be my pleasure.”

  Ridley blinked. He was completely, perfectly sincere. She didn’t quite know what to make of it. She had spent so much time in the company of people, most of them men, who said all the right things but seldom meant them. She was used to being tolerated, not appreciated, and when someone responded as Ben Madison had, there was generally an undertone that alerted her to a quid pro quo. Sometimes the undertone made her skin crawl.

  That was not the case now. She could admit that she should have placed more faith in her godfather’s judgment. If she made allowances for Mr. Ben Madison’s rather peculiar dry sense of humor, perhaps he was the right person to have met her train.

  Ben invited her to precede him into the parlor on the left. Ridley walked to the center of the cozy room and slowly turned to take in the appointments. The wide arms of all the upholstered furniture were covered in antimacassars. They might have been white once upon a time, but they were faintly yellowed now with age and what she suspected was smoke. She breathed deeply and caught the stale smell of it in the air.

  “What happened to the housekeeper?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t say, except she took Doc’s leaving pretty hard. I don’t believe that she’s been here since he’s been gone.”

  Ridley kept her thoughts about that to herself. A large brushed velvet sofa the color of an eggplant dominated the room. The cushions on either end were shiny with wear. Two chairs that complemented the sofa in style, if not color, were situated so the three pieces formed a triangle where conversation might comfortably take place. The side tables were covered in a thin layer of dust that Ridley did not have to run her finger through to see. The wallpaper’s true color was revealed in the rectangular spaces where paintings had once hung. There was a large area above the mantelpiece where the clusters of pink hydrangeas looked especially bright and the greenery was nearly vibrant.

  Ridley pointed to the space above the mantel. “Do you recall what hung there?”

  “A cityscape. Boston. I asked him about it once, and he told me that he’d brought it with him. He’d settled here, was important in the community, but he cherished the painting. I guess he cherished his roots, too. I don’t know anyone who wasn’t surprised when word got out that he was leaving.”

  Ridley nodded, and she remained thoughtful in her silence.

  Ben pointed to the stove in the corner. “When it’s deep winter in these parts, you’ll want to fire up the wood burner, but the fireplace will keep you warm enough most evenings if you prefer it. There are folks who make a living hauling and splitting wood. I can give you some names. Mary Cherry knows them, too, if it’s your intention to hire her.”

  “I’m sorry, but now that I’ve seen the neglect, I’m undecided.”

  “I thought maybe you were. She should’ve had the place shined up for you. I’m guessing Doc asked her to. I suspect she’s grieving some, so maybe you can
give her leave to do that before you make your decision. Doc valued her.”

  “Were they . . .” She did not finish the sentence and hoped he would do it for her.

  “Lovers? Couldn’t say. I never asked straight out. Figured it was none of my business. Folks come down on both sides of that question but only Doc and Mary Cherry know for sure. She’s married, if that counts for anything. Anson Cherry hires on as a wrangler when the mood strikes him, but that’s less and less as the years pass.”

  “So Mrs. Cherry needs the work.”

  “She does, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t others who would hire her. No one could steal her away from Doc, but there are probably some who think they have an opportunity now.”

  “Thank you. That’s good to know.”

  Nodding, he led the way into the kitchen, where Ridley halted her steps in front of the iron behemoth and stared at it. “You’ve seen a stove before, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “Never one this big. How old is it?”

  “No idea.”

  She sighed. “I don’t suppose he cared since he probably never touched it. Poor Mrs. Cherry.” Ridley looked around. Doc had not taken his china, though it did not appear that he had many pieces. The cupboard had enough mismatched pieces to serve three, perhaps four if someone was willing to use a bread and butter plate as a dinner plate and use a teacup without a saucer. Pots and pans were stacked on the bottom shelf of a serving cart; the surface of the oak kitchen table showed scars and stains, evidence of years of food preparation and dining. Ridley was vaguely surprised all the chairs matched.

  She followed Ben through the unremarkable and little-used dining room to that part of the house that interested her more than any other, and she was not disappointed. Ridley could look past the film of dust on the walnut desk and merely appreciate it for its size. Nearly as long as the sofa in the parlor, this desk would hold her important correspondence and files and notes and current research books. All of her other books would fit easily on the built-in cases that lined two walls. She was tempted to sit in the dark burgundy leather chair behind the desk and test its fit. There were two spindle-legged chairs for patients on the other side of the desk. Like so many things, the seat covers were faded to a pale mossy green. There was no paper on these walls, and Ridley imagined they had once been painted to match the seat covers. She easily found the space where her godfather had hung his diploma, and thought she might try to have that leafy green color matched when she repainted.

  The surgery had its own entrance so patients did not have to come through the house. When her father had practiced medicine outside the hospital, their home had been similarly arranged. She remembered using that entrance when she brought her dolls in for diagnosis and treatment. Her father never failed to make them better and he always had a sweet for them because they were such good patients. She decided that she would keep a jar of peppermints nearby for the children.

  Ridley was just stepping over the threshold of the surgery when Ben caught her by the elbow and pulled her back. She looked at him, surprised by the firmness of his grip and the force he used to make her retreat. She opened her mouth to ask what he was about, but her question remained unspoken.

  “Let me go first,” he said, releasing her. He squeezed past her to enter the surgery. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots. “Didn’t want you stepping on that. There’s a lot of it.”

  Caught up in the memory of her father’s care and kindness, Ridley had not noticed the shards of glass scattered on the floor. “What’s broken?” she asked, bending for a closer look.

  “What’s not?”

  “That’s hardly a satisfactory answer.”

  Ben crossed the floor to the large white hutch. Glass panes were set in the double doors that closed over the upper half of the cabinet. Those doors, which were never locked, were flung open. The narrow shelves were almost entirely bare, but Ben knew that this was where Doc kept the medicines and ingredients for poultices and salves. Below, the hutch’s locked cabinets had been forced open. The inside had been similarly rifled and laid bare. Doc’s most powerful drugs were missing, and in their haste, the thieves had left a trail of broken glass bottles. Some of the glass was clear, but there were also shards of amber and cobalt blue. Powdered medicine was sprinkled over the glass.

  “His medicine cabinet, I presume,” Ridley said, coming to stand beside Ben.

  “That’s right.”

  “It looks as if whoever broke in dropped as much as he took.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Do you know how much he kept here?”

  “Couldn’t say. Mary—”

  “Yes,” said Ridley. “Mary Cherry will know.”

  “Right again.”

  “We passed an apothecary. I saw it. Why wouldn’t a thief go there for medicine?”

  “Because this place has been deserted for a while and Mickey Mangold lives above his business and would have been sure to raise the alarm. Clumsy, not stupid. Or not completely stupid.” He shook his head at the mess. “Too big of a hurry to do the job carefully.”

  Ridley was inclined to agree, but there were other possibilities she felt compelled to mention. “Alcohol,” she said.

  “Yeah, might’ve been liquored up.”

  “Or smoking the pipe. Is opium a problem here?”

  “Not here. Not yet. There are parlors in Denver that cater to the opium eaters. Still, it’s something to consider.”

  “Yes, well, shouldn’t we allow the sheriff to consider it? I believe we passed his office on our way from the station.”

  “We did. I’ll let him know. Damage is done; no reason to run after him now. I’m going to find a broom and dustpan. Try not to move. You don’t want to put glass through your shoes.”

  “In the kitchen,” she said. When he regarded her oddly, she explained. “The broom and dustpan are in the kitchen.”

  Ben thanked her and returned quickly with both. He held one item in each hand and asked her to choose.

  “Broom,” she said, taking it from him. She began sweeping in small circles while he used the dustpan to shovel some of the glass toward her.

  They worked slowly, carefully, and had the floor in relatively good condition in under fifteen minutes.

  “It will have to be mopped,” he told her. “There’s no telling how many slivers are between the floorboards or in the wood grain.”

  “I understand.” She held up a hand to stay him from saying what she was sure was coming next. “I know. Mary Cherry.”

  He grinned. “Just something to think about.”

  Ridley took the dustpan from his hand and made a shooing motion with the broom. “I’ve seen the house, and I thank you for your help. I’ll be fine. You should go for the sheriff now.”

  “I will. It might be a while before he gets here. There’s no real emergency, and I know he’s got a local reprobate in a jail cell. Could be he has some responsibilities there first.”

  “That’s all right. This is hardly a priority.”

  “Well, it won’t be at the bottom of his list. I’ll make sure he’s back before it gets dark.”

  “You have some influence there?”

  “A little. I know his family real well.” With that, he turned and left by the surgery door.

  Ridley followed his exit with her eyes, riveted by his easy walk, the amble in his gait. When he was out of sight, she went to the door, closed and locked it, and then leaned back against it. She closed her eyes.

  When that didn’t diminish the ache behind her heavy lids and heavier heart, she let the tears fall.

  Chapter Three

  Ben’s first order of business was to return the buckboard to the livery. He hoped someone other than the owner would be there to take possession of the wagon and mare, but that hope was dashed when grim-faced Hank Ketchum stepped out of the y
ard.

  “Saw you earlier,” said Ketchum as Ben jumped down from his seat.

  “I know. I waved to you.”

  “So you did, but now I’m wonderin’ who that was with you. Thought you needed this equipage for the new doc. What happened? Did he get cold feet or just miss a connection?”

  “Oh, Dr. Woodhouse will be along directly.”

  Ketchum gave the mare a slap on the rump and she dutifully began walking toward the livery. “I can’t say I blame you for giving the young lady a ride. Quite the proper miss she was.”

  “You could tell that from where you were standing?”

  Ketchum nodded sharply. “Spine like a ramrod, that one. And the hat? Never imagined a hat like that outside of a Felicity Ravenwood dime novel.”

  Ben wanted to howl with laughter but he let Ketchum’s observation go unremarked. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the street behind him. “Have to be going, Hank. Jeremiah Salt is still sitting in a cell. Can’t keep him there much longer.”

  It was hardly an exaggeration that Hank Ketchum’s shoulders were set as narrowly as his eyes. When he shrugged them, as he did now, they just about touched his earlobes. “And I can’t say that anyone would care if you did.”

  “He’s got a wife and children.”

  “Them least of all.”

  Ben knew Ketchum was right, but there was the law, and drunk and disorderly did not get you a life sentence. Ben nodded shortly, touched the brim of his hat, and thanked Hank for the use of the buckboard before he headed to his office.

  On his way to the livery, he’d seen the Saunders brothers standing outside his office. He acknowledged them as he passed but didn’t slow to inquire if they were loitering there for a reason. They owned a good piece of the boardwalk in front of the land office for doing nothing and they frequently used it for just that purpose. He would count it as a good thing if it were a dispute that brought them across the street and not questions about his companion on the buckboard.