“Robbie is so precious to me. I’m always afraid of losing him.” She drew in a long breath.
“Broken bones, especially a clean break like Robbie’s, are generally not fatal, given proper treatment.” His brown eyes didn’t hold even the tiniest hint of chiding.
“I know that. But that doesn’t stop a mother from worrying. Foolish, isn’t it? I’m a trained midwife, yet I fall to pieces at something so slight.”
“It’s not foolish. Though I’ve known your son less than an hour, I can already tell he loves you greatly. You’re a good mother, Annie Lawrence. It’s natural that you would be concerned about Robbie’s welfare. I’ve treated countless patients, and I’ve found that those who care most feel the most anxiety when it comes to their loved ones. I guess it’s one of those truths of life. As my father always says, ‘With love, there’s always the risk of loss.’”
She smiled slowly, his words taking root within her heart. “For a man who spends his days stitching people up, you possess quite the poetic streak, Dr. Hart.”
“Much to the exasperation of my brothers. They never took well to Keats on roundup days.” A dimple appeared, turning his smile so magnetic she found herself unable to drag her gaze away. “But it works wonders to distract the patients. Once I launch into Hamlet, they’re too diverted by my less-than-Shakespearean recitation skills to even care that I’m sticking a needle in their appendages.”
She laughed. After her bout of tears, the joy of the sensation welled up and sent her into another spasm of giggles. He joined in, deep chuckles reverberating through the room. Had anyone stood outside the door, they might’ve thought she and Travis had taken leave of their senses. Perhaps they had. Perhaps finding laughter in the midst of such a tense day was as off-kilter as it seemed.
Or perhaps, it was the cure she’d so long needed.
Though Hartville wasn’t a booming metropolis by San Antonio standards, the town suited Travis just fine. He knew everybody, cared for them in times of illness. Helped them through births and deaths alike. After the long, hard years of war, healing others had healed him in the process. He’d seen so many good men die, powerless to offer them more than the barest comforts, powerless to give them pain relief while he severed gangrene-infected limbs from their bodies.
Now he could concentrate on enjoying life, on helping others live theirs in good health.
He waved to Michael Mortenson. The young man paused from sweeping the walkway in front of the mercantile to return the salutation.
His glance fell on Collingswood & Henderson’s Hardware, a business next to the post office that was rumored to be going on the market soon. His thoughts turned to Houston. His favorite brother had been away for so long. Would he ever come to his senses and make Hartville his home? Like Travis, Houston didn’t share the Hart passion for ranching. That little old hardware store would be perfect for a businessman like Houston. Now, if only he would make up his mind to come home…
Past First National Bank and Virginia’s Hotel lay Travis’s favorite building in town. Unlike the ranch, which belonged to the entire Hart family, the tiny, wood-sided building was his alone.
WILLIAM TRAVIS HART, MD read the neatly painted shingle.
He unlocked the door, flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and stepped inside. He didn’t much regret not keeping steady office hours. Families in the outlying areas needed his care. Many didn’t come to town often. Besides, in an emergency, everyone knew to send word to the 7 Heart. Usually one of the ranch hands or Perla, the family cook, had some inkling of where to find him.
The clean smell of soap mingled with the pungent aroma of some of his herbal remedies. Had Mollie Olson been poking through them again? He’d hired the fifteen-year-old to clean the place, not stick her nose into jars.
The bell above the door jangled only moments after he’d sat down at his desk in the back room to update some patient files. He pushed back his swivel chair, stood, and stepped into the waiting area.
Miss Spanner, Hartville’s attempt at bringing Eastern fashions to the Texas Hill Country, adjusted her showy silk skirts and stepped into the waiting area.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?”
The longtime spinster held up a bandage-wrapped thumb. “I was in the midst of sewing Chantilly lace onto Miss Palmer’s new mauve silk, when I nearly hemmed my thumb to the fabric. I bandaged it, but the pain still lingers, three days later.”
“Why don’t you come through, and I’ll take a look?” He motioned for her to precede him.
Once Miss Spanner had seated herself on his examining table and unwrapped her thumb, she gave her usual opening line. “Did you hear the news?”
He busied himself with collecting supplies from one of the cabinets—a clean cloth to wash the wound, comfrey salve to help with healing.