Healing Hearts (Easton Series #2) Read online

  Hannah proceeded to read everything she could find on the topic of addiction, primarily research tracts from a noted German physician. She learned that commercial “cures” were fakes containing an opiate, shrewdly concocted to shift addiction to the peddler’s product.

  Yet, there was hope. The German doctor, Erlenmeyer, had tried two methods to get patients to quit the habit: The sudden method and the gradual method. His experimentation showed the gradual method was a trip to purgatory; it spread the patient’s suffering over weeks and months. Erlenmeyer’s sudden weaning method was more effective, however dangerous, as wild delirium, manias, and collapse were likely, and thus the patient had to be guarded against self-injury. His patients endured the worst effects of morphine weaning for about one week; freedom from the drug’s bondage required a strong will and the help of friends.

  Did she have the courage and had she earned his trust? Would he buck the idea or put his hands up in surrender? He was a proud man. Hannah spent a great deal of time reflecting on her growing feelings for Jed Rutherford.

  She decided she’d commit her effort to curing his addiction, if he’d cooperate. He had to be as ready as she was. Hannah’s new emotions were so much stronger than fear. She’d taken personal risks before, but always with a colleague to back her up, and never one so great as crossing the man she was hoping to work with well into the future. If she failed she’d have to leave Wounded Colt.

  After painful deliberation, Hannah confronted Jed one evening as they stood outside watching a blazing sunset. She set her hands on her hips, inhaled deeply, and her skirt rustled as she turned to face his strong profile.

  “You have the marks of morphinism.” She held her breath. “Don’t deny it.”

  Orange light illuminated his tight grimace, telling her he was caught red-handed and flat-footed. “It’s no business of yours.”

  “It is my concern. I live and work with you. You’re my only family here.”

  Jed slumped in defeat. He cast his eyes down to his feet.

  “How much?” she asked.

  “I’m down to seven grains a day.”

  Hannah recalled the case studies she’d read. “That’s good.”

  He looked away from her and nodded. “I never meant for it to own me.”

  Hannah’s gray eyes were misty. “Of course not. I can help you.”

  “Look, I’ve seen men try to quit. You can’t handle it by yourself, and it could kill me.”

  Hannah frowned. Her heart pounded, and she twisted her damp palms into fists. “You don’t trust me?”

  He sighed. “I trust you plenty, but the fact is I’m bigger and stronger than you.”

  “Roy Easton and John Hawkins will help me,” she squeaked. She unclenched her hands and bit her lower lip.

  “I don’t want the whole town to know my personal weakness!”

  “Sir, I believe some already do. Or they suspect,” she whispered. “And, sir, it’s not a weakness. It’s due to your strength. Your suffering is due to introspection, and looking back at what you wish you could change. It means you are a good person at heart. If you didn’t suffer, if you didn’t feel anything, you wouldn’t be human. You’d be a lunatic.”

  “You do have a bedside manner, Doctor Sutton.” He looked up at the sky. “Hell. During the war all the docs were slugging whiskey or taking morphine. They’d give placebos to the men to save enough for themselves. Some were able to leave off of it after the war.” He looked at his boots. “I’m working on it.”

  “You can’t do it alone.”

  “I used to think I could.”

  “Did your old partner know? Chandler?”

  “Yes. He thought leaving me would force me to end it. He figured I’d have to quit on my own . . . but I couldn’t. Instead I sent for another doctor. I didn’t count on getting one so damn brilliant at diagnosing her partner’s shortcomings.”

  His backhanded praise pleased her. “Doctor, now is the best time. You have me to oversee your treatment. I’ll take the best care of you. You know that.”

  He eyed her keenly. “Yes. I believe you would. Let me sleep on it.”

  Hannah felt defeated. He was putting her off. She crossed her fingers behind her back. “Don’t take too long, Doctor. My six months are up in October.”

  “I thought you –“

  “I’ll consider staying when you’re cured.” Her voice was bold and purposeful. “Excuse me,” she turned on her heel and marched back inside the house, where she furiously penned a letter.

  Dearest Mother,

  I am well and stand confused regarding your words about Doctor Rutherford and necessity of marriage. Jed is my work partner, and for reasons I can’t disclose he will be nothing more. Furthermore, do you not recall that owing to my physical deficits, Father barred my marriage to Joseph Smith two years ago? Have you lost your memory?

  You write, ‘a good man yields to the woman he takes to his hearth’, but what when there is no passion in the hearth?

  Without the act there can be no sin, and no stain to my reputation. I submit to no mortal judgment.

  Your loving daughter,

  Hannah

  Hannah sobbed and stuffed the letter into a pigeonhole in the writing desk Rutherford had assigned her in a corner of the parlor. She knew she’d never send it.

  Her life wasn’t what she expected it would be. Did Cole know he was sending her into such a position, where her heart would embrace the man and his challenge -- all while her training told her to run away, far away, from such trouble?

  She ascended the stairs to seek comfort under her blankets.

  Chapter 18

  Hannah’s laughter drifted from the passenger seat as they drove out to the Mineral Creek Ranch. An ill cowboy had advanced the time of their monthly visit to the Easton place. Sarah Easton sent the message, and she made it clear: She’d be disappointed if Rutherford’s calico partner didn’t show. For Jed, inviting Hannah along was easier than facing Sarah’s wrath and Cal’s inquisition.

  “Thank you for hanging my painting,” Hannah sang gaily as she bounced over the buggy springs. Jed snapped his head around. Her hair was tied back, but a blossom of tresses curled over her back in feminine fashion. She looked sweet and eager, like she was going to her first ball. At that moment she was the prettiest woman he’d ever set his eyes on.

  The corners of his mouth turned up. “I realized your art is functional. It perfectly covers a crack in the wall.”

  She tapped his thigh with her slender hand. “All right. It’s not my best, but you had to do something with the extra frame you made.”

  She laughed, and his smile reached to his eyes.

  Hannah had, literally, painted the town. Her work hung in the hotel, general store, newspaper office, and the jailhouse. The piece he’d framed and hung in the surgery depicted the main street of Wounded Colt, a lonely humanity of false fronted buildings set against the prairie. He had to admit it was a fine artistic rendering, but it also revealed her conflicted feelings about the town. It was lonely, yet hopeful, with rays of sunshine peeking over and between gray structures. Her paintings melted away her shield, and he’d found pain and hardship, beauty and wonder, hope and despair, all exposed in colors, composition, and even the brushstrokes.

  Such reflection was useless. The threat of her leaving crashed over him, like waves in a storm. He’d grown to trust and respect her, yet he acknowledged the truth of his position: He had no one else to fall back on. He loathed his vulnerability and the raw exposure of his condition.

  Jed turned his face to keep his profile to her, while silently chastising himself for his recent behavior: Just the day before he’d frantically searched for extra morphine to hoard. Suspecting Hannah had hidden the supply, he’d searched in her desk and found letters from her mother, along with a recent reply she’d penned. The message was clear: Hannah’s mother insisted she marry or leave him.

  He couldn’t give her up. Wounded Colt couldn’t let her go. Like her pat
ients, he loved her calm, soothing voice. He loved to imagine more picnics with her, endless breakfasts, and tender moments when they watched mule deer shyly grazing around their house on the outer edge of town. He’d come to enjoy the daily interaction and Hannah working by his side. He’d learned as much from her as she had from him, although he’d be the last to admit it.

  There was one way to keep her in his house, and permanently.

  He cleared his throat and kept his eyes fixed forward. “You know, lots of talk goes around town about us. Gossip, mostly. Old biddies question the propriety of you living with a man. I’m sorry you have to endure it. You know why I don’t marry.”

  She nodded briskly. “Yes.”

  “But what about you? Why are you adverse to knowing a man and marrying up?”

  He felt her leg stiffen against his thigh.

  “I think I have a right to know. You know my secret. How can I understand you if I don’t know your story?”

  She was silent and looked away from him. “I’m not whole,” she whispered.

  “You can’t bear children?” His rich voice was low and deep.

  “No. Well, yes . . . I mean . . . it’s something else.”

  Abruptly, with hands shaking, Hannah raised her trouser leg up to her knee. “It goes to the middle of my thigh,” she explained reluctantly. She let the fabric fall as quickly as she’d raised it. If he’d blinked he would have missed seeing the scar.

  Jed knit his brow. He’d seen the burned flesh before, and now he feigned surprise.

  “It happened when you were young?”

  “Yes.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t want to talk about it further.”

  He was silent for some minutes. He’d known about the scars, but now he thought about how this injury -- and her family’s reaction to it -- had shaped the woman. “You have no intention of marrying anyone, ever?”

  “No. Of course not. You see why not.”

  He frowned. “No, I don’t precisely.” He squinted. “It’s not a tarnished reputation or a crime that holds you back.” He slapped the reins in frustration. “You know, the talk in town about us is like a fever.”

  She seemed relieved at this turn of the conversation. “Oh, my mother makes mention of it in her letters.” She slapped a hand to her mouth, as if she wanted to take the words back as soon as she’d said them.

  The air hung thick between them. Jed decided to throw to home plate. He couldn’t lose what he was already losing. “We could marry, and continue to live as we do now.”

  She inhaled sharply. “A marriage of convenience?”

  “Yes, if you’d like to call it that. It would solve the problem of people talking.”

  “Isn’t it lying?”

  “I think not. You are fond of me, as you would be fond of a brother, are you not?”

  “Y-yes, but—“

  “We are family to each other, and marriage is to create family, is it not?”

  “Yes, but –“

  “Older couples often aren’t physically intimate, and they can no longer have children, yet they are married,” he argued. “Hannah, you know this from your work. Look, we’re being honest with each other. I don’t hesitate to tell you: You’re the closest woman in my life. You know my greatest secret.”

  She slanted her gray eyes in his direction. “That’s true . . . all right. . . . I’ll marry you, if you agree to the treatment.”

  “The treatment?”

  “Quit the morphine.”

  He grimaced and swallowed. “After we marry.”

  “No,” she stuck her chin out. “Before. And you have to do it my way.” She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap, as if she were praying. His gaze wandered to her white knuckles.

  “All right.”

  Hannah’s shoulders dropped. “We’re going to make you well,” she said, but her tone included a note of doubt.

  “Right,” Jed forced through clenched teeth. He couldn’t believe he’d made the bargain to go through hell for her, but it was the only way. He’d lose her if he didn’t secure her with matrimony.

  Chapter 19

  On the first day she reduced his dose to five grains. Within hours a migraine ricocheted through his head, throwing him down to his cot with cruel vengeance. Hannah pulled the shades, blanketed his chilled body and fed him hot broth. She moved the surgery to the porch, and she treated patients with extreme haste and efficiency.

  He’d never felt more useless in his life.

  On the second day she gave him two grains. He heaved up his breakfast, and continued heaving every hour. When he wasn’t doubled over, he was berating her or begging for morphine.

  He was thrashing, and it was all she could do to control him as she sent for the blacksmith, Farrel, who held him down while they chained his arms to the cot.

  After that, Hawkins and Easton and Farrel alternated assisting.

  Hannah was there throughout his ordeal, wiping sweat from Jed’s brow and cheeks and giving him water to drink. She didn’t sleep for three days.

  Jed felt vulnerable as a newborn. For the first time in his life he was completely and utterly lost, at the mercy of others, and he no longer felt a part of the world. What did he have left if this didn’t succeed? Failure was not an acceptable outcome for the patient, and if he lived he’d cherish the one person in his life and make her his family. It didn’t matter that the marriage would be in name only; he decided he’d let it be, as long as Hannah needed it that way. He’d have companionship and comfort and partnership. It was more than enough.

  He was hot. Then he was cold. Hannah added blankets, but they could not protect him from the harsh wracking of his body crying out for the drug. He prayed for death when he thought he would live. He prayed to live when he felt like dying. Most of all he prayed Hannah would not leave him.

  She’d tell him he was getting better when he wasn’t so he wouldn’t give up. She’d lie about how close he was to relief, and she’d say the shakes were a good sign. She said it was like breaking a horse, and he’d break this one good. Just mount again, and let it buck, she murmured. When he begged shamelessly, looking into her bloodshot eyes underlined with dark exhaustion, she told him he couldn’t let the devil win. He looked past her ragged frame, at the wall, and tried desperately to put himself into her painting. He closed his eyes to relive the tranquility of the picnic, the day he’d kissed those soft lips. He decided he’d do it again, if only he got through this hell.

  By the fourth day he took only one grain, and twice she relented and added a shot of whiskey. He heaved up the warm milk. He’d lost weight, felt weak. Hannah’s hands rubbed his back, attempting to make pain tolerable with her kindness and strength. She stroked his shoulders and leaned into his lower back.

  “Does this help?” she whispered.

  “It does.”

  “You know the dangers of addiction. You know this is good for you,” she repeated it like an endless mantra.

  “Yes. I know,” he grunted, as an icy shiver played up his spine.

  She reminded him, over and over, as her hand wandered up and down his chest, wiping with a cool cloth, how good he’d feel when it was over. He’d be in control of his life, his destiny.

  During the quieter times she read aloud and bathed him, and the warm gentle cleansing eased the blackness. She combed her fingers through his coarse hair to work in the soap, and then worked from his neck to his toes, lathering and rinsing and repeating the process until the water lost its warmth. His half-smile was all she needed to keep up her spirits.

  “Who took care of you when you were burned?” he asked while she lathered soap onto his back.

  She paused. “My mother, mostly. She read to me and sang so I wouldn’t think about the pain. She had a knack for it.”

  “As do you. You alleviate suffering for others.”

  “I know what it is, firsthand, and how much it means when someone gives comfort.”

  “Hannah, you’re pretty. Pretty as your pain
tings. No, prettier,” he muttered. She had the most beautiful eyes and skin he’d seen. He’d skirted around conscious notice of it before, but now as she swept close to his face to nurse him he was awakened to her loveliness.

  She blushed and waved a hand dismissively. “You’re addled with fever, Doctor Rutherford.”

  “No, I’m not,” he protested. “Sing to me?”

  Hannah obliged him with a sweet lullaby from her childhood as he ambled off to sleep.

  On the fifth day Hannah and Roy hauled him outside for fresh air and exercise. They walked to Main Street and back. His head and back were throbbing, but he was determined to complete the treatment. He ate toast and eggs. When other patients arrived Hannah now ceded his care to Roy or John.

  “You need your sleep,” he said.

  “I will, soon. Don’t worry.”

  But she did not, and would not, as long as his life was in danger.

  In ten days he was weaned. The chills and fever and headaches were gone, and his appetite had returned. If he’d had any qualms about his future wife, they’d been dispelled. She’d ferociously guarded his life and well-being.

  After he was dressed and moving about he requested a conference with her in the parlor. She sat across from him, on a horse-hair stuffed chair.

  “Thank you, Hannah, for saving my life.”

  She stared soberly into his dark eyes. “It’s not over. We have to guard against relapse.”

  He rolled his shoulders and grimaced. “Yes.”

  “To such end I’ll control the supplies. There will be no cheating.”

  “I agree,” he pledged.

  “Your habit was not a primary malady. It was secondary. Now we treat your original disease.”

  “I’m making progress on that.” He took her hand and locked his eyes with hers. “Having you here does me good.”

  “I believe you are recovering. You were fortunate. As you were a mouth taker of morphine, your withdrawal symptoms were not as severe.”