Tempest in the White City Page 2

  “Can I interest you in an elevator ride?” He nodded toward a boxed-in compartment a few feet away. “It will take you down to the ground floor quick as a wink.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is it safe?”

  “Absolutely. Made and installed by the Otis brothers themselves.”

  “How much does it cost to ride?”

  “Not a thing.”

  She glanced at it. “But isn’t it electric?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He held out his arm, his body swaying a bit to the left. “How about I ride down with you?”

  She pursed her lips. “Well, if you think it’s safe.”

  Instead of answering, he used all his faculties to usher her to the elevator. The effort took every bit of slack out of his rope.

  The elevator attendant offered his stool to Mrs. Duke. Hunter propped himself up in the corner.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

  The question hung in the air as Hunter looked at the attendant, pretending he was the one she’d addressed.

  She squinted. “Are you sick, Mr. Scott?”

  “No, ma’am.” It was all he could manage.

  “You’re white as a sheet.”

  “Must be these electric lights.”

  How much longer? he thought. He’d never had reason to ride one of these things. Had no idea it was so slow. He could’ve been down the stairs two times over by now.

  “I’ve birthed sixteen children and buried a good many of them, along with six husbands. I think I ought to know a sick man when I see one.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then you are sick?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Clearing his throat, the elevator attendant leaned slightly toward Mrs. Duke. “Some people become a little nervous their first time.”

  “You insinuating I’m afraid?” Hunter drilled the man with his gaze. He may be dying, but he hadn’t hung up his spurs just yet.

  A bell chimed, and the car bounced to an abrupt stop. Hunter’s knees buckled under the sudden jarring. Pressing his hands against the wall, he caught himself halfway down. His belly curled up like barbs on a barbed wire fence, doubling him over.

  “Go get help.” Mrs. Duke prodded the elevator man’s back.

  “I’m not allowed to leave my post.”

  Somebody moaned. It took him a minute to realize it had been him.

  “Do not argue with me, sir.” Frail as she was, that tone was a force to be reckoned with. The elevator man pulled the accordion door open and scurried to do her bidding.

  Hunter grasped the side of the opening. “I’m fine.” But for the life of him, he couldn’t straighten up.

  She patted his back, her hand knobby. “It’s all right. You go ahead and sit down now. Help will be here soon.”

  “No, thank you, ma’am.” He would not, could not die in this godforsaken building. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  He stumbled, half-crouched, to the Primitive Woman fresco, teetered to the right, and knocked two paintings off the wall in a bid to catch himself.

  Bile rushed up his throat. He was going to cast up his accounts, right here on the polished wooden floor of the Woman’s Building, and offend every sensibility these ladies had.

  He pressed a fist to his mouth. His ears began to ring.

  The sound of heavy, running footfalls galloped toward him. What had the attendant done, call the fire brigade?

  But instead, polished black boots and blue trousers with a familiar red stripe appeared in his vision. Eddie Carlisle. The relief guard.

  Squatting down, Carlisle grabbed Hunter’s arm. “What the blazes happened?”

  “Get me outta here.” He had to push the words through gritted teeth, for the bile still threatened.

  “Were you stabbed? Shot? Shoved? Did you break something? Where does it hurt?”

  “Stomach.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.” But when he tried to straighten, his legs again turned to jelly.

  Carlisle caught him. “Okay, pal. I’m going to carry you. Don’t fight me, all right?”

  You can’t. But even as Hunter thought it, Carlisle grabbed his wrist and slipped an arm between his legs. Once he had Hunter’s torso across his shoulders, Carlisle stood, bearing all two-hundred-plus pounds of Hunter’s six-foot bulk.

  Wheezing, Carlisle staggered for a second. “Die and be doomed. What’d you eat for breakfast? A grizzly?”

  But Hunter wasn’t fooled. The Columbian Guards—named for the World’s Columbian Exposition—had been handpicked from thousands of applicants for their height, physique, ability, and character. They had to be between twenty-one and thirty-five, at least five-foot-eight, and competent in their ability to serve and protect.

  Carlisle was ex-army, with a craw full of sand and fighting tallow. A year younger than Hunter’s twenty-seven, he spoke three languages and had pummeled Hunter with questions about life as a Ranger. It had been an honor to serve beside him—even if it was in the Woman’s Building.

  “This way,” a female voice whispered, dainty heels clipping along in front of them.

  The floor rushed by in a blur. He held on to consciousness, refusing to close his eyes, not wanting to chance succumbing to the pain until he was across the threshold and on the gravel walkway.

  But instead of emerging into sunshine, he was carried sideways through a narrow doorway and into an apartment of some kind.

  No, he thought, you’re going the wrong way. The front door. Go to the front door.

  A succession of cabinets with glass-fronted doors held multitudes of vials, jars, and boxed medicines. He groaned. The infirmary. Carlisle had taken him to the blasted infirmary.

  “Get me out of here.” His voice had a raspy quality he wasn’t accustomed to.

  Another door. A female voice. A flash of white.

  Carlisle bent his knees, then did a thrust, tossing Hunter up and over. He landed with a thunk on a cot.

  Oooph. Hunter grabbed a fistful of Carlisle’s jacket. “I don’t want to die . . . in an infirmary . . . in the Woman’s Building.”

  Carlisle didn’t so much as flinch. “Then get up and walk out.”

  Hunter tried to rise. Pain sliced across his gut.

  Carlisle pushed him down with two fingers.

  Why was Carlisle doing this? Doctors were the enemy. They tortured people. Killed them, even.

  Still, Hunter didn’t say anything. He was a Ranger first, a Columbian Guard second. If he fell into the hands of the enemy, he wouldn’t do it with his eyes bulging out like a tromped-on toad.

  He looked at his friend. “Go on. Save yourself.”

  A touch of humor flashed across Carlisle’s face. “I’m going to go make the rounds. I’ll check on you after a while.”

  I’ll be dead. But before he could voice the thought, the pain in his stomach spread up his back and wrapped around his chest. Much as he wanted to curl up, he didn’t move or make a sound.

  A nurse with flaxen hair and large blue eyes took Carlisle’s place beside the bed and put a cool hand against Hunter’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  At least she wasn’t the one he’d stopped on the steps. He wouldn’t have wanted his insistence on safety to come back and bite him now.

  Unscrewing a cylindrical case on her chatelaine, she removed a thermometer and shook down the mercury. “Open up.”

  “Just call in the doc and let’s get this over with.”

  “The doctor needs to know your temperature.”

  “Knowing my temperature isn’t going to change a thing.” He was dying. He knew that, and was ready to meet his Maker. He might be too incapacitated to do anything about his location, but he sure could do something about what occurred his final moments on earth. And if it was the last thing he did, he was
going to die with a little dignity.

  The gas he’d been holding made a fierce, noisy, involuntary exit.

  The nurse’s eyes widened.

  His face went from feverish to scalding. “Get out.”

  Her expression softened. “Now, there’s nothing to be ashamed—”

  “Out,” he barked.

  She stumbled back. “You needn’t—”

  “Out!”

  Whirling about, she fled.

  The minute the door closed behind her, he let the rest of it loose. He knew the doc wouldn’t mind. Those fellows had seen and smelled a lot worse.

  The expulsion offered a tiny bit of relief. Not enough to sit up, but enough to turn his head. His cot stood higher than normal, with an invalid’s table on his left. A rack along one wall held bandages made of all sorts of materials. Below them were surgical instruments, syringes, ligatures, and scissors.

  A framed diploma on the wall caught his attention. It was from the University of Michigan. That was something, at least. The doc was trained. Didn’t make him trustworthy, but it offered a tiny measure of reassurance.

  The name had been written in fancy script. Billy . . . He squinted. Billy Jack Tate. Funny, he didn’t recall any man entering the Woman’s Building on a consistent basis. Nurses, yes. Doctors, no. Still, the fair had only been open for a month. Perhaps he’d been making rounds inside when the doc came and went. Or maybe the doc worked during Carlisle’s shift.

  The door opened. It was the hat-pin lady. A stethoscope curled about her neck like a winter scarf, a tiny megaphone-looking thing on one end, earpieces on the other. If the odor in the room affected her, she gave no indication of it.

  “You frightened Nurse Findley.” She approached the cot, yet only the swish of her petticoats gave her away.

  He looked at her hem. Was she barefoot? Why didn’t her boots make any noise?

  “I won’t stand for that kind of behavior,” she said. “Not even from a Columbian Guard.”

  Easy for her to say now that she had him flat on his back. “Go away.”

  She removed a thermometer from her chatelaine and began to shake it. “What happened between this morning when you stopped me and now?”

  “I’ll tell the doc when I see him.”

  “I am the doc. Now, open up.” She held the thermometer poised.

  Pushing her wrist aside, he gave her an exasperated look. “His diploma’s right there on the wall. You tell Billy Jack to come in here and quit sending me his nurses.”

  “I’m Billy Jack Tate. Now open up, and let’s get a read on your temperature.”

  She couldn’t be serious. His stomach began to spasm. “Look, lady,” he breathed. “I’m not much longer for this world, so if you’ll just get the doc and let him say a few words, I’d be grateful.”

  Her entire countenance changed. She put the thermometer in its case and reached for his cap.

  He caught her wrist.

  “Something’s happening,” she said. “You’re experiencing pain somewhere. I can see it in your face. Let’s not waste time. I was named after my granddaddies on both sides. I graduated cum laude from the University of Michigan. I’ve been practicing for seven years. And I can help you. But you have to tell me where it hurts.”

  “You’d lie to a dying man?”

  “Nobody dies on my watch. Not if I can help it. And I’m not lying. I’m Dr. Tate. I really, really am. Now, you need to tell me what’s going on while you still can.”

  His grip on her wrist had weakened to a point where she simply pulled free and removed his cap. From there, she went straight to the brass buttons holding his jacket together. Shoving the jacket open, she started on his shirt. Maybe dying in the Woman’s Building wouldn’t turn out to be so bad after all.

  “Where does it hurt?” she asked.

  “The gut.”

  “Did something happen? Did you run into anything?”

  A sharp pain lanced through him. Sucking in a breath, he gave a quick shake of his head.

  “What did you have for breakfast?”

  “A grizzly.”

  “I hope you’re joking.” She shoved open his shirt, then wrenched his undershirt from his trousers and scrunched it up to his armpits with quick strokes. Without missing a beat, she swept her gaze from his torso to his eyes.

  Jaw clamped against the spasm, he managed a wink. “Not bad for a dying man, huh?”

  Her expression was all business. “Point with one finger to where it hurts the most.”

  He drew an upside down U from his hip bone up over his belly button and down to the other hip bone. If she wanted to see it, though, she’d have to undo his belt. Instead, she simply pressed her fingers against the indicated area.

  He jumped, forgetting about everything but the pain, and shoved her hands away.

  “I know it’s tender. I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

  This was why he hated doctors. Instead of taking his word, they prodded him to see if they could get a holler. Well, he’d be dad-blamed before he’d give her the satisfaction of a holler.

  She finished her exam, then, quicker than he could spit and say howdy, she released his belt, unbuttoned his fly, mumbled an “excuse me,” and slipped a hand down to his hip bone. He registered a flash of shock until she pressed down. Agony arched his back.

  He gripped the edges of the cot. She continued her inspection, hands kneading the path he’d drawn for her.

  “Have you been on any long train trips recently?” she asked.

  He opened one eye. Was she trying to distract him? Even without the pain, he’d be hard-pressed to dismiss the fact that she had her hand inside his pants. “Rode up from Houston last month to—” He winced as she pressed a spot just to the right of his belly button.

  “Sorry.” Still, she didn’t let up on the pressure. “What did you do before you became a Columbian Guard?”

  He tightened his hold on the cot, but forced his spine to relax. “I’m a Texas Ranger.”

  “I see. I assume life as a Ranger is quite a bit more active than life as a Columbian Guard?”

  “Yes’m.”

  Head cocked, eyes closed in concentration, she kneaded the area up over his navel, then back underneath along his right side.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  He rolled his eyes. Diploma or not, she was female, and clearly felt the need to fill the awkwardness with chitchat.

  “We stay in some barracks here on the grounds,” he answered.

  At least her eyes were closed, allowing him to grimace undetected. It also allowed him to study her. He surveyed the tendrils of hair still loose from this morning. The lashes resting against smooth cheeks. The pulse at her throat. The curves so close to brushing him, but not quite making contact.

  She must bathe in a basket of apples, peaches, and summer berries. Whatever it was, it smelled mighty good. The boys back home could put whatever they wanted on his tombstone. He couldn’t imagine a better way to die.

  “When’s the last time you defecated?” she asked.

  All thoughts went up in a powder. “What?”

  She opened her eyes, her creamy brown finding his dark brown without even having to search.

  “When’s the last time you had a bowel movement?”

  Warmth crept from his chest to his neck. “I am not about to discuss that with you.”

  The eyebrow again. “I’m a doctor, Mr. . . . What’s your name?”

  That was quite a question, all things considered. “Hunter Scott.”

  “Well, Mr. Scott, if you want some relief from this pain, you need to answer my question. When’s the last time you defecated?” She removed her hand and began to button him up.

  He swatted her away, doing the job himself. “I’m not discussing it with you.”

 
Unwrapping the stethoscope from her neck, she hooked the earpieces into her ears and set the other end against his gut.

  “My heart’s up here, Billy.”

  “I’m listening to your stomach, and you may call me Dr. Tate.”

  “Where I come from, we’d definitely be on a first-name basis.”

  “Where’s the commode located in your barracks?”

  “For the love of Peter.” His nausea began to rumble again. Sweat collected beneath his arms and along his forehead.

  Straightening, she took the earpieces from her ears and allowed them to catch against her neck. “Do you have privacy issues, Mr. Scott?”

  The nausea peaked, then receded a bit. “I wouldn’t want to do what we just did with an audience present, if that’s what you mean.”

  Pink suffusing her cheeks, she wrestled his undershirt back down to his waist. “We didn’t do anything. I simply examined you the same as any other doctor would. And what I meant was, is the toilet in your barracks in close proximity to the sleeping area? Close enough for others to hear awkward sounds and detect smells?”

  If this wasn’t the darnedest conversation he ever did have. “It is.”

  “And have you ever used it?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “When’s the last time you defecated?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are we back to that?”

  “Answer me.”

  Sighing, he let his arm fall over his eyes. “Coming up on three weeks.”

  “Good heavens. You must have an extremely high tolerance for pain. I can’t believe you haven’t sought help before now.”

  He said nothing.

  After a few seconds, the door opened. “Nurse Findley, put together a pouch of psyllium tea leaves, please.”

  He glanced toward the door. Billy had her head poked through the opening, causing her white skirt to drape over a curvy backside.

  Straightening, she shut the door.

  “Are you barefoot?” he asked.

  She blinked in surprise. “Of course not.”

  “Then what’s on your feet? You don’t make a sound when you move.”

  A smile lifted her cheeks and brightened her eyes. “It’s my hygienic shoes. They have steel springs over the insteps and rubber heels, rendering them noiseless. They were invented by a woman and are marvelously comfortable.”