“Bad news?” Oliver Crane, from his desk on the far wall, looked over his spectacles at her.
“I suppose that would depend upon how one considers it,” she said ungraciously.
Hannah refused to fret; she refused to dwell on the utter, incredible audacity of her mysterious suitor. Instead, since clearly she would be cat-sitting for the foreseeable future, she returned to her room at the end of the work day and hunkered down.
February 20th. Shouldn’t Turnabout be enjoying nicer weather by now? Per the calendar, spring was not due to arrive for another month, and Lord knew today’s temperatures certainly felt wintery. No snow, but frost lay on the ground in huge white patches, early every morning and late every night. She was tired of having to bundle up in her heaviest clothing every time she set foot outside her door. She craved warmth, and scented breezes, and the blooming flowers engendered by her own horticultural business.
Still, there was something to be said for the comfort of cats when a cold midnight moon was rising overhead, and the coziness of one’s own airtight stove was glowing with heat.
She endured the normal routine of the next two days. The first meeting of Letty’s Book Club (so named in honor of its founder) had taken place with great success. It was helped along by the positive articles Hannah had written for the Gazette, both before and after this momentous event. She had also provided articles about the Ladies’ Aid Society supper being planned for Easter Sunday at the Church of Placid Waters, a Mother and Daughter Banquet being organized at Everwell Baptist, and Bible Readings being scheduled for eight consecutive week nights at Hallelujah Immanuel.
Chasing down fast-moving news stories just didn’t seem to be in her venue—because none were happening in sleepy little Turnabout. Oh, she had done a bang-up job letting the public know about the Stagecoach Bandit, prior to and subsequent, adding the personal touches about his background that increased the sympathy factor for the dead man. But little else.
What she needed was a good old-fashioned political scandal, with mud thrown from all directions. Or a he-said/she-said sort of ménage, involving banking officials at the highest level, and some sort of financial corruption. Of course, with steady, staid Ben at the helm, neither of those were about to happen.
Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be a newspaperwoman, after all.
Or, if she truly decided to pursue this career, it might be necessary to move to Chicago or New York, where life could take such exciting turns.
On Wednesday, February 22nd, at mid-morning, she was sitting in her usual place at the front desk, desultorily moving papers around to fit the required advertisement space, when the bell over the office door tinkled.
Seeing the visitor who was slowly and painfully entering, she sprang erect. “Gabe! What on earth are you doing here?”
Against the sheer blackness of his neat frock coat, plain vest, and trousers, the white sling supporting his right arm stood out like a banner of surrender (or truce). His unruly hair had been raked into reluctant order, his face had been freshly shaven, even his boots were newly shined. From where she stood, Hannah caught the scent of soap, bay rum cologne, and something piney.
He looked very dashing, with a great coat slung loosely over his shoulders, and a carved walking stick to aid in support.
He also looked pale, strained, and exhausted.
“You were shot just five days ago, you shouldn’t even be out of bed yet,” she said, rushing forward to lend her supple young strength as he limped forward.
“Howdy, Gabe!” called an unperturbed Oliver Crane, from his own desk. “How you doin’?”
“H’lo, Ollie. Oh, fair to middlin’, I’d say. I stopped by to whisk away your employee, here.”
Oliver sent a dispassionate glance toward the wall clock. “Ain’t hardly time for her to leave.”
“Sure nuff. Just pretend she’s goin’ out on a story. You can lock the door when you head off for dinner.” As always, the doctor took matters into his own hands and simply rode roughshod over the wishes of anyone else. He turned to Hannah. “C’mon, girl, get your coat. I can’t help you with it—can’t do much of anything yet—but I reckon you’ve had enough experience in dressin’ yourself.”
The amazement she felt at his presence, that his strong will had gotten him out of a sickbed, dressed fit to kill, and into the streets for some unknown reason, carried her forward, and she made, not a single sound of disagreement. That in itself was uncommon. Hannah always disagreed with any decision; to her it was automatic, a matter of principle.
But not this time.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see. Just once, Miss Burton, kindly do not ask so many questions. I have my own agenda, and it don’t include playin’ Mr. Interlocutor.”
A pale sun had chosen to take possession of the overcast sky, sending down just enough rays of hope for warmer weather to stir residents into action. A few were sweeping off the sidewalks in front of their stores; others were washing windows dirtied by winter rains and ice storms. Hannah, walking along beside the tall, halting figure beside her, matched her pace to his.
“Gabe, really,” she fretted at one point, “did Letty say you could be out and about like this?”
“Gadzooks, girl, who’s the doctor here, anyway?” he demanded testily. “I think I should be able to recognize, with my years of experience, when I can start livin’ my life again. Takin’ it easy, ain’t I? Not makin’ much exertion?”
Hannah sighed. Same old Gabriel.
They made it several streets along through the downtown area, with Hannah insisting that they stop for rest at the end of every one of those blocks.
“We ought to have benches everywhere,” she fussed like a setting hen with chicks. “I’ll speak to Ben; as mayor, he can bring up the suggestion at a town meeting.”