Jolt Page 3

  Her face was the picture of indignation. "What's the point of knocking, if you don't wait for a response?"

  "I'm sorry, I heard a noise and… and…" He watched her hook a longer strand of hair by her face behind her ear, causing the bouquet on her shoulder to shift. He took another step back, putting him out in the hall. "And I thought you might have fainted."

  Her face relaxed. "I guess I should have asked if I could use your razor. I was feeling pretty fuzzy; I was just shaving my legs. I'm sorry."

  Tate was having a hard time gathering his thoughts. "Your le— limbs?" He then noticed the cup of shaving cream on the floor by the tub. "Why on earth would you shave your limbs?"

  She hitched a brow. "I'm not a tree, Doc. And while I appreciate the natural look, I draw the line at shaggy. I'm no wookie."

  Wookie? She might as well have been speaking Russian. "So you didn't intend to harm yourself."

  "Well, I gave myself a few knicks, but I assure you it wasn't intentional. The 'safety' part of your razor is a bit of a stretch," she said, using air quotes.

  He just stared, unable to formulate a response.

  Finally, she reached out a hand. "Can I finish? I only got one leg done."

  Still he tarried, frozen in place.

  She blinked at him. "Since this is my great dream, maybe you'd like to do the honors."

  Shaken out of his stupor, Tate reached for the door knob and pulled, suddenly wondering if he were the one dreaming.

  Chapter 5

  Lalita found she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she pictured the doc's face when she had suggested he finish the job on her legs. And best of all was his reply, looking shell shocked— "I don't believe it would be in your best interest to return it to you at this time"—before he closed the door.

  She laughed out loud then slapped her hand over her mouth, shaking with silent giggles until her face started to hurt. This is the best dream ever.

  She had to admit that she had never had a dream that lasted so long and that didn't fall completely apart at some point with the people turning into rabbits or something. It was also weird that when she wanted to find a bathroom, she did, and the toilet even worked, in all its high tank Victorian splendor.

  She turned to her side, pondering the fact that she was dreaming about dreaming, but she'd had those kind of dreams before, as well. Sometimes when a dream was particularly interesting, the rest of the night's imaginings was all about telling everyone about that dream.

  She thought of her dream doctor with the chestnut brown hair. She let her mind meander over his straight nose, brown eyes, and bow lips. When he'd been leaning over her, she'd noticed a small scar shooting up from his lip on the right side. She had a crazy urge to kiss that scar. Maybe if I think on it long enough, my mind will work it into the storyline. She smiled in the dark. The very best dreams always involve kissing.

  ***

  Tate found he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her breasts slipping back into the tub—her bare arms with that flowered shoulder… Her reason for having the razor seemed a fabrication, and yet, he was no expert on women's fashion. Perhaps it was a new trend since his wife had passed. He thought of the women for whom he'd delivered babies. It does not seem to be a trend around here.

  He thought it ironic that he had probably seen the legs of his female patients more often than he had seen the legs of his own wife.

  Tate had never actually met his wife's family as they were killed in a railroad derailment accident, but Augusta had described them as strict, with a puritanical bent. Augusta had seemed reserved before they were married but downright fearful after. Their intimacies were always after dark, in the dark, and under the covers. She had been completely scandalized at his suggestion that she remove her nightgown.

  With the addition of little Nell, Augusta had become even more withdrawn and melancholy. Tate had thought to help by getting her invitations to social gatherings, but that seemed to only make things worse. Bringing a hand to his head, he rubbed the spot between his eyes. It was my fault. I pushed too hard.

  His mind returned to the day she died, but he shook his head, unwilling to hash those events over again. Flinging off his sheet, he mused on his patient's wild ramblings. Well, she was correct in her assessment about one thing; I certainly am hot. There's nary a breeze this evening. Finding his slippers beside the walnut sleigh bed and his dressing gown on the chair next to it, he headed downstairs.

  After drinking a snifter of brandy to aid in his sleep, he checked on Miss Torres, surprised to find her still awake, although looking sleepy. He set the lantern on the table and sat on the stool beside her bed. "Having trouble sleeping? Does your head still ache?"

  She shook her head, smiling. "One doesn't really sleep in dreams. Otherwise the dream ends, or you have a dream in a dream, which I suppose is theoretically conceivable."

  Tate just stared, wondering how it was possible for her to seem well-educated and completely unbalanced at the same time. "Well… I suppose I'll let you get back to it then. The dream, that is."

  He made to stand, but she reached out and caught his hand. "But this is the dream. You came to me, and I want my kiss."

  Tate's eyebrows flew up, his voice delayed for a few moments. "Miss Torres, that would be highly unethical. You're my patient. I… I could lose my license to practice medicine were I to kiss you while you are under my care."

  Her smile sagged. "Dang, this is the strangest dream—almost too realistic." She released his hand and rolled over, sighing. "Good night, Doc."

  Tate sat a moment or two longer, wondering about her fragile state of mind, and he prayed that another night's sleep would clear her head.

  Leaving the room, he couldn't account for the tingling on his palm, his suddenly dry mouth, or the way he couldn't seem to catch his breath. "I hope I'm not coming down with something," he mumbled, climbing the stairs.

  Chapter 6

  Lalita woke to the same bedroom in the same house, the small child she'd dreamed about sitting on the stool looking at her with expectation. "Are you Nellie?"

  The little blonde smiled and nodded.

  Lalita bolted out of bed and ran across the hall into the parlor. "Doc?"

  As she came back out, she was met by a woman coming down the hall who looked to be around her mother's age, but her mother wouldn't be caught dead wearing a long-sleeved dress that went to her ankles covered by an apron. The woman, whose hair was in an updo, was smiling. "Miss Torres, I'm so pleased to see you up and about. I'm Mrs. Kettler, Dr. Cavanaugh's housekeeper. The doctor had to step out for a few house calls. Is there anything I can help you with? Some breakfast, perhaps?"

  Lalita turned toward the door, and Mrs. Kettler moved with speed to head her off. "Oh, Miss, I wouldn't advise stepping out in just your nightwear!"

  Lalita took a step to the right and a sidelight window. "I just want to look out." With her knees on a small upholstered stool, she brushed the sheer curtains aside and bent to look beneath the long swagged velvet drapes. She saw more Victorian houses, but what made her suck in a quick breath was the horse-drawn carriage passing by. "Mrs. Kettler," she began without turning, "am I dreaming?"

  Mrs. Kettler came to her side and spoke quietly. "I don't believe so, dear, unless I'm dreaming too."

  Lalita watched a couple strolling by in period costumes and a boy in knickers riding a bicycle. Nellie appeared at her other side, and Lalita took the time to look her over. She, too, wore a long-sleeved dress. But while Mrs. Kettler's was sage green, Nellie's was china blue. The two-tiered ruffled skirt attached to the slim bodice hit her above the ankles, each ruffle trimmed in ribbon. Part of her long curls were pulled back behind her head, where a big blue bow was attached. If she had been in black and white, she could have been a picture from the 1890's Smithsonian archives Lalita had been looking through the previous week.

  Lalita turned and plopped down on the stool. "If I'm not dreaming, then I don't know what the
hell is going on."

  Mrs. Kettler's shock at Lalita's language was obvious, but at the moment, Lalita was too distracted to apologize. Pushing up, she looked at the housekeeper with determination. "If I can't go out in nightwear, then what can I go out in?"

  "I don't know." Mrs. Kettler gave a nervous glance to the stairs, and Lalita jumped to her feet, immediately heading that direction.

  Mrs. Kettler followed. "The doctor said you were not to go out. He told me to play along with your dream notion," she mumbled as they reached the top, "but it seemed wrong to lie to you."

  Lalita strode down the hall to the master bedroom. "The doctor has a little girl but doesn't talk about a wife." Lalita stopped in the doorway. "Is she dead?"

  Mrs. Kettler put a hand to her arm. "Please, Miss Torres, Dr. Cavanaugh won't like you looking through her things."

  Lalita didn't really care at the moment what Dr. Cavanaugh would or would not like. As she approached what she assumed to be the closet, she noticed a small adjoining room with numerous hat boxes on shelves. A dressing room. She moved toward it. Just like Rock Ledge House. Opening the closet in that room with Mrs. Kettler fretting behind her, she found what she was looking for. She shifted the dresses until she found what she recognized as a "day dress" with long mutton leg sleeves and a high collar. It looks close to my size.

  She laid it on the bed while Mrs. Kettler stood looking solemn, her hands on Nellie's shoulders in front of her.

  Stripping the nightgown off with one fluid motion, Mrs. Kettler gasped and turned herself and Nellie around. "Oh good grief," Lalita lamented as she pulled the dress over her head. "We're all girls here."

  The dress hung on her a bit and was several inches too short, but it would have to do. Returning to the closet, she found a pair of shoes. More digging through drawers while Mrs. Kettler huffed and puffed, produced stockings. Unlike the dress, the short boots fit perfectly. She was grateful that they had laces—she didn't have the time or patience to figure out a button hook at the moment.

  Looking through a few hat boxes, she found a simple, round, flatish, tan hat with a single black feathery plume and set it on her head. She knew that hat pins were usually used to keep them on, but that would require more hair than she had, piled high to pin it to. It didn't seem like a particularly windy day, so she hoped for the best.

  Heading back downstairs, Mrs. Kettler was still trying to talk her out of leaving the house. "You're welcome to come with me, Mrs. K., but like it or not," —she opened the door while looking back— "I am going out."

  "Are you, now?"

  Lalita turned to see the doctor blocking her way. She pursed her lips with determination and narrowed her eyes. "I am."

  He looked her up and down, and she was surprised when he turned and extended his elbow toward her. "May I accompany you?"

  Miss Torres took the arm that Tate held out to her, and the two stepped out onto the wide front porch. She seemed to hang back at the top of the steps. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly, placing his hand over hers on his arm.

  She took in a breath and let it out. "We're so close to the mountains."

  "We're in Manitou Springs. Where was the ranch that you remember?"

  "Colorado Springs. Right next to Garden of the Gods."

  The two started down. "Ah, yes, an amazing, enchanting place."

  Tate guided her over the cobblestone walkway to his waiting buggy and helped her climb aboard. He couldn't help noticing how Augusta's dress hung on her slim form, and he remembered that after giving birth, Augusta never quite got back to her pre-pregnancy size. Even with a corset.

  He settled in beside her and started the horse forward. "I see you found my wife's dresses."

  Miss Torres looked down at what she was wearing, her hands smoothing the skirt. "I'm sorry I dug through her clothes… Does it bother you?" She looked at him sideways, and the hat tumbled off her head.

  He reached between their feet and picked it up. "A little."

  "I'm sorry." He handed her the hat, and she put it back on.

  He smiled. "If you were going to venture out, I don't know what else you would have done." His smile grew bigger. "Parading around in that red union suit would likely land you in jail."

  His patient was indignant. "I don't care what you say, those long johns are not mine!"

  He decided to let that slide. "You can come with me to my next appointment. I only stopped at the house to check on you—to see if you were up yet." He gave her a reassuring smile, but she was lost, looking around as if she'd never been out of the house before.

  When another horse and carriage passed them going the other way, he thought she was going to hyperventilate. "Breathe, Miss Torres. It's just a buggy—just like ours. Nothing to be afraid of."

  She looked at him wide-eyed. "It's so quiet. There are no car sounds—no jets." She looked up. "There's not even any jet streams."

  There she goes again. He reached over and patted her hand clenched in her skirts. "Most people like the quiet. It's peaceful, don't you think?"

  "Peaceful, but wrong. All wrong." She turned more toward him on the seat. "Okay, Doc, it's time to level with me. If I'm not dreaming, then where am I? Is Manitou Springs one big living history town?" She deliberated, looking down at her lap. "Nonnie would have told me about something like that so close to Colorado Springs… unless… Did Nonnie set this up, somehow? As a surprise?"

  Tate couldn't keep the look of concern off his face. "Lita, as I told you last evening, I know nothing about your friend Nonnie. My job is merely to see that you recover from whatever happened to you."

  "Ah ha!"

  Tate blinked in surprise. "Ah ha?"

  "Yes, ah ha! Only Nonnie calls me Lita!"

  He looked at her blankly.

  "And you just called me Lita!"

  He shook his head. "A slip of the tongue, I assure you. I have not been in collusion with Nonnie to confound you. You have my word."

  "Why is it your job to look after me, then? Why do I need looking after? I don't think you're a real doctor. I think you 'just play one on TV.' "

  More gibberish. He pulled back on the reins. "Whoa, girl."

  "Is this your house call?"

  He stepped down and tied his buggy to a post close to the street. "Yes. I'll be 'playing doctor,' as you put it. Although I won't be on any 'teevee,' whatever that is."

  Even though the doctor's frustration was evident, he still helped Lalita down from the buggy and escorted her to the house. She was in awe of the styling details on the wraparound porch, and inside, the furnishings weren't just elegant, they were opulent. While they waited in the parlor to be received, she stared open-mouthed until she caught the doctor smiling at her.

  He leaned toward her on the sofa. "Be careful, you're going to catch flies with your gaping."

  "How many houses are like this?"

  "In Manitou? Only a few this rich. Most are like mine. There are a number of wealthy individuals in Colorado Springs, however."

  A woman appeared at the doorway, and the doctor stood. Dressed similarly to Mrs. Kettler, but with a bit more style, she talked with him a moment then moved toward the stairs. He looked back to Lalita before following. "Come, Miss Torres. I'd like you to see just exactly how I play at being a doctor."

  She smiled and followed. Well, at least he's finally admitting it.

  They moved through a foyer with a chandelier suspended from a vaulted ceiling then went up a carpeted stairs with an elegantly carved banister railing. The housekeeper led them into a large master bedroom with expansive windows in the east. She remembered from her Rock Ledge House tour that houses of this era were built facing the east because they believed the morning sun to be more healthful than the evening sun. No mountain views for you, Mrs. Rich.

  The doctor moved to the bedside of what appeared to be a very pregnant woman. Lalita smiled. That's one big foam baby. While the doctor performed his exam, recording information in a journal he pulled out of his medical bag, she fea
sted on the details of the elegant bedroom. The wallpaper print was cabbage roses and the heavy wood furniture was elaborately carved. Rich velvet was draped on the windows edged with brocade trim and gold tassels.

  Dr. Cavanaugh interrupted her inspection and waved her over to where he sat in a chair by the bed. "Mrs. Pilson, this is Miss Torres. She's… assisting me today." Lalita greeted the woman whose long, blond braid hung off the edge of the bed and hit the floor, and she pondered the weariness that shone out of her green eyes. They have certainly got some great actors for this little drama.

  Pulling the sheet back, Dr. Cavanaugh felt the pregnant woman's belly in numerous ways, then placed the bell of his stethoscope to her abdomen. He listened in several places, and Lalita smiled at how thorough he was in his playacting. She sidled up behind him. "Waddya hear, Doc?"

  Removing the stethoscope from his ears, he rose and offered it to her. "Have a listen, yourself, Miss Torres."

  Lalita was surprised but took the antique apparatus and placed the ends in her ears. He pointed to a spot on Mrs. Pilson's rounded belly, and she placed the bell there. She immediately heard an unexpected heartbeat. She carefully placed her hand on the woman, her eyes connecting with the doctor's. "It feels real," she confessed, barely above a whisper.

  He took her hands and guided them to the sides of the woman. "It is real, all too real. Tell me what you feel."

  Mrs. Pilson groaned, and Lalita pulled her hands back.

  "It's all right. You're not hurting her; it's a contraction." He guided her hands once again to the woman's belly.

  Lalita felt the distension on the sides, and although she wasn't a doctor, she knew that wasn't the correct position for birth. "It's sideways."

  He nodded.

  "You should call an ambulance—get her to a hospital."

  He shook his head and took hold of her arm, guiding her to the far end of the room. "The closest hospital is Denver," he whispered. "The journey is too long, too hard for her condition. She'd never make it."