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High Country Hero
Lynna Banning
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesEverything Dr Sage West needed to know she’d learned from… a bounty hunter! When she had trekked into the mountains with Cord Lawson to save a life, she’d thought that book learning was all that mattered. Now, one rain-soaked river swim and bare-chested kiss in the sun later, she knew that being alive meant feeling things. But could Sage survive the heartbreak when her tantalising tutor resumed his wandering ways? Life was uncertain, so a man took his pleasures where he found them. That was the law that Cord Lawson lived by.But when he found Sage West everything changed, for this surprising lady doctor sparked something new in his footloose soul – a certainty that he’d at last come home!
Was he a brute? Or a gentleman?
His skin was tanned to the colour of her leather saddle, his chest and back as well. And he wore no drawers…!
An irrational thought flicked through her mind. Could a man’s backside get suntanned right through his jeans?
A brute, she decided. A man who chased others for money. A bounty hunter who would turn in his own father for a price. Hard-headed and hard-hearted.
Then why did he want to save his prisoner’slife?
She could feel him staring at her, asking a silent question. It took all her courage to meet his gaze. His eyes were hard. Calculating. And unusual.
There was something undisciplined about him. Primitive, like a wild animal. A wolf—that was it. A hungry wolf. One who hunted alone.
Lynna Banning has combined a lifelong love of history and literature into a satisfying career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she has lived in Northern California most of her life. After graduating from Scripps College she embarked on a career as an editor and technical writer, and later as a high school English teacher. An amateur pianist and harpsichordist, Lynna performs on psaltery and harp in a medieval music ensemble and coaches in her spare time. She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at P.O. Box 324, Felton, CA 95018, USA, or at carolynw@cruzio.com. Visit Lynna’s website at www.lynnabanning.com
Recent novels by the same author:
HARK THE HARRIED ANGELS
(part of One Starry Christmas anthology) THE SCOUT
HIGH COUNTRY HERO
Lynna Banning
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
HIGH COUNTRYHERO
For my niece, Leslie Yarnes Sugai.
With grateful thanks to Suzanne Barrett,
Kathleen Dougherty, Susan Renison, Tricia Adams,
Bonnie Hamre, Brenda Preston, Carol Crosby
and David Woolston
Chapter One
Russell’s Landing, Oregon 1884
The instant Sage turned the corner onto Main Street, she saw the woman in purple calico barreling down the board sidewalk toward her. Oh, no. Not Mrs. Benbow. The plump seamstress was the biggest busybody in town.
Sage stopped, smiled and prepared to have her ears burned by the latest gossip.
“Ain’t seen it yet, have ya, honey?”
“Seen what?”
“Why, the newspaper, of course. The Willamette Valley Voice. My stars, that man has a tongue somewhere’s between a rattlesnake and a grizzly bear.”
“Mr. Stryker, you mean?”
“Who else?” Nelda Benbow’s voice was sharp with gleeful outrage. “That man gets the whole town in an uproar every single Thursday. Mind you, I don’t think he really believes half the things he publishes in that puffed-up rag of his, but the harm’s done soon as the ink’s dry. And the hurt,” she added in a gentler tone. She sent Sage a pitying look.
“Hurt,” Sage echoed. “Who has Mr. Stryker crucified this time?”
“Best you set down afore you read it, Sage dear.”
The older woman gave her a quick pat on the shoulder and sped on down the walkway toward Duquette’s Mercantile.
It? What “it”?
Sage had troubles enough without worrying over who Mr. Stryker’s latest victim was. Last Thursday it had been Miles Schutte, head of the school board. In an editorial entitled The Three R’s—Rumsoaked, Ridiculous and Rabble-rousing, the newspaper editor had lambasted Mr. Schutte with a stream of inflammatory adjectives and innuendo, all because he had drunk a toast at the school board meeting in honor of the new teacher, Miss Euphemia Prescott. Last year’s schoolmarm, Molly Landon, had gotten married in the spring, and married women weren’t allowed to teach in Douglas County.
Or anywhere else in Oregon, as far as Sage knew. The restriction was positively medieval. One would think mankind would be more enlightened near the end of the nineteenth century.
Perhaps Mr. Stryker would address this inequity? Her neatly buttoned shoes carried her straight to the newspaper office.
At her entrance, the editor rose to his feet. “Good morning, Miss West. Oh, I beg your pardon. Dr. West.”
A thrill of pure pride shot through her. Dr. Sage West. It had taken her six grueling years, and she wanted everyone in town to celebrate her accomplishment. For the first time since its founding, Russell’s Landing had a physician.
“Mr. Stryker.” She smiled at the bony, stern-faced man who stood across the polished wood counter from her. He and his wife, Flora, had never had children of their own. When Sage was growing up, Friedrich Stryker had always slipped lemon drops to her when she had come into the newspaper office with her father.
She dug a five-cent piece from her reticule, dropped it on the counter and scanned the front page. Mugwumps Desert Blaine for Cleveland. Railroad Tunnel Collapses. Republicans Bicker over Tariff.
“Article’s on page three,” the graying newspaper editor said in a dry voice. “My editorial’s on page seven.” He pocketed the coin and retreated to his desk.
Sage flipped the paper open and buried her nose in the third page. The still-wet black ink smelled sharp and oily. Engrossed, she moved to the shop entrance, pushed the door open and stepped out onto the boardwalk.
Recently returned from Philadelphia where she completed her medical studies, Miss Sage Martin West, daughter of Mayor William West and his lovely wife, Henrietta…
She stumbled over a loose board on the walkway.
…away in the East for the past five years…
“Six years,” she murmured. “Almost seven. Oh, excuse me, Miss Nyland. I didn’t see you come out of the mercantile.”
“Reading the article about yourself, are you, Sage?”
“Yes. My, it does seem strange, though. As if I’m somebody else!”
“Come across Friedrich’s editorial yet?”
“No, I—”
“Well, don’t take it too hard, dear.”
Miss Nyland whisked into the millinery shop, where a jaunty straw sun hat with a purple feather hung in the display window. The woman did love her bonnets, Sage remembered. She had worn them even when she taught school, and that was—my gracious!—thirteen years ago! Now Miss Nyland’s prize pupil at Grove School was grown up and wearing bonnets herself. Or should be. Absently Sage smoothed her free hand across her bare head.
She shrugged and went on down the street, her eyes glued to the typeset lines.
…Dr. West has opened her new medical practice at the corner of Maple Falls Lane and Cottage Road, next to the old McConnell homestead.
“Yes!” she exulted. She had her own house, her own reception parlor, her own consulting room.
…office hours are from…
Yes. Oh yes. She was a real doctor at last. And she had come home to keep the town she’d grown up in safe from disease and medical disasters.
She gave a little skip, stepped off the boardwalk and turned to the editorial. The warm June breeze rattled the open pages in front of her face, and she gripped them to keep them still without taking her eyes off the print. Halfway across the rutted road, she came to an abrupt stop.
“’Dried up old maid’?” she yelped. “’So plain a man would have to be blind to…’”
Oh!
She wasn’t “plain.” She was…well, tall. With a high forehead, a nose she’d always wished were a bit shorter, and a mass of hair the color of a muddy horse trough. “But my eyes are nice,” she said aloud.
Anyway, what difference did it make what she looked like? She was a good doctor. A very good doctor.
“I have studied for years!” she announced to the empty street.
A horse tied up in front of the hotel lifted its head and gazed at her with one large dark eye. “Well, I did,” she reiterated. The horse lowered its muzzle into the feed bag lashed to the rail.
Sage moved on across the road, settled herself in one of the rocking chairs in front of the mercantile and snapped open the newspaper again.
Well. Well! “Oh, for pity’s sake!”
Women should be wives and mothers…steadfast at the cradle, happy at the hearth.
“Cooks and nursemaids, is that it, Mr. Stryker? Laundresses and seamstresses and teachers, but not physicians?”
Why not?
She rocked furiously back and forth, then jumped to her feet, crumpled the sheets of newsprint into a ball and retraced her steps to the newspaper office as fast as she could. Before she cleared the doorway, words were tumbling past her lips.
“I thought you were my friend, Mr. Stryker! I thought you—”
Friedrich Stryker leaped from his desk chair and backed away.
“—liked me! Believed in me!”
The man looked stricken. “Well, I do, Miss Sage. I do.”
“But you don’t think I should be a doctor, is that it?”
“Yes, ahem. Exactly my thoughts. You’re a woman—”
She gave him no time to finish. “So what if I am female? I want to be a physician, not a nurse. I’ve wanted to be a physician ever since I was ten years old and my baby brother died. A nurse could not have saved him. A doctor would have known what to do.”
“Well, now, Miss Sage, that is partly—”
She pinned him with her oh-yes-I-can look. “You’re just like my professors at medical school. ‘Take up nursing,’ they advised. ‘Get married. Bear children.’”
“Miss Sage, don’t you aim to get married at all?”
“No, I do not,” she snapped. “First of all, nobody has asked to marry me. And even if someone does, I’ll turn him down. A doctor, especially a woman doctor, scarcely has time for her own needs, let alone those of a family.”
“Well now, that’s just my point.” His voice was steadier now.
Sage warmed to her subject. “There are women doctors all over this country—in Massachusetts and Indiana and Missouri and even Idaho. Just who do you think you are, telling us what we can and cannot do?”
The editor put a trembling hand to his face. “I—I’m a journalist, Miss, uh, Dr. West.”
“Why on earth would you write such claptrap?” she demanded. And after all those lemon drops…
A guilty look crossed Mr. Stryker’s face. “Newspapers have been selling pretty good lately,” he said in a tight voice. “That’s why.”
“Then this town is more backward than I thought.” She heaved the balled-up newspaper across the counter at him, gathered up her peach-sprigged muslin skirt in both hands and exited with as much decorum as she could manage.
The door did not close properly. She reversed direction, reopened it and this time made sure it shut with a satisfying slam.
Outside, she clenched her fists at her sides and began to count. By the time she reached sixty she had stopped shaking and regained power of speech. She walked on past the mercantile and Essie Ramsey’s millinery shop, her shoes hitting the boardwalk so hard her feet tingled. The purple-feathered hat beckoned. She rather fancied it. Was it too ostentatious for a country doctor?
A woman country doctor? She was the first female physician in the entire county. She had been the only woman enrolled at Western Reserve, and she had graduated at the top of her class. At this moment she felt she could do anything.
She marched into the millinery shop.
Ten minutes later she emerged with the purple-feathered hat securely pinned to her dark hair. It was a badge of sorts, she acknowledged. She was a doctor who could handle scalpels and forceps, and she was a female, and females wore bonnets! She would wear it each and every single day, with pride.
When she reached the end of the boardwalk, she continued along the well-worn path that led down to the river, her muslin skirt brushing the black-eyed Susans bordering the road. Four houses down, she turned onto Maple Falls Lane and headed for the trim white house that served as combination professional office and residence.
A saddled gray horse stood outside the picket fence, nibbling her Belle of Portugal roses.
“Stop that!” she admonished. “Move along now. Shoo!”
The horse, the same one that had eyed her outside the hotel, lifted its head, whickered and went back to the pale pink blooms. Sage stepped up and slapped her reticule against its rump. “Shoo!”
“No use, ma’am,” a voice called. “Sugar never moves once I drop the reins.”
Sage looked up to see a pair of dusty black leather boots propped on her front porch railing. From behind the boots the voice came again. “Been waiting for you.”
