Of course, the people in Silverado Springs itself knew somewhat more of her. Like all small towns, even one prone to the visits of the more worldly health-seeking patients from San Francisco, residents of the Springs made it their business to know the habits of everyone in the vicinity. A woman doctor was certainly a novelty wherever she went.
“That hen medic,” was the worst she’d been called—within her hearing. As she descended the steps from the platform and entered Washington Street, the central avenue in Silverado Springs, she could feel the stares of the idlers hanging about Piccini & Son’s general store and Taylor’s livery stable.
There was scant harm in them. She had encountered much worse in medical school, both in Pennsylvania and in Europe. She had long ago dismissed any doubt that she should not be a physician merely because of her sex… let others think what they might. Her father’s opinion alone was the one that mattered.
Had mattered.
She adjusted her grip on the valise, passing a family of well-dressed tourists in town to take the waters. Though Silverado Springs was past its prime as a resort, it still had its share of summer visitors, who set up temporary living quarters at the Silverado Springs Hotel. There they could enjoy the warm weather, bathe in mineral springs, and gaze up at the great, bald-topped bulk of Mount St. Helena looming to the east.
She strode north among the neat frame houses of the town’s residential section. It was a brisk four-mile walk to Der Haven, one Johanna was well accustomed to. She made her way back to the main, unpaved road, which ended just a little north of Silverado Springs, then continued crosscountry along a wagon path that pointed the way to the small farms clustered where the hills came together to close off the valley.
The Haven was one of the most isolated houses. It was that isolation that made Johanna feel her patients were safe from the prying eyes of the townsfolk.
The very potent sunshine on this particularly warm day in July almost tempted Johanna to remove the pins from her hair and let it fall. No one was liable to see her. But she resisted the impulse and increased her pace.
Surely Papa would be fine. She’d be glad to see him, nonetheless, glad to be back in charge and with everything under her personal guidance. Irene had been on good behavior two days ago; she hadn’t made May cry in a week.
Lewis, the former Reverend Andersen, was in the midst of one of his low periods, not likely to disrupt the household with his talk of sin and his devotion to excessive cleanliness. Oscar was seldom any trouble. And Harper was… Harper, silent and unresponsive as usual. She wasn’t about to give up on him.
On any of them.
The toe of her scuffed boot connected with something long and solid lying in the grass. She caught her balance and looked down.
A man lay there, sprawled insensibly on his stomach, most of his body hidden by the tawny grass. It was his shoulder she’d kicked, but he wasn’t apt to have felt it. His face was turned away, but she knew he was unconscious.
She knelt beside him and felt for his pulse. It was thready, but regular. The man himself had a lean, tall build and reddish-brown hair. His clothing was that of a gentleman and had seen hard wear; it was dirty and torn. It also stank of alcohol.
Another inebriate. She’d had her fill of that last night. Compressing her lips into a firm line, she carefully rolled the man over.
The first thing that struck her was his handsomeness. His face was the very epitome of an aristocrat’s: clean, strong but finely drawn, as if designed by a sculptor bent on depicting the ideal male. His long-fingered hands were tanned from the sun. His lips had a mobile look, even in stillness; his eyelashes were long, his brows slightly darker than his hair, lending strength of character to his features.
Strength he clearly didn’t possess, if he’d gotten drunk enough to be lying here. She didn’t recognize him from any of the nearby farms or from town.