Caleb Melbourne crossed the room to the oil lamp, lit it with a stick match from his vest pocket, and adjusted the wick until the room was softly illuminated, leaving only the corners in shadow. He turned, a large man with a face furrowed and scarred by weather and life's cruelties.

His full head of unruly dark hair and a thick mustache that draped the corners of his mouth would have lent him a rough, handsome look had he not appeared so careworn. His trousers and jacket were rumpled, and at first glance he gave the appearance of a man whose burdens had gained the upper hand. His dark eyes, however, were sharp and inquisitive, despite the puffed and weary lids. "Jonathan's daughter."

"Yes, sir."

Caleb nodded, pulled out the chair behind the rough wooden desk, and sagged into the chair with a sigh. "The last time I saw your father, you and your brother were barely toddlers." He looked past Vance out the filmy glass and into the darkened street beyond. Shapeless forms clattered by and the shouts of men coming and going filtered through the rough boarded walls. "That was in Philadelphia just after we graduated."

The past was not something Vance cared to revisit. Plus she was embarrassed, knowing that her father had asked a favor that could hardly be refused. "I know it's been a very long time, and I appreciate your kindness--"

"His letter said that you wanted to work."

Did she? She couldn't remember anymore what it was she wanted, if she wanted anything at all. She had come because to stay would have meant facing her father's grief and worry day after day and having no way to assuage it. He had already suffered so much, she couldn't bring herself to add to it. And there were far too many reminders of what they had all lost even for her to block out. She thought of the vast unsettled countryside she had crossed in the last weeks, the crude frontier towns so different from the paved and gaslit streets of Philadelphia, and the glimpse of New Hope she had had on her short walk down the hard- packed, rutted street. There was nothing here to remind her of her old life, her old self, and what might have been. That disconnection from all she'd known, all she'd been, that at least was something she did want.

With a start, she realized that Dr. Melbourne still waited, watching her with intent regard.

"Yes," Vance said, holding his gaze and giving him the answer he required. "I want to work."

"We're the only doctors," he grimaced, "the only real doctors, in two hundred miles in every direction. There's plenty passing through selling miracle cures who don't know as much about medicine as the average housewife. There's some out there, untrained though they may be, who do know enough to be of use in the places where there's no one else. For them, I'm thankful."

"I've seen some gifted healers with never a day of formal training."

Caleb looked at her empty coat sleeve and then back to her face.

"I imagine you have. It was a brave thing you did."

"Or foolish." Vance thought of Milton and missed him with the same sharp bright pain of those first moments knowing he was gone. "I don't know how to judge it anymore."

"You were in till the end?"

She nodded. "The last official battle, at any rate."

As if sensing her reluctance, and appreciating a person's right to keep their feelings private, Caleb asked no more, although there were worlds left unsaid in her tormented eyes. "A lot of the people we see to are out on the range. Can you ride?"

"Yes. And drive a buggy. And shoot."

"Good, you'll need to do all three. For the first couple of weeks I'll take you around with me until you get acquainted with the land and the folks."

"You haven't asked me about my skills."

"Didn't figure I had to. If you were Grant's regimental surgeon, I guess you know what you're about." He rubbed both hands over his face, then stood. "There is one task I'm going to give you straight off.

That's looking after the girls down at the saloon."

"Prostitutes?"

He nodded. "They're a good bunch for the most part, and in better shape than most, too--physically and in every other way. There's a spitfire of a woman there who looks after them."

"Is she the madam?"

"Nothing quite that fancy out here, but she does what she can to see that the girls aren't mistreated. When you get settled, drop around there and ask for Mae."

"Does this Mae have a last name?"

Caleb looked surprised. "Now that you mention it, not that I ever heard."

Vance said nothing, thinking that there was probably more than one person in New Hope with secrets they didn't care to share. Perhaps this was the right place for her after all.

"You won't have any trouble finding her," Caleb said with a small smile. "She's the finest-looking thing west of the Mississippi."

"I'm sure I'll have no difficulty," Vance replied, although she suspected that his assessment was colored by the fact that there were very few women on the frontier compared to the number of men. "I'll take a room at the hotel if you should need me before morning."

"Get some rest. I expect you'll need it."

Vance stood and extended her hand across the desk. "Thank you."

"You might want to hold off on the thanks until you've had a chance to see what you've gotten into."

Whatever it was, Vance thought as she hefted her valise once more and walked out into the night, it would never be as bad as what she'd left behind.


CHAPTER FOUR

"A doctor? Imagine that." The rotund bespectacled man behind the counter perused Vance with open curiosity. "I can't say as I've ever seen a woman doctor before." When Vance said nothing, he cleared his throat and went on hurriedly, "Need a room, you say."

"Yes."

"We've got weekly rates, but if you think you'll be here longer, you might try the boarding house on the far end of town."

"Thank you," Vance said wearily, finding any day beyond the next more than she cared to contemplate. It had become far easier not to consider the future. "A room here will be fine for now."

"The name's Silas, in case you'll be needing anything."

Vance started toward the stairs. "No, there's nothing I need."

"G'night, then," he called after her, craning his neck to follow her as she slowly made her way up the wide wooden staircase. "Imagine that."

The room Vance let herself into on the second floor was a clean but unadorned space with a small hooked rug next to a single bed. The thin, cotton-stuffed mattress was covered by a thinner plain blue woolen blanket of the kind she had slept under in the army. She remembered that she'd always been cold and had often wondered if she would ever be warm again. A single chest of drawers stood against the wall with a round mirror nailed above it. A washbasin, lamp, and pitcher were the only items on its scarred surface. She did not light the lamp.

She set her valise at the foot of the bed, hung her coat on the back of the single chair that stood against the opposite wall, and wandered to the single casement window. The saloon, unmarked by any sign, was visible on the opposite side of the street. If she angled her head, she could see Caleb's office. Moving back to the bed, she sat to kick off her boots and then stretched out on top of the covers. Splinters of moonlight shafted across the ceiling, making random patterns that she watched take shape and dissolve and reshape while she waited for sleep.

It was an exercise that she had discovered would bring some temporary respite from her memories, if not slumber.

Sleep stole unsuspectingly through her consciousness, and she found herself once again at Appomattox Court House, sweating in the cold morning mist of fear and smoke. The rough wooden table was awash with blood. No matter how fast she worked, every time she looked up there were more wounded. Her arms were crimson to the elbows, and still they came, the ruined and the broken, crying her name.

Milton stood beside her, repeating over and over, no more time, no more time, no more time. She ignored the panic in his voice, the terror in his eyes, and just kept cutting. Her chest ached. Her lungs burned.

She reached for the amputation knife. Just one more. Just one more.

Just one more. The ground heaved, fire erupted at her feet, and red-hot pain seared her flesh. She looked down and saw herself writhing on the table, a faceless man poised above her with a saw in his hand.

Vance jolted upright, screaming. Quickly, she wrapped her arm around her bent knees and pressed her face against the rough wool of her trousers. She stifled her sobs as she fought for breath, her shirt soaked with the sweat of night terrors. When the clutch of the nightmare began to recede, she turned her face to the window and rested her cheek against the top of her knee. It hadn't been this bad in a long time. For a second, as her own harsh breath filled the room to overflowing, she thought she heard the sound of the fife and drum. As her heart stopped thundering in her ears, she realized it was a piano.

She stood, her legs still a little shaky, and walked to the window.

Across the street, the saloon and some of the rooms on the upper floors were ablaze. Every few seconds a figure would go in or out through the swinging doors. In a lighted second-floor window she saw a man and a woman locked in an embrace, her dress lifted up to her hips as his hands roamed beneath it. Vance didn't immediately look away, taken with the urgent sense of life that surrounded the couple, thinking of what Caleb had said about the girls who lived there. She wondered if the woman who bent beneath the weight of the cowboy's passion welcomed his touch or was merely an indifferent player in an oft-repeated drama.