New Beginnings: A Historical Western Romance

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New Beginnings

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by

Sharaya Lee

Sweet Western Romance

Copyright 2013 by Sharaya Lee

All rights reserved!

License Notes:

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thanks for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is a work of fiction.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, except in the case of historical fact.

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Cleveland, Ohio, 1886

You don’t deserve to be happy, a small voice inside her head told Becka Sorensen. All you deserve is the misery of outer darkness.

The slim nurse working in Dr. John Bowie’s Healing Home clinic stopped fluffing the pillow in her hands. It sank onto the empty bed of room number seven.

She sighed.

Her gaze wandered toward the wide picture window of the hospital room. Outside, the noonday Ohio sun showed its most friendly face. But it suddenly seemed dull to Becka, grimy, like made of dirty lead. It was as if an ill wind had cast a gray veil over it. The Cuyahoga River lazily flowing by had lost its lovely sparkle, too, and was now just a depressing brown band cutting through the land.

You’re guilty… the voice said.

As if struck, Becka clutched her chest.

A cuckoo was singing in the whispering chestnut trees outside. It didn’t remind her that it was May, the month of flowers. Instead, it spoke to her only of treason. After all, a cuckoo put its eggs into the nests of other birds, for those other parents to care for the cuckoo’s young.

The elegantly furnished hospital room with its pleasant green and beige hues in fabric and furniture began to strike her as bleak. The gold-framed portraits of the ladies and gentlemen on the wall, cheerful works of European artists, seemed to grimace at her. She felt as if she stood in a dungeon, surrounded by tormented people, even though she was alone right now and the portraits were actually painted in welcoming colors.

You don’t deserve it…

She closed her blue eyes and buried her face in her slender hands.

She was thirty-seven and for ten years she’d carried these moods with her now. For long stretches they were completely absent and Becka felt healed—only to be faced with them again at the most inappropriate times. They came unbidden, on cats’ feet. Just when she thought she’d finally buried the past and its mistakes, melancholy once again reared its ugly head and reminded her that a deed done was a deed done and you couldn’t take it back.

The same went for words spoken.

How she longed to travel back in time, to right her wrongs, to mend what needed mended, to speak words of kindness and encouragement instead of bitter words.

But she knew it wouldn’t happen.

The past was gone. You could travel back to the places where you’d once been, but you could never travel back in time to relive an instance, to change it. Retrospection was the only walkable path back in time and there her memories stood like monstrous monuments, haunting and unchangeable, breeding regrets.

Her head began to swim. Becka sat down on the bed with a groan. She decided, she’d need to ask Doctor John for a few days off to get over her blue mood. John Bowie was a kind and sensitive employer. Interested in the well-being of his workers, he’d let the twice-divorced single woman take time off before on short notice. She’d always made it up to her boss by working one or two of the unpopular weekend shifts for half pay.

He knew of her bouts with melancholy.

A heaviness hung over her like a shroud. Becka felt tears well up. She tried to shoo them back. They came anyway. Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed. Soon her pretty face was a weeping grimace. She reached for a handkerchief in her pocket and wiped the water away. After a few anguished moments she got a feeble grip on herself. A quick glance in the mirror revealed a very red-eyed lady. She couldn’t meet patients in her present condition. She looked as sick as some of them did.

She’d go see Dr. John right now. Or Shona Williams, the administrator. Shona was nice, too. One or the other, they’d let her take off the rest of the day, perhaps even until next Monday, with the weekend coming up now.

Becka Sorensen dried her red eyes some more, inhaled, straightened the skirt of her light-blue uniform, and let herself out of the room to go ask for permission to leave.

*

Vincent Van Zandt, Shona Williams said. The auburn-haired beauty held the door to Doctor John’s consulting room open and let the patient pass. She cast John Bowie a meaningful glance before she closed the door from the outside.

Doctor John rose from the chair behind his desk and extended his hand.

How are you doing, Mr. Van Zandt, John Bowie said with his pleasant low voice. He beamed his signature friendly smile at the man. A first-time visitor to his Healing Home, he was new to Doctor John.

The doc found Vincent Van Zandt to be a tall man, probably in his mid-forties. He had a straight Roman nose and broad jowls that made him look like a noble barbarian. His long hair fell down to his broad shoulders in waves. It resembled a grizzled waterfall. The man exuded a quiet authority, the doc felt, even with his eyes frequently out of focus. Right now it seemed as if Mr. Van Zandt were listening to some sad music in his head. But his gray eyes didn’t waver when Doctor John looked straight into them.

Van Zandt took his hand and shook it. His mouth below the bushy mustache attempted a smile.

What can I do for you, Sir, John Bowie said.

Vincent Van Zandt grimaced. He held his left side and shook his head.

You’ve got to help me, Doctor. A noticeable Dutch accent swung in his voice. Right now it’s frequent pains that keep creeping around in the chest before they leave again. Then there’s my back. It really troubles me at night. On top of it I’m seasick half the time, even though I don’t even travel by ship any more. Then there’s the insomnia. I haven’t slept well in ages. He went on to mention more of his various ailments.

To Doctor John’s trained ear the recital of Vincent Van Zandt’s list of problems sounded a bit as if the man had learned it by heart. He wondered how many other doctors he’d seen before coming here.

Please have a seat, Mr. Van Zandt. With a sweeping gesture the doc invited his patient to sit down on a comfortable brown sofa by the window.

But Van Zandt remained standing. Helps me breathe easier, he explained.

Well then, Doctor John said. Let’s start with your back pains, since you’re not a heavy man. How frequent are they? Can you describe them for me?

Why, sure, Vincent Van Zandt said. He took a deep breath. They came over me three years ago.

What happened three years ago? Doctor John asked.

His patient stroked his mustache with two fingers and glanced at him from under bushy brows. My wife died three years ago.

I’m sorry to hear that, Doctor John said.

A short while later they struck me for the first time, Vincent Van Zandt said. When they come, they feel like a load of buckshot in the back. It’s like a witch is sniping at me, I’m telling you.

I see, the doc said with a smile. Good thing we’re operating under a higher power than that of witches, wouldn’t you say? God is a healer and He’s on our side. What about your heart pain?

Van Zandt sighed. The organ feels like squeezed in a vice, Doctor. As if an iron fist squeezes the daylights out of it. But a few moments later everything is fine again. Feels awful when it happens. You feel death is so close.

That’s awful, Doctor John said. It’s probably best for me to do an auscultation. Please take your shirt off, so I can listen into you.

Vincent Van Zandt took his coat off. Then he slid his suspenders off his shoulders, pulled his shirt out, and began to unbutton it.

Doctor John reached for the stethoscope that hung around his neck and put it to Van Zandt’s chest when the man was ready. He placed the chest-piece on various locations on his front and back and listened intently, taking his good old time.

Inhale, he said. And exhale slowly.

Van Zandt inhaled and exhaled dutifully. Contentment played on his lips. This doc seemed to know what he was doing. The whole hospital struck him as unduly pleasant, almost like an upper-class hotel. The whole place was permeated by an extraordinary spirit. It had its origin with this doctor, Vincent Van Zandt noticed.

You think it’s something serious, Doc?

I’m not sure, Doctor John said. Your heart is beating steadily. There’s no arrhythmic beating.

Van Zandt sighed cautiously with relief.

Now about that stomach trouble… Doc John placed his hand on Van Zandt’s stomach and hit its back with the knuckles of his other hand.

No hardening in your intestines, he noted with satisfaction. You can put your shirt back on.

When Van Zandt was dressed again, John Bowie said, Give me your hand. I want to feel your pulse.

His patient obeyed. Doc John held his wrist, felt for the pulsing sensation with his fingertips, and, once he found it, began to count.

Your pulse is normal, he said after a while. But I’m sure we’ll find out what ails you. Tell me, do you drink?

Hard liquor? Van Zandt’s brows went up.

Doctor John nodded.

Never, Vincent Van Zandt said with conviction.

Really? John Bowie said.

Well… his patient said shyly. Almost never. Sometimes I drink a shot of Bourbon after a particularly fatty meal. But only in the evening.

I see, Doc John said. Tell me more about your diet. What do you eat on a regular basis?

I’ve got a new housekeeper, a twenty-year-old lady who cooks very well—

You’ve got a youthful housekeeper. This time Doctor John’s brows went up.

Van Zandt shook his head. She lives in an apartment in my house. It’s quite large, you see. She comes in the morning and leaves at night. Wonderful lady, but we’re not friends. Trust me, Sir, I’m very protective of her reputation.

I wouldn’t have thought anything to the contrary, Mr. Van Zandt, the doctor said mildly. What does she cook?

I love it when she deep-fries chicken and potatoes. Nice big steaks. There’s bacon and eggs for breakfast. She bakes, too. Even tortes and such. Wonderful stuff.

Doctor John narrowed his eyes for a second. That right there might be the cause for your constant seasickness.

Van Zandt shrunk back. You sure? Because I always ate like that, even when my wife made it. Her cooking never made me sick.

I see, Doctor John said. He tapped his lips with his forefinger and stared at his elegant patient. Can it be that your brackishness began after your wife went to be with the Lord?

Vincent Van Zandt mulled it over for a moment. Then he waved his index finger at the doctor. You got that right, Sir. It, too, started back then.

What about beer and wine? Do you drink alcoholic beverages on a regular basis?

A glass of wine every now and then. Never before eight at night and never alone. The same goes for beer. I’m not a teetotaler.

You smoke?

No, Sir. I don’t like the smell of old tobacco in a room. My dad smoked. He was a good man, a shoemaker in Amsterdam. But I can’t say that waking up and going down into the shop on the way to school was a pleasant experience as far as smells are concerned. Phooey. So, no, I don’t smoke. Don’t chew, either. I like my teeth white. He opened his mouth and presented two even rows of healthy teeth.

All right, Doctor John said. That’s good. But you should seriously think about changing your dietary habits. Eating like you do can lead to heart problems, even heart attacks, in the long run. Please be aware of that.

Vincent Van Zandt shrugged. Man’s got to have some kind of joy in life. At least little ones. Since my wife’s gone it’s just not the same anymore. I know she’s in a better place. But I’m still here. Without her.

For a moment Doctor John Bowie cast his eyes down. His jaw pulsed. He understood the man as he was a widower himself. His own wife Eugenie had died more than four years ago. A plague had torn her from his arms. He’d been helplessly watching her waste away, in spite of being a competent physician. He’d mourned her for a long time. Basically until the day when Shona Williams appeared to apply for a job as receptionist. A devout believer, intelligent and articulate, Shona was not just a great organizer, she was also a trained nurse. She soon rose through the ranks and became more than a receptionist for Dr. Bowie’s Healing Home. Now she was its administrator and lately Doctor John had been entertaining tender thoughts about her. And she’d been very responsive when she saw how courteously he treated her. They’d even gone out to eat with one another several times in the last few weeks…

John Bowie looked up at Vincent Van Zandt. I’ll have you get some medication for your stomach trouble at the drug store. This remedy won’t upset the rest of your system. He sat down, reached for pen and paper, and began to scribble a prescription.

When he reached over and handed it to his patient, Van Zandt looked him straight in the eye and said, "Thanks Doctor, for