mulled over the old man’s opinions and concerns as he led his horse and compact rig into the alley. He supposed he should be thankful for the opportunity to help the orphaned children, but he had to admit that there was more to his interest than mere altruism.
Something about the lost look in Miss Sara Beth’s eyes had touched him deeply, irrevocably. In an instant he had come to care about her far more than the circumstances called for. True, she was strong-willed, but she also reminded him of a lost sheep being circled by a pack of ravenous wolves. Given what Abe knew about the whole situation, it was little wonder the elderly man felt a fatherly bent toward the girl.
Taylor huffed and shook his head as his conscience kicked him in the gut. His personal feelings were far from paternal in regard to the lovely young woman. Her hair was the rich colors of autumn, spun into silk. And her eyes were jade gems, sparkling with the very flecks of gold her father had once tested. It was improper of him to notice such things, yet he had.
His outward behavior, of course, would always remain above reproach. He would never stoop to taking advantage of a woman, especially not one as innocent and needy as Miss Reese. He would, however, be more vigilant on her behalf than he would any of his other patients.
Taylor could already tell it was not going to be enough to simply check on her well-being via others. He was going to take a personal interest in the situation. There was no getting around it, no talking himself out of it.
As far as he was concerned, divine providence had placed him in this city on this night and had led him to make these particular acquaintances. It was therefore his duty to do all he could to help—with no thought of gain.
He had not become a doctor in order to get rich; he had chosen his profession because he truly wanted to benefit mankind. If he had wanted a more lucrative career, he would have followed in his father’s footsteps and become a lawyer, or in his grandfather’s as a judge.
Instead, he had studied medicine for nearly a year under the best minds at Massachusetts General Hospital, then had apprenticed for a while before he’d bid his family goodbye and headed west to practice.
More than half the time he wasn’t remunerated for his efforts, and if he was, payment was likely to be a sack of potatoes or mealy flour or an occasional scrawny chicken. He had thought, with the discovery of gold and San Francisco’s burgeoning economy, he’d easily find plenty of wealthy patients. Instead, he’d encountered more poverty and need than he’d imagined possible.
That was why he’d begun to donate his services at places like the city’s two major orphan asylums and had been so adamant in his insistence that San Francisco needed a care facility devoted solely to the illnesses of children. As it stood now, the poor little things who could not be tended at home were carted off to the city and county hospitals, where they were then exposed to all sorts of nasty diseases and were in the constant presence of morbidity.
His horse nickered, disturbing his musings. Taylor looked up to see the approach of his passengers. He tipped his bowler to them. “Are you ready to go?”
Spine straight, shoulders squared beneath her fitted woolen coat, Sara Beth nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Dr. Hayward. If you will assist me, then hand me Josiah, I would be much obliged.”
It worried Taylor to see her so apparently in control of her emotions. The boys seemed a bit sniffly, as children were wont to be anyway, but there wasn’t a sign of tears in their sister’s eyes.
As he offered his hand, he felt a strange hardness press into his palm. Pausing, he turned her hand over and saw what looked like the end of a smooth, thin stick. His puzzled glance caused her to falter ever so slightly.
“Oh. Forgive me,” Sara Beth said, withdrawing the needle and displaying it for him with a trembling hand. “As I was leaving home I thought I might need some method of protection so I brought along one of Mother’s knitting needles. I had forgotten about it until now.”
“I hardly consider a sliver of bone a suitable defensive weapon,” Taylor said. “You could have been hurt walking these streets alone at night.”
He saw her countenance darken, her expression close. “Yes,” she said, taking the baby and settling him in her lap where she could hold him close. “I might have been shot and killed, mightn’t I?”
Without further comment he lifted the older boys into the crowded buggy, squeezed himself onto the single seat and took up the reins.
Perhaps he had overstepped propriety in his concern for the young woman, Taylor reasoned, but someone had to tell her she had behaved in a most foolish manner. If that decision to follow her parents into the dangers of the night was typical behavior, she wasn’t nearly as mature and level-headed as he’d first thought. Nor was she likely to be able to properly care for what remained of her family by herself.
Chapter Three
The steady, rhythmic echo of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone and brick-paved streets provided a soothing tempo until they had proceeded far enough from the busiest areas of the city to encounter hard-packed dirt dotted with muddy potholes.
To Sara Beth’s relief, all the younger children had nodded off before the doctor’s buggy had reached the portion of Pike Street where their home stood.
“This is it,” she said, stifling a sigh and pointing. “That two-story, gray clapboard with the double porches. You can let us off in front.”
As the doctor climbed down to hitch his horse to a cast-iron ring, he paused. Tensing, he held up his hand to stop her instead of continuing around to help her disembark. “Wait. Stay there.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I think I see someone on your porch.”
“That’s silly. There can’t be. Why would anyone…?” Peering at the house, she realized he was right. There was someone on her front porch. And another man on the upstairs porch that mirrored the structure at ground level. Judging by their shadowy forms, both men were carrying rifles.
Sara Beth remained in the buggy as she cupped her hands around her mouth and called out, “Who are you? What do you want?”
The gunman on the lower porch stepped off and started along the boarded walkway toward her. There was no mistaking the menace in his movements. She might have assumed she was overreacting but the buggy horse also seemed nervous, almost unseating her when it suddenly lurched backward to the end of its tether and stamped its hooves.
The man paused halfway to the street and struck a stalwart pose, his boots planted solidly apart, his rifle spanning his chest. “This house is off-limits,” he said. “Sheriff’s orders.”
“But that’s impossible. I live here,” Sara Beth insisted.
“Not any more you don’t. This property is sealed. No one can come or go,” the guard replied.
“That’s ridiculous. My father, Robert Reese, is the owner.” The gunman’s cynical chuckle chilled her to the bone.
“That’s what you think, little lady. I have it on good authority that this property belongs to the U.S. government now.”
“Who told you that? Who sent you?”
“I get
