Ben wondered about the Salt children, but only long enough to make another promise to himself he would drop in on them later, make sure they were settled, and see if there was anything he could do for their mother. As for their daddy, there was no point talking to the man while he was still sleeping off another two-day drunk in a cell. Anyway, there was only so much Ben could say to Jeremiah Salt about his behavior, and Ben reckoned that over the years, he’d said all of it. Not that anything changed for the better, not permanently, and there were times that saying something changed things for the worse. He needed to think on that, and as long as his office reeked of sour body odor, warm piss, and stale brew, he was doing his thinking outside.

  Wrinkling his nose, he fell asleep.

  And woke to the sound of a train whistle as No. 459 approached the station.

  It was a month ago, a couple of weeks after the election results were in, that Dr. Dunlop had taken Ben aside and confided his intention to leave Frost Falls for a teaching position at the Boston University School of Medicine. Ben immediately understood what Doc’s exit would mean to the town. The man had been looking after folks for better than twenty-five years, delivered most of the children born during his tenure, removed a coffee can’s worth of bullets from various body parts, set broken bones, prescribed healing tinctures and poultices, took out an appendix now and again, treated gout and head colds, and knew everyone’s name and their common ailments.

  Doc was set on not having a fuss made over his departure, but neither could he leave like a thief in the night. His housekeeper for all the years he was in residence, who often as not was called into the surgery to assist, made no secret that she felt betrayed and abandoned, and, oh yes, there was the town to consider. Her way of expressing her disapproval and displeasure was to organize a farewell celebration of Bacchanalian proportions. The good citizens of Frost Falls mourned the loss of their doctor with dancing and feasting and plenty of alcohol, which provided the catalyst for what became Jeremiah Salt’s first two-day bender under Ben’s sole oversight. No one blamed Mary Cherry because it was well known that Jeremiah did not require much in the way of provocation and because Mary Cherry was so obviously crying in her beer.

  Doc assured anyone who asked that arrangements had already been made for a replacement. His patients were not comforted to hear it. Who, after all, could replace him? To ease their minds, he gave them a name: Dr. E. Ridley Woodhouse, a graduate of his alma mater, the Boston University School of Medicine, where he was returning to teach. In fact, Dr. Woodhouse’s father was a former classmate of his and was now a professor at the university. No one was particularly mollified by that news. What would be a homecoming of sorts for Doc was still an uncertain future for the folks who had been under his care. Even more unsettling, they were able to deduce from the information that their new physician was on the youngish side.

  They either did not remember, or did not care to remember, that once upon a time, Dr. Dunlop had been on the youngish side himself.

  It was when Ben accompanied Doc to the station for his departure a few weeks ago that the doctor elicited Ben’s promise to meet Woodhouse on arrival and offer support throughout the transition. In his mind, Ben imagined that he would either amble or mosey—he was not sure of the distinction—down to the station so as not to give any impression of urgency or anxiety regarding the new doctor’s arrival. That was impossible now. Neither ambling nor moseying would get him there on time.

  Ben dropped the chair on all four legs, resettled his hat on his head, and shoved the stool aside. He jumped to his feet, wavering just a bit as he was still recovering his senses, and then started south toward the station. He had a long stride that quickly covered the planked sidewalk and he had to force himself to shorten his steps so as not to attract attention. Still, by the time he passed Maxwell Wayne’s bakery, he was once again moving at what most observers would characterize as a brisk pace. He slowed a second time, took a moment here and there to exchange pleasantries with Mrs. Preston, who, judging by the warm scent emanating from the bakery box dangling from her fingertips, was carrying cinnamon buns, and Miss Renquest, who sought his opinion regarding her new straw hat. Was it sitting at the proper angle on her head? Should she have chosen a black ribbon over the royal purple? Did it complement her age? The answers were: Yes, no, and your age complements the hat. Miss Renquest was eighty-four, and she was very pleased to hear it.

  Passengers were already disembarking when Ben reached the platform. He had arranged earlier for a wagon from the livery to be waiting for him. Doc had warned him that Woodhouse would arrive with trunks, bags, books, and enough equipment to support the use of a wagon. Ben supposed it was something Doc had learned in the course of corresponding with Woodhouse, or perhaps in his correspondence with Woodhouse’s father. Ben had been assured that Doc had full confidence in the new doctor’s skill and education, and had not made the decision to leave on a whim. Neither had Woodhouse’s decision to leave Boston for Frost Falls been without serious contemplation. Ben was left with the impression that the coming and going was an exchange of sorts, a bargain made, and he wondered if that could possibly be right or good. What he knew for certain was that he had no say in it then or now and what he owed the doctors was the fulfillment of a promise made.

  Ben saw Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds step down from the train, Mr. Reynolds first, then his wife. Their fearless toddler twins jumped gleefully to the platform without assistance and begged to be allowed to do it again. They were bundled up and carried off, one under each of their father’s arms. Mrs. Reynolds followed, smiling indulgently and waving to Ben as she passed.

  A few more passengers left the train, but there was no one he did not recognize. Had Dr. Woodhouse missed a connection? Left the train at an earlier stop? There was nothing to be done but wait, so Ben waited.

  His first indication that Dr. Woodhouse was indeed on the train was when two porters appeared on the platform carrying what was obviously a heavy trunk between them. When they tried to set it down, the leather straps slipped out of their hands and the trunk thudded to the deck. Their equally guilty expressions made it clear to Ben they had instructions to treat the trunk with more care. He wasn’t surprised, though, when they shrugged it off and disappeared back inside the baggage car. They came out again less than a minute later, this time carrying smaller trunks they could manage on their own. They placed the trunks beside the large one and then removed several valises and a canvas carryall. There was nothing that Ben identified as a doctor’s black bag, but then Ben considered that Woodhouse might be carrying it.

  It was only a moment later that his thought was confirmed. Dr. Woodhouse appeared on the steps of the car, carrying that identifying bag, and waited for a conductor to add a wooden stool to make disembarking easier. Yes, this was Dr. Woodhouse. Dr. E. Ridley Woodhouse. And it was suddenly clear why Ol’ Doc Dunlop had asked for his promise to meet the train and support the transition.

  Dr. E. Ridley Woodhouse was a woman.

  Ben swore softly under his breath. Six weeks ago this would have been Jackson Brewer’s problem. He was the sheriff then and still would be if he hadn’t gotten it in his head that he wanted to retire and take his wife to Paris. Paris! Jackson and Addie had their bags packed and were ready to go as soon as the election was over and it was clear that Ben would be the new sheriff. They did not even wait for the swearing in. At the time, Ben was relieved. It meant Jackson did not have to hear his former deputy stutter through a speech he never wanted to make for a position he never sought to hold.

  And now there was this absurdity.

  Ben walked toward the trunks and valises and canvas carryall and stopped when he reached them. He waited for her to alight from the car and approach. He touched the brim of his hat, gave a short nod, and greeted her. She was no longer carrying her black leather satchel in one hand. She cradled it against her midriff as though it offered some sort of protection.

  “Yes,” she said in response to his greeting. “I am Dr. Woodhouse. You are?”

  “Ben Madison. Doc asked me to look after you, make sure you get settled in, have everything you need. I’m supposed to show you the lay of the land.”

  “Really.”

  It was not exactly a question the way she put it. More like she was unimpressed. He wondered if he should have mentioned that he was the sheriff. He smiled a trifle unevenly as that thought came and went. She didn’t miss it, though.

  “Do I amuse you?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am. Mostly I amuse myself. That’s what I was doing just then.” It was clear to him that she did not know what to make of that so she said nothing, just continued to stare at him from behind a pair of gold wire spectacles. Her eyes were brown, same as what he could see of her hair. Her wide-brimmed navy blue straw hat sported an extravagant pink bow on the flat crown and hid her hair and shaded her face until she lifted her chin. That small chin was lifted now and to considerable effect as she eyed him candidly. Ben had an urge to tug at his collar and clear his throat. What was he going to do when she cupped his balls and told him to cough?

  He knuckled his mouth to suppress a laugh.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Amusing yourself again?”

  Ben lowered his fist and gave himself fair marks for presenting a straight face. There was nothing he could do about the heated color in his cheeks. It was the curse of all redheads. “Yes, ma’am. I believe I am.”

  “I see.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.” He did not give her an opportunity for comment but waved a hand over her belongings. “Everything here?”

  She followed the sweep of his hand, regarded the baggage, and nodded. “Yes.” She finally lowered her black bag so that she was carrying it in her right hand. “Do you have some sort of conveyance?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A right proper conveyance. We call it a buckboard.” He pointed to where it stood at the end of the platform. He thought she was going to comment on the wagon or the restless bay mare that was going to pull it, but what she did was turn back to him and say, “You and I are of an age, I think. I prefer that you do not call me ma’am.”

  “Well, sure. I didn’t want to seem forward calling you Ridley, and I don’t know what the E stands for. Elizabeth? Eliza? Emily?”

  “Exactly-none-of-your-affair.”

  It took Ben a moment to understand. “Oh, I see. Every-bit-your-prerogative, Ridley.”

  “Dr. Woodhouse.”

  “Yes, of course. Dr. Woodhouse.” He thought he saw a breath ease out of her, but he could have been mistaken. For all that she seemed self-contained, self-confident, and more than a little self-important, maybe she’d just been holding her breath all this time. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt and see where that took him.

  “I’m twenty-nine,” he said.

  She stared at him.

  “Twenty-nine,” he repeated. “My last birthday. You said you thought we were of an age. I’m aiming to find out.”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Huh. Then you were right. That’s of an age. You can call me Ben, though. I don’t fancy being called Mr. Madison.”

  “By me?”

  “By anyone.”

  “All right.”

  It seemed there was the slightest hesitation after she spoke, almost as if she were about to call him Ben. If that were the case, she swallowed the urge and the word, and his name did not move past her lips. For all that they had a short acquaintance and she was as citified as the long pointed toes of her shoes, he would not have minded hearing his name on her lips. That had occurred to him the moment she lifted her face and he saw that she had a wide, splendidly curved mouth. She had yet to smile, to unleash its full exotic power, and he thought that was probably for the best. He’d be weak-kneed and noodle-limbed and never be able to manage to get the trunks to the buckboard.

  “You’re staring,” she said. That splendidly curved mouth flattened in disapproval.

  “Was I? You have something . . .” He pointed to the left corner of his lips and made a brushing motion with his index finger. She mirrored the same motion and he said, “That’s it. It’s gone.” Of course, nothing had been there, but it was a perfectly acceptable excuse for him staring, and unless he told her, she would never know he lied.

  She dropped her hand to her side. “Is there anyone to assist you with the trunks? I can manage the smaller things.”

  “You go. Wait at the end of the platform. The stationmaster will help me.” He did not wait to see if she started walking. He went into the station, asked the agent to give him a hand, and when he reappeared, she had already climbed onto the buckboard’s thinly padded seat. The doctor’s bag was at her side, and one of the valises was in the bed of the wagon. It was good to know she wasn’t helpless. He had confidence in Dr. Dunlop when he announced E. Ridley Woodhouse was in every way a competent physician. What Ben didn’t know was if E. Ridley could manage the everyday competencies that were necessary for living in Frost Falls. At the very least, she had proven she could lift and carry. It was a start.

  The buckboard sagged as the largest trunk was placed on the bed. Ben didn’t comment until everything was loaded and they were on their way. “What’s in the big trunk?”

  “Books.”

  He whistled softly. “That’s a lot of books. We have a library here, you know.”

  “Medical reference books,” she said. “They are hard to come by in any library outside of a university.”

  Ben nodded. “No bodies, then.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her head jerk in surprise and then a hint of a smile hover on her lips. “Good to know about the bodies. I was wondering.”

  “You were not.”

  He shrugged.

  She said nothing for a long moment and then regarded him with a sideways look. She asked, “Did you truly wonder?”

  One corner of Ben’s mouth lifted just a fraction. “Truly, I did not.”

  She nodded once, thoughtfully. “It’s as you said, then.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You do like to amuse yourself.”

  “I don’t believe I said that I like to do it. It’s more that I can’t help myself. There’s plenty that strikes me odd.” He thought she might seize on that, but if she felt the urge, she restrained herself. Her head swiveled to the right and left as she took in her surroundings. She did not ask any questions, and Ben wondered what sort of impression she was forming. He tried to see what was so familiar to him with fresh eyes.

  He raised a hand to acknowledge Hank Ketchum as the man looked up from tending to one of his horses. Hank nodded once, rather sharply, and went back to work. The livery could use a fresh coat of paint, Ben noted, and if Hank replaced the battered boards on the side visible to the public, it’d be a marked improvement. Ben didn’t see it happening. The building was a reflection of the man who owned it, utilitarian and a little careworn, rich with history, full of character. It was the sort of thing that Dr. Woodhouse could not appreciate in a glance, but something she would learn soon enough.

  Hank Ketchum was not the only person to give him a nod or lift a hand as the buckboard rattled on. He counted seven women gathered in front of the Presbyterian Church, all of whom looked up and offered fulsome smiles until they clapped eyes on his companion. While their smiles remained in place, stillness settled over the women, and Ben realized the set of their features was frozen. Whatever thoughts they were entertaining, he doubted that any one of them recognized that the woman he was escorting was the town’s new doc.

  The canted sign above the Songbird Saloon was a fixture that no one had ambitions about straightening, least of all the proprietor, who had a fondness for it since it had slipped fifteen degrees below level the same day his wife left town with a cardsharp from New Orleans.

  The land office had windows that could barely reflect the sun’s glare because they were in need of washing. The windows of his office were hardly any better. In fact, when Ben regarded the leather goods store, the apothecary, the mercantile, and the barbershop, he concluded that most of Frost Fall’s businesses required a spit shine. Mrs. Fish’s dress shop and the Butterworth Hotel were exceptions, gleaming like polished jewels in a dusty setting.

  Would Dr. Woodhouse judge the town by its appearance, or would she reserve her opinion until she met its citizens? And equally important, would the town judge her by her appearance or on her merits?

  “It’s precisely as he described it.”

  Ben turned to look at her. She appeared rather more pleased than disappointed, but he couldn’t be sure that it was a compliment to the town. She could have been referring to Doc’s skill at putting his observations to paper. Before he could ask for clarification, she distracted him by pointing to the butter yellow frame house on the side street past the Butterworth. He had not yet begun to turn the corner, but he did so now.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” she said. “The house. It’s Dr. Dunlop’s house.”

  “The way I understand it, it’s your house now.”

  Her slim smile widened. “So it is.”

  “I wondered why Doc was so keen to slap a fresh coat of paint on it this summer. He hired the Anderson boys to do it for him, and he was particular that they should do a good job. I suppose that was all for you. Guess this has been in the works for longer than anyone’s known.”

  She shrugged lightly and said nothing as Ben tugged on the reins and the mare halted in front of the house. Instead of rising, she remained seated and stared at her new home.

  Ben started to rise and then lowered himself back on the seat when she didn’t move. He was quiet, letting her take her fill. It was hard to tell from her profile, but he thought she looked reverent, and not for anything was he going to disturb that moment.