Sage

  Sage: Bride of Archer Ranch

  Cindy Caldwell

  Copyright © 2019 by Cindy Caldwell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Also by Cindy Caldwell

  Chapter 1

  Sage Archer wasn’t sure how long she’d stared at the door after Dr. Folsom closed it behind him. When they’d gotten the news, she’d immediately grabbed her coat to accompany him to visit Mrs. Hill, who was having a difficult birth. She’d already shrugged it on when he’d looked around the office and shook his head. His words still rang in her ears.

  “You need to stay here, Sage. I’ll handle it. It’s a doctor that’s needed.”

  It must have been a good spell of time that she’d stood in silence. The darling seven-year-old daughter of her friend had been tugging on her skirt for some time before she was able to close her mouth and turn back toward the doctor’s waiting room.

  She absently smoothed Lucy’s blonde braids. She surveyed the people before her, eyeing two older men, one holding his elbow gingerly and the other with his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed and his mouth wide open with gurgling sounds bubbling up. She turned toward the other side of the room and was met with an understanding glance from Suzanne, Lucy’s mother, who’d taken time from her busy schedule running the mercantile to bring the twins in to see the doctor. Their appointment had been scheduled for weeks—actually, this was their third appointment, each one cancelled due to the doctor’s sudden absence in the line of duty.

  Against the far wall, a woman slowly shook her head as she wrapped her arm around a slightly older woman whom Sage knew to be her sister. They’d waited all morning to see the doctor, and as this was their second attempt to see him, Sage knew that the pain etched in the older woman’s face was quite real, and she’d been struggling with it for some time.

  Although she’d been assisting the doctor and absorbing as much knowledge as she could for the past year or so, her skills at diagnosis were nothing like the doctor’s. His East Coast university training and the books that lined his office—large, leather-bound tomes that seemed written in a foreign language to her—had assisted him in all types of diagnoses, some she’d heard of and many she hadn’t. Organizing his appointments helped him, she knew—but what she really wanted was to shadow him, learn what he knew and help patients. He could hire a desk clerk for what she’d been doing lately.

  “I’m so sorry, Suzanne,” she said as she reached for her friend’s hand, cupping Lucy’s chin and smiling down at her, hoping she wasn’t emanating the irritation she felt. “The doctor is so very busy, and then he’s faced with emergencies and has to leave at the drop of a hat.”

  Suzanne cleared her throat and leaned back, peering after the doctor as he disappeared around the corner of the blacksmith shop down the street.

  “Don’t you fret about it, Sage. It’s not your fault that there are emergencies in town that take priority. Perfectly understandable,” Suzanne said as she gathered her daughters.

  Sage turned quickly as the bells on the office door jingled and Sadie Morgan stepped through, a baby in each arm. The twins were almost six months old, and Sadie wanted the doctor to give them a once-over.

  Sadie’s eyes widened for a moment, and then she glanced at her identical twin, Suzanne. “Is this a bad time? I do have an appointment for the twins.”

  A sigh escaped Sage, much as she tried to stop it.

  “It’s always a bad time around here, it appears,” the woman in the corner said as she helped her sister up and tugged her shawl around her. “Don’t worry, my dear. There is another doctor in town who would appreciate our business,” she said as she guided her sister through the front door with a sharp look back at Sage. “We won’t be making another appointment, Miss Archer.”

  Sage’s shoulders fell as she turned back toward her friends. The gentleman in the corner’s eyes flew open as he snorted, lifted his head from the wall and raked his sleeve across his chin. “The doctor gone again?” he said, the lids covering his red eyes settling back to mere slits.

  “I’m afraid so, sir. An emergency,” Sage said with the best comforting smile she could muster.

  “Right, then. I’ll be off.” He pushed himself up from the chair and turned to the man next to him. “What’s the name of that other doctor on the far side of town?”

  “Redmond, I believe,” the other man said as he stood, grabbed his hat on the rack and nodded slightly toward Sage. He reached for the door and opened it, ushering the other gentleman out before smiling slightly to Sage.

  “Oh, my,” Suzanne said as she reached for her daughters’ hands. “That doesn’t bode well, does it?”

  Sage folded her arms over her chest and strode behind the counter, crossing off the names of the patients who’d left. Her eyes flashed after the patients as they rounded the corner. She knew exactly what tonics would make them both feel better, and it frustrated her that she couldn’t provide them.

  “No, it absolutely does not,” she said as she dropped the pencil on the counter. “These people don’t seem to understand that the doctor is very knowledgeable, very important, and surely worth the wait.”

  “Why didn’t you give them some of your tonic? Surely you could help in some way,” Sadie asked. “The tonics have helped multiple times with Lucy and Lily, and I’m looking forward to getting some for the babies.”

  Sage’s face clouded, and she looked over her shoulder at the office behind the counter. She sighed and looked at her friends.

  “Dr. Folsom sometimes doesn’t like when I give out mama’s tonics—or, I guess, my tonics. Even though we spent all those years perfecting them—he doesn’t like it. I have to ask for his permission.”

  Suzanne and Sadie exchanged quick glances.

  “Why?” Suzanne asked. “We’ve been using your tonics for years. Everybody could benefit from them.”

  Sage’s shoulders sagged, but she tried to brush it off. The doctor had seemed more amenable lately to her tonics—he even let Mr. Jackson use one, and a few other people—but for the most part, he preferred to use the new methods that were in all the medical journals.

  Sage shrugged and attempted a smile. “I don’t know. Modern medicine and all that,” she said, as airily as she could.

  Lucy pulled her hand from her mother’s and crossed over to her aunt. “Aunt Sadie, can I hold Maria? Or Katie?” she asked, her blue eyes pleading.

  Sadie smiled as Lucy bounced the babies and she asked Sage, “I suppose it wouldn’t do for us to wait?”


  “I don’t suppose it would.” Sage dropped into one of the chairs of the waiting room, and peered up and down the street.

  Sadie adjusted the babies under her arm and a coo escaped one of them, pulling Sage from her dilemma for the moment. She smiled broadly at the sound, reaching toward Sadie for one of the babies—she still wasn’t sure which was which and didn’t know how Tripp and Sadie kept them straight.

  She sat down with the baby on her lap, peering into the bright blue eyes that searched her own. She’d helped deliver them—the doctor hadn’t made it back in time—and she held a special place in her heart for them.

  She smiled as Lucy leaned against her knee, kissing the baby on the forehead.

  “I think this one’s Katie,” she said.

  Her sister leaned over, peering at the infant’s wrist. “No, this one is Maria,” she said as she fingered the pink ribbon around the baby’s wrist.

  “Oh, that’s the trick, is it?” Sage asked as Suzanne and Sadie laughed.

  “Yes, it was the only way our parents could tell us apart. It’s a trick that works,” Suzanne said as she tugged the braids of her own identical twins. “Unless, of course, you are Lucy,” she said, pointing at Lily, “and you are Lily,” she said, tapping Lucy on the head. “Then the trick didn’t work and I have my own daughters mixed up.”

  “Mama!” the girls squealed as they laughed and tugged at their mother’s skirts. “Now, we must have ice cream as you got it wrong.”

  Suzanne reached for the baby and Sage lifted her gently into her aunt’s arms.

  “I say that’s a wonderful idea. Can you join us, Sadie?” she asked as she turned to her sister.

  Sadie frowned at Sage. “You’re certain we shouldn’t wait?”

  “No, don’t bother. It could be hours,” Sage said as she shook her head slowly. “Would you like to make another appointment?”

  “Oh, certainly,” both Sadie and Suzanne said, almost stumbling over each other’s words. “Little Katie did have a bit of a cough, but we can wait.”

  She felt the baby’s forehead and determined that there was no fever. She looked out the window, up and down the street, and turned to the small cabinet that she kept her tonics in, pulled a bottle out and handed it to Sadie.

  “This should help. One small teaspoon at bedtime and she’ll be much better. Another in the morning if her cough doesn’t subside within a week or two.”

  Sadie nodded gratefully and slipped the tonic into her pocket.

  Sage quickly scheduled them for another day and escorted them out. Just as she’d locked the door and was turning the sign in the window from “open” to “closed”, Mrs. Baxter pressed her nose against the glass before jiggling the latch, her gray hair poking out from beneath her hat.

  “Dr. Folsom! Dr. Folsom, are you in there?”

  Sage frowned as she quickly unlocked the door. Mrs. Baxter never came to the doctor’s unless it was a true emergency, and Sage assumed that her employer, Mr. Jackson, may have taken a turn for the worse.

  “Miss Archer, my dear, is the doctor in?” Mrs. Baxter asked breathlessly as she rushed through the door.

  “Why, no, he isn’t. Is Mr. Jackson all right?”

  The older woman tucked her gray hair back beneath her hat and straightened her coat. Sage could only imagine that she’d rushed to fetch the doctor, and her cheeks were ruddy having been out in the winter cold.

  Mrs. Baxter wrung her hands for a moment then reached into her pocket, pulling out an envelope. She stared at it for a moment before she looked up and searched Sage’s eyes.

  “Vera, what is it?”

  The woman swiped at her eyes with her gloved hand and shoved the letter back in her pocket. “He’s not well, my dear. He won’t admit it, but he’s not doing well and it’s gotten much worse in the past week. Why, just now he cried out in his sleep. I was coming to post this letter, and I thought maybe if the doctor could—but it seems he’s not here.”

  “No, no, he isn’t. He’s out on an emergency visit,” she said gently. If there was an emergency now, this would be it. Mr. Jackson was beloved by all in Tombstone and particularly by the Archer family, and he had been ill for months. She’d stayed with him many a night herself, and while the doctor continued to try various tonics and remedies on the poor soul, he had not responded.

  “I must post this letter, my dear. His son must know. It can’t wait a minute longer. He’s asked me not to write, but I believe it’s time. As the office is empty, might you—well, could you...”

  “Certainly. I’ll stay with him.” Sage reached for her gloves, shrugging them on as she locked the door of the office and hurried over to see to Mr. Jackson.

  Chapter 2

  Clint Jackson tapped the simple envelope against his hand as the sun dipped below the skyline of New York. The chill in the winter air had him pulling his jacket more highly around him—that, and the news from Mrs. Baxter that his father was dying.

  The delicate handwriting of his father’s longtime housekeeper hadn’t been any cause for alarm in and of itself. His father’s eyesight had been failing for a bit and so the letters he’d received from Tombstone in the past year had been in her hand. It wasn’t until he’d read it not once, but thrice over that he understood that this hadn’t been a friendly letter of general news but a request for him to travel to Tombstone at his father’s request—and to hurry.

  As the sun disappeared below the horizon, he stared west, wondering how long it had been since he’d seen his father. He’d been studying at the university for four years now, and he’d not been to Tombstone to visit—the diligence and study required in his medical training hadn’t afforded any opportunities for a trip of that length, almost all the way across the continent.

  His father had visited once—maybe two years ago or so—and the realization that he hadn’t seen his only family for two long years tugged at his heart. And now it was urgent that he visit as quickly as possibly, and he hadn’t even known his father was ill at all.

  He reached into the drawer of his heavy oak desk, his fingers closing around the stack of letters he’d received from his father since he’d left—there had to be at least a hundred. He’d received them almost every week for the past couple of years, and he looked over to the leather wing-backed chair he’d always sat in with a cup of tea, leisurely reading his father’s news on a Sunday evening. His father was all the family he had, and the weekly missives had helped Clint feel less alone in such a big city as New York. His hand tightened around the bundle—why hadn’t Mrs. Baxter told him that his father was so ill?

  He looked up at the knock on the door, nodding as his man entered with his steamer trunk.

  “The other trunk is in the parlor, sir. Will you be needing both of them for your journey?”

  “I don’t think so, George. I—well, I don’t expect I’ll be long.” He straightened his tie and turned back toward the window.

  “Sir, I’d be happy to accompany you if you wish,” George said, his hands behind his back as he glanced down at his shiny, black shoes. He’d been with Clint for the entire time he’d been in medical school, and was about his age. Clint was busy with his studies—but not too busy to have noticed that George had taken to leaving promptly on time and once or twice, he’d gotten a whiff of perfume when George had been out. If a new sweetheart was involved, far be it from Clint to take him across the country as well.

  Clint hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his satin vest and rested his head against the cool glass of the window. Beyond that, although George was a good companion and helpful employee, he wasn’t truly a member of the family...not like Mrs. Baxter. She’d been with him and his father since his mother died when he was an infant.

  He squared his shoulders and turned away from the window. He felt like the journey to Tombstone might be an opportunity for him to study for his final exams, and he could use the time to catch up on the course work he’d be missing. After he saw his father and made arrangements, he’d be retu
rning right away regardless, so George was better off remaining in New York.

  “Thank you, George. I can manage on my own, but I appreciate the offer. You’ve booked transportation for me?”

  “Yes, sir.” George pulled a rail pass from his coat pocket and handed it to Clint. “You leave tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp. I will fetch you an hour before, if that suits you.”

  “It does, thank you,” Clint said as he studied the documents. “I’ll be ready.”

  As George nodded and closed the door, Clint fell into the wing-backed chair, wishing that the letter he’d most recently received had been the same as all the other ones—cheerful stories about life on the western frontier, and what it was like to live in a mining town.

  Clint reached for a frame on the bookshelf next to his desk. The faded portrait of his father in front of his pride and joy—Jackson Funeral Parlor—was something he stole glances at frequently as he studied. His father had sold his thriving business in New York City, using most of the money for Clint’s medical education, and Clint would be forever grateful for the sacrifice.

  He ran his hands over the smooth glass, the image blurring as he remembered his father’s words when he’d sold his business. “Son, I’ve loved serving the bereaved all these years, but it’s time that you started your way in the world. You were destined to be a doctor, and I mean to make that happen.”

  His father cared for him deeply, he knew, and he studied diligently, hoping to make his father proud when he finally became a doctor. And he was proud of his father, too. His services as an undertaker had been in high demand, in equal parts because of his skillful abilities in the back rooms and his kind, compassionate demeanor in the front parlor. He dearly loved comforting men, women and children after the deaths of their loved ones. It was in his blood, his calling, and he’d spent many hours watching his father calm the distraught folks that had passed through their doors.