The Errand
by Mary Ellen Snodgrass
The town barber, Jake Slicker, lounged against the porch upright of Bray's Mercantile while the owner, Loren Bray, swatted at horseflies settling on his onion bin.
"Dern flies," he fumed. "Horse patties draw 'em like honey." Another swat splattered fly juice onto the turnips.
"I ain't seen a customer all morning," Jake muttered. "Have people started cuttin their own hair?"
Loren studied the quiet main street of Colorado Springs with one thought in mind, "Where's my usual Thursday morning crowd? I haven't seen a soul from the immigrant camp." Concern for business had him scratching his bald spot and fiddling with the tie to his apron.
"Gonna be a late fall," Jake added, examining the heel of his boot and dislodging a mud clump with the tip of his comb. "Still as hot as summer." The clod crumbled into the path of two boys on their way to school.
"Well, I ain't gettin much done loafin out here with you." Loren busied himself realigning fall squash and plucking yellow cabbage leaves to add to his mulch pile.
At a distance, the new doctor trotted into town on her horse Bear and halted at the hitching rail to tie up. Lifting an osier grocery basket, she saluted both men.
"Gentlemen," she nodded, pausing to select a bunch of yellow onions and stow them in her container. She directed her musings to nobody in particular. "I suppose I should get a bag of cooking apples for frying at breakfast. And maybe a few pears."
Loren perked up at the sight of his first shopper of the morning. "Fine day, ma'am" he smiled. He parked his feather duster in his rear pocket and held the open door as though it might suddenly bang shut. "Is there something I can help you with, Miss Quinn?"
"Dr. Quinn," she reminded him and breezed past, her eyes lowered.
In the cool interior, Michaela, the town's newest citizen, took in the variety of goods and consulted a list of her needs jotted at a neat professional slant. "Let's see." She decided to move right to left and cover the whole store methodically.
"We've got a new shipment of muffin tins," Loren suggested with raised eyebrows. "And the latest in colanders—all sizes."
Michaela wished he would occupy himself elsewhere and leave her in peace to make her selections. "No, thank you," she brushed past him. "But I definitely need some kitchen linens."
She edged past rows of leftover straw bonnets and fingered a fancy oil lamp collared with oblong glass dangles. She reached above. "I'll have two huck towels," she decided and slid them into her basket. "Perhaps I should look for a dishpan, too."
A shadow darkened the entrance as Sully trod silently over the sill in worn moccasins and ducked his head at his former father-in-law and the only other customer. "Mornin, Loren, Dr. Quinn."
The store owner harrumphed "Injun lover" and made a second sally at Michaela. "If you need aprons, I just got some sturdy ones in. Sewed outta tickin. Last a lifetime."
Michaela glanced briefly at the shop-worn aprons. "Not for me, thanks." She pressed toward the shelves in the side window, where eyes peered in at her at close range. In the early morning light, dust motes danced over a display of glass-topped canning jars with wire bales. "Do you have these in pints?" She tilted one upside down to examine the bottom for cracks.
"Yes, indeed, a good selection by the jar or by the case" Loren grinned. "How many do you need?"
"I'll take two," she replied and ticked off another necessity for her new home. Poke bonnets tilted in toward the fly-specked panes for a better look at her. Eyes watched her pencil in action. "I seem to have acquired an audience."
Loren gestured, "Lots of activity around Bray's store in the mornins. Nothin unusual."
A hand slapped the counter. Hank Lawson, the town saloon owner, glowered at Loren's attentions to Michaela and pointed at a box of cigars on the upper shelf. "I'll have two of the claros," he growled. "And some lucifers."
"Serve yourself, Hark," Loren muttered without looking up. "You know where to find your brand and the matches."
While Hank leaned his hip against the display case to get a better view of Michaela's backside, Sully chose a two-cent bag of raisins and dropped two coppers near the cash box. "Thanks, Loren," he said before sidling onto the porch.
A saloon girl named Bessie peered into the front door and bent toward Hank's ear to remind him, "We need lye soap for scourin the ashtrays. And another ladle. The handle on ours broke."
"Git what we need, woman," he replied without looking her way.
Bessie took her time completing her mission. She hesitated long enough to gaze at Michaela's stylish Boston reticule. "That's purty," she cooed. She reached a tentative fingertip toward the slate-blue netting and fringed strap. "Real purty."
Michaela stretched a cool hand toward Bessie and smiled. "I'm Dr. Michaela Quinn. I'm new in town."
"Oh, I guess everbody knows that by now," Bessie observed, yanking a thumb toward two faces still pressed to the window on the opposite wall. "You been the talk of the town ever since you stepped off the Denver stage. I figgered you was stayin because you brung a trunk and two carpetbags."
Michaela blinked, her mind troubled by the thought of her luggage being a topic of interest to locals.
"We all saw you slip in the mud," Bessie added and slid a palm over her mouth to hide a snicker.
"Excuse me," Michaela mumbled. "I must get on with the shopping."
Bessie followed the doctor's progress past a stack of licorice whips and two barrels of dried October beans.
At the door, Jake brushed past Hank and stood face-to-face with the newcomer. "Mornin, ma'am," he smirked while sizing up her features from shoulder to waist and back. "Nice to see you again."
"Excuse me, gentlemen." Michaela lifted one eyebrow before sidestepping Jake, angling past Hank, and settling a dozen eggs in her basket in the folds of the huck towels. "Mr. Bray," she posed a city woman's query. "Why are these eggs so large and odd shaped?"
"Duck eggs," he rocked back with authority and waved his index finger. "Best in the world for flapjacks. Cake too."
"I see. Oh, I'll be needing cake flour, cinnamon, and ground cloves," Michaela recalled, her mind on baking her first spice cake.
"Don't have cloves ground. You'll need a mortar and pestle for that." He mimicked with both hands the task of pulverizing spices in a deep bowl. "Takes muscle," he teased.
She smiled for the first time at Loren. "I have grinding tools," she assured him. "A doctor's equipment for preparing medications."
At the mention of the word "doctor," Jake snorted and jabbed a finger in her direction. "Do you really call yourself a doc? A lady doc? Making her own medicines? We never seen no such before in Colorado Springs."
Michaela gave no notice of his opinions and slid past the fabric counter to select a pack of darning needles, a thimble, and spools of black and tan button twine for her sewing box.
Jake moved in toward Hank to sneer, "She sews. Wonder if she'll use button twine on patients."
Hank waggled his cigar at Jake and whispered a few words that set Jake into belly laughs.
"You're mighty right about bar fights. Twine might hold better than that catgut you use on split lips."
Three women glided past Michaela and reached for pattern books to conceal their snooping at her purchases.
"Mornin, Miss Quinn. We've not been introduced. I'm Hattie Varner from over Graystone way. These are my sisters, Judith and Amy Grace. Unmarried ladies like yourself."
Michaela ignored the personal jab. She nodded a pleasant "Good day" and extended her hand toward potential patients. "Dr. Michaela Quinn, general surgeon. I hope you'll keep me in mind if you need a physician."
Hattie stiffened and withdrew her outstretched palm. "Well I wouldn't know about that."
Hattie retreated to the lard shelf while Judith and Amy tipped a bit to the left to take in Michaela's spiffy high-button shoes in two-tone leather and suede.
"Will you look at those scallops, Amy," Judith gawked and pointed. "I never seen the like."
As the newcomer's basket began to brim with canned peas, a triangular hunk of hoop cheese, and a two-pound bag of coffee beans, she made the last quarter of her counter-clockwise perusal of goods. At the cash box, she confronted a surprising number of shoppers. She extended the coffee to Loren. "Would you mind grinding these for me? Medium fine, please."
Loren bellied up to his new grinder and tipped the bag into the hopper. "Latest thing from St. Louis," he boasted as beans whirled into the blades. "Bet they don't have any like this back in Boston, do they?"
Michaela pursed her lips at the contrast between emporiums at home and a single dry goods in Colorado Springs.
The shopping turned feverish. Hank, still resting in place, fingered a red bandanna. Horace Bing, on break from the telegraph office, loped across the street for an emergency can of black shoe polish. With a tip of his imaginary hat, he nodded at Michaela and hurried back to work. Jake stretched long fingers around three russet baking potatoes and topped them off with a plug of Brown Mule.
To Hank's scowl, Bessie left a nickel to pay for a factory-made lace collar and scooted back toward the saloon. "See you later, Miss Quinn," she hollered as she leaped a muddy rut and clutched her parcel to her chest. "Stop by to visit when you can."
Loren began collecting coins—three cents for Hattie's 48-inch boot laces, a quarter for a cookbook for Amy Grace's mother's birthday, and three dimes from Judith on account. "Would there be anything else, ladies?" He spoke in the plural, but beamed solely at Michaela.
The female trio chirped a goodbye, gathered their goods, and turned for a last stare at Michaela's gray velveteen vest with covered buttons.
"Imagine, Amy," Judith whispered. "Satin piping. Musta cost a fortune."
"Mr. Bray," Michaela interrupted. "Pardon me, but I'm confused about the price of this muslin sheeting. I'll need a whole bolt for my examining and recovery rooms."
"Examinin? Recovery?" Loren clutched the bolt as though it were a Bray family heirloom. "All of it, you say? I'll check the length." He thumped the bolt on the back table and measured the fabric yard at a time. "Fourteen and three-quarters," he mumbled to himself. "Times four cents per yard."
"Oh, and could you order some light flannel in pastel colors for infant swaddling? I'll need half a bolt." Michaela added a bar of lemon complexion soap. She placed a final check mark on her list and began stacking her selections on the counter. "I hope I can get back to the homestead with all this."
Loren scratched out a sum on a scruffy pad and frowned. "That'll be $6.05." He parked his pencil stub in the upper apron pocket and loomed into her face. "Did you want to pay cash, Miss Quinn?"
Michaela gave up on correcting him. She opened her pinch purse and offered a twenty-dollar bill. "That should cover it," she sighed, glad to be done with a tedious errand. "Can you change that?"
"Certainly," Loren snapped. He counted back, "Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and 95 cents makes twenty. I'll have the flannel in stock by Tuesday morning." He packed her basket firmly and flashed a merchant's grin at his well-heeled customer. "Come back any time. Always a pleasure, Miss Quinn."
"Dr. Quinn," she reminded firmly, hoisted the tipsy basket over her arm, and gripped the dishpan with the other hand. A meaningful look at Hank and Jake made no impression that she needed help carrying her purchases.
As the newcomer stepped out the door and staggered toward Bear, Loren, Hank, and Jake clustered at the window to watch for a swish of petticoats as she slid her instep into the stirrup.
"Nice ankles," Hank leered. "I wouldn't mind . . ."
"I didn't know ankles were your specialty," Jake countered. "I thought you preferred something higher, say . . ."
"Naw. That's your territory." Hank licked dry lips in thought. "If I had my choice, I'd . . ."
"If you two have no further business with me," Loren interrupted, "I'll get back to stocking the suspenders." He made no move to abandon his view out the window of Michaela's trim backside.
Sully handed up Michaela's basket and helped her secure it and the dishpan to the saddle horn with a rawhide thong from his pocket. "Ma'am," he smiled. He leaned back against the rail and continued selecting raisins from the paper bag.
"Will you look at that," Loren snorted. "You'd think a proper city lady would have no truck with a backwoods do-nothing like Sully. No manners at all."