The Prodigal Daughter

Chapter 2

Phyllis Ainsley Returns

It was Tuesday—not a very exciting day of the week: Too soon past the last weekend, and too far from the next. When the stage arrived at noon, there was no one there to greet it. Jim opened the door for the only two passengers on board, then pulled their bags from the top of the coach.

The young woman stood on the platform, shifting her critical gaze from one end of Front Street to the other. She tucked a couple of stray, raven curls that had plagued her travel for the last five miles. The beige traveling suit that she wore, only served to make her already too-thin frame appear even more anemic. Despite her slight form, there was no evidence of frailty in her character.

She snapped her fingers and motioned to the other passenger, still seated. Slowly, a boy pulled himself from the coach. He didn't appear to be much more than twelve, but he was already near his mother's height. The boy obviously took after his father—not just in size, but the tint of his brown, curly hair didn't come anywhere near the ebony locks of his mother.

If there had been anyone standing near them on the boardwalk, they would also have seen that the blue-eyed boy did not share his mother's eyes.

He could remember a time when her green eyes were warm, loving. They would laugh together when he teased her that her eyes were the color of the moss that grew along the banks where she would take him fishing. Those days were gone. Now, she looked at him through cold, hard eyes, incapable of compassion, void of love.

But, this day on the boardwalks of Dodge City, there was no one to see the differences, or the similarities. Nor anyone to carry her bags. When Jim came out of the depot, he noticed the lady was still waiting. "Is someone coming to meet you?"

"Do you see anyone!" Her terse response caught him like a slap in the face. He was going to suggest he carry her bags, but now he was half afraid to offer. It didn't matter, because in the next moment she settled the dilemma for him. "Don't concern yourself. We'll be fine." She picked up the two small bags and called to her son. "Matthew." The boy failed to respond, as his interest was taken by the unknown surroundings. "Matthew!" She commanded sharply.

"Huh?" Her sharp tone brought him to attention and he turned to face her, withering beneath her glare. "Sorry, mother."

There may have been a slight adjustment in her voice—nothing even close to kindness, but at least a trace of tolerance as she pointed to the two larger bags. "Get those and let's get to the hotel."

Jim tried one more time. "The Dodge House is-"

"Thank you, I know where it is." She gave the boy a light shove toward their destination.

Jim Buck was an easygoing man, but this woman had pushed him to the limit. The rudeness, he could abide. He carried hundreds of people a year, to various places, each one with a different expectation. Some excited, some scared; some were private and kept to themselves. But this one! …It was her treatment of the boy that spurred Jim Buck to interfere. He watched the slight youngster struggle with the two oversized bags until he couldn't stand by any longer.

The man stepped forward and tapped the boys arm. "Let me help you with that, son."

"I said-" Cold eyes blazed at the driver, but her words were cut short.

"Ma'am, I heard every shrill word you said, and I don't want to spend any more time around you than necessary, but this boy needs help. Son, why don't you grab one of those bags from your mother." Jim secured his grip on the two large bags—and winked at the boy—as he headed to the hotel.

Being a gentleman, he waited at the door, allowing his female passenger to enter the lobby in front of him. Once she and the boy were inside, Jim carried the bags to the front desk and sat them down. "Howie." He looked at the lady…and then back to the clerk. "Good luck." With a tip of his hat, and a smile to the boy, Jim Buck returned to his job.

"You wait with the bags while I get us checked in." The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but nodded silently that he understood.

Howie smiled, as the woman approached the counter. "Welcome to Dodge. Will you be staying long?"

"That depends on many things." The woman replied tersely, as she turned the book around to sign her name. "Does Mr. Dobie still own the hotel?" Her question surprised the hotel manager, but his slight pause only served to irritate her. "Was that too difficult a question for you?"

"No, I just…" Howie's words stumbled, as he remembered Jim's words. It's going to take more than luck with this one, he thought. He pulled erect and readied himself for her wrath.

"Mr. Dobie does still own the hotel, but I am the manager." His intention was to glance at the signature, but the name caused him to take a second, longer, look. "Mrs.-"

"MISS, Ainsley." Her green eyes flashed, as though suppressing a scary amount of rage. "I would like to speak to Mr. Dobie—when he comes by." Once again, she snapped her fingers and the boy struggled with the huge bags. "What room are we in?"

"Twelve." Howie's tone was as cold as the eyes of the woman before him. "I'll get those bags for you, if you want."

"Thank you, no. We can handle it." She stepped in front of her son. "You'll need to make two trips." She coldly instructed the boy.

Howie watched the woman and boy climb the stairs and disappear into a room near the end of the hall. He then hurried around the counter and carried the other bag to the top of the stairs, in order to help the boy. Ainsley, he repeated to himself. Wasn't that the girl that was with Jess Crider? ...Or was that the sister?

Howie returned to his post, still nursing his injured pride from his encounter with the latest of Dodge City's returning daughters. He leaned back onto the counter, absently flipping the pages of the magazine that had held his attention before her arrival.

Jim Dobie was always willing to spend that extra dime to make sure his hotel was the finest in town. Granted, it was the only hotel; and he intended on keeping it that way. So only the finest and most up-to-date amenities could be found at the Dodge House—including the quarterly subscription to the Saturday Evening Post.

Howie's eyes rolled upward, toward room twelve. As irritated as he was, the article he had been reading by Charles Dana, stared up at him—tempting him to let go of his anger and return to the fascinating piece.

Within a few minutes and a couple of pages, the clerk was once again engrossed in Mr. Dana's writing. Howie lost himself in his reading and the boy had to actually reach up and touch the man's arm to get his attention.

"Excuse me sir…" It was a soft, unsure voice that spoke, exemplified by his fearful expression.

"My mother is sick. Can you get a doctor to come see her?"

Howie flipped the book closed. Despite the rudeness of the woman, he felt only sympathy for this young boy. "The clinic is open today, so both doctors are in town. Go left on the boardwalk and straight down Front Street. You'll see the sign 'Adams & O'Brian, M.D.' They're located upstairs over Milner's Store."

"Thank you, sir." The cap the boy had been nervously fumbling between his fingers, finally found its place on his head as he turned and ran from the lobby. His steps were somewhere between a run and a fast walk, as he tried not to bump into anyone on the boardwalk. The sign he sought was suddenly within sight, along with the side stairs leading up to the clinic.

Pulling the cap from his head once again, the curly headed boy stood nervously in the doorway. The room was empty—save a pretty, young, redheaded woman and a gray-haired, older man. "Excuse me, are either of you doctors?"

The two physicians glanced first at the boy, then each, other then back to the boy. "We both are son, what do you need?" Doc was the first to step forward.

"My mother is sick. We're staying at the hotel and…she needs a doctor." If he had been a couple of years younger, there was no doubt he would have broken down and cried; but twelve was a hard age—no longer a baby, but not yet a man—so he fought off the tears.

Calleigh closed the glass-front doors to the medicine cabinet and turned to grab her case. "I'll get it, Poppy. Mabel Whisley will be here later and she'll want to see you, for sure." She tossed him a playful wink before turning to the boy. "What was your name?"

An odd look came over the boy, as if he were stumped by her question. He stared down at his feet, then with a quiet response. "Matthew. My name is… Matthew."

"Oh, that's my father's name, too." Calleigh smiled, as she opened the door for him. "Okay, let's go see what I can do for your mother." She watched the boy hold himself back, desperately wanting to go faster, but too polite to do so. "Did you and your mother just arrive in Dodge?"

"Yes ma'am. We've only been in town a couple of hours."

"Did she get sick on the journey here?" Calleigh sensed the boy's fear, so she tried to keep her questions light.

"No, she...she has headaches. She's been sick for a long time. That's why we came here."

His answer was more confusing, that informative. By this time, they had reached the hotel. Calleigh figured it would be best just to wait and question the patient directly. She acknowledged the clerk upon entering the lobby. "Howie."

"Hi, Little Doc. She's in room twelve. Did the boy tell you his mother's name?"

Calleigh glanced down at the boy, her smile curious. "As a matter of fact, he hasn't."

"Phyllis Ainsley."

A faint frown furrowed its way across Calleigh's lips, even spreading to the smooth, white skin of her brow. She glanced again at the anxious boy beside her and hurried up the steps. Before she had time to knock, he had flung open the door and rushed in to check on his mother. "I brought a doctor, mother. She's going to help you."

Dobie had purchased several hand-carved rockers to place in some of his rooms. The one in room twelve was a dark walnut piece, with a chain of hearts and roses hand-painted across the top rail of the chair. Lilac colored brocade, with tiny buds printed in the fabric, covered the seat and a small section of the back. As delicate as the chair was, it appeared massive around the diminutive figure resting in it.

Long ebony hair draped over the top rail of the rocker, as the woman leaned back, with a cool cloth to her forehead. Her son's announcement, caused her to drop the compress and despite her fragile appearance, her icy tone had not diminished in the slightest. "How many times have I told you NOT to leave without my permission? I don't need a doctor!"

The visual reprimand she gave to the boy even caused Calleigh to shiver. "He was worried about you. Since I'm here, maybe I can just take a look."

"It's a headache. Matthew just gets excited for nothing. If you have some headache powders, I will take those." The woman sat up, brushing her hair back behind her shoulders.

"Well, I'm not in the habit of just passing out medication." Calleigh was surprised at the way the woman had aged. She was still attractive, or would be—if her features weren't so distorted by such a hateful countenance. This was not at all the girl Calleigh remembered.

"What happened to Dr. Adams? Did he finally retire—or die?" Her fragile appearance was in stark contrast to the hostility in her voice.

"He's in quite good health, thanks for asking." It was hard to throw the young physician off her game; and despite the woman's dire health, Calleigh was not going to subject herself to the rancorous temperament of this woman. "As a matter of fact, we are partners now. Dr. Adams is my mentor." She pulled out her stethoscope, but the woman held up her hand to stop any form of examination.

"You're the Russell girl, aren't you?" Ainsley attempted to reel in her contempt for the moment.

Calleigh dropped the medical tool back into her bag. "I was. It's O'Brian now." It was doubtful that a friendship was going to blossom from this meeting, so Calleigh chose to keep it on a professional level. "How long have you had these …headaches?"

"It's from traveling." Again, the ill woman cast a caustic glance at her son. "My son just gets overly excited. With a little sleep and some powders, I will be fine. You don't need to concern yourself."

Dr. O'Brian glanced across the room at the anxious boy standing by the door. Phyllis Ainsley was lying. This boy was terrified; he knew that whatever was wrong with his mother, it was more than a little fatigue and a headache. She couldn't help but remember how frightened Cooper had been when his mother was stricken with typhoid. "So, Matthew, do you like to fish?"

The silence in the room became awkward, broken only by the Ainsley woman's sharp tone.

"Matthew! The lady asked you a question."

Big blue eyes, blinked slowly, as if being drawn back into a place he did not want to be. "I'm sorry ma'am. What?"

"I asked, do you like to fish?"

A smile rushed to his face before he had time to stop it. "We used to go fishing all the time."

"We?" Calleigh was doing a little fishing of her own.

"Mother and me. She used to take me to-"

"Matthew, we don't need to bore the lady. I'm sure she has other patients to attend to.

Calleigh dug into her bag and pulled out a bottle of pills. She poured a few into a her hand and set them on the small table beside the rocker. "Take two now; and two more when—I mean, if—the headache returns."

Phyllis Ainsley clearly understood the subtle message in the young doctor's words, but chose not to challenge her suspicions. Instead, she diverted the issue to a question of her own. "I guess you remember me?

"Of course I do. We thought that maybe you would have come home when your father passed away."

"Nothing to come for." She paused to look at the boy. "…Until now."

Phyllis Ainsley's words were cryptic and Calleigh felt the chill of ill winds blowing into Dodge; but it was too elusive to put her finger on.

TBC