Chapter 6 - The Doctor Who Knew Too Much
The water was warm.
That surprised Martha.
The current was not.
The underground river seized her skirts and pulled hard enough to make her lose footing.
Ethan caught her.
“Hold onto me.”
“I am.”
“Tighter.”
“You’ll complain.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That remains uncertain.”
Behind them, voices echoed.
Lantern light appeared.
They moved deeper.
Walter Phelps followed, gasping every few steps.
The passage narrowed until Ethan had to turn sideways.
Then the floor disappeared.
Martha plunged.
Warm water closed over her head.
For one horrifying second there was no direction.
No air.
No Ethan.
Then his hand locked around her wrist.
He pulled her upward.
She surfaced coughing.
“Got you.”
Martha clung to his coat.
“I hate caves.”
“Noted.”
“You said you didn’t know where this went.”
“I don’t.”
“Excellent leadership.”
Gunfire cracked behind them.
A bullet struck stone.
Ethan pulled Martha beneath an overhang.
“Move.”
The current carried them faster now.
They rounded a bend.
Darkness swallowed the lanterns behind them.
Five minutes later, pale daylight appeared.
The river emptied through a narrow opening halfway down the mountain.
They crawled onto a snowy bank.
Walter collapsed.
Martha lay flat, breathing.
Ethan looked at her.
“You alive?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Good.”
She opened one eye.
“That sounded almost affectionate.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Phelps groaned.
“Could you flirt after we’re not being hunted?”
Martha and Ethan spoke simultaneously.
“We’re not flirting.”
Phelps closed his eyes.
“Of course.”
They reached the ranch after dark by following game trails.
Ward nearly embraced Martha.
Ruth actually did.
“You found it?”
Ethan placed the ledger on the table.
“We found enough.”
They worked through the night.
Ward examined Price’s purchase records.
“This could destroy him.”
“If we live long enough to show anybody,” Ethan said.
Phelps sat near the stove.
He looked smaller without Price beside him.
Martha brought him coffee.
“Tell us everything.”
He stared into the cup.
“I started working for Price three years ago.”
“Why?”
“My father owed him money.”
Phelps swallowed.
“I thought I was learning medicine.”
“When did you realize?”
“Six months in.”
He described patients.
Small doses added to medicines.
Bills manipulated.
Families pressured.
Documents stolen while sick people slept.
Price had built a network around suffering.
Sheriff Morrow protected him.
A banker named Charles Vale processed suspicious transfers.
Two mining investors paid for information about valuable land.
“Why Ruth?” Ethan asked.
Phelps pointed to the survey.
“Price found out about the silver deposit three years ago.”
“We’ve known there might be silver here for years.”
“Not like this.”
Phelps opened a folded document.
“A Denver surveyor estimated the entire north ridge may contain a larger vein.”
Ethan looked disgusted.
“We’re cattle people.”
“Price didn’t care.”
“He thought if my mother became incompetent, I’d sell?”
Phelps shook his head.
“No.”
Ethan went still.
“What then?”
Phelps looked terrified.
“He was waiting for you to marry.”
Martha frowned.
“What does marriage have to do with it?”
“Price helped arrange the brides.”
Silence.
Ethan stared.
“What?”
“Not all of them. The last four.”
Martha looked at Ethan.
Phelps continued.
“He needed somebody close to you. Somebody he could influence.”
Ethan’s face hardened.
“The banker’s daughter?”
“Her father works with Vale.”
Ethan stood so suddenly his chair fell.
Martha caught his arm.
“Sit down.”
“He sent women here to spy on my mother?”
“He wanted one of them to marry you,” Phelps said. “Then Price could pressure the family to convince you to sell.”
Martha understood.
“If Ruth died, Ethan would be grieving. Newly married. Vulnerable.”
Phelps nodded.
“And if Ethan refused?”
Phelps said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
Ruth broke the silence.
“Harlan always did overestimate his intelligence.”
Everyone turned.
She looked stronger than she had three days earlier.
Anger gave color to her cheeks.
“He thought my son would sell because some pretty woman fluttered her eyelashes?”
Ethan rubbed his face.
“Ma.”
“I raised you better.”
“I didn’t marry any of them.”
“Yes. One of your few recent achievements.”
Martha looked away to hide a smile.
Ward examined another page.
“There’s something else.”
He pointed to initials.
N.B.
Martha leaned closer.
Beside them was a date.
Seven years ago.
The month Naomi died.
Phelps looked away.
Martha’s hands went cold.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Phelps whispered.
“You’ve seen this before.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
Phelps began to cry.
Quietly.
Martha had expected fear.
Not tears.
“Price kept records of compounds given to patients.”
Martha stared.
“What did he give my mother?”
“I don’t know exactly. It happened before I worked for him.”
“But you heard something.”
Phelps nodded.
“He talked when he drank.”
Ethan moved closer to Martha.
Not touching.
Near enough.
Phelps whispered, “He said Naomi Boone should have kept her nose out of educated men’s business.”
Martha felt sick.
“He killed her.”
“I can’t prove it.”
“Did he say he killed her?”
“No.”
“Then what did he say?”
Phelps swallowed.
“He said pneumonia was a useful diagnosis because dead women couldn’t argue with it.”
Martha stood.
She walked outside.
Nobody stopped her.
Snow had begun falling again.
She made it to the barn before anger collapsed into grief.
For seven years she had mourned a natural death.
Now every memory had changed.
Price bringing medicine.
Price standing beside Naomi’s bed.
Price telling Martha her mother was too weak to recover.
Price placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
Martha bent forward against the barn door.
She did not hear Ethan approach.
Only knew he was there when his coat appeared around her shoulders.
“I don’t need—”
“I know.”
He placed it anyway.
Martha wiped her face angrily.
“I thanked him.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I thanked the man who may have killed her.”
“You were taking care of your mother.”
“I should have seen it.”
Ethan stepped in front of her.
“No.”
“You don’t know what I should have—”
“I know exactly what this kind of guilt does.”
His voice was quiet.
“I spent a year thinking if I worked harder, found another doctor, bought another medicine, rode to another city, I could fix my mother.”
Martha looked at him.
“You love someone and suddenly every bad thing becomes evidence you failed them.”
She stopped crying.
Ethan continued.
“That isn’t love talking.”
“What is it?”
“Fear.”
They stood in falling snow.
For once, Martha did not feel enormous.
Or plain.
Or invisible.
She felt seen.
Ethan reached toward her face, then hesitated.
Martha noticed.
So did he.
His hand dropped.
Inside the house, Ruth shouted.
“Ethan!”
They ran.
Ruth stood near the table.
The front door was open.
Cold wind blew through the room.
The ledger was gone.
On the floor lay a single folded note.
Ethan picked it up.
Bring Naomi Boone’s journal to the old sawmill tomorrow at sundown. Come alone.
Below that:
Or Walter Phelps dies.
Martha spun around.
Phelps’s chair was empty.
On the floor beside it was blood.
Only a little.
But enough.
Ethan looked at Martha.
“No.”
She had not said anything.
He already knew.
“I’m going.”
“No.”
“They want my journal.”
“They want you.”
“Then we give them what they expect.”
His expression changed.
“You have a plan?”
Martha looked toward her bag.
A second journal lay inside.
Blank.
Almost identical.
“My mother taught me more than medicine.”
Ethan waited.
Martha’s eyes hardened.
May you like
“She also taught me never to let a dangerous man know exactly what you’re carrying.”
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