Tempest in the White City Read Online Free Page A

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    “When’s the last time you had a bowel movement?”
    Warmth crept from his chest to his neck. “I am not about to discuss that with you.”
    The eyebrow again. “I’m a doctor, Mr. . . . What’s your name?”
    That was quite a question, all things considered. “Hunter Scott.”
    “Well, Mr. Scott, if you want some relief from this pain, you need to answer my question. When’s the last time you defecated?” She removed her hand and began to button him up.
    He swatted her away, doing the job himself. “I’m not discussing it with you.”
    Unwrapping the stethoscope from her neck, she hooked the earpieces into her ears and set the other end against his gut.
    “My heart’s up here, Billy.”
    “I’m listening to your stomach, and you may call me Dr. Tate.”
    “Where I come from, we’d definitely be on a first-name basis.”
    “Where’s the commode located in your barracks?”
    “For the love of Peter.” His nausea began to rumble again. Sweat collected beneath his arms and along his forehead.
    Straightening, she took the earpieces from her ears and allowed them to catch against her neck. “Do you have privacy issues, Mr. Scott?”
    The nausea peaked, then receded a bit. “I wouldn’t want to do what we just did with an audience present, if that’s what you mean.”
    Pink suffusing her cheeks, she wrestled his undershirt back down to his waist. “We didn’t do anything. I simply examined you the same as any other doctor would. And what I meant was, is the toilet in your barracks in close proximity to the sleeping area? Close enough for others to hear awkward sounds and detect smells?”
    If this wasn’t the darnedest conversation he ever did have. “It is.”
    “And have you ever used it?”
    “No.”
    She nodded. “When’s the last time you defecated?”
    He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are we back to that?”
    “Answer me.”
    Sighing, he let his arm fall over his eyes. “Coming up on three weeks.”
    “Good heavens. You must have an extremely high tolerance for pain. I can’t believe you haven’t sought help before now.”
    He said nothing.
    After a few seconds, the door opened. “Nurse Findley, put together a pouch of psyllium tea leaves, please.”
    He glanced toward the door. Billy had her head poked through the opening, causing her white skirt to drape over a curvy backside.
    Straightening, she shut the door.
    “Are you barefoot?” he asked.
    She blinked in surprise. “Of course not.”
    “Then what’s on your feet? You don’t make a sound when you move.”
    A smile lifted her cheeks and brightened her eyes. “It’s my hygienic shoes. They have steel springs over the insteps and rubber heels, rendering them noiseless. They were invented by a woman and are marvelously comfortable.”
    He stared at a line of frilly white trim along the bottom of her skirt. He figured after all they’d been through he ought to at least be allowed to have a glimpse beneath those hems, but she didn’t offer to lift them, and he didn’t ask.
    “A woman’s invention, huh?”
    “Yes. A woman by the name of Mrs. Fenwick.”
    The nausea began its ascent once again. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to keep it down this time. “Get me a dustbin, Billy.”
    The animation fell from her face as she rushed to accommodate him.
    He tried to roll onto his side, but was as helpless as a cow in quicksand.
    Digging under his back, she rolled him onto his shoulder, then propped him against her while she reached over and held a bowl beneath his mouth. When he was finished, she eased him back, took the bowl out of the room, then returned with a cool cloth.
    Wiping his mouth, she gave him a soft smile. “Better?”
    “I’m not dying, am I?”
    “No.” She folded the rag inside out and ran it across his forehead. “You’re constipated.”
    He slid his eyes closed. “That can’t be right. How could something like that knock me so low?”
    “It’s not something to trifle with.