More Than a Dream Read online

  MORE THAN

  A DREAM

  Books by Lauraine Snelling

  A Secret Refuge (3 in 1)

  DAKOTAH TREASURES

  Ruby • Pearl

  Opal • Amethyst

  DAUGHTERS OF BLESSING

  A Promise for Ellie

  Sophie’s Dilemma

  A Touch of Grace

  Rebecca’s Reward

  HOME TO BLESSING

  A Measure of Mercy

  No Distance Too Far

  RED RIVER OF THE NORTH

  An Untamed Land The Reapers’ Song

  A New Day Rising Tender Mercies

  A Land to Call Home Blessing in Disguise

  RETURN TO RED RIVER

  A Dream to Follow

  Believing the Dream

  More Than a Dream

  LAURAINE SNELLING

  MORE THAN

  A DREAM

  More Than a Dream

  Copyright © 2003

  Lauraine Snelling

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-7642-2319-8

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Snelling, Lauraine.

  More than a dream / by Lauraine Snelling.

  p. cm. — (Return to Red River ; 3)

  ISBN 0-7642-2319-4

  1. Journalists—Fiction. 2. North Dakota—Fiction. 3. Minnesota—Fiction.

  4. Epidemics—Fiction. 5. Floods—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Snelling, Lauraine.

  Return to Red River ; 3.

  PS3569.N39 M67 2003

  813'.54—dc21

  2002152648

  * * *

  DEDICATION

  To all those readers whom I meet

  at the HostFest in Minot, North Dakota, every fall.

  Thanks for your pleasure in my books

  and the laughter, stories, and hugs

  you share with me there.

  Mange takk.

  See you next year—

  God willing.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY - NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY - ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  LAURAINE SNELLING is an award-winning author of over forty books, fiction and nonfiction, for adults and young adults. Besides writing both books and articles, she teaches at writers’ conferences across the country. She and her husband, Wayne, have two grown sons, four granddogs, and make their home in California.

  Bjorklund

  Family

  Tree

  CHAPTER ONE

  Northfield, Minnesota

  June 1895

  Elizabeth Rogers stared at the drifting white priscilla curtains without seeing them.

  ‘‘Elizabeth, did you not hear me?’’

  She turned at the sound of irritation in her mother’s voice. ‘‘Sorry, Mother, I was studying.’’ Liar, you were worrying, and you claim not to be a worrier. The little voice that seemed to reside on her left shoulder made her feel more irritated than her mother sounded. She stood and crossed to the dark oak door that was open only a crack. Perhaps if she’d left it open all the way, she could have heard better. She stuck her head out to see her mother’s careful coiffure rising as she came up the walnut stairs.

  ‘‘Dr. Gaskin is waiting for you in the study.’’ Annabelle shook her head slightly, a frown wrinkling her forehead under the dark corkscrew hair wisps she’d curled about her face. ‘‘Did you know he was coming?’’

  Elizabeth took her turn at shaking her head, her brown hair twisted into a bun at the very top of her head. ‘‘He knows I am preparing for final exams, so it can’t be for a house call unless we have a woman in real distress.’’ Since Dr. Gaskin now had a well-trained nurse, he hadn’t requested Elizabeth’s services to help with birthings as often as he had in the past, something she missed at times like this. With her final college exams only days away, she’d planned on using every moment for reviewing her lecture notes. Medical schools wouldn’t be able to use her grades as an excuse to turn her away. She made her way down the staircase at her mother’s side. ‘‘Did you have Cook bring him coffee?’’

  ‘‘And gingersnaps, his favorite cookie. He looks mighty serious.’’

  Elizabeth picked up the pace, although if he’d been in a hurry, he’d have suffered no compunction about letting the messenger know. She entered the study in a swirl of dimity skirts, the unseasonably warm weather begging for light clothing.

  ‘‘Good day, Dr. Gaskin. How nice of you to come by.’’

  ‘‘Good day to you, m’dear. You look more lovely every time I see you.’’ Dr. Gaskin wiped cookie crumbs from his recently grown mustache. His hair had grayed to nearly white in the two years since his wife died, and the lines cut deeper from his nose to his chin, the mustache giving him the look of an aging walrus.

  ‘‘Flattery will get you nowhere—or everywhere, depending on what it is you want.’’ Elizabeth dropped a kiss on his ever-broadening forehead. She and her mother had wondered if the reason he had grown a mustache was because of the breadth of shiny space on the top of his head. Elizabeth and the doctor had long since passed the point of mentor and student and had become more like a niece with a favorite uncle. She picked up the silver coffeepot on the silver tray. ‘‘More?’’

  ‘‘Only if you are having some.’’

  ‘‘Then I shall.’’ As she picked up the coffee server, her hand shook so badly she was forced to set it back down immediately. The server rattled the tray.

  ‘‘Are you all right, my dear?’’ Dr. Gaskin leaned forward, his brow wrinkling in concern.

  ‘‘I-I don’t know.’’ Elizabeth grasped the offending hand with the other. She rubbed it, then shook it out. What’s happening? I’ve never had something like this before. She flexed her hand, made a fist.

  ‘‘I’ll pour. You sit down. Does it hurt? Prickle like it went to sleep?’’

  She shook her head while taking a seat on the other end of the horsehair sofa and accepted her filled cup with the other hand. ‘‘No, none of those things.’’ Now when she lifted the cup from the saucer, it was like nothing had happened. Her hand worked fine. She smiled his way. ‘‘See, I’m fine.’’ All the while
she spoke and sipped and smiled, she tried to figure out what had happened. Her hand must have just gone to sleep. But it didn’t feel that way. ‘‘Now, what is it I can do for you?’’

  ‘‘I think it is more what I can do for you.’’

  At his response, her eyebrow arched. ‘‘Really?’’

  He watched her over the rim of his cup. ‘‘Have you been accepted at any of the medical schools yet?’’

  She nodded. ‘‘The Woman’s Medical College of Pennsylvania, but that’s not really where I want to go.’’ She reached for one of the cookies.

  ‘‘I know. You want to study in Minneapolis.’’

  She nodded. ‘‘Same as always. You know me. Once I get my mind set on something . . .’’

  ‘‘Like a bulldog you are.’’

  ‘‘Well, I’d think you could come up with something more flattering than that.’’ She held out the cookie plate.

  ‘‘Could, but . . .’’ He leaned forward to take another cookie and dunked it in his coffee before the tidbit disappeared into his smiling mouth. ‘‘Your cook sure makes the best cookies in town.’’

  ‘‘Ah, you can say good things about her cooking, but I get called a bulldog.’’

  ‘‘Tenacious is what you are and what you need to be for what you want, but . . .’’ He slanted his bottom lip slightly to the left and sucked on the skin, a sure sign he was struggling with something.

  Come out with it. I know something is bothering you. She kept her thoughts to herself, knowing that he would get around to the subject in his own good time. If only she could learn to do that with everyone, especially Thorliff Bjorklund. There was something about that young man that removed the bars of propriety, so she just spouted out whatever she was thinking. Her lack of restraint had caused some heated verbal disputes. Her mother called them battles, but a battle usually had a winner and a loser. She and Thorliff did not argue to win or to lose, but for the pure pleasure of sparring, even though at times his bullheadedness nearly drove her to distraction. Was that because of her own bulldog tendencies, as the doctor so gently put it? She leaned back against the cushion, wishing as she often did that she had longer legs so she could sit back and still keep her feet on the floor. Or not look like she was reclining rather than sitting properly, as her mother would comment.

  Had Dr. Gaskin’s mind wandered? That seemed to be happening with more frequency since the death of his extremely capable wife and best friend, Helen. She’d had that wonderful gift of making everyone around her feel better for the visit. Elizabeth knew that as much as she missed Helen, Dr. Gaskin had nearly gone down with grief, even to overuse of the bottle. So what brought him by today?

  ‘‘I talked with Dr. Johanson.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’ Dr. Johanson was the new doctor, new meaning he’d only been in town four years instead of growing up in Northfield. From what she’d heard he was building a practice that was beginning to support him, his wife, and their two children. Not that there wasn’t plenty of work in town for two doctors, but people were stubborn and didn’t take quickly to someone new. Come on. Tell me what’s on your mind. I’m wasting precious time. Sometimes being polite took more strength than fighting for a woman’s life in the wee hours of the morning.

  ‘‘And he agrees with me.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ No, I don’t. Talked to him about what?

  ‘‘We agree that between us we could train you to be a doctor as well as any medical school could. He says he’s learned most of his medical knowledge since he went into practice anyway. You could assist in surgeries, and we’d make sure you got every possible opportunity. You know that. Why, you’ve already operated, set fractures, birthed babies, diagnosed all kinds of ailments. You go to school and you’re going to be taking steps backward.’’ His tone intensified and he leaned forward. ‘‘Besides, there’s all the guff you’ll have to take. Too many of those teachers don’t want women in medicine. They don’t think women are capable.’’

  Elizabeth listened beyond the words. She knew he wanted her to take over his practice one of these days, and she also knew that he wanted what he thought was the best for her. Dr. Morganstein had offered her the same opportunity at her women’s hospital in Chicago, where she had spent six weeks working herself to a stick the summer before. But my, oh my, I learned a lot.

  ‘‘Will you think about it?’’ He tried to keep the pleading out of his voice, but his eyes gave him away.

  Elizabeth sighed. To say she’d think about it just to make him feel better seemed more like a lie than a comfort. She looked up from studying the cup she held in both hands, her thumb hooked through the handle. Right now the forget-me-nots her mother had painted so carefully didn’t help. ‘‘I have thought about studying with you—I’ve thought about it a lot. I could do that and take more training with Dr. Morganstein too. So why am I so convinced that medical school is the best way for me to go? Is it a dream? Is it because I like a challenge? I know that I love school—the classroom, the competition, the discussions.’’ She set her cup in the saucer balanced on her knees. ‘‘I know one major thing. If I worked here with you, I would probably never have a chance to dissect a cadaver so that I really learn nerves and muscles and the internal organs. I want to know what the brain looks like, and the lungs.’’ She paused and rubbed her chin. ‘‘But do I need all that, or is it my insatiable curiosity that drives me? As you’ve so often said, medicine is changing all the time, and there are more changes to come. It seems to me that the more I know, the better a doctor I can be. Am I way off the path?’’

  ‘‘No, lass, I don’t think you are off the path at all. And you are right, I—we—cannot give you all that. Your Dr. Morganstein cannot either. But know that if you can’t get into the school you want, you have an alternative.’’ He set his saucer and cup down on the tray. ‘‘And now that I’ve given you even more to think about, I’ll let you get back to your studies. Sure do wish one of these colleges here in town had a medical program. You’ll let me know when you find out anything more?’’

  ‘‘Of course. Other than Mother and Father, you’ll be the first one I’ll tell.’’ She showed him to the door and took his hand before he stepped outside. ‘‘Thank you, Dr. Gaskin. I appreciate all you’ve already taught me. Without you I’d be a neophyte, most likely without the courage to even dream.’’

  ‘‘If I hadn’t encouraged you, most likely you’d be playing piano on the concert stage and making your mother extremely happy. Tell Cook thank-you for the cookies. She had no idea I was coming, yet she baked my favorites.’’

  ‘‘I will thank her for you.’’ Elizabeth watched him stride down the walk to the street, where his horse dozed in the shade of a huge maple. How much easier it would be to just give in and stay at home. She pushed her newly cut fringe up off her forehead. One of her slight rebellions and a mistake in this heat. Back to her books. She trailed one hand along the banister as she climbed the stairs, counting each one just as she had done as a child. Birds sang outside, calling to her through the open windows. The grand piano in the music room begged for attention, since she hadn’t played for over a week. Sitting at her desk, she studied three pages, realized she had no idea what she’d read, and read them again. She got up and made a trip to the necessary, returned to the books, got up and stood by the window, and watched the shadow leaves dancing on the lawn.

  ‘‘Elizabeth Marie Rogers, get back to work! This is downright silly. You have no time to waste, and you’re acting like a three-year-old.’’ She made a face at herself in the mirror and sat back down at her desk. She puffed upward to fluff her fringe. It would be cooler down in the study. She gathered her books and papers and trudged down the stairs, taking the seat behind her father’s desk. Three more pages, actually the same three pages.

  ‘‘Oh, you’ve come down here. Can I get you something?’’ Her mother paused in the doorway.

  ‘‘No, thanks.’’ Now Elizabeth remembered why she had stayed up in her bedroom.
<
br />   ‘‘It’s nice out in the backyard. I think we’ll have dinner out there. Cook has made chicken salad, one of your favorites.’’

  ‘‘That’s nice.’’ Elizabeth kept her finger in the text and gave her mother the kind of smile that said, Thank you for your concern, but please go away so I can study.

  Annabelle took the hint, and again Elizabeth had no one to blame but herself for her preoccupation as her thoughts meandered once again from her textbooks. What was happening with medical school? Dr. Gaskin had opened the basket of snakes she’d been trying to keep contained. She abhorred worrying, but at times like this it snuck out, snagged her by the stockings, and wouldn’t let go. I don’t want a medical school that teaches only theory. I’ve already had plenty of lectures and I can read books on my own just as well. I want to learn all that I can firsthand. That would include dissecting a human body, more than one if possible, and studying with a group of students, learning from and with one another. Such training would be superb. She’d read somewhere that the human body was the best teaching tool for anyone who wanted to be a first-rate physician. That same article had mentioned that artists sometimes learned anatomy the same way for their paintings.

  She’d also read about the scandals of grave robbers digging up the newly buried and selling the bodies to medical schools or to others who wanted to buy one. Some states had passed laws to prevent grave robbing, but like anything else, the thieves had to be caught first. The only other source of cadavers was criminals or indigents who died without someone claiming their bodies.

  The cooler room didn’t help her to concentrate.

  Why hadn’t she allowed her mother to bring her something to drink? Leaving her books on the desk, she wandered toward the kitchen, stopping by the grand piano to trail her fingers over the keys. Playing the piano had always comforted her when sad, calmed her when excited, and soothed her when restless. Like now. She sat down and let her fingers find their own song. Rippling waters, singing birds—the notes flowed and danced in a breeze of their own making. After about ten minutes, she held the final note and laid her hands in her lap.