With Autumn's Return (Westward Winds Book #3): A Novel by Amanda Cabot

her visit, the doctor gestured toward his examination room. “I can see you’re suffering from female ailments,” he continued as he ushered her into the interior room. Though the furniture arrangement was different, the older doctor’s examining room was remarkably similar to Elizabeth’s.
    “I have just the thing to cure you.” He pointed toward a cabinet filled with patent medicine.
    And in that moment, Elizabeth knew that her dreams of a partnership with the older doctor were nothing more than that: dreams. She wasn’t certain what offended her more, hiscasual diagnosis of a nonexistent illness or the fact that he was prescribing bottles of what any respectable practitioner knew was of no more value than snake oil.
    “Surely you don’t dispense those.” She took a step closer to the cabinet, frowning when she realized that he had everything from Hostetter’s Celebrated Stomach Bitters, to Faith Whitcomb’s Nerve Bitters and Peruna, to Brandredth’s Vegetable Universal Pills. The only thing celebrated about the vile concoctions was the speed with which patients became dependent on them, for their alcohol content was far greater than whiskey.
    “Of course I prescribe them to my patients.” Dr. Worland’s eyes narrowed in what appeared to be suspicion. “Who are you to tell me otherwise, Miss . . . ?” He let his voice trail off in an obvious request for her name.
    Elizabeth complied. Though it was clear this would not be a congenial meeting of colleagues, there was no reason for him not to know her identity. “Harding,” she said. “Dr. Harding.”
    The annoyance that she’d seen on his face when she’d questioned the patent medicines was replaced by disdain. “Ah yes. I heard there was a pretty little lady who fancied herself a doctor.” Dr. Worland drew himself up to his full height, which was only an inch or two more than Elizabeth’s own five and a half feet. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told those busybodies: you won’t last long. Folks in Cheyenne have no use for a lady doctor.”
    The message was the same one Jason Nordling had delivered, and it was no more welcome coming from the lips of a physician than it had been then. Less, in fact, for the doctor should know better. But he didn’t. Elizabeth’s hopes weredashed by the realization that Dr. Worland was as intolerant as her classmates. Intolerant and possibly incompetent.
    “That’s where you’re wrong,” she told him, her voice low but firm. “It may be that Cheyenne’s residents are unaccustomed to having a woman doctor, but they’ll soon discover that I have much to offer them.”
    The older doctor’s upper lip curled, and his voice held more than a note of mockery. “You’re like those young whippersnappers. You think you know more than me.”
    “I did not say that.” Although she did know that patent medicines caused more harm than good. “I had hoped we could work together.”
    “You did, did you?” This time there was no ignoring the sarcasm. “Exactly what did you think you could do? I already have a gal come in to clean the bedpans.”
    Elizabeth had cleaned her share of bedpans. She’d scrubbed operating tables, just in case the new theories that infections were caused by dirt were true. She’d done that, but that was hardly the extent of her experience.
    “I assure you that I can do more than that.”
    Dr. Worland shook his head, his doubt obvious. “Those are mighty brave words. Tell me, missy, did you ever have to amputate a leg?”
    “I’ve done it.”
    It was clear he hadn’t expected that response, and for a second, he said nothing. “Did your patient live?” he demanded.
    “She did. I fitted her with a wooden leg. Now she walks with only a slight limp.” That was an exaggeration. Miss Thompson’s limp was more than slight, but she was walking again, and both she and her parents considered that little more than a miracle after her leg had turned gangrenous.
    “Harrumph.” Dr.