THE TOWN CALLED HER CONTAGIOUS—BUT THE MOUNTAIN MAN SAW SOMETHING NO DOCTOR HAD

Part 2 — The Secret Ingredient That Was Destroying Her Skin

Eleanor Voss stared at the basin as if it contained the answer to every miserable month she had endured.

Asher Creed pulled a chair closer.

“Tell me exactly what you did at Mrs. Hadley’s shop.”

“I washed the fabrics, sorted them, and prepared them for customers. Sometimes I worked with the imported wool. Other times, I helped clean the storage room.”

“Did you wear gloves?”

“At first. Then Mrs. Hadley said they made my hands too clumsy. She told me I would have to learn to work without them.”

Asher’s expression darkened.

“And when did the irritation become worse?”

“After I started cleaning the storage room.”

“What was stored there?”

Eleanor thought carefully.

“Barrels. Sacks of powder. Several wooden boxes with foreign writing. There was a strange smell, especially when the room became warm.”

Asher glanced toward the shelves.

“Did you ever notice dust on your clothes?”

“Every day.”

“Did anyone else work in that room?”

“Only me.”

He went quiet.

Then he examined her hands again, this time comparing the affected areas with the skin beneath her sleeves.

“I suspect you’ve been exposed to something irritating,” he said. “Possibly a chemical used in treating or dyeing fabric.”

Eleanor looked frightened.

“Does that mean I’m going to die?”

“No. It means we need to find out what you’ve been handling.”

He prepared fresh water and clean cloths, then helped her wash the affected areas gently. He covered the most irritated patches with clean linen and told her to avoid the substances she had been using.

“Your skin needs time to recover,” he explained. “And we need a proper examination by someone qualified to identify the cause.”

Eleanor looked down at her hands.

“Can it really get better?”

“It may. But I won’t promise what I haven’t proved.”

It was the first honest medical answer she had received in months.

And somehow, that gave her more hope than all the prayers Doctor Whitmore had prescribed.

The following morning, Asher rode into Ashford.

He left Eleanor at the cabin with instructions to rest and avoid touching the jars and powders stored in his workshop.

Before leaving, he placed a plate of breakfast beside her.

“Eggs, bread, and coffee.”

“You don’t have to keep feeding me.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you?”

Asher adjusted his coat.

“Because you’re hungry.”

He mounted his horse before she could answer.

Ashford was a small town where news traveled faster than the stagecoach. By the time Asher reached the general store, three people had already noticed him.

Mrs. Hadley stood behind the counter.

When she saw him, her expression changed.

“Mr. Creed. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Good morning.”

“Is Eleanor still at your cabin?”

Asher looked directly at her.

“Why?”

The woman lowered her voice.

“You shouldn’t be keeping her there. That condition is dangerous.”

“What condition?”

“Whatever she’s carrying.”

Asher leaned against the counter.

“Funny. I asked Doctor Whitmore what she was carrying. He couldn’t tell me.”

Mrs. Hadley stiffened.

“He’s a respected physician.”

“Then he ought to know the difference between an illness and an injury caused by something a person touches.”

Her face lost some of its color.

Asher noticed.

“Tell me about the storage room.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The room where Eleanor worked.”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“It became my concern when a woman came to my cabin with damaged hands and no proper explanation.”

Mrs. Hadley glanced toward the window.

Then she whispered, “You should leave this matter alone.”

Asher straightened.

“Why?”

“Because people who ask too many questions in Ashford sometimes discover they aren’t welcome anymore.”

He studied her face.

“Is that a warning?”

Mrs. Hadley said nothing.

Asher turned and walked out.

But before he reached his horse, an elderly man stepped from the doorway of the pharmacy.

It was Doctor Whitmore.

“Creed!”

Asher stopped.

The doctor approached with his medical bag in hand.

“I hear you’ve taken Eleanor Voss into your home.”

“I have.”

“You need to send her back.”

“Why?”

“Her condition is beyond ordinary treatment.”

“Then perhaps you should explain what it is.”

Whitmore adjusted his spectacles.

“She has a wasting disease of the skin. I suspect it may be infectious.”

“Suspect?”

The doctor frowned.

“Medicine is not always exact.”

“Did you examine her?”

“I observed her.”

“From how far away?”

Whitmore’s expression hardened.

“That is irrelevant.”

Asher took one step closer.

“No, Doctor. It’s the most relevant thing you’ve said.”

For several seconds, neither man spoke.

Then Asher asked quietly:

“What was in the powder stored beneath Mrs. Hadley’s shop?”

The doctor’s face changed.

Only slightly.

But enough.

Asher had his answer.

That evening, Eleanor sat beside the cabin window, watching snow fall across the mountains.

Asher returned carrying a small wooden crate.

“Did you find something?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

He placed the crate on the table.

Inside were several old fabric samples wrapped in brown paper. Each bore a label from a textile supplier in Denver.

Eleanor leaned closer.

“I recognize that writing.”

“Where?”

“On the barrels in Mrs. Hadley’s storage room.”

Asher examined one label.

A warning was printed across the bottom, but much of the ink had faded.

Eleanor touched the edge of the paper.

“That’s the same powder that covered my clothes.”

Asher immediately moved it away from her.

“Don’t touch it.”

He opened the window slightly to let fresh air circulate.

“Whatever it is, we won’t handle it until someone qualified can identify it.”

Eleanor looked at him.

“Why are you helping me?”

He paused.

“Because someone should have helped you before.”

She lowered her eyes.

“Everyone said I was cursed.”

“People say many things when they don’t understand something.”

“And if they’re right?”

Asher turned toward her.

“Then we’ll face the truth. But we won’t condemn you based on whispers.”

For a long moment, Eleanor simply watched him.

Then she reached into her traveling bag and removed a folded piece of paper.

“I have something else.”

Asher opened it.

It was a receipt from Mrs. Hadley’s shop.

The date was four months earlier.

At the bottom was a handwritten instruction:

MOVE ALL REMAINING POWDER TO THE LOWER STORAGE ROOM. KEEP WORKERS AWAY FROM THE WESTERN BARRELS.

Asher read it twice.

“Who wrote this?”

“Mrs. Hadley.”

“Why didn’t you show it to Doctor Whitmore?”

“I did.”

His eyes lifted.

“What did he say?”

“He told me it was none of my business.”

Asher placed the receipt on the table.

Outside, a horse approached the cabin.

Then another.

He moved to the window.

Three riders had stopped near the gate.

The first was Doctor Whitmore.

The second was Mrs. Hadley’s husband.

The third carried a document with the seal of the county court.

Asher turned toward Eleanor.

“Stay inside.”

Her face тιԍнтened.

“What is it?”

“Seems someone doesn’t want us asking questions.”

A knock sounded against the door.

Then a voice called:

“Mr. Creed! Open up. We have an order requiring Eleanor Voss to be returned to Ashford.”

Eleanor stood abruptly.

“Returned?”

Asher looked at the paper through the window.

It wasn’t a medical order.

It was an order declaring Eleanor mentally unfit to make decisions for herself.

And Doctor Whitmore had signed it.