Kitabı oku: «The Gabriel Sisters», sayfa 3

Hobson looked after him and turned to Lon. “We need a doctor in this place. Logging and mining can be dangerous. Anybody see where those two women went?”

“When I came in, they were wrapped in blankets, sitting on the trunk under that clump of oaks at the end of the street,” Lon said.

Hobson stood up and headed toward the door.

The quiet man with the mustache looked to Lon. “Let’s find a couple more—”

Two other men came and slid into the seats left vacant by Hobson and Slattery. Out of the corner of his eye, Lon glimpsed Hobson leaving.

Lon hoped Digger was going to help out the two stubborn women. He didn’t like to see anyone homeless, but they had chosen a path that put them at odds with popular sentiment. In any event, how could he provide them with a place to stay? Would they want to bunk in the back of the saloon, as he did? Of course not. With regret, he turned his mind to his new competitors.

Mercy shivered as the night began to fold them into its cool, damp arms. She and Indigo had wrapped themselves in their blankets and perched on top of the trunk, which was wedged between two trees so it wouldn’t move. Oil lamps and candles shone in the dwellings so they weren’t sitting in complete darkness. Mercy kept her eyes on those lights, kept praying that someone would offer them a place, someone would come out—

A man was striding down the street in their direction. Was he headed past them for home? She heard him coming, splashing in the shallow puddles. A lantern at his hip glimmered.

“He’s heading straight toward us,” Indigo whispered.

Mercy caught the fear in Indigo’s voice, and it trembled through her. Was violence to be added to insult here? She leaned against Indigo, her voice quavering. “Don’t be afraid. No one is going to harm us.”

“You that woman doctor?” the man asked in a brisk tone, his copper hair catching the lantern light.

“Yes, I am.” Mercy didn’t know whether she should stand, or even if she could.

“You two can’t sleep out here all night. Follow me.” The man turned and began striding away.

His unforeseen invitation sent her thoughts sprawling. “Please, friend, where is thee going?”

He turned back and halted. “I’m Digger Hobson, the manager of one of the mining outfits hereabouts. I’m going to take you to the mining office for the night.”

She didn’t want to turn the man down, but how would they sleep there? Her nerve was tender, but she managed to ask, “Mining office?”

“Yeah, I bunked there till I got a place of my own. Now come on. Let’s not waste time.” The man strode away from them.

With a tiny yelp, Indigo jumped off the trunk, swirled her blanket higher so it wouldn’t drag in the mud, and began hauling the trunk behind her.

Coming out of her shock, Mercy followed Indigo’s example and grabbed the valises, hurrying on stiff legs through the mud. The two of them caught up with Hobson where he had stopped. The building had a hand-painted sign that read “Acme Mining Office.”

“Come on in. It’s not much, but it’s better than sleeping out under the trees all night. I can’t understand why no one would take you in.”

Mercy could only agree with him. But she was so unnerved she didn’t trust herself yet to speak.

“Some people don’t like me because of my color,” Indigo said, surprising Mercy. Mercy hadn’t mentioned the rude comments people had made about Indigo. But since none of them had kept their voices down, Indigo had probably overheard them. The area around Mercy’s heart clenched.

“I fought in the war to set you free,” Digger said. “Some folks think you all ought to go back to Africa. But I don’t think I’d like to go there myself.”

“Not me, either, sir. I’m an American,” Indigo stated.

“Thee is very kind, Digger Hobson.” Mercy found her voice. She wondered why this welcome hospitality still left her emotionless inside. Perhaps rejection was more powerful than kindness. But that shouldn’t be.

“We need a doctor here. I wouldn’t have asked for a female doctor, but if you really got a certificate and everything, then we’ll make do with you. Mining can be a rough trade.”

Mercy tried to sort through these words but the unusual numbness she hoped was due to the chill and fatigue caused her only to nod. Certificate? Who knew she had a certificate?

Her dazed mind brought up a scene from the saloon infirmary. Lon had been looking over her shoulder as she had dug into the bottom of her black bag. She’d taken out her framed certificate so she could search better.

So Lon had been talking about her? What had he said?

“Dr. Gabriel is tired,” Indigo said. “Where are the beds?”

Mercy realized that she had just been standing there, not paying attention to this kind man.

“There are two cots in the back room. I’m going farther up the mountain now, to get to bed. Have a busy day tomorrow.” As he spoke, he led them through an office area into a back room where there was a potbellied stove and two bare cots.

“Do you have bedding with you?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Indigo stammered.

As Hobson turned to leave, he lit a tall candle on the stove. “Good night, ladies.” He handed Mercy the key. “Lock up behind me. Two women alone can’t be too careful.”

When Mercy did not move, Indigo took the key and followed him back through the office. Mercy waited, frozen in place, watching the flickering, mesmerizing candle flame. She had heard of people falling asleep standing up. Was that happening to her?

Indigo entered, helped Mercy off with her blanket and steered her into a wooden chair beside the stove. “You sit here, Aunt Mercy. You look really tired.”

Mercy sat, the numbness still clutching her. This was more than the usual fatigue, Mercy sensed. Indigo began humming “Be Thou My Vision” as she opened the trunk, got out their wrinkled sheets and pillows, and made up the two cots. “God has provided for us again.”

Mercy wanted to agree. But her tongue lay at the bottom of her mouth, limp and wayward. Then Indigo was there in front of her, kneeling to unbutton her shoes. “You’re just very tired, that’s all. I think you need a few days of rest and good food. And you’ll be right as a good spring rain.”

Indigo led Mercy over to the cot nearest the stove. “I think I’ll make up a small fire and brew a cup of tea for both of us. Then we’ll go to bed and let the fire die down on its own. It’s not that cold, not as cold as it can be in Pennsylvania in late September.”

Indigo kept up small talk as she cared for them both. Mercy let herself sit and listen. She could do nothing more. She was tired, not just from the cholera epidemic or walking behind the wagons to get here. She was tired to the marrow of her bones from the unkind way people treated each other.

The mayor’s insults the other day, diminishing her role in stopping the epidemic which could have killed him. The unfriendly and judgmental way people had looked at them today as they walked down Main Street. And Lon Mackey, who she’d begun to consider an ally, disappearing from her life when she most needed help. These had leeched the life from her.

In this whole town, they had encountered one kind man out of how many? The others, when they had ample room to take them in, would have let her and Indigo sleep outside. Well, she shouldn’t be surprised. There had been no room at the inn for Mary and Joseph. And baby Jesus had been born among the cattle. Lon Mackey’s face came to mind clearly. She had been hoping he would come to their aid, clearly. Foolish beyond measure. She sighed and closed her eyes. Whatever connection she had felt with him had been an illusion. Something inside her flickered and then went out, extinguished.

Despite his best efforts, Lon woke while it was still morning. Dr. Gabriel’s face flashed before his eyes. He rolled over. Around four o’clock in the morning, when the saloon had finally shut its doors, he’d been unable to keep himself from going out with a lantern and checking to see if the two women were still sitting under the tree. This concern for their welfare could only spring from the life-threatening circumstances under which they’d met and nothing else, he insisted silently.

When he’d found, in the early morning light, that they were no longer under the tree, he’d been able to go to his bed and sleep. He would let the God they believed in take care of them from now on.

Though it was much earlier than he ever cared to be awake, he found he could not go back to sleep. He sat up, disgusted with himself. After shaving and donning his last fresh collar, he strode out into the thin sunshine to find breakfast. The town was bustling. He stood looking up and down the street. Then drawn by the mingled fragrances of coffee, bacon and biscuits, he headed for breakfast at a café on the nearest corner.

On the way, he saw Dr. Gabriel step outside a mining office and begin sweeping the wooden platform in front of the place. Something deep inside nudged him to avoid her, but he couldn’t be that rude. Tipping his hat, he said, “Good morning, Dr. Gabriel.”

“Lon Mackey, good morning.”

“Is this where you stayed last night?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “A man, Digger Hobson, let us stay. I’m just tidying up a bit to thank him for his kindness.”

“I’m glad to hear you found a place. Yesterday, I saw you going door to door…” He caught himself before he said more.

“It is always difficult for Indigo and me in a new place.” She also paused and gazed into his eyes.

He glanced away. “You still think you can establish yourself here?”

“I do. I hope…” Her voice faded.

He denied the urge to try to talk sense into her. Still, he lingered. This woman had earned his regard. And the feeling of working together to fight the cholera had taken him back to his previous life when he’d had a future. He broke away from her effect on him. “I’ll bid you good day then.”

Mercy wanted to stop him, speak to him longer. But even as she opened her mouth, she knew she must not. Their paths should not cross again except in this casual way. Why did that trouble her? Just because she had found him so easy to work with meant nothing to her day-to-day life. She went on sweeping, quelling the sudden, surprising urge to cry. Lon had believed in her abilities and trusted her in a way that few other men ever had, and it was hard to simply let that go.

At the sound of footsteps on the office’s wooden floor, she turned to greet Indigo. “Thee slept well?”

“Yes. I feel guilty for lying in so long. You know I never sleep late.”

“I think thee needed the extra rest.” She watched as Lon Mackey walked into the café on the corner. She had no appetite, which was unusual, but the two of them must eat to keep up their strength. “Indigo, would thee go down to the café, buy us breakfast and bring it back here?”

Indigo’s stomach growled audibly in response. The girl grinned. “Why don’t we just go there and eat?”

Because he’s there. “I’m not in the mood for company this morning.” That wasn’t a lie, unfortunately. Mercy pulled her purse out of her pocket and gave it to Indigo. She gave Mercy a penetrating look, then left, singing quietly to herself.

Mercy walked inside the office and looked out the smudged front window. She thought of going around town again this afternoon, trying to get to know all the residents, trying to begin to soften their resistance, to change their minds about a woman doctor. But the thought of stepping outside again brought her near to tears.

For the first time she could recall, she had no desire to go out into the sunshine. No desire to go on doing what she must in order to change opinions about her. To carry out her mission. This sudden absence of purpose was alien to her.

The fact was she didn’t want to talk to or see anyone save Indigo. Or, truth be told, Lon Mackey. Though she’d been hurt that he hadn’t come to her aid, the fact that he’d gone looking for her in the early morning had lifted her heart some. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered in spite of the lingering warmth from the potbellied stove.

She went over in her mind the brief conversation with Lon about his concern and about his opposition to her way of life. What they had said to each other wasn’t as telling as what they hadn’t said. She couldn’t have imagined the strong connection they’d forged, and she couldn’t believe it had ended when the cholera had.

Something was shifting inside her. And she was afraid to venture toward its cause.

A week had passed. Friday was payday and the saloon was standing room only. The poker table was ringed with a few farmers, but mostly miners and lumberjacks watched the game in progress. In the back of Lon’s mind, the fact that he hadn’t seen Dr. Gabriel on the street since she’d moved into the mining office niggled at him. Had she fallen sick? Should he go check on her?

He brushed the thought away like an aggravating fly. He’d done much this week to rebuild his reserves. And tonight’s game was not for chicken stakes. Nearly a hundred dollars in gold, silver and bills had been tossed into the ante. If Lon lost this game, he’d be broke again.

His three competitors included the same small, mustached man whom Lon had gambled with every night the past week. The other two were a tall, slender young man and a dark-haired miner. The young half breed spoke with a French accent. Perhaps he was a mix of Métis, Indian and French. Either way, Lon pegged him as a young buck out to have all the fun he could, no doubt with the first good money he’d ever earned. The miner looked ill-tempered, old enough to know better than to cause trouble. But wise enough? Time would tell.

Lon stared at his cards—just a pair of red queens. That scoring combination was all he had worth anything among the five cards dealt him. He hissed inwardly in disgust. A pair was just above a random hand with nothing of scoring strength.

He gazed around at the other players, trying to gauge by their expressions and posture how good their hands were. Could they have gotten even worse hands? Was that possible?

The small man was tapping the table with his left hand and looking at Lon in an odd way. Lon decided he would lay two cards facedown and deal himself another two. He hoped they’d be better than the pitiful ones he’d dealt himself first.

The miner hit the other man’s hand, which was tapping beside him. “Stop that. You tryin’ to fiddle with my concentration?”

Lon held his breath. He’d seen fights start with less provocation than this.

The small man hit back the offending hand. “If you been drinking too much, don’t take it out on me.”

The miner lurched forward.

Fortunately, the onlookers voiced loud disapproval of the fight—it would spoil their fun. The miner scowled but sat back in his chair.

Reminding himself of the pistol in his vest pocket, Lon put two cards facedown and drew two more cards. His pair of queens became a triple, two red and one black. Better. But not much.

Then, as the dealer, he went from player to player asking if they wanted to draw again. There was another round of calling and betting. The small man was still watching Lon with an intense gaze. Was there going to be trouble?

The man asked, “You fight in the war?”

Lon shrugged. “Most of us did, didn’t we?”

This appeared to aggravate the small man even more. He looked at Lon with narrowed eyes. Lon tried to ignore him. Winning the game was what mattered. Nothing was going to distract him from that.

The final round ended and each player laid down his cards. Lon wished he could have had another chance to make his hand better, but he laid down his three queens. And nearly broke his poker face when he saw that he had won. Victory and relief flowed through him.

The sullen miner’s face twisted in anger. “You sure you’re not dealing from the bottom of the deck?”

Lon looked at him coolly. “If you don’t want me to deal, you deal.” He began shuffling the cards with rapid and practiced hands. The men standing around liked to watch someone who could handle cards as well as he could. He didn’t hold back, letting the cards cascade from one hand to the other and then deftly working the cards like an accordion. He held his audience in rapt attention.

The young Métis who’d lost his gambling money rose, and another man slid into his place. Lon nodded to him and began dealing cards for another game. One of the saloon girls came over and tried to drape herself around Lon’s shoulders. Not wishing to be impolite, he murmured, “Not while I’m working, please, miss.” She nodded and moved over to lean on the dark-haired miner.

Lon hoped she would sweeten the man’s temper but the miner shrugged her off with a muttered insult. Lon looked at the cards he’d dealt himself and nearly revealed his shock. He held almost a royal flush: jack, queen, king, ace and a four.

The odds of his dealing this hand to himself were incredible. The other players turned cards facedown and he dealt them the number of cards they requested. Lon put the four down and drew another card. He stared at it, disbelieving.

The betting began. Lon resisted the temptation to bet the rest of his money on the game. That would signal to the other players that he had good cards, which in this case was a vast understatement. He bet half the money he had just won. The other players eyed him and each raised. The second round of betting took place. Then Lon concealed his excitement and laid out the royal flush—ten, jack, queen, king, ace.

He reached forward to scoop up the pot. The small man leaped from his seat, shouting, “You can’t have dealt honestly. No one gets a royal flush like that!”

Lon eyed the man. He’d played cards several times with him over the past days, and the man had been consistently even-tempered.

“You’re right!” The dark-haired miner reared up from his chair and slammed a fist into Lon’s face. Lon flew back into the men crowding around the table. He tried to find his feet, but he went down hard on one knee. He leaped up again, his fists in front of his face.

The gold and silver coins he’d just won were clinking, sliding down the table as the miner tipped it over. “No!” Lon bellowed. “No!”

The miner swung again. Lon dodged, getting in two good jabs. The miner groaned and fell. Then the small mustached man pulled a knife from his boot.

A knife. Lon leaped out of reach again. He fumbled for the Derringer in his vest. The small man jumped over the upended table. He plunged his knife into Lon just above the high pocket of his vest.

As his own warm blood gushed under his hand, Lon felt himself losing consciousness. The crushing pain in his chest made it hard to breathe. He looked at the man nearest him, a stranger. He was alone in this town of strangers.

No, I’m not.

Lon blinked, trying to get rid of the fog that was obscuring his vision. “Get the woman doctor,” he gasped. “Get Dr. Gabriel.”

Chapter Four

Pounding. Pounding. Mercy woke in the darkness, groggy. More sights and sounds roused her—the sound of a match striking, a candle flame flickering to life, padding footsteps going toward the curtains. “Aunt Mercy, get up,” Indigo commanded in the blackness. “Someone’s nearly breaking down the front door and shouting for the doctor.” The curtain swished as Indigo went through it to answer the door.

Mercy sat up. Feeling around in the darkness, she started getting dressed without thinking, merely reacting to Indigo’s command. With her dress on over her nightgown, she sat down to pull on her shoes. She found she was unable to lift her stockinged feet. The listlessness which had gripped her over the past week smothered her in its grasp once more.

She had not left the mining office—in fact, could not leave it. She knew her lassitude had begun to worry Indigo. Her daughter had given her long looks of bewildered concern. Yet Mercy had been unable to reassure Indigo, had been unable to break free from the lethargy, the hopelessness, the defeat she’d experienced deep, deep inside. And somehow it had been connected with Lon Mackey, but why?

With the candle glowing in front of her face, Indigo came in with three men crowding behind her. “Aunt Mercy, Lon Mackey has been knifed in the saloon.”

Cold shock dashed its way through Mercy. As if she’d been tossed into water, she gasped and sucked in air.

“It’s serious. We must hurry.” Indigo set the candlestick on the potbellied stove and began pulling a dress on over her nightgown. Then in the shadows, she bent, opened the trunk at the end of the room and pulled out two black leather bags, one with surgical items and one with nursing supplies.

Mercy sat, watching Indigo by the flickering candlelight. Her feet were still rooted to the cold floor.

“Ain’t you gonna get up, lady—I mean, lady doctor?” one of the men asked. “The gambler’s unconscious and losing blood. He needs a doc.”

Indigo turned and snagged both their wool shawls from a nail on the wall. “Aunt Mercy?”

“Yeah,” one of the other men said, “the gambler asked for you—by name. Come on.”

He asked for me. The image of Lon bleeding snapped the tethers that bound her to the floor. Mercy stirred, forcing off the apathy. She slid her feet into her shoes and dragged herself up. “Let’s go.”

Outside for the first time in days, she shivered in the October night air, shivered at once more being outside, vulnerable. Thinking of Lon and recalling how he’d done whatever she needed, whatever she’d asked during the cholera outbreak, she hurried over the slick, muddy street toward the saloon. In the midst of the black night, oil lamps shone through the swinging door and the windows, beckoning.

The men who’d come to get them hurried forward, shouting out, “The lady doc is coming!”

Mercy and Indigo halted just outside the door. Having difficulty drawing breath, Mercy whispered, “Pray.” Indigo nodded and they entered side by side. The bright lights made Mercy blink as her eyes adjusted. Finally, she discerned where the crowd was thickest.

She headed straight toward the center of the gathering, her steps jerky, as if she were walking on frozen feet. “Nurse Indigo,” she said over her shoulder, “get the bar ready for me, please.” But a glance told her that Indigo was already disinfecting the bar in preparation.

The gawking men parted as Mercy swept forward.

One unfamiliar man popped up in front of her. “Hold it. A woman doctor? She might do him more harm than good.”

Before Mercy could respond, the dissenting man was yanked back and shoved out of her way, the men around all chorusing, “The gambler asked for her.”

Unchecked, Mercy continued, her strength coming back in spurts like the blood surging, pulsing through her arteries. Her walking smoothed out.

She had never doctored with such a large crowd pressing in on every side. She sensed the men here viewed this as a drama, a spectacle. Still, she kept her chin up. If they’d come to see the show, she’d show them all right.

Then she saw Lon. He had been stretched out on a table, a crimson stain soaking the front of his white shirt and embroidered vest. An invisible hand squeezed the breath from her lungs and it rushed out in a long “Oh.”

A young woman in a low-cut, shiny red dress was holding a folded towel over the wound. She looked into Mercy’s eyes. “This was all we had to stop the bleeding.”

Mercy nodded, drawing up her reserves. “Excellent.” She put her black bag on the table beside Lon and lifted out the bottle of wood alcohol. She poured it over both her trembling hands, hoping to quiet her nerves as she disinfected. To hide the quivering of her hands, she shook them and then balled them into fists. “Let me see the wound, please.”

The young woman lifted the blood-soaked towel and stepped back. She was the only one who did so—everyone else pressed in closer. “Please, friends,” Mercy stated in a firm tone, forcing the quavering from her voice, “I must have room to move my arms. I must have light. Please.”

The crowd edged back a couple of inches. The girl in the low-cut dress lifted a lamp closer to Lon.

Mercy wished her inner quaking would stop. She sucked in more air laden with cigar smoke, stale beer and sweat. She looked down into Lon’s face.

She had tended so many bleeding men in the war, yet her work then had been anonymous. She had never before been called to tend someone whom she knew and whom she had depended on, worked with. Seeing a friend like this must be what was upsetting her. She must focus on the wound, not the man.

In spite of her trembling fingers, Mercy unbuttoned and tugged back his shirt. She examined the wound and was relieved to see that the blood was clotting and sluggish. The wound, though deep, had not penetrated the heart or abdomen. That would have been a death sentence. Her shaking lessened. This was her job, this was what she had been called to do.

As she probed the wound, she felt a small part of the lung that may have collapsed. She had read about pulmonary atelectasis—once she closed the wound, the lung would either reinflate or compensate. But she needed to act quickly.

She turned toward the bar. “Nurse Indigo, is my operating table ready?”

“Almost, Dr. Gabriel.” While working in public, both women used these terms of address. The dean of the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania had insisted on using their titles to imbue them with respect.

“Please carry the patient to the bar, and bring my bag, too,” Mercy asked of the men. “I will operate there.” Mercy turned and the way parted before her. She was accustomed to disbelief and disapproval, but never before had she been forced to endure being put on display. Her face was hot and glowing bright scarlet.

She had heard of circuses that had freak shows, displaying bearded women and other humans with physical abnormalities. Here she was the local freak, the lady doctor. But her concern for Lon’s survival outweighed her embarrassment and frustration. He was depending on her.

For a moment, she felt faint. She scolded herself for such weakness and plowed her way to the bar. Now Indigo was helping the bartender position the second of two large oil lamps.

“How bad is it, Doctor?” Indigo asked.

“Can you do anything for him? Or is he a goner?” asked the bartender.

The word goner tightened Mercy’s throat. “The wound may have collapsed part of the lung. I will need to stitch up the wound.”

There was a deep murmuring as everyone made their opinion of this known, discussing it back and forth. Mercy focused on Lon and her task. In the background, the voices blended together in a deep ebb and flow, like waves on a shore.

Indigo laid out the surgical instruments on a clean linen cloth. Mercy looked to the saloon girl, who was hovering nearby. “What is thy name, miss?”

“Sunny, ma’am—I mean, Doc.”

“Sunny, will thee help me by unbuttoning the shirt and vest the rest of the way and helping the bar tender remove them? I must scrub my hands thoroughly before I begin surgery.”

Sunny nodded and began undoing Lon’s vest buttons.

Mercy moved farther down the bar, where Indigo had poured boiled water and alcohol into a clean basin. She picked up a bar of soap and began scrubbing her hands and nails with a little brush, hating each moment of delay.

“Hey, Lady Doc,” one of the men asked, his voice coming through the constant muttering, “shouldn’t you wash up after you mess with all the blood and stuff?”

Mercy kept scrubbing as she addressed his question. “A young English doctor, Joseph Lister, has discovered that mortality rates decline in hospitals that practice antiseptic measures before surgical procedures.”

“Really? Is that a fact?” the man said. “What’s antiseptic mean?”

“Sepsis is when a wound becomes infected, and it usually leads to the patient’s death. Anti means against, so antiseptic measures try to prevent sepsis.”

“My ma always said cleanliness is next to godliness,” another man spoke up.

“Thy mother was a wise woman. In my experience, women with cleaner houses lose fewer children to disease.”

Mercy held out her hands, and Indigo poured more boiled water and then wood alcohol over them. Mercy took a deep breath and turned to her task. “Nurse Indigo, will thee please spray the patient with carbolic acid?”

Using the large atomizer, Indigo sprayed carbolic acid over Lon’s broad chest and then directly over the wound, which she had already sponged clean of gore. Mercy proceeded to inspect Lon’s wound, feeling for the deepest point. There was silence all around her—thick, intent silence—as everyone watched her every move. She located the point, reached for her needle and silk thread and began to close the wound with tiny stitches.

“Hey! Look!” a man called out. “She’s doin’ it. Look!”

Mercy felt the press of the crowd. “Please, thee must all move back. I must have room to work.” To breathe.

The men edged back. She drew in air and prayed on silently. She could only hope that Indigo’s pressure, plus natural clotting and healing, would help seal the wound and allow the lung to reinflate.

Mercy set and tied her final stitch and blinked away tears she couldn’t explain. She was thankful that Lon hadn’t stirred during the probing or suturing.

“You done, Lady Doc?” the bartender asked.

“Yes. Now we must hope that Lon Mackey will sleep a bit longer, then wake and begin to heal. Do any of thee know where Lon has been staying?”

“He’s bunking in the back room,” Sunny said.

Mercy had wondered where Lon roomed. And though his living arrangement fit his gambling, she could not like Lon in this place. She pursed her lips momentarily.