“Show Me Your Body” — Mountain Man Demanded From The Fat Girl, But His Real Intention Left Her…
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“Show me your body,” the mountain man demanded. Esther “Essie” Hartwell flinched at the words, her heart pounding. She’d walked for two days through the wild Wyoming summer, desperate for help. Timber Creek, the town below, had never been kind. The townsfolk whispered, laughed, and stared, calling her the butcher’s fat daughter, the glutton, the spectacle. The doctor in town had refused to help, dismissing her with a cruel joke: “I don’t treat filthy animals.” His words echoed in her mind as she stumbled out of the clinic, shame burning hotter than the sun.
But her pain was not just emotional. Beneath her heavy dress, Essie’s skin was a battlefield—angry red patches, itching until she bled. She wore gloves in summer, buttoned every inch, pretending she burned easily. The truth was uglier. Each morning, she woke to blood stains and tears, wondering if she’d ever be whole.
When she overheard women at the well gossiping—“Did you hear the fat girl’s falling apart? Serves her right. God punishes gluttony”—something inside Essie broke. She packed her few belongings, her late mother’s Bible, and set out for the mountains. She’d heard rumors of a ghost doctor, a recluse named Josh Wittmann, who lived alone and sometimes helped those desperate enough to find him.
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Josh’s cabin was small and sturdy, hidden under pines. He looked like a statue carved from the mountain itself—tall, broad, beard streaked with silver, eyes cold but tired. When Essie pleaded for help, his reply was blunt: “I help the sick. If that’s truly what you are, show me your body.”
The words stung, but behind his steady gaze, Essie saw something she hadn’t seen in years—compassion. Her instinct was to run, but her body wouldn’t let her. She sank to her knees, sobbing. “You’ll be disgusted. Everyone is.”
“I’ve seen soldiers torn in half,” Josh said softly. “You’re not going to scare me.”
Essie nodded, trembling. “Please don’t look at me like they do.”
“I’ll look at you as a patient. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Inside the cabin, Essie felt a sliver of hope pierce through her fear. The place was orderly, shelves stacked with dried herbs, a large oak table covered in medical instruments, and a fire that filled the space with the scent of pine. Josh pointed to a chair by the fire. “You’re shivering.”
Essie hesitated, clutching her shawl. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve walked miles up a mountain with a fever. You’re not fine.” He poured her a mug of hot water steeped with willow bark. “For the pain,” he murmured. Then, quietly, “Now let me see.”
Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her sleeves. The room grew still, the only sound the crackle of firewood. When the fabric slipped down, patches of inflamed skin appeared, red and scaly across her forearms. Josh didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, brow furrowing. “Arms, neck, shoulders. Does it spread farther?”
“Everywhere,” Essie whispered. “Even places I can’t reach.”
His tone softened. “Then I’ll need to see those, too. But only what’s necessary for diagnosis. You’ll stay covered otherwise. Understood?”
She nodded, tears pooling in her eyes. No man had ever spoken to her that way—firmly, but without shame. When he finished his examination, he stepped back and exhaled. “It’s not contagious,” he said. “And it’s not your fault.”
Essie stared at him. “Not my fault?”
He nodded. “Chronic dermatitis, brought on by poor diet, stress, and constant irritation. Your body’s rebelling against how you’ve been treated. That’s all.”
For years, people told her it was punishment—God’s wrath for gluttony, laziness, sin. Now, for the first time, someone offered a different explanation, one that didn’t condemn, but healed.
Josh mixed herbs with practiced precision, grinding them into a paste. “I’ll make a salve from comfrey, chamomile, and lard. Apply it twice a day, and eat what I cook. None of that salted pork and cornbread nonsense.”
Essie smiled weakly. “You’ll feed me?”
“I don’t intend to starve my patients.”
That evening, rain pattered on the roof as Essie watched him work. He moved with quiet purpose, measuring, stirring, muttering to himself in low Latin phrases she didn’t understand. Occasionally his gaze flicked toward her—not out of curiosity, but to make sure she was all right.
When he handed her the jar of pale green salve, she hesitated. “Will it hurt?”
“It’ll sting at first,” he said, “but healing always does.”
She nodded, fingers trembling as she dabbed the ointment on her forearm. It stung, then came a cool relief, a softening she hadn’t felt in months. Her eyes widened in surprise.
Josh watched quietly, then turned back to the fire. “Stay the night. The trail’s too dangerous in the dark.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“You already are,” he said dryly. “But you might as well do it safely.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You’re not very good at being kind.”
He looked over his shoulder, a ghost of amusement in his eyes. “I’m better than I used to be.”
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