Home by Morning (9 page)

“I’ve got a very sick patient upstairs, and you’re supposed to go tell his family where he is. Why in the world are we talking about this now?”

“You keep bringing it up, Jess. You keep telling me how swell it was in New York. In your letters you told me you had too much important work to do to leave. I just want to know what was so damned special about it that you gave up everything here.”

She spun around to look at him. “I never said it was ‘swell.’ But, yes, the work was important. You can’t know—I can’t explain how much—how desperately—” She stumbled to a stop and took up her chore again. Her heart seemed to be pounding as hard and fast as Eddie’s had when she’d listened to his chest.

“Then why didn’t you stay there if it meant so much? Why did you leave it for a different job?”

“
Why
should you care?” she countered. “You’ll marry Amy and have a happy home. What difference does it make now?”

For an instant, she thought he would pound his fist on the table, but instead he put up his hands and took a deep breath. His face fell into the unpleasant, stony expression she was growing accustomed to. “It doesn’t make any difference. I’ll go talk to Horace.” He walked away then, his boot heels resonating on the pine flooring. That was followed by the sound of the front door closing.

A moment later, she heard the truck engine turn over, and Cole drove away.

Jessica spent a very long night taking care of Eddie. She dosed him with the pills every two hours. Some of them even stayed down. But if they were of any help, it was minimal. She didn’t go to bed, but instead sat up in a chair in her apartment with both doors open so that she could hear him. Not that it would have been difficult—his cough was so harsh, it sounded as if it could lift the roof off the second floor. During those moments when she sat in her kitchenette, drinking coffee and trying to think of some treatment, she composed wires to Dr. Martin at Seattle General and to the Red Cross office, which had opened the year before in Portland. Although she had to explain to Dr. Martin why she would not be coming to Washington as soon as he’d asked, she also asked for some up-to-date information from him regarding the influenza that stood poised on her hometown’s doorstep.

At least it gave her something else to think about besides Cole and the effect he still had on her.

She drank her coffee bitter and black. Sugar and cream were hard-to-get luxuries these days; in fact, it was considered a badge of honor to do without, and a mark of shame to consume anything that should be going to the troops. Her hands shook with fatigue and caffeine as she worked to stem the tide of self-reproach that kept trying to engulf her.

How could she have cocooned herself so tightly that she’d been out of touch with the events taking place around her? How had she not heard about this sickness invading the civilian population?

She knew the answer, but it was no comfort, and it was not an excuse she could accept.

Yes, thoughts of those helpless people in the tenements still haunted her. But her fate had been decided years ago. By becoming a physician, she’d also made a tacit agreement to accept the good with the bad. Dealing with human suffering was part of her profession. Not every life could be saved. And even for those that could be, not every outcome was positive.

Only—only there had been so
many
that weren’t…

Still, kicking herself would do no good. She had to take up her calling where she’d left it and do her best to learn all she could about this epidemic.

The pale streaks of dawn seemed to come late due to the heavy, lead-gray sky that threatened rain. At about seven o’clock, Jess heard sharp knocking on the front door. Not knowing what to expect, she ran down to answer it. She recognized Helen Cookson, Eddie’s mother, standing on the other side of the glass.

Helen’s fine-boned face looked drawn and wilted. Her hair, shot with silver threads, was pulled into a bun, and Jessica imagined she’d had no more sleep than she herself.

“I came as soon as could,” Helen said, her voice quavery. Out front, Horace Cookson was wrapping the reins around the brake of their farm wagon. “How is my boy?”

Jess stepped aside and let her in. “His fever is higher than I would like, and he has moments of…confusion.”

“Confusion?”

“Delirium,” Jess conceded. “I’m giving him medication, but I’m not sure how much it’s helping. Mostly what he needs is good nursing and rest.”

“Cole said it’s the influenza.” Helen’s tone gave it grave importance.

The influenza
.

“Yes.” At least she hadn’t said
plague
.

Horace, dressed haphazardly in overalls and a blue-striped work shirt, walked in. These clothes seemed more suited to him than the boiled shirt and crooked tie that went with his mayoral duties. “Had to milk the cows first. The cows can’t wait.”

Helen gave her husband a tight-lipped look. “Can I see him?”

“Yes, of course. Eddie’s upstairs.”

After she was out of earshot, Horace turned to Jess and dropped his voice to a confidential tone. “Helen’s got herself in a downright conniption over this. I sure appreciate you looking after the boy for us. Even though it’s only influenza, I knew he’d be in good hands with you.”

“I’m sorry I had to send Cole Braddock out to your place last night, but I thought you should know about the situation.”

“It’s just the grippe, though,” he reiterated. “That’s not such a bad thing, is it? Not for a young man like Ed. We’ve all had it at one time or another. Had it myself last spring. In fact, so did Cole, now that I think about it. I remember because Susannah had to practically tie him to his bed to keep him from working. She said the sooner he got well, the better off they’d all be. Most of us did get better.” He hitched his brows, then added, “Well, Doctor Vandermeer didn’t, and Eph Jacobsen, but they were getting on.”

“Except this might be worse than the usual illness.”

“Bah, I heard they’ve had an outbreak of some kind of Spanish flu on the East Coast, but they’re all jammed together back there with machines and smoky factories and such. Well, you know that better than the rest of us.” He gestured vaguely with his big farmer’s hand. “This is God’s country out here—clean air, simple living, wide-open spaces.”

From the second floor came the bark of Eddie’s wretched, gurgling cough, an unnerving, hopeless sound. It had continued most of the night, preventing him from getting much rest. Horace turned his gaze to the top of the stairs, and a shadow of concern crossed his eyes. “Ed’s strong, he’ll be back on his feet in no time.” But his tone had lost some of its conviction.

Jess squared her shoulders, as much to ease the tension and fatigue in them as to give him courage. “I certainly hope so, Mr. Cookson. I’m doing everything I can for him.”

“Helen made up a bed in the back of the wagon so we can take him home.”

“We probably don’t want to move him just yet,” she said, using the calm tone she saved for delivering dire news. “I’d intended to have Cole give Eddie a ride home last night. But after he collapsed here in the waiting room—well, I think it would be best for him to stay here for a while, at least until his fever breaks. In the meantime, you’ll want to contact his cantonment at Camp Lewis to let them know where he is.” She was careful not to add that she didn’t believe Eddie had reached the crisis point yet, but she sensed that Horace at last understood the seriousness of his son’s illness.

Keeping his eyes on the stairs, he said, “I…oh…sure…I believe I’ll go up and visit with him for a moment.” He shuffled off toward the steps.

Jess nodded and sat down in a nearby chair, fatigue weighing on her shoulders. She knew that Horace would be in for a rude surprise.

Eddie, so vital and healthy yesterday, now had a dusky-blue tint to his nose, ears, and lips. And chances were good that he might not recognize his own father this morning.

“Then next year, I could plant nasturtiums and climbing roses so they trail over the porch railing.” Amy moved back and forth across the front yard of Cole’s not-quite-finished house, explaining to him her plans for the landscape. She had already taken him on a tour of the interior, showing him her finishing touches on the painting, which she’d generously offered to undertake, despite the fact that they had no formal engagement between them yet. She’d started with bare walls and floors and transformed them into a real home. It had stood unfinished for nearly two years, waiting for its originally-intended mistress to see it completed. “I can get all the cuttings I need from the ladies on my committees. Won’t that be pretty?”

“Uh-huh.”

While Roscoe bounded around the brush, Amy pointed here and there, her lavender skirts brushing through the yellow grass, picking up seed tops along the way. Her honey hair was caught in a loose knot on top of her head and gleamed like a thoroughbred’s. Now and then, a breeze kicked up to snag a few strands that had escaped their pins. The sun, which had hidden behind a gray veil of clouds all day, had emerged for the last hour of daylight, casting lambent gold over the west-facing sage-and-cream-painted house, and over her. Amy was a very pretty young woman, with a heart to match.

Not for the first time, Cole pondered the fact that he’d never really noticed her when Jessica had lived in Powell Springs. Amy had always been there, a shy girl who had stayed close to her mother. Then when Lenore Layton died, she’d clung to the Layton housekeeper. He didn’t remember much about her except that she had played with her dolls, hated getting dirty, and had turned beet-red whenever he’d looked at her. Jess, on the other hand, had liked poking around under rocks to see what lived beneath them, or collecting bugs and pond water to bring home to her father’s microscope. For all that she was smart and learned, Jessica had never been a stuffy bluestocking. She’d been protective of Amy, but it wasn’t until Jess left that Amy had seemed to bloom.

Once her sister was gone and her father had died, she had made friends with Susannah, and it hadn’t been unusual for him to come in after a long work day and find Amy Layton as a guest at the Braddock dinner table. She had plied him with questions about the horses and the farm, and hung on his every word. He’d had to admit to himself that he was flattered by her attention.

Everyone loved Amy.

How could he not?

She walked back to his side, her face radiant with joy. “Cole, this is such a beautiful house. It’s a shame to let it stand empty now that it’s almost finished.”

He had chosen a good place to build the two-story home. It backed up to a tree-covered hill, where it would be sheltered from sharp winter winds and get the summer sun for a garden. Its wide, wraparound porch would be a comfortable place to sit on mild evenings and watch the sunset. He tried to forget that he had once pictured Jessica sitting on the porch with him.

Slinging an arm over Amy’s narrow shoulders, he smiled down at her. “You’ve done a great job of putting it all together. I’m just an old cowboy at heart. If it was up to me, I’d probably bed down on a cot next to the stove in the kitchen.”

“Goodness, I’m sure it will never have to be like that!” she said, laughing. “You’ll need decently cooked meals, and
someone
,” she added archly, “to sew your shirts and keep the house cleaner than our housekeeper did. You know, poor Jessica was never good at any of those things. Oh, did I mention Mrs. Donaldson let it slip that she’s making a brand-new quilt for me as a gift for my hope chest?”

“Speaking of gifts,” he said, “I picked up a little something for you in town today.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tiny box.

“What is it?” she asked, as delighted as a little girl.

“Open it and find out.”

She took the box from him and opened it to reveal a pair of small cameo earrings. He’d seen them in the jeweler’s window after he’d left Jessica and was heading for the post office to pick up the ranch’s mail.

“Aren’t they beautiful,” she said, her tone oddly flat as she stared at the carved profiles lying on the black velvet of the box. “But—but why?”

He realized she’d seen the small box and expected a ring.

He shrugged, a surge of disquiet rolling through him. “No reason. I saw them and thought you’d like them.”

She smiled up at him. “Oh, I do like them. I’m so lucky. What woman could ask for more?”

He hugged her to him and inhaled the vanilla fragrance of her. She was so delicately made, she felt almost like a child in his arms. Maybe if they’d been married already, this heavy, unnamable emptiness wouldn’t be sitting in his chest like a rock. Again. Still.

She drew back and looked into his eyes. “Life hasn’t seemed normal since America entered the war. I know you have a big job to do with Riley gone. But
nothing
and no one stands in our way now.”

Her meaning was so obvious, he almost expected
her
to propose. Why couldn’t he just do what was expected of him?

He swallowed, trying to dislodge that knot in his chest. “Sounds good to me.” He kissed her then, a sweet and tender touch of lips. Beyond hand-holding, it was the only intimacy they had ever shared. More than this would seem somehow, well, a
defilement
of Amy. Her aura of simple virtue stopped him from going any further. He couldn’t even imagine it. “I guess we should go. Susannah has dinner waiting for us. Besides, after rolling bandages and organizing a parade, you’re probably done in for the day.”

He took her arm and steered her back toward the ranch house, a quarter-mile to the west across the flat, green expanse of pasture. Split-rail fences rimmed the area, where sleek, healthy horses bowed their necks to nip the grass. The dog trotted ahead of them. It was a peaceful scene—the pale, hushed twilight, the soft nickering in the herd, the house in the distance.

Amy was right—nothing stood between them now.

Not one thing. Not even the secret hand on his heart.