Love Inspired Historical December 2013 Bundle: Mail-Order Mistletoe Brides\The Wife Campaign\A Hero for Christmas\Return of the Cowboy Doctor (78 page)

The gravity of his expression didn't lighten, but this time she knew it for what it was—genuine concern and not Maxwell trying to edge her out of her place in Papa's clinic.

“I will tell you if I need to rest for a bit,” she said. It would have to be enough for now, because there was too much to do. “Let me put these out.” She held up the soiled linens in her arms. “Wash up, and I'll take over for you with the water, and you can go find Sam.”

He nodded.

She'd turned for the storeroom but then turned back when a worrisome thought came.

“And...”

He stopped, looking back at her with his intense green eyes.

“Make sure to tell Emily about the precautions. She's already worried enough about the baby....”

A flicker of emotion passed over his face, as if this was the first time he'd thought about the possibility of his friends becoming sick. He nodded gravely, and they parted ways.

* * *

By nightfall, they'd been forced to relocate the patients—a dozen now—to the church, utilizing the pews, cots from the clinic and even pallets on the floor.

They'd left Mr. Spencer at the clinic, calling for his wife to watch over him and have him moved home when he could bear it. It was too dangerous to have him around the cholera patients—he was already weak and perhaps too susceptible to another disease, though they'd kept him carefully separate from the other patients.

Maxwell lingered over Bobby, attempting to dribble a bit of water through his blue-tinged lips. The boy was the same age as Walt. Six years old. And one of the worst off. If only he and Hattie could fight this disease for Bobby. Maxwell was extremely worried about the severity of the kid's symptoms—weak breath, thready pulse, chilled extremities.

He was frightened for the tyke's life. While the other patients suffered and fought, including the boy's mother and father, this little helpless child had somehow touched him. Was it because of Walt? Or because the boy seemed so much more fragile than the men and women, and the one teen, who had been brought in for care?

In the past hours, his prayers had changed from coherent thoughts to a nearly wordless plea:
Don't take him!

Sam had sensed his upset earlier when Maxwell had asked his friend to ride for Jonas's place. Maxwell had said more in his message to them than he'd told Hattie. While he'd asked his brothers to ride and spread the word on how to prevent the disease and care for the people who contracted it, he'd also urged his mother and the younger children to stay home, stay away from the danger in town and take every precaution for themselves.

Maybe it was selfish, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing any member of his family.

“C'mon,” he whispered as he attempted to drip another teaspoon of water into the little boy's mouth. Most of it dribbled from his lips and down his jaw. “You've got to drink.”

A soft touch on his shoulder startled him.

Hattie.

Somehow, she must've seen the desperation swamping him, because her fingers tightened and she didn't release him immediately.

“You should take a break. Go outside for a moment,” she said softly. “Mrs. Potter and I will watch over the patients for a bit.” She motioned over her shoulder to where another, older woman tended a man on one of the cots. The woman had refused to leave her husband, and Hattie had recruited her to help them nurse the rest of those afflicted.

“I can't,” Maxwell said tightly. “He isn't any better.” He tucked the blanket more tightly around the small, still form.

“You must.” Hattie pressed on his shoulder until he was forced to shift in the uncomfortable wooden chair he'd pulled close to the cot.

Stubbornly, he remained in his seat. Hattie locked eyes with him. Stared him down, willing him to get up out of the chair. Behind her inflexibility, he could see the same desperation he shared.

“Mama came by,” Hattie said.

He was surprised. He hadn't seen Mrs. Powell come into the sanctuary.

“She stayed outside in the yard,” Hattie went on. “But she said she'd finally reached Papa.”

For a moment, a ray of hope lit inside Maxwell. “Is he coming?”

“Not yet.”

And was doused. Was it any use, after all? Could anyone other than God save Bobby now?

“He mentioned that he'd had some success with giving certain patients milk.”

She held up a small mug held in her other hand, one he hadn't noticed until now. He moved to take it from her, but she drew it back against her side, still careful not to spill it.

“Stubborn,” he half-growled.

She only raised her brows at him. Against everything, against the pain tightening his chest, one corner of his mouth lifted.

Finally, he stood, registering the stiffness in his muscles. How long had he lingered with Bobby? Should he have been making rounds of the others?

“The other patients?” he asked as Hattie brushed past him.

She mock glared at him. “Go outside. Give yourself five minutes to settle. And then come back.”

Standing under the stars with his hands stuffed in his pockets, he tried to breathe deeply, but it felt as though a loaded wagon sat on his chest. He'd missed the expansive sky when he'd been at school in Denver. Somehow the gas lamps and constant busyness of the city muted the stars, and he'd often wished to be home beneath the wide-open sky he remembered.

But tonight he felt none of the peace he usually did being out in the vast Wyoming dark.

Around him, the town was completely silent. Not even any sounds of the saloons or rowdy cowboys—he could only guess that everyone had heard about what was happening and had done their best to attempt to keep from getting sick themselves.

He felt very alone.

In Denver, when loneliness threatened to overtake him, he would often take long walks around the city. Right now, he didn't want to stray too far from Hattie or the patients, in case they needed him, so he looped around the church building, attempting to stir his blood, remove the morbid thoughts and worries from his head. Once, twice, three times.

It didn't help.

He stood it for as long as he could bear, then returned inside to find Hattie's eyes alight. “I think he's a bit better,” Hattie whispered. “Does his pulse seem stronger?”

Maxwell didn't hesitate; he knelt at the boy's bedside and reached to touch his throat and see for himself. He thought Hattie was right.

But the fight wasn't over. They'd only just begun.

Chapter Eight

T
he next day, they lost their first patient. Hattie stood beside Maxwell as a woman from town faded away. Maxwell remained stoic and silent. Detached.

Or so she thought, until she turned and saw the fire burning in his eyes, the desperation that she'd only barely admitted to feeling herself.

She watched as he threw himself into caring for the remaining patients, spending time at each bedside, urging them with his actions and his voice to
live.

She'd been so wrong about him.

He was more than a cowboy. More than a medical student. He was a man of honor, of conviction. A sensitive soul. It was so obvious he cared about saving each person they treated. How could she guard her heart, keep her distance from a man like this, when they had to work so closely together?

Although they'd taken turns getting a few hours' rest during the darkest part of night, they were both exhausted and dragging. Hattie prayed that her nervous condition would continue to remain dormant.

It was late afternoon when Hattie paused across from Maxwell, who was again lingering beside Bobby. This time he wore a puzzled expression, his brows drawn across his forehead.

“What is it?”

“I think he...moved,” he whispered hoarsely.

And then the boy's head twitched on the pillow. His small, freckled face scrunched and a croaky whisper came. “Firsty...”

Bobby was thirsty.

Maxwell's hand shook as he raised a glass of boiled and cooled water; he dipped a teaspoon into the water and fed it to the boy, who swallowed on his own for the first time since he'd been brought to them.

Hattie's first reaction was to tell the boy's mother, who was in and out of consciousness in a cot to one side, but when Maxwell looked up at Hattie, the fierce emotion on his face barely registered because she couldn't see past the tears standing in his eyes.

He stood without a word and rushed outside, boots pounding on the wood floor. Hattie brushed her fingers across the child's head. He was perhaps a bit cooler, although still feverish. He'd apparently fallen back asleep, though his breathing, too, seemed more even than it had before. Hattie told Mrs. Potter that she would return shortly and went after Maxwell.

She found him around the corner, behind the church building. He was leaning against the building, his head thrust into the crook of his arm.

Hattie's heart thudded. Should she turn around? Go back inside? She hated intruding on his private moment....

He must've heard her somehow, because he turned his head slightly. There was no sign of tears, other than the red rims around his eyes, but those green eyes were brimming with emotion.

Gone were any thoughts of turning away now.

She moved toward him, and he captured her in his arms, holding her tightly, fiercely. She let her arms come around his shoulders; her palms rested against the nape of his neck, fingers brushing his hair.

He trembled against her.

Gone were any thoughts of her plans, medical school, her papa. The walls between them had been demolished. Gone was her carefully maintained distance. All that was left was his heart—his joy, the man himself.

When she finally stepped away, they both kept their faces averted. Was he as nervous as she about the connection sparking between them?

“I'll relieve Mrs. Potter.” He thrust a hand through his dark hair.

“I'll check our water supply.” She hung back, allowed him to disappear inside the church.

Where did things between them go now? To a deeper friendship? To something more?

She didn't know. She only knew that the way she thought about Maxwell had changed. There was so much more to the man than she'd known. And she found she wanted to be even closer—know even more about him.

* * *

It had just gone dark when Hattie's left leg faltered as she moved between two cots. She gripped the back of the chair she'd been heading for to steady herself before dropping into it.

No. It couldn't be. Not now.

A glance over to the cot where she'd finally convinced Maxwell to sleep for a few hours revealed he hadn't heard the drag of her shoe or the slight scrape of the chair legs against the floor. He slept soundly, one arm thrown above his head. And Mrs. Potter was engrossed with a patient across the room and hadn't seemed to notice Hattie's stumble.

She flexed the leg before her, pointing her toes inside her shoe. Had it been a fluke? She was overtired after missing out on sleep for most of seventy-two hours. Anyone would be.

It could've been a misstep; perhaps her peripheral vision had wavered, and she'd misjudged the distance to the chair.

Or was her condition flaring up? If her symptoms manifested in weak nerves now, she wouldn't be much use to Maxwell.

If it was a minor event, she might have some weakness but be able to handle most of her duties.

If it was a major episode, Hattie would lose function, be rendered useless.

Could she bear it? If Papa found out, her arguments for medical school would be nullified.... She couldn't even think about what her mama would insist on—possibly that Hattie not leave the house again until Papa arrived back in town. Why did this have to happen now?

And what would Maxwell think? Hot tears scalded beneath her eyelids. She blinked them away furiously. Even though they'd been close this afternoon, she hated for him to see weakness in her.

Perhaps if she limited her standing and walking for a bit, she could prevent a full episode from coming on.

She would use the wooden chair to help her move between patients and then sit carefully near each one, giving herself ample time to get them water and cooling rags. If someone cried out or became worse, Hattie could always rouse Maxwell or call for Mrs. Potter.

Over the next hour, moving between patients grew more and more difficult. Hattie finally resigned herself to wake Maxwell.

She'd walked several steps toward his cot when she stumbled, this time falling all the way to the floor, catching herself with her hands just beside where he slept.

The noise was enough that he stirred.

She pushed to her knees with difficulty as he sat up in the cot, shoving one hand through his tousled dark curls. His cheeks were flushed with sleep, his eyes drowsy and curious. His shirt had become rumpled and the blanket tangled around him.

“Hattie? You all right? How long has it been?” His last question dissolved in a yawn. He moved his hand from his hair to rub his face. His sock-clad feet met the floor.

If she weren't so upset, she might be discomfited by the intimacy.

“Not long. I—”

She swallowed the words. If she could only get up off the floor on her own, maybe it wouldn't be so humiliating to ask for his help....

“Hattie?” Concerned now, he reached for her.

“I'm not all right. I need your help.” She whispered the difficult words, but he barely acknowledged them as his strong hands closed over her shoulders. To her humiliation, a tear slipped down her cheek.

“Did you trip? Scrape your hands?” He drew her up easily, changing their places as he settled her on the bed, still warm from his body, and knelt before her. Her leg was so weak she had to manipulate it with her hands in order to adjust it into place on the cot.

“It's my nerves. I have...I have a condition very much like multiple sclerosis,” she admitted, keeping her face turned down to her lap. She hadn't wanted him to think less of her, but how could he not, now that she'd said the words aloud? “And I've been in a period of remission for several months, but just now...the nerves have gone. I can barely move my left leg. And...” She held up her hands that trembled uncontrollably, though she still didn't look at him.

“Hattie...” he breathed.

His fingers came to her jaw, just a gentle touch to nudge her face up. She found it too difficult to meet his eyes.

“I can't believe you or your father didn't tell me. I've been letting you work yourself into the ground for three days. If I'd known...”

Now her chin came all the way up—quickly—and her lips firmed. “I'm not an invalid.”

And she immediately saw the way the right side of his mouth had turned upward, just the slightest bit. Had he said what he had to provoke her...purposely? To shake her out of her despondency?

He closed her hands in his, and although her trembling didn't stop—likely wouldn't for several minutes or longer—the warmth of his touch chased away her shame and brought back the shared emotion of earlier. This time, she held his gaze.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

Tears welled again at his easy acceptance. He could've been angry that she hadn't told him all of it before this point, before she needed his help in a large way.

“I've been several weeks without any symptoms,” she told him. “Perhaps the exhaustion has something to do with it. Maybe if I can get a few hours of sleep...”

“And if that doesn't help, then we'll deal with it in the morning.” He sounded so sure, as if dealing with her condition were easy. As if he'd already accepted it. “Do you want me to take you home? Maybe if you slept in your own bed, you'd rest more comfortably.”

She shook her head. “I'd rather stay.”

Again came that half smile, the quirk at one corner of his mouth. “How did I know you were going to say that?”

She told him about the last patient she'd seen, and he told her not to worry, that he and Mrs. Potter could take care of things through the night. When her trembling fingers wouldn't let her take off her shoes, once again his large, warm hands enclosed hers. He tucked her hands into her lap and then unlaced the shoes himself, nimble fingers moving quickly over the task. Where another man might've used the chance to admire her ankles, or worse, Maxwell simply tucked her shoes beneath the cot and spread his hands on his thighs as he boosted himself into a crouch.

“Is there anything else you need?”

Breathless with an emotion she didn't want to name, all she could do was shake her head. He stood, and she tucked her legs beneath the covers, lying down on the cot.

She knew she should try to sleep, but after his tender ministrations, Hattie felt wide-awake, nerves jangling. She lay with her face to the room, cheek on top of her hands, watching Maxwell through slitted eyes. He moved among the patients quietly, steadily. The same way he did everything, she was coming to realize.

He'd handled the news of her condition with remarkable aplomb, looking for ways to take action without overstepping his bounds. He hadn't acted as if having an affliction similar to multiple sclerosis changed his view of her—he'd only asked what she'd needed to get through tonight.

Although Hattie's mother wanted her to court and find a husband, she couldn't imagine another man of her acquaintance being so accepting upon finding out that Hattie had a degenerative disease. It was one of the reasons she'd held herself distant when men attempted to make conversation with her—that and her dreams of becoming a doctor in her own right.

All of a sudden, Mama's pushing her in Maxwell's direction didn't seem so bad.

Was it because Maxwell had seen her working, first alongside her papa and then with him? He had to know she was capable, even if her nerves limited her usefulness on the rare occasion.

She didn't know. All she knew was that somehow...Maxwell hadn't made her feel like less of a person when he'd found out. He'd even teased her.

She thought perhaps...perhaps he still saw her as an equal.

When she finally fell off to sleep, a small smile curved her lips.

* * *

Maxwell moved as quietly as he could through the rows of cots and pallets, toting the large pot of boiled water that had been brought for their use this morning. He settled it on the makeshift worktable he and Hattie had set up—was it just yesterday?—and turned to assess the room, where most of the patients slept quietly.

They'd taken on two additional cases in the night, but the sickness seemed to have slowed. He would have to thank his brothers for their quick response in spreading the word—surely it had had something to do with keeping more people from coming down with the dreaded cholera. Or maybe it just hadn't hit as hard here as it had in Pear Grove. He didn't know.

He'd sent Mrs. Potter home for a few hours of rest and was the only one awake in the building, for the moment. He knew the disease would take several more days to pass for these people—if they could keep them hydrated enough to survive. Certainly no one, not even little Bobby, who was much improved, was out of the woods yet.

But he'd found a kernel of hope when the boy had spoken.

He was a little embarrassed that Hattie had witnessed his emotional reaction. He would never live it down if any of his brothers found out that he'd been brought to tears by a little child, but Hattie's reaction had been just as powerful as his.

He'd held her, they'd held each other—and the closeness they'd shared frightened him in light of his past.

Thoughts of his colleague brought his gaze down to where she rested close by.

Dawn's light barely lit the windows of the church building, but it was enough for him to see her profile as she slept. She looked more peaceful than he'd ever seen her. And with good reason. Was sleep the only time she felt that way? Now he knew how big her struggles really were. Not only did she have to fight to do what she loved—against her mother's wishes, against the prejudice of others like Mr. Spencer—but she also had to overcome a debilitating medical condition. He couldn't imagine what she went through each day, yet she gave her all in the clinic.

His admiration for her knew no bounds. But admiration had nothing to do with how beautiful she looked right at this moment. Her hair had loosened from its pins and curled around her jaw. Her lashes were a shadowy smudge against her cheeks, and he could barely make out the light dusting of freckles across the slope of her pert nose.