Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (9 page)

“How can I help you today?”

“There’s something not right with Jimmy and I don’t know what it is,” Mrs. Trotter explained. Jimmy was a rail-thin child with skinny legs and arms and a gaunt face that seemed too small to support his mop of unruly brown hair. A good wind could blow him away.

“Come in and we’ll take a look.” He held the door open for mother and child and led them into the examination room. Magic took one look at them before flopping down to resume his nap.

“You can sit on my special bench,” Caleb said, pointing to the leather-covered table.

Jimmy stepped on the footstool and seated himself on the edge
of the table, his skinny legs dangling over the side. His mother sat on a ladder-back chair and Caleb lowered himself onto a stool. “You said something’s not right,” he probed.

Mrs. Trotter nodded. Her salt-and-pepper hair was swept into an untidy bun beneath her bonnet as if she had pinned it up in haste. She was dressed in a no-nonsense gray skirt and plain white shirtwaist that had seen better days.

“He complains of stomachaches and hardly eats. He can’t even get through his daily chores.”

“How long has he been this way?” Caleb asked.

“Since the first of the year.”

Caleb arched an eyebrow. “So he’s been like this for several months?”

She nodded. “His father says he’s just lazy.”

It was the kind of response Caleb had come to expect from paternal parents. An illness was often viewed as an indictment against a man’s ability to care for his family and consequently discounted or ignored. “Do you have other children?”

“Six altogether, including Jimmy.”

“Do any of your other children show similar symptoms?”

She shook her head. “No, they’re healthy as horses.”

Caleb turned to the boy. “Take off your shirt and we’ll have a look.” The boy glanced at his mother for permission before stuffing a silver foil ball between his legs and reaching for his buttons.

“How old are you, Jimmy?”

“Eight.”

Caleb had guessed wrong. The boy was clearly undersized for his age. “You said he doesn’t eat.”

“Not when his stomach hurts,” Mrs. Trotter replied.

Jimmy slid his suspenders down his arms and took off his shirt.
Caleb noted several bruises on the boy’s chest. “How often does your stomach hurt, Jimmy?”

“Most every day,” Jimmy said. He stared down at the floor as if admitting to some misdeed.

Caleb reached for his stethoscope, slipped the ivory ear bits in place, and lifted the bell-shaped chest piece to Jimmy’s bone-thin torso. Jimmy pulled back, eyes wide.

“It won’t hurt you,” Caleb said. “It’s called a stethoscope and it helps me hear what’s going on inside.” Dr. Masterson, like many older doctors, still used the percussion method of examination, which involved tapping the chest and listening for sounds.

Jimmy relaxed but kept his eyes on the chest piece. His lungs sounded fine but his heartbeat was weak. The boy’s skin was pale but clear except for the bruises. His temperature was normal.

“Any fever?”

Mrs. Trotter shook her head. “No.”

“Make two fists for me.” Caleb held out his hands to demonstrate.

Jimmy followed Caleb’s lead.

Caleb checked the boy’s reflexes and looked in his ears and throat. “Did you know that your heart is a muscle and it’s the same size as both your fists?”

Jimmy’s eyes widened as he looked down at his hands.

Caleb smiled at the boy’s expression. “I bet you don’t know the strongest muscle in the body.”

Jimmy looked up. He had his mother’s hazel eyes, only his were ringed with fatigue instead of worry. “The heart?”

“It’s the tongue. But I wouldn’t try picking up a rock with it.”

Jimmy fingered his tongue.

“Say red leather, yellow leather,” Caleb said.

“Red leather, yellow leather.”

“Now say it fast.”

“Red leather, lellow feather.” Jimmy laughed. “Red flether, bellow—

Even Mrs. Trotter laughed at her son’s attempt to say the tonguetwister. Caleb was willing to bet the woman hadn’t laughed much in recent months.

While Jimmy was occupied with trying to get the words right, Caleb pricked the boy’s finger, took a blood sample, and reached for a bandage. Jimmy hardly seemed to notice.

“You can put your shirt back on.” Caleb pulled off his stethoscope.

All kinds of possibilities ran through Caleb’s head. Some, like cancer, were serious, others not so much. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a child with similar complaints. One of his instructors at medical school gave a lecture on the “mystery” illness that seemed to run rampant in city slums. So what was this illness and why was it suddenly affecting so many children?

Jimmy’s lack of dental or skeletal problems ruled out the possibility of rickets. Nonetheless, he questioned Mrs. Trotter on her family’s diet.

“I have a vegetable garden,” she said. “We raise chickens and goats, so our children also get plenty of meat and milk.”

“What does he do in his spare time?” Caleb asked.

“He doesn’t have much spare time.” She smiled fondly at her son. “I make him practice readin’ and writin’ every day. And he still has chores. Mostly he sleeps. He seems tired all the time.”

Caleb tapped his chin and considered other possibilities. A number of diseases could cause exhaustion and swollen lymph nodes. Could be a low-grade infection or allergy. Mrs. Trotter said her other children were healthy, but as Lucretius pointed out in
the first century BC, what was food to one might be poison to another.

“What do you think, Doctor?” Mrs. Trotter’s voice and demeanor pleaded for good news.

“The bruises and pale skin suggest anemia. That means his white blood count is probably high. Anemia can be a symptom of many things.”

She knitted her brow. “Like what, exactly?”

“Uh . . . allergies. Infections.” He cited other possibilities. “I’d like to run some tests.”

Mrs. Trotter looked him square in the face. “Dr. Fairbanks, I may not be what you call an educated woman, but I know when someone’s beating around the bush. I reckon there’s not much ground left around that bush about now.” As if to brace herself for the bad news to come, she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. “Doctor?”

He glanced at Jimmy playing with his foil ball. “Why don’t you wait in the other room while I talk to your mother?” He glanced at Magic asleep in the corner. “You can take my dog with you.”

Jimmy slid off the examining table, clapped his hands to get Magic’s attention, and left the room with the dog at his heels.

Caleb blew out his breath and sat forward, hands folded on the desk. Would he ever get used to delivering bad news? “There is a . . . condition called leukemia. I’m not saying that’s what your son has, but we have to consider it.”

“Is this . . .”

“Leukemia.”

“Is this . . . leukemia serious?”

He sat back, as if distancing himself from her would make what he said any easier. “I’m afraid it is.”

She took a sharp intake of air but otherwise remained motionless. After giving her a moment to gather her thoughts, he continued, “Leukemia is a cancer of the blood cells. I’m not fully convinced that’s what we’re dealing with, but like I said we have to consider it.”

Her shoulders sagged and her lips trembled. His words had sunk in. “How . . . how contagious is it?”

“It’s not. Or at least not that we know of.”

She studied him from beneath tightly drawn brows. “If it’s not contagious, how would he have gotten such a thing?”

“It’s hard to say,” he said. “We know a lot more about diseases than we did even a few years ago, but we still have a lot to learn.”

“In other words, you don’t know.”

“I’m afraid not. Like I said, it’s just one possibility. Meanwhile, I’ll give you a tonic to help replace any nutrients he might be missing. Just to make certain, we don’t want to overlook the possibility of an allergy. It would help if you keep a diary of everything he eats and drinks. Also, list any of his symptoms and the time of day he experiences them.”

A doctor was only as good as his detective skills. He stood and reached into the cabinet for a bottle of cod liver oil and handed it to her as a measure against scurvy and rickets. No one knew why cod liver oil worked, but it did.

She sat perfectly still for a moment, as if she needed time to brace herself before moving. Finally she stood. “I’ll bring him back next week.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “I want to see him tomorrow.”

She hesitated. “My husband and I . . . we can’t afford any luxuries.”

“This is not a luxury.” The Trotters weren’t alone in their thinking. Shelter, food, and clothing were all many families could afford. “We’ll work something out,” he assured her. “The most
important thing right now is that Jimmy gets all the care we can give him.”

She stared at him for a moment before turning to leave. She walked to the door as if in a trance. “Tomorrow.”

Moments later Caleb stood at the window facing the street and watched Mrs. Trotter and her son drive away in a horse and wagon. It wasn’t even noon and already he felt inadequate. He’d been warned at medical school not to get emotionally involved with his patients, but how could he not?

With a heavy sigh he lifted his gaze to the expanse of blue sky.
Heavenly Father, Jimmy needs help—bad. We both do.

Chapter 9

M
olly stood, whip in hand, and tried to focus. She had been at the ranch for only a week and already she was exhausted.

“Watch it!” Brodie yelled. “Don’t let him jump.”

Despite her best efforts the horse headed for the fence, but Brodie managed to turn him at the very last minute. Brodie threw down his whip.

“What’s the matter with you, girl? I told you not to let him jump.”

Molly bit back tears. She was like a butterf ly afraid to light. She was forever racing between the horse corrals, barn, range, and house. Her days had no form or structure and time was but a blur.

It was muck out the stables and check on Donny; exercise the horses and check on Donny; track down a stray steer and check on Donny. Every bone in her body ached, and today she was late taking Donny his lunch, yet again.

Later that afternoon while the other ranch hands took a muchneeded respite from the hot sun, she searched for Rosita. She found the Mexican housekeeper at last in the washhouse in back. The girl moved about like a shadow, hardly making a sound. Today she stood
ironing sheets, a dreamy expression on her face and her mind clearly miles away.

Noticing Molly, she jumped and looked momentarily confused, like one awakened from a deep sleep. “You want something, señorita?”

“Yes, I need a favor,” Molly said. “Do you mind?”

Rosita shook her head, though the brown eyes regarding Molly from beneath a starched white cap clearly said otherwise.

“I wonder if you would be so kind as to check on my brother during the day while I’m working?” Molly hadn’t wanted to ask anyone for help but she didn’t know what else to do. How ridiculous to think she could manage both taking care of Donny and ranch chores by herself.

Rosita set one iron down and reached for another on the iron stove. “I work for Señorita Walker. Big house.”

“Yes, I realize you have much to do, but what I ask won’t take long. I’ll pay you for your services.”

Rosita shook her head. “No time.”

“But I’m only asking for a few minutes a day, at most,” Molly persisted. “I just want you to check on him on occasion and, if need be, to move his chair to another spot so he doesn’t have to sit in the same place all day.”

“No time,” Rosita repeated. She sprinkled the bedsheet with lavender water and pushed the heavy iron back and forth. Wispy fingers of steam curled ghost-like from the sheet she pressed.

Molly left the washhouse close to tears, praying all the while that Brodie hadn’t noticed her absence.

Caleb drove out to the ranch to check on Miss Walker’s horse. The place appeared deserted save for Miss Hatfield’s brother sitting on
the porch in his wheelchair. He was either asleep or reading, hard to tell which.

“Come on, boy.” He lifted Magic out of the vehicle and set him on the ground.