Courting Misfortune

by Regina Jennings

  Footsteps were coming. Calista paused, holding her breath. Should she close the file cabinet and unlock the door? No. She still had work to do. Besides, this facility was managed by kindhearted women, not the Chicago mob. She wasn’t at risk of anything except a stern talking-to and being forbidden from ever volunteering again.

  To be honest, she might miss getting to come back.

  The footsteps stopped in front of the records office door. Her focus burned on the doorknob, watching for movement. It turned, then the door jammed forward, but the deadbolt lock held firm. Calista gripped her scarf and pressed it against her chest. The door rattled as the potential opener refused to believe it to be stuck.

  “Mrs. Fairfield, this door is jammed.” It was Mrs. Bowman. “Can you open it?”

  Mrs. Fairfield either had the strength to fix it or thought she did, because in no time, a thud crashed into the door. But the deadbolt held firmly.

  “That’s puzzling.” Mrs. Bowman’s voice came through the door. “This has never happened before. I’m not even sure there’s a key, but we must get it open.”

  Calista tidied up the files and slid the wooden drawer closed. She still had half the files to look through, but that would have to wait until next time. If there was a next time.

  “Mr. Cook, just the man we need. The lock on this door is jammed. Could you open it for us?”

  Calista rolled her eyes. Matthew? He was supposed to be at the mine. This couldn’t get any worse. Her heart thrilled at the timbre of his voice, but less inspiring was the thought that his help made her discovery unavoidable.

  “Is it locked from the inside? How’d that happen?”

  She looked around the room. There was no escape. Hiding beneath the desk might buy her seconds, but what good would that do? Should she come out of her own accord, or hope that he would give up and she might have a chance to get out later?

  After rattling the door a few times, he asked for a screwdriver. He wasn’t giving up.

  “This doorframe will be scratched up when I’m done,” he said.

  “We have to get in there sometime,” Mrs. Fairfield said. “We don’t have a choice.”

  Calista chewed her fingernail off, then spat it across the room. What would be the best diversion? Pretending to be a fluff-head worked in many situations, but no one was dumb enough to stand in an office and not notice while people broke through the wall. With a practiced eye, she measured the floor space. Could she curl up and pretend to be waking from a nap? Because a lady might just get overcome with weariness on her way to hang wet laundry, and lie down for a morning nap? No, unbelievable. Amnesia? She rubbed her elbow, deep in thought. There was a bookshelf. Knock it off the wall, let a book hit her in the head, and then they could discover her unconscious on the floor. If she could convince them that her memory had been wiped clean, she wouldn’t have to provide a reason that she’d locked the door in the first place.

  From the sounds on the doorknob, Matthew was making progress. In no time, he would have that screwdriver rammed into the doorframe, and he’d wedge the deadbolt back. She went to the desk and pulled her knee up on the desktop. From there, she’d be able to reach the shelf of books. The tricky part would be pulling it down without causing a racket. For her plan to work, they needed to think she’d been unconscious since she’d left them. But what about her head? Shouldn’t there be some evidence of her injury? A knot, at the very least?

  Just as she was reaching for the shelf, the tone outside the door changed. Everyone standing around Matthew had silenced, and a raised voice could be heard from farther down the hall.

  “We’re on our way,” Mrs. Fairfield said. “Hurry, ladies.”

  There was a general commotion as footsteps scrambled toward the east wing of the building, then silence. Calista eased herself off the desk, bending to pick up papers that she’d scattered. After tidying the desk, she hefted the basket of wet laundry onto her hip, tiptoed to the door, and pressed her ear against the varnished wood.

  It was absolutely silent in the hallway. Sometimes the Lord worked miracles for people who didn’t deserve them. Today was one of those days. Calista slid the deadbolt open, grimacing at each click of the mechanism that echoed down the empty hallway. With her nose to the opening, she slowly pushed against the door, seeing only the empty hall ahead of her. What sudden emergency had called them all away? Whatever it was, she hoped it gave her enough time to make it outside before anyone returned.

  No sooner had she taken her first step into the hall than she heard a deep voice that stopped her in her tracks.

  “Calista York.” It was Matthew, arms crossed and eyebrows lowered. “What were you doing in there?”

  Her mouth went dry. The closer she could keep to the truth, the more chance she had of keeping him close. “I shouldn’t have gone in there,” she said. “Just snooping, like I’m wont to do. Please don’t tell on me.”

  “Snooping for what?”

  She shrugged. “Curiosity?”

  “What could a Children’s Home possibly be hiding in their records that would interest you?”

  For the time being, she’d rather study his tanned forearms than look him in the face. “I didn’t know what was behind the door. I just stepped in, then—”

  “Then locked the door behind you and refused to open it when a chorus of people were banging on it?” Those forearms flexed. “You might not credit me with much intelligence, but—”

  The door at the end of the east wing burst open, and Mrs. Bowman ran in with her cap slipping off to the side of her head. “I’m off to summon Dr. Stevenson,” she said as she brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Do you have a horse saddled?”

  “I’m afoot,” Matthew said. Calista gasped as he grabbed her arm. “But Miss York here is a nurse.”

  “Praise be to God.” Mrs. Bowman clapped her hands together. “Come on, then. Patty broke her arm. We don’t know what to do.” She turned and fled back down the hall.

  Calista’s knees weakened. She leaned against Matthew. “I’m a nurse?” The tremble in her voice should have told him that she was unsure, but he propelled her forward.

  “Don’t you dare doubt your training now.”

  Training? The closest thing Calista had ever experienced to medical work was watching a chicken lay an egg at Granny Laura’s. On the ranch, she’d stayed clear of all the birthing, butchering, and doctoring. With a dozen rambunctious cousins underfoot in the summer, someone was always falling out of the hayloft, or getting stuck by a pitchfork, or scraping the dickens out of their knees. It was general knowledge that you had to get Calista out of the way before you helped the injured, or you’d have two patients to deal with.

  From childhood to her dangerous profession, she’d never learned to manage seeing the human body in anything less than optimal form. Even Aunt Myra’s illness made her queasy. The thought of an appendage going in an unnatural direction was enough to dim the lights.

  Matthew didn’t know this, and Matthew didn’t care. Instead, he was dragging her outside toward a group of kids gathered in a tight circle, all looking at something she’d give everything not to see.

  She twisted out of his grasp. “Give me a moment,” she pleaded.

  The bright sun gave her an excuse to pause so her eyes could adjust. Or perhaps she should look directly at the sun and blind herself so she wouldn’t have to see the sight that awaited her. Calista pressed her hand against her forehead. She had to remember her persona. For this case she was using her real name, but she was still pretending to be someone else, and that Calista was competent and helpful. That Calista knew what to do to ease the pain of the child and to settle the nerves of the ladies at the home. Could she be that Calista long enough to do what needed to be done? She had no choice. Not only would it save her mission, but some little girl named Patty needed her too.

  “Alright, I’m ready.”

  With a gentle hand at her back, Matthew steered her through the crowd. Pushing thoughts of the actua
l injury away, Calista focused on what else she could accomplish.

  “Mrs. Bowman,” she said, “send these children away. They aren’t needed here. And send for the doctor. He’ll need to . . .” What was it that a doctor would do that she couldn’t do? She had no idea. “He’ll need to bring some medicine,” she finally said.

  “Yes, ma’am. What kind of medicine?”

  Calista nearly laughed. “Whatever medicine fixes broken arms. He’ll know what to bring.”

  Over the heads of the children, Mrs. Fairfield looked at her skeptically. The temptation to throw herself against Matthew and bury her face in his chest was overwhelming, but Calista fought it valiantly.

  Walking toward the cries, she kept her focus on the little girl’s face. Tear-swept and contorting in pain, the girl’s eyes flashed around like a frightened horse’s.

  “Patty?” Calista said. “I’m here to help.” She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  “Ouch! Don’t touch it.” Patty squirmed away.

  “Sorry!” Calista pulled her hand away and, without meaning to, caught sight of an arm that had an extra bend to it. Her mouth went dry, and she felt the blood drain from her face. Calista could tell that Mrs. Fairfield was frowning at her, but then her ample face blurred.

  “Hey.” It was Matthew shaking her back to sensibility. “What can I do?” he asked as he knelt next to her.

  Unless he could miraculously fix broken bones, Calista didn’t know what help he could offer, but she needed him. She felt like she was going to gag. She unwrapped the scarf from around her neck to keep from choking and was surprised when Matthew took it from her.

  “Should I bind her arm with this?”

  All she could see in the spinning world were his deep brown eyes. She nodded, and the movement sent her toppling to the side with barely enough time to catch herself.

  “I don’t think Miss York is well,” said Mrs. Fairfield.

  “She’s worried about the child,” said Matthew.

  Even with her compromised faculties, Calista could hear him soothing the girl.

  “It’ll feel better if we can hold it steady,” he was saying to Patty. “Let me wrap this around like this, and then let’s tie it behind your neck. Here, I’ll hold it. Calista . . .”

  Again, she was drawn back to his eyes. “Yes?”

  “Tie it.” Somehow, he’d managed to get the ends of the scarf over Patty’s shoulders while holding her arm steady.

  “Of course.” She rolled from her backside to her knees and crawled to Patty, fighting through her tangled skirts. With shaking hands, she took up the ends of the scarf. Drawing a deep breath, Calista tried to make some knot that would hold, but her fingers fumbled the ends of the scarf. She had to do this. At least this much. She tried not to think of bones and breaks and misshapen appendages, but instead focused on Patty’s thick dark braid.

  Who braided her hair? Did the girls do it themselves, or did one of these teachers make rounds in the morning, fixing hair? Patty had no bow, only a piece of twine securing the end of the braid. This scarf would liven up her ensemble. Just a secure knot at the back of her neck, and then cover it with the braid.

  “There.” Calista leaned back, satisfied with the bow she’d fashioned in the silk. “That looks pretty.”

  “Pretty?” Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Will it keep her arm from further damage?”

  Her arm? Calista could feel her stomach rolling over again. She couldn’t keep the dreadful image at bay much longer. If she fainted, they would all know—

  “Look who I found coming up the road.” Mrs. Bowman ran through the courtyard with good old Dr. Stevenson right behind her. “He was headed out to the mines when I caught him.”

  “Let’s see what we have here.” Dr. Stevenson didn’t pause but went directly to Patty. Pushing the scarf to the end of her elbow, he examined the offending portion of her arm. “Yes, you did yourself no favors today, sister,” he said.

  Calista stood, then leaned over her basket of wet clothes as she caught her breath.

  “Thank you for doing what you could,” Mrs. Fairfield said. “It was a comfort knowing she was in your capable hands.”

  “Now that the doctor’s here, I’ll go hang this laundry,” Calista said. She grasped the handles of the wicker basket but found she had no strength to lift it.

  “Allow me.” Matthew swung the basket beneath his arm and against his side. “The laundry line is out back?” He didn’t wait for her reply but started that direction.

  Calista followed, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. With the responsibility lifted, all the disturbing thoughts that she’d repressed came running back at her. Memories of bloodied noses at Granny’s, the cat that had been crushed by a wagon wheel, and the bubbly rash that Olive got from climbing the oak tree covered in vines. Too many horrible images for her to handle. She felt the cool shade that meant they’d rounded the corner of the building, and then she felt nothing but relief.

  For someone with nurse training, Calista sure looked as green as a spring onion. The odd angle of Patty’s arm had given Matthew goosebumps, but nothing like how it hit Calista. He was so surprised that he’d almost forgotten to ask why she’d locked herself into the records office.

  He bounced the laundry basket against his side and turned to speak to his companion, but no sooner had he turned than her eyes slid closed and her legs crumpled beneath her.

  “Calista!”

  He dropped the basket and made a snatch for her arm but was too late. She dropped like a sack of potatoes on the green lawn of the Children’s Home. Kneeling, he took her by the shoulders and rolled her over. Her head lolled back, requiring him to cradle her in his arms. She wore perfume. He guessed he’d always known that, but with her rubbing all up against him, he could state it as a fact now.

  “Wake up,” he said. It felt like there should be some sort of endearment included. Wake up, sweetheart? Dear? Honey? But he didn’t feel it fair to be applying endearments when a lady wasn’t able to reject them. Instead, he tapped her on the cheek. “Stop making a scene. You don’t want the kids to see you.”

  “Ohhh . . .” she groaned. Her eyes moved behind closed lids, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to open them.

  Another pop on the cheek seemed excessive. If he had water, that would bring her out of it. Or a kiss. Despite whatever malady had afflicted her, her lips looked one-hundred-percent kissable. Surely that would get her attention.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and you’d best not.”

  Matthew felt a twinge of panic at the words, but Calista’s lips hadn’t uttered them. He knew. He’d been watching.

  The warning came from Calista’s cousin Maisie, who’d appeared before him with her hands on her hips, ready to tangle. Amos stood behind her with a smirk on his face.

  “I’m not thinking anything,” Matthew fibbed.

  “Good thing we ran into Dr. Stevenson and he told us she was here,” Amos said. “Otherwise there’s no telling what indignities you would’ve submitted our cousin to.”

  “I resent your implications,” Matthew said. “I’m trying to revive her.”

  Maisie fished a wet cloth out of the laundry basket and dropped it on Calista’s face. “This soggy diaper will help. I hope it’s clean.”

  Calista sputtered, and Matthew hurried to pull the wet rag off her face. He admired the way she kept her eyes on him as she contemplated her predicament. He also admired that she didn’t seem in any hurry to get up. Pulling his own handkerchief out of his pocket, he dabbed the moisture off her brow, working his way beneath her eyes. He could have spent the entire forenoon in this occupation, but her troublesome kin had other ideas.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Maisie asked.

  Amos chuckled. “Let me guess. Someone got hurt, and she dropped at the first sign of blood?”

  “I don’t understand,” Matthew said. “How can she be a nurse if she’s so squeamish?”

  “A nurse?
” Maisie roared with laughter.

  Matthew didn’t miss the warning look from Amos that interrupted her outburst. “Are you saying that she’s not a nurse?”

  Amos shrugged. “Truth be told, she’s looked after a sick classmate before, but she can’t abide injuries.”

  “We were all atwitter when she disappeared from her school, and I never thought it likely that she’d gone to sit at a sickbed. It doesn’t suit her, but to think that she’d turn to nursing when she goes limp at the thought of a broken limb or cut . . .”

  Disappearing from school? Calista had her hand over her eyes as if shielding them from the light. Or was she hiding from the truth? Come to think of it, Calista’s stories often seemed to diverge from the truth.

  “It does stand to reason that she can’t have worked as a nurse if she responds this way every time,” Matthew said.

  Ignoring his attempts at logic, Maisie picked up another wet rag. “Get up, Calista, or I’m going to slap you with another diaper. You’re wasting our time.”

  When Calista stirred, Matthew offered a hand to help her sit up. He immediately felt the lack of her against him. Almost as strongly, he felt the lack of clarity on what she was doing. He knew she was fibbing to him, but why? That was even more bothersome.

  “I apologize.” Calista arranged her skirt over her knees like she was spreading a picnic blanket. “I don’t know what ailed me.”

  “We’ll take care of you,” Amos said. “Granny sent us to fetch you. She’s tired of waiting for you to come to the ranch.”

  “You don’t know what ailed you?” Matthew couldn’t sit still any longer. Standing, he dusted off his britches before continuing. “Did it have something to do with Patty and her broken arm?”

  Calista’s rosy cheeks paled again. Maisie and her brother exchanged worried looks. Amos took Calista by the arm and hauled her upright. “Ma wants to see you too. She’s been asking about Corban and Evangelina. She also wants your opinion on what color to paint our parlor.”