He didn’t even say he’d be back. He would come back though, wouldn’t he? Even though he said he didn’t want her? And now that he seemed to want to be a doctor again, did he still want her farm? A dishwater bubble sparkled in the glow of the lamp and expanded from her furious pot scrubbing. But did that mean he really didn’t want her either? Her hands stilled, and the iridescent beauty exploded.
Travis felt the pace of the last few days. He hoped this was his last stop before getting back to Heaven. And Angel, she had to be better. If she’d turned for the worse, he wouldn’t know, because Heaven wouldn’t have left her sister to find him. Guilt gnawed at his stomach. He should have at least sent someone to the farm.
“You have to keep the baby away from Mrs. Shaw.” Travis stared at Mr. Shaw’s eyes until the man blinked.
“I’m sure it’s difficult for all of you. I’ll explain it to her again. Will you tell her I’m here, please?” Travis stripped off his coat and hung it over the back of a wooden chair. He turned back. “It looks like the town escaped a major epidemic. The mayor is considering lifting the quarantine.”
“How many did we lose?”
“One was too many, but the five we lost could have been much higher.”
“She won’t quit crying for the baby.” The man swayed the infant in his arms. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep Etta away from her.”
Instead of placing the baby in the hand-carved cradle, Mr. Shaw plunked the infant into Travis’s arms. “Here, as long she’s held, she won’t cry. And if she’s not making noise, it’s easier for me to keep Etta calm.”
Before Travis could protest, the anxious husband raced past him to the bedroom. The door closed with a solid clunk.
He eyed the small cabin, looking for a pitcher of water. It would have been good to have at least washed his hands before holding the baby. Perhaps he could lay her down for a second. He made soothing baby sounds and leaned over the cradle. The baby’s eyelids sprang open, and her mouth formed an O. Her little chest rose as she sucked in air. Her face turned red. Travis scooped her up and cradled her in his arms before a sound could escape her tiny body. At least he’d washed his hands well before leaving the last sick family.
What was taking so long? He glanced at the door and swayed from side to side. One more look at the bedroom, and he realized he would be holding the baby a little longer. He was so tired, and that rocker by the cradle beckoned him. Maybe Mr. Shaw was having some success at convincing Mrs. Shaw to be patient. He yawned.
He decided to take a chance on the baby not liking the rocker. He’d still be holding her, so maybe she’d remain quiet. He would ease into the chair. He dropped, sinking a few inches at a time until his thighs burned. The baby didn’t seem discombobulated, so he sat.
This was nice; babies were nice. Babies with Heaven would be even nicer. He rocked and relaxed. He wanted to get home and talk to Heaven. The way they had left each other sawed at him. Why couldn’t she just admit she loved him and would marry him? Instead, she threw the marriage sacrament at him as if it didn’t mean anything. He knew she was hurt and scared when she said it, and if he were a lesser man, he would have said, “Fine, let’s get it done. Get the preacher and say the words.”
But he wanted a home like his parents’ home, like the Shaw family’s home, and he would wait until she was ready, even if he had to spend the entire winter in the barn.
Etta Shaw’s voice rose to a crescendo, and Travis heard her pleading to see the little girl. He wouldn’t allow it, not when the mother was this ill. So far the baby seemed healthy. The goat’s milk was keeping her body strong, and he wanted her to stay that way. But he couldn’t stop Mr. Shaw from taking the baby to her mother. He hoped for the baby’s sake Mr. Shaw would be strong enough to make his wife wait.
Mrs. Shaw wailed. Travis’s back stiffened. He gripped the tiny baby to his chest and rocked harder. Please God, heal her mother and protect this little one. He’d wanted to ask for so much more, but he knew God didn’t answer many of Travis’s prayers, at least not when it came to healing people. The sun that had shined through the window dimmed, and its yellow fingers on the floor turned to gray.
The baby reached out a tiny hand and slid it across his chin. She was too young to have sensed his sadness and reacted to it with a caress of care, but for Travis it felt as if God had reached out and offered him hope.
Heaven wanted to get the morning chores done quickly, so she crept out of the house before the sun came out. Angel was sleeping. The poor child had worn both of them out with her whining. With a lantern to light the way and the egg basket in hand, she headed for the chicken coop. She’d start there and then feed the rest of the animals. She’d have to come back later and muck the stalls. She’d really hoped Travis would have returned by now, since that was a chore she hadn’t minded handing over to him.
Angry squawks blasted from inside the coop. Something was wrong. The chickens shouldn’t even be awake. She broke into a run. As the lantern swung from her hand, it cast ghostly shadows across the yard. She reached the door. It was open a crack. She’d shut it last night, hadn’t she?
She yanked it the rest of the way open.
Yellow eyes glared at her, and her blood chilled as she took in the scattered feathers and a half-dead chicken clutched between sharp teeth.
A fox—and she hadn’t brought the gun. She was armed with a basket and fire.
The fox growled, and she took a step back. She had to get him out of there. They needed those chickens. Without them they would surely starve. Maybe if she opened the door all the way so he’d have a clean exit, he would leave. She eased the basket to the ground but not the lantern. As long as she had that, the fox wouldn’t come after her, would it? Putting all of her strength into her one arm, she dragged the lopsided door across the dirt until the opening to the coop was much wider.
Her heart thumping, she picked up the basket, and she banged it against the side of the building. “Get out!”
The stubborn fox didn’t move. Just blinked at her. A red feather floated from his mouth.
She stepped to the opening and hurled the basket at him, knocking him squarely between the ears.
He shook his head and feathers flew, but he didn’t release the chicken.
She yelled again, stomping her foot. This time he seemed to understand he might be in danger and ran from the building still grasping her chicken. She let him go.
The vim and vigor she had directed at the fox drained away faster than money in a gambler’s hand, and hard shivers took their place. Why had she come out without her gun? She could have been attacked, and then Angel would have been all alone. She wanted to collapse onto the damp ground and have a good cry. But if she did, the fox might return.
She set the lantern on the ground and inspected the door. The fox must have tugged on the bottom of the door and worked the hinge loose from the frame. She didn’t have the means to repair it or the time. She ran her hand through her hair. If she didn’t fix the door, the fox would have another free meal tonight. And he might tell his friends.
She could put the chickens in the barn, but it wasn’t as secure as the chicken coop had been. She slid a hank of her hair through her fingers and worried the ends. Was there something in the barn she could easily move back and forth as a temporary door? That wouldn’t work, because if she could move it, then so could the fox. It would have to be heavy.
She counted the chickens in the coop. Not many were left. One seemed to be struggling for air. She plucked it off the dirt floor and wrung its neck. She could use it to make broth this morning for Angel. Maybe even have enough meat for a small meal. She took the dead chicken outside, found the bucket to stick it in, and placed it on the porch. After she finished the barn chores, she’d take care of pulling out the feathers.
As for the chickens that were still living, it seemed they would be roosting in her cabin come evening.
Chapter 30
Heaven stood at the stove, eyes bu
rning. Sleep was something she didn’t remember. She stirred the chicken broth, hoping that this time it would stay down in Angel’s stomach instead of erupting all over her. She rubbed the back of her neck where the knots had settled. She took a small sip of the broth to test the flavor. She had plucked the meat off the bone earlier and set it aside on a plate. She would have some for lunch along with the dreaded green beans. And maybe, just maybe Travis would come home and she would have a meal for him.
She regretted the words she shouted at him before he left. Her embarrassment of throwing herself at him and being rejected clung like the fog clung to the cedar trees outside. She wanted to clear that fog like the sun would clear a foggy day. Did he feel the same? She had no way to find out until he returned. She didn’t even know how Annabelle and Jake and his mother were doing. Had they come down with the measles as well?
She tasted the broth. It was the right temperature, so she dipped it into a cup and took it to Angel. “Can you sit up for me, sweetheart?”
“I don’t want any.” Angel rolled away from her.
“Angel, you have to try. You won’t get better if you don’t eat.”
“Chicken broth will not cure the measles. Everybody knows that.”
“Angel Claire, you sit up right now and try to drink this.” Maybe if she’d barked at her like a ferocious dog, her sister would obey.
Using her elbows, Angel scooted herself up into a half-sitting position. She glared at her sister with her red-rimmed eyes. “You know what’s going to happen don’t you?”
“Until you drink it, we won’t know, will we?” She placed the cup in her sister’s hand and waited for her to take a sip. She felt her teeth move over her bottom lip as she chewed on it waiting for the results she figured would happen a moment after the broth hit her sister’s stomach. But she had to try to get Angel to eat. Heaven didn’t have to wait long, as Angel leaned over the edge of the bed and let the contents of her stomach flow into a pan on the floor.
“I told you so.” Angel was too tired to even wipe her face before falling back onto her pillow and closing her eyes.
Heaven reached into the other bucket on the floor that held cold water and a rag. She wrung out the rag and with great care wiped her sister’s face. “We had to try, sweetie. Next time I will listen to you. I hope you feel better soon, because we have a whole chicken to eat.”
Angel groaned. “I don’t want to talk about chicken. Or green beans either.”
By afternoon Angel no longer complained, as her fever went from a slow-burning ember to a roaring fire. Heaven stroked her sister’s face with a cool washcloth and prayed, begging God to save Angel, to bring her back from this rising fever that attacked her. Unlike the broken dishes–patterned quilt on the edge of the bed, if Angel died, Heaven didn’t think her life could be pieced back together.
She had no hope of saving her sister. It was like before, with Ma. Only this time she was doing what Travis told her to do, and it wasn’t working. She’d lost track of time between emptying sick buckets and wiping cool rags across Angel. Had it been three or four days since Annabelle had left? And Travis hadn’t returned since the night he left. Heaven couldn’t remember all of the days. Hours and minutes swirled together since Angel got sick.
Unidentifiable stains splashed across the bottom of her apron. She hadn’t even changed her clothes for days. And when was the last time she’d combed her hair? Or even ate? None of it mattered now. She dropped the cloth back into the bucket.
Heaven stood and stretched. Washing her sister down wasn’t helping, and Heaven felt blackness slipping into her soul. Maybe if she read a few chapters of the Bible, some of God’s promises, she’d feel better. She fetched it from the small table next to the fireplace and brought it to the kitchen chair she’d dragged over next to Angel’s bedside.
“Angel, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I think reading some of God’s words will make us both feel better.” The weighty book offered the presence of her father and mother almost as if they sat next to her. When Travis had brought it to her, she’d cried, having thought it was lost forever. She realized he’d taken the time to look for the things that meant the most to her, the daguerreotype, the family Bible, and even that silly book on manners. He hadn’t found it—Mr. Jackson did—but Travis rescued it for her. He’d been putting her home back together, not just the cabin her father had given to him. Her home.
“Angel, I’m going to read about the little girl that Jesus healed. Do you remember that story? Everyone thought she had died, and they were on the streets mourning her, but Jesus came and said she wasn’t dead but merely sleeping.” Her sister didn’t move, not even a twitch of an eyelid.
Heaven couldn’t remember exactly where to look in the Bible for the miraculous story of Jesus healing the girl before he even arrived at her father’s home. As she turned the fragile pages, now water-stained and some even creased from the storm, she thought about how many people in her mother’s family had turned these same pages. Had they, too, come here when all seemed lost? There weren’t any papers or notes stored in it from those relatives. Perhaps they had only seen the book as something to own and not as a way to grow closer to God, as Ma had taught her and Angel.
Pa began to read from its pages only after Ma had passed on. He’d changed a lot after they moved here from Nashville. He no longer stayed away all hours of the night and came home smelling of cigars and whiskey.
She turned another thin page, and her hand stilled. She saw a passage underlined and something written in small letters next to it. She traced the inked line, Matthew 6:34, with her finger as she read. “Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
Underlined. And a note. No one ever wrote in the Holy Book. Was that her pa’s handwriting? She turned the book sideways and pulled it closer to the lamplight. The print was so tiny she had to squint to read it: This is the way I want my daughters to live.
She closed the book. The way he wanted her and Angel to live? Without worry? She wanted that, too, but how was that possible when her sister could die? Her head clogged with burning tears straining for release. She swallowed them. Even though her emotions warred with her exhaustion, she wanted to think about this message.
She stood and placed the Bible back on the mantel where she’d been storing it since Travis returned it. She tugged the chair a little closer to the fire and picked up the quilt draped across the back. She sat back between the arms of the battered blue rocker and covered her lap with her grandmother’s quilt.
What else didn’t she know about Pa? The warmth of the fire melded with the weight of the blanket, and her eyelids shuttered. She wasn’t going to fall asleep; she needed to make sure Angel’s fever didn’t climb higher. She rocked a little bit harder in the chair, hoping the action would help her stay awake. She entered into conversation with God, begging Him to heal Angel from the sickness and to bring Travis back to the cabin soon so they could talk. She had many things to say to him.…
Startled, Heaven sprung from the rocking chair. What woke her? Was Travis back? A quick glance at the mantel clock and her heartbeat jumped. She’d slept for almost three hours instead of the few minutes she’d intended.
Angel moaned and thrashed in her bed. Her hand smacked against the wall.
Heaven rubbed her eyes as she sped across the floor to her patient. She bent over and pressed the palm of her hand against her sister’s rosy cheek. She yanked it back, gasped, and covered her mouth. Angel’s fever was higher than ever. She had to lower it. She knew if she didn’t, her sister would die. Cold water this time, not hot, and no blankets piled to keep Angel warm. Heaven thanked God for bringing her this knowledge through Travis as she rushed with her bucket to fill it with cold pond water. Please, God, don’t take her away from me.
Travis wondered how Heaven could go on living after losing so many people she loved. Being a doctor at times like this
made him feel inadequate. He was supposed to be a healer, and that’s what he had wanted to be. When he chose to be a physician, he thought he would be saving people, making their lives better, bringing joy to the world through babies. Not this. Never this.
He straightened the sheets around the small girl, placing her little hands on top of the sheet. Carefully and artfully he arranged her golden hair and closed her eyes. Cassie, Angel is going to miss you. This could be Angel lying here instead of her new friend from church. The memory of Angel’s face radiating happiness that day in the barn caught him off guard. He knew she would be heartsick, which meant that Heaven would be as well. Once again he would be the bearer of bad news. He was thankful this wasn’t Angel, but she would be devastated. If she lived. He took a moment to adjust his expression before turning to the parents and saying the words they didn’t want to hear. “I’m sorry. There wasn’t anything I could do.”
The mother’s face collapsed like a melting candle, and her husband held tightly to her waist to keep her from dripping to the floor. But from where did the father pull his strength? Travis couldn’t imagine being that strong if it were Angel lying there.
They knew she was dying. They’d caught him before leaving the Shaws’. He’d warned them the minute he’d seen her, but the reality that she really did die hit hard. He supposed parents hold on to hope until the bitter end. He thought about Heaven and wondered how Angel was doing. Please, God, please let her live. Don’t let the measles take her as well. He excused himself and stumbled out of the bedroom, not wanting the parents to see the grief on his own face. Along with the fear that he might be losing someone he had come to love as a daughter.
Bride's Dilemma in Friendship, Tennessee Page 23