“Absolutely,” she said, nodding. “We can do all things through Christ.”
Koko nodded, stroking the head of her boy with one hand and cradling her daughter with the other. “Yes, all things through Christ.”
“That’s where the strength is,” Charity added. “We get our strength for all things through the Lord.”
Gus laughed. “Ain’t nothin’ can drag us down. We’re workin’ for God hisself and ain’t no one able to go interferin’ with that.”
Dianne drew a deep breath and felt a warmth spread through her. Yes, she thought, my Father will give me strength to go on. Together, we’ll make this work.
CHAPTER 17
Denver
March 1871
PORTIA MCGUIRE PATTED HER GLOVED HAND AGAINST HER chocolate brown hair. The train travel west from Kansas City to Denver had left her feeling fatigued and dirty, but time was of the essence in reaching her destination. Especially since the telegram she’d received said her mother’s health was failing.
The Clarkston Sanitarium was said to be a fine institution for the terminally ill. Portia sincerely hoped this was true, as her mother was one of its newer residents.
The carriage slowed as it turned onto the hospital grounds, allowing Portia her first real view of the place. The two-story brick structure seemed unimpressive, but the well-manicured lawn and gardens of spring flowers were impressive. Spring had come early to Denver this year. In fact, during her journey west, Portia had been greatly impressed by the warmth and beauty she’d found along the way. Back East, especially in Boston, they were still experiencing an unseasonably cold spring.
The driver brought the carriage to a halt, then opened the door for Portia. “Here we are, ma’am.” He offered his assistance, and Portia alighted from the conveyance, clinging to his arm. She pressed a coin into his hand, then smoothed out the wrinkles in her black traveling suit.
How she hated black. It was such a dull color unless done up in a fashionably low-cut evening gown. But black was expected of her as a widow, and Angus had only been dead for little more than two months. Her mother would expect nothing less than the grieving widow.
Portia made her way to the whitewashed front doors and was surprised when a short elderly man opened the door before she could even ring the bell or knock.
“Good afternoon, madam,” he said with a refined English accent. “How may I assist you?”
She handed him her calling card. “I’m here to visit my mother, Mary Brady. She was recently admitted.”
“Come this way,” he instructed, leading her to a small woodpaneled office.
A stern-looking older man peered up from his desk. Goldframed glasses hung precariously on the end of his nose. He took the card offered by the butler and nodded. “Ah, Mrs. McGuire. Please be seated. I am Dr. Wadsworth.”
Portia hated his condescending tone but graciously smiled and lowered herself to a red leather chair opposite the desk.
“As you know, your mother is gravely ill,” the man began. “Her condition is such that there is very little we can do.”
“What has been done for her?” Portia asked, feeling very frightened by the man’s tone. She knew the asylum was for the terminally ill, but she’d really not allowed herself to believe this was the case for her mother.
“Surgery was performed, and that was when the tumor was discovered. I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do for her.”
“Can I have her moved—taken back East where the hospitals are better equipped to deal with this kind of thing?”
The man’s face pinched as he frowned. “Mrs. McGuire, our medical facilities here in Denver are quite capable of handling this situation. Your mother is beyond any help that even the eastern hospitals might afford her. She has a cancer, and it’s spread considerably further than we’d anticipated. She is dying and probably has less than a month to live.”
Portia felt as though the man had slapped her in the face. How could this be true? Only a few weeks ago her mother had come to Denver to set up housekeeping in preparation for her husband’s retirement from the army. Samson Brady didn’t even know his wife was ill, much less dying.
“Is she awake—able to communicate?” Portia asked numbly.
The man withdrew his glasses and put her card aside on his desk. “Yes. I am certain your company will be most welcomed. I’ll have a nurse take you to her.” He nodded to the still waiting butler. The man quickly exited the room and Portia got to her feet.
“I want her to have the best care. Money is of no importance,” she told the doctor.
He offered the first hint of a smile. “I’ll have her moved to a private room later this afternoon, in that case.”
“Thank you. I’ll come to settle with you after I visit with her.”
A middle-aged woman dressed in white and black appeared at the door. She wore a strange white bonnet on her head and a perpetual frown on her face. It seemed that everyone in this institution was unhappy.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“Escort Mrs. McGuire to see her mother, Mrs. Mary Brady, in D Ward.”
“Very well,” the woman replied in a voice that suggested it was an imposition.
Portia thanked the doctor and followed the woman out the door and up a flight of carpeted stairs. “Do you work with my mother?”
The nurse looked at Portia and answered in a tight-lipped manner, “No. I am an administrative nurse. I do not work directly with the patients.”
“So you have no knowledge of my mother?”
“Only that she’s terminally ill. None of the patients on D Ward are long for this world.”
Portia swallowed hard and tried not to show any emotion. This woman would certainly show no compassion for her tears. They reached the top of the stairs and moved to the left. Passing several open doors, Portia could see people dressed in white sitting by windows or in beds. Some rooms seemed bright with sunlight and others were darker with the draperies pulled. She couldn’t help but think that this was a sorry way to end one’s life.
“This is D Ward. Your mother is in the bed at the end of this row.” She motioned down the left side.
Portia didn’t bother to thank the woman but instead moved across the room to find her mother. The last bed revealed a shriveled, pale version of the woman she’d known in her youth.
“Mama?”
The woman opened her eyes and a look of recognition crossed her features. “Portia. You’ve come.”
“How could I not?”
As an only child, Portia knew it was her duty to be at her mother’s side, but as a beloved only child, Portia desired to simply be with her mother in her time of need. Her mother had been Portia’s only friend in life.
“How are you feeling, Mama?”
The woman, not yet fifty years old, struggled to sit. She looked exhausted, and even with Portia’s help, she seemed unable to accomplish this simple feat. She paled even more, and the look in her eyes let Portia know the pain was great.
“I’m not so good. I’m sorry,” her mother apologized.
Portia nodded and helped her mother ease back onto her pillow. “I’ve asked them to take better care of you. They plan to move you to a private room later today.”
“One with a window, I hope.”
Portia had no idea if a window were in the plans, but she would definitely demand it. After all, if she was going to pay a small fortune, the least they could do was give her mother a window.
“How did this happen, Mama?” Portia asked, pulling up a chair to sit beside her mother’s bed.
“I had pain in my gut,” her mother said. “It hurt a great deal and only got worse. It’s something I can barely tolerate now.” She grimaced.
“Do they give you anything for it?”
“No. I was afraid to take anything for fear I wouldn’t be awake when you arrived.”
“Oh, Mama. You need medicine. They can help to ease the suffering.”
“I’m dying, you know,” her
mother said matter-of-factly.
Portia pushed down her emotions. “Yes, they told me. I still don’t understand why this has happened, but I want to make you as comfortable as possible and do whatever you need me to do.”
“I need you to let your father know the truth. I couldn’t just telegraph him. It’s not the kind of news you give that way.”
“Are you suggesting I go to Fort Ellis and tell him in person?” Portia asked in disbelief. “You want me to go to Montana Territory?”
“I would like that very much. I know it’s a long trip and there are problems with the Indians, but he must know. Wait until I’m gone, then go to him.”
Portia nodded, though she had no intention of keeping her promise. She’d never had much use for her father. He was a career army man and seldom had time for his little daughter. He’d wanted a son and made no attempt to hide his disappointment in the dark-haired beauty. Never mind that men from far and wide coveted time with Portia. Her exotic features and trim hourglass figure brought her many compliments—but not from her father.
“I want you to promise me,” Mary Brady whispered.
Portia bit her lip. She could lie to the rest of the world, but her mother was the one person with whom she couldn’t be false.
“He should be at your side.Why did he send you here alone? Because of the army—that’s why. The army has always been more important to him. He never cared enough to be with us when we needed him.”
“Don’t say such things. Your father cares very much.”
Portia started to say something, then held her tongue. Her mother was dying; there was no sense in arguing with her. Especially since Portia could never change her mind.
Hoping her mother would forget the request, Portia began to talk about her travels west. “The trains were incessantly slow. And then crossing Kansas was humid and unbearable, but all the way I kept telling myself I’d soon see you. I’ve missed you so much, Mama.”
“I’m sorry to meet again under these circumstances. Sorry, too, for your own loss. I learned only shortly before leaving Montana that your husband had died.”
Portia frowned. Her mother sounded so weak—so exhausted. “Don’t concern yourself with it, Mama.” She glanced around the room at the other patients, most of whom were sleeping soundly. The sleep of the dead, Portia thought. “I should go and let you rest. I can come back later after they’ve moved you and you’ve rested.”
Her mother closed her eyes. “No. Please don’t leave. I know my time is coming soon.”
Portia reached out and took hold of her mother’s hand. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
Mama nodded and opened her eyes. “I know that. That’s why I’m asking you to help me. It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you, Portia. Please go to your father for me. Please go to him and . . .” Her face tightened, and the expression left little doubt as to the intensity of her pain. “Please, Portia.”
Portia squared her shoulders. She had no desire to ever see her father again, but if it offered her mother comfort in her final hours, then Portia would acquiesce. She gently squeezed her mother’s hand. “I’ll go to him, Mama. I’ll do as you ask.”
“Thank you. I knew you would.” She closed her eyes again, but her breathing was still heavy.
“I’m going to ask the doctor to bring you something for the pain,” Portia declared, getting to her feet. “You must let them help you now. I’m here and I won’t leave until the end.”
“Very well, Portia. Bring the medicine.”
“Faith, you’re as big as a barn,” Dianne teased. “That baby must be a big one.”
Faith patted her rounded abdomen. “Malachi says it’s a boy. I’m just praying it’s a healthy baby—healthy and strong.”
Dianne put her arm around Faith’s shoulders. “He will be. I just know he will be absolutely perfect. You’ll see.”
Faith nodded. “That’s my prayer—my hope.”
Dianne released her and went back to the table, where an assortment of tiny baby clothes was spread. Some were Jamie’s and Susannah’s and some were new little outfits that the women had been helping to sew throughout the winter.
“I think you’ll have enough here to dress three babies,” Dianne said, holding up a baby quilt that Charity had finished only that morning. “My, but Charity does the nicest work. I wish I could make such pretty things.”
Faith lovingly ran her hand atop the quilt. “She’s gifted, all right.”
Dianne sighed and replaced the blanket on the table. “I’ll box these up and have one of the boys take them to your cabin.” She felt a pang of longing as she began to stack the little outfits.
Little by little Dianne had resigned herself to Cole’s absence becoming a permanent arrangement, but the pain was still acute and the baby clothes only served to remind her of what she didn’t have—and probably never would.
Dianne found solace in working with the horses. Learning to watch each animal to gauge its mood and understand how best to handle it, Dianne was able to forget about her own troubles. She made her way to the training corral in the afternoon and reached for a halter, thinking about how surprised Cole would be at her ability. She couldn’t help but remember their first encounters and how little she’d known about animals.
“Are you going riding?” Levi asked.
Dianne startled at the sound of his voice. “I thought I would. I figured I’d take Jack and ride the mean out of him.” The black stallion had refused to calm and be useful, and because of that Bram had gelded him. But it hadn’t helped that much. Still, Dianne couldn’t give up on him. He was a beautiful animal and she didn’t want to lose him.
Levi laughed. “Guess I won’t see you back until summer, then. There’s still a lot of mean in that horse.”
“I know, but it won’t work itself out.”
“Why don’t you let me saddle him for you? Jack can still get a little feisty when first approached.”
“I’ll be just fine, Levi. Don’t worry about me.” She smiled his way but saw the look of worry on his face. “Truly, Levi. I can manage.”
“I know you’re having a hard time. I just want you to know that I care. I’m not trying to overstep my place here. I’m your friend.”
Dianne nodded. “I know that, Levi. I appreciate it . . . honestly I do. It’s just going to take time.”
“I’ll always be here for you.”
She nodded again and left to retrieve the gelding. Jack seemed to understand her mood and stood as still as stone as she saddled him. His silky black mane, warmed by the sun, felt good to her touch. She stroked the horse for several minutes, then led him out the gate. Dianne walked him for several yards before stopping to mount him. He’d been exercised a little that morning, but now she’d give him a good hard ride—hopefully wearing him out enough that he’d tolerate Malachi shoeing him later that day.
She mounted, stroked his mane for a few moments, then gently nudged him with her knees. Clicking to him at the same time, she put the gelding into motion. Jack fought the reins for a few moments but soon settled down. As he calmed, Dianne picked up the pace and before long they were traveling at a full gallop across the grassy ridge west of the ranch.
Dianne didn’t go to her typical perch atop the road that led down to the ranch. She wanted to ride and forget all about her life and her sorrows. She wanted to ride and think only of the moment.
The winter had passed more quickly than she’d expected, and already Gus was making plans to retrieve the herd. The spring was warming up nicely, and while there might yet be another snow or two, Gus felt confident that the worst was behind them. Dianne had already decided she’d go to help with the roundup. It would do her good to focus on something other than the ranch. Even Koko was recovering from her grief. The spring had brought her a new resolve to live in a way that would make Bram proud.
Dianne couldn’t be happier about this, but she hated the fact that she was the only one who still seemed to be drifting
along without aim. I have to put this aside, she thought. I have to be content with my life and what is expected of me.
Without warning Jack let out a whinny and reared. Dianne hadn’t been paying attention—a mistake, to be sure—and went flying off backward. Crashing against the rocky ground, Dianne hit hard, her left arm and hip bearing much of the impact. The pain was searing. Jack skittered away, whinnying and bucking as if something were after him. Thoughts of another grizzly or perhaps a wolf gave Dianne a start, but the pain in her side was too intense to allow her to flee. If something had spooked Jack, she’d just have to face it head on.
Dianne moaned as she slowly got up. She stood gingerly, testing her left leg and assessing her injuries. There was pain in her hip, but otherwise everything seemed solid. Stretching her arm out, Dianne grimaced as white streaks of pain shot through her arm and up to her shoulder. It was broken—no doubt about it.
Holding her arm close to her body, Dianne tried to figure out where the gelding had taken himself off to. She walked a few feet to a mound of rocks and boulders and tried to climb for a better view, but it was impossible to work her way up very high without the use of both arms. Giving up, she stretched her neck to see as far as she could. There in the valley below, Jack was still running—probably heading back to the ranch, even though he was still more wild than tame.
“Once he gets there and they see I’ve been thrown,” Dianne said to herself, “they’ll come for me. I might as well start back down.”
She inched off the rocks and because the pain was so much worse when the arm was allowed to dangle down, Dianne figured it would be wise to make a sling. She surveyed her outfit and decided the very full riding petticoat was probably the easiest to tear. She lifted the material to her mouth, holding it with her teeth and pulling with her good arm. The material gave way easily.
Dianne had never realized how many things required the use of both hands. She was sorely frustrated by her inability to master simple skills that ordinarily were of no importance. Now, even her attempt to secure her arm was a practice in futility.
The Coming Storm Page 17