Then he paused, the heels of his wrists resting on the edge of the table, and he lowered his head. There was something about his shoulders that bespoke of weariness, helplessness, perhaps even hopelessness. She felt a strange need to rise and offer him comfort. But the simple act of pushing herself up into a sitting position for the second time sapped what little energy she had.
“Mr. Crawford.”
He straightened and turned to face her.
“Are you well?”
“I’m fine, Miss McKinley.” He motioned to the table behind him. “Can you try to eat something?”
She didn’t have an appetite, but it would seem ungrateful to refuse. After all, it seemed she owed him her life. “I’ll try.”
“Good. We’ve got peaches, and I can cook some oatmeal too.”
“The peaches should suffice.”
“You need more than that. You haven’t eaten more than a few bites since we left Stone Creek.”
“All right.” She offered a brief smile. “I’ll try to eat some oatmeal too.”
He returned the smile before making himself busy.
Daphne watched in silence as he prepared the oatmeal in a pot on the stove, not speaking again until he carried a tray to the bed and sat in the chair beside her. “Who taught you to cook, Mr. Crawford?”
“My grandfather.” He set the tray on her lap. “He was a man of many talents.”
“And interests.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head, regretting her words. Why had she brought it up? After all he’d done for her…
“Ah, you mean the things you wrote about him.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s all right, Miss McKinley. I’ve had plenty of time to think things over, and while I don’t believe my grandfather was the sort of man you portrayed in your books, it does seem there were things he didn’t choose to share about his past. At least not with me. As much as I hate to admit it, he seems to have been a different man when he lived in Idaho.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
Pointing at the tray, he said, “Please. Eat.”
Obediently, she dipped the spoon into the oatmeal and raised it to her lips. The cereal needed milk and some honey to make it taste good, but she was determined to eat as much of it as possible as a way of showing her gratitude.
Joshua rose from the chair and walked to the window by the front door. “I wish you could have met him, Miss McKinley. I never knew Grandfather to see a need in another that he didn’t try to meet. We weren’t wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but he always found a way to give to others.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he looked out the window. “You know the many ways the Bible tells us to live as Christians? Abhorring evil. Cleaving to what’s good. Being kind to another with brotherly love. Being patient in tribulation. Praying without ceasing. Distributing to the necessity of the saints. Being hospitable. Rejoicing with those who rejoice and weeping with those who weep. In everything giving thanks. Richard Terrell embodied those traits. Those and so much more.”
The oatmeal seemed to have stuck in Daphne’s throat, making it impossible to reply.
“I have a hard time reconciling that godly man with the Richard Terrell the Coughlins knew or the one you portrayed in your books.”
She couldn’t help remembering what he’d said to her before they’d made the trip to Stone Creek: “Words have power, Miss McKinley. Even words in a novel. You may think your stories are simply for entertainment, but they still have the power to build up or tear down.”
I’m sorry. Tears welled. I never meant to harm anyone with my stories.
Many years before, when Daphne had been caught in a tall tale, her mother had said something similar: “What we say, my child, has an impact on those around us. Words can spread darkness and hate or shed light and love. Don’t misuse them, Daphne.”
She’d wanted the Coughlin brothers to prove what she’d written was true, and that’s what had happened. But being right, she was discovering, wasn’t always enough.
And being right didn’t always make a person feel good either.
That night, Joshua bedded down on the floor on the opposite side of the wood stove. It wasn’t likely Daphne would need his help—or his body heat—as she had in the worst hours of her illness, and it was his wish to give her as much privacy as possible now that she was on the mend.
Sleep didn’t come easy. He told himself it was the hardness of the floorboards, but the truth was it bothered him that he couldn’t hear her soft breathing, that he wasn’t able to reach out and touch her forehead to see if it was feverish. What if her condition took a sharp turn for the worst? It took great willpower to remain on the floor, to resist the urge to rise and go to her bedside, if only for a few moments.
A log shifted in the stove, and the pipe echoed with the flurried sounds of sparks striking metal. Joshua rolled onto his side and watched the dancing orange light that slipped around the edges of the iron door.
The temptation wasn’t simply to go to her bedside to check on her health, and he knew it. Earlier today he’d ceased thinking of Daphne McKinley as someone in need of care and had started thinking of her as a woman, a beautiful woman alone with him in a remote, snowed-in cabin.
There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.
Joshua closed his eyes and prayed that God would make that way of escape available soon because he wasn’t sure how many more nights like this he could take.
FIFTEEN
Behind a curtain that Joshua had rigged to allow Daphne a measure of privacy, she gave herself a sponge bath. She longed to wash her hair as well, but such a luxury would have to wait until she was home again. God willing, that wouldn’t be too long.
From the other side of the curtain, she heard the crackle of the fire in the stove and the sizzle of meat warming in a frying pan. Joshua had told her it was the last of the tinned beef in the cupboard. After it was gone, they would have to make do with the canned fruit and vegetables—which were also in dwindling supply. Not that she cared that much for herself. She hadn’t much of an appetite yet.
A fit of coughing overtook her. Tears ran from her eyes as she bent over at the waist, wondering if she might suffocate before she could draw another decent breath.
“Miss McKinley?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
“Daphne?”
From the sound of his voice, she guessed he now stood just on the other side of the curtain. Feeling exposed, she grabbed her blouse and managed to slip it on over her chemise, coughing all the while.
“Do you need some water?”
“Please,” she answered at last, her voice soft and hoarse.
He didn’t move away at once. She knew he didn’t because she could see his shoes beneath the blanket that separated her space from his. Her fingers fumbled with the closure of her blouse, not managing the small round buttons until she saw Joshua’s feet turn away.
Mercy! This cabin felt altogether too small. And as her health improved, little by little, and as she remembered more of the days and nights of her illness, the smaller the cabin became. Joshua had taken good care of her, and she was grateful to him. All the same, no one outside of her mother or her nanny had nursed her through sickness the way he had. Certainly no other man—not even her father—had seen her in such a state of undress. She understood that their confinement and her illness hadn’t given Joshua Crawford any other options, but that didn’t alleviate her embarrassment.
She suppressed the groan that rose in her throat as she stepped into her skirt and fastened it at the waist. Rather than sinking onto the edge of the bed as she wanted, she moved to the makeshift curtain and slid the blanket to one side.
Joshua had returned with the gl
ass of water. He held it toward her, a smile of encouragement on his lips. She couldn’t help but return the smile as she reached for the glass.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded, then took a sip of water.
“I think there’s a little more color in your face today.”
“I’m feeling stronger.” That was stretching the truth, but she didn’t want him to feel obliged to continue to wait on her every need.
His single cocked eyebrow told her he knew she wasn’t being one hundred percent honest.
Carrying the glass of water, she walked to the stove and sat on a nearby chair.
“Ready to eat?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He retrieved the pitcher, washbasin, cloth, and towel from beside the bed and carried them to the kitchen area. After setting them on the table beneath the window, he dished up the food he’d prepared—pan-warmed slices of tinned beef, a bowl of applesauce, and a cup of black coffee—and brought the meal to the dining table. As she turned her chair around, he settled on its mate.
“Aren’t you eating too?”
“In a minute.”
She wanted to tell him to quit watching her so intently, but it seemed easier to lower her own gaze to the food set before her. She picked up the fork and took a tentative bite. The meat was too salty, but at least it had flavor.
It surprised Joshua, the pleasure he took in watching her eat, the relief he felt over the fresh hint of color in her cheeks and the new sparkle in her eyes. Silently he thanked God one more time for sparing her life, as well as for keeping him in good health. The ending could have so easily gone another way.
Not that they were out of danger yet. There was still the matter of being found before they ran out of food to eat. He would have to trust God for that, for he was helpless to do anything about it himself. His grandfather had said that was always the best place to be. At the end of oneself was the best place to discover the Lord at work.
What he wouldn’t give to be able to talk to the old man again. Not just to clear up the questions about his past either. Joshua could have used his grandfather’s wisdom in several different areas of his life—work, love, faith, family. Not all that long ago, he’d felt he was on the right path. But now?
“A penny for your thoughts.”
He blinked, surprised that his attention had drifted so far from the present.
“Where did you go?”
He answered with a shrug.
She glanced down at her bowl, moving the spoon through the applesauce in small circles. “This experience will give both of us something to write about, once we’re back in Bethlehem Springs.”
That was putting a good light on their situation, he thought. “I believe you’re an optimist, Miss McKinley.”
She smiled briefly, her gaze meeting his again. “Yes, I suppose I am. I get that from my mother. She always saw the cup as half full, even in her darkest days.”
“Do you favor her in other ways?”
“Some. Not as much as I would like. She was a beautiful woman. Very striking.”
“Then you favor her more than you think.” He spoke the compliment before he had a chance to wonder at the wisdom of it.
Her cheeks grew rosy and her gaze lowered.
The temptation to rise and draw her into his embrace was nearly irresistible. He would just about give his right arm to kiss her lips, to drink in her sweetness, to lose himself in the soft curves of her body. Reasons existed why he shouldn’t do anything of the kind, but at the moment he couldn’t remember what they were.
God, help me.
His desperate prayer was answered the next day. He was outside, chopping more wood for the stove, his fingers stiff with the cold, when he heard someone shouting their names.
“Daphne! Joshua!”
A man’s voice. It sounded like Morgan McKinley.
“Daphne! Joshua!”
Joshua dropped the ax and struggled through the snow to the porch. “Down here! We’re here!” He yanked open the front door and looked in at Daphne. “They’ve found us.” He closed the door again. “Down here!”
A moment later, Morgan appeared at the road’s edge. Joshua whipped off his hat and waved it madly.
Morgan turned and called something Joshua couldn’t make out. A short while later, he was joined by another man and a woman, and the threesome started down the hillside toward the cabin. As they came closer, Joshua recognized Morgan’s companions as Woody and Cleo Statham.
“Thank God you’ve found us,” he called to them.
“Where’s Daphne?”
“Inside. She’s been ill.”
Morgan exchanged a glance with his sister-in-law.
“Don’t worry. She’s out of danger.” Joshua took a step back as the others arrived at the porch.
Morgan didn’t waste time asking more questions. He quickly went inside. Joshua waited for Cleo and Woody to follow Morgan before he brought up the rear. Already, Morgan was at his sister’s bedside, kneeling on the floor, holding both of her hands in his.
“We’ve been worried half to death. And now I’m told you’ve been ill.”
“I’m all right,” Daphne answered him with a smile. “Truly, I am.” She glanced toward Joshua, then back at her brother. “Mr. Crawford found this cabin after Mack broke down, and we’ve had food and water and plenty of firewood to keep us warm.”
Joshua had a feeling that Morgan wouldn’t accept such a simple reply. He didn’t seem the sort of man to be easily fooled, not even by his lovely younger sister. The hard questions would be sent in Joshua’s direction, not Daphne’s.
“Next time you leave town, dear girl, I expect you to let me know where you’re going and when you’ll return. If it weren’t for Mrs. Patterson, we wouldn’t have had a clue where to start looking for you.”
Daphne leaned over to kiss her brother on the cheek. “Don’t scold me today, Morgan. Wait until we’re back in Bethlehem Springs and I’m feeling stronger. Then you can say all you like to me, and I’ll listen to every word.”
“She’s right, you big lug.” Cleo moved to the other side of the bed and sat on the edge. “Leave her be. Can’t you see she’s weak as a kitten.” She squeezed Daphne’s left hand between both of hers.
As he rose to his feet, Morgan’s gaze met with Joshua’s.
Joshua motioned with his head toward the kitchen table. A moment later, he settled onto one of the hard-backed chairs and waited for Morgan to do the same in the other.
“What’s been wrong with her?” her brother asked in a low voice.
“My guess is the Spanish influenza.”
“And you?”
Joshua shook his head. “No signs of me getting sick with it.”
“Well, thank God for that.”
“What about others in Bethlehem Springs? Has there been an outbreak?”
“As far as I know, no one’s been ill with the flu in town.”
Joshua felt a rush of relief Good to know they weren’t facing a local epidemic.
Morgan looked around the cabin. “How did you find this place?”
“Providence. The motorcar broke down straight up the path from it. Before the snowstorm started, it was easily visible from the road. Your sister was already running a high fever by then. Even if I’d known how to repair the car…” He allowed his words to drift into silence.
“What were the two of you thinking? Winter comes suddenly in these mountains. What if you hadn’t found this cabin? The both of you would have frozen to death in that automobile.”
Joshua could have made excuses for himself, could have said that driving the touring car had been Daphne’s idea, that he’d wanted to take the train, that he hadn’t even wanted her to accompany him on the trip. He swallowed back the words. He deserved whatever dressing down Morgan decided to give him.
But apparently Daphne’s brother thought better of doing so here. Instead he walked back to the bed. “Do you feel able to travel? I’d like to get y
ou home before the weather turns ugly again.”
“I can travel, Morgan. I’m stronger than I look.”
SIXTEEN
At Daphne’s insistence, the rescue party stopped at Doc Winston’s office before taking her to Morgan’s home. Only after the physician promised she was no longer contagious was she willing to stay with her brother and his family, even for one night.
It was Doc Winston who told her the Spanish flu had spread across Idaho at a rapid rate in the past two weeks, shutting down schools, movie theaters, and churches. Authorities continued to stress there was no need for panic, but many communities were frightened. As it seemed they should be. The death rate in some towns was as high as fifty percent. But they had been fortunate in Bethlehem Springs. The worst of the pandemic seemed to have past them by.
As with many survivors of the Spanish flu, Daphne’s convalescence was protracted, her weakness and general fatigue lingering for what seemed an eternity. And with each passing day, she grew a little more depressed. The malaise settled around her like a gray cloak, making her world seem grim, cold, and lifeless. Not even knowing that a ceasefire in the Great War had taken effect and that troops were being withdrawn on the Western Front lifted her spirits.
She thought on occasion of the novel her publisher awaited—the one that was only half written—but such thoughts failed to stir her to action, failed to entice her to take up her pen again. Nor did they make her wish to leave her brother’s home for her own cozy cottage on Wallula Street. She hadn’t the energy or the will to leave.
It was a cold but sunny day, shortly before Thanksgiving, when Joshua Crawford called upon her. She was reclining on the sofa in the front parlor, her legs draped with a blanket, watching the fire flickering in the fireplace, when she heard his voice in the entry. In response, she felt an odd quickening in her chest. A moment later, Gwen appeared in the parlor doorway, Joshua by her side.
“Look who’s come to visit you,” Gwen said, her smile bright.
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