Brides of Iowa

by Stevens, Connie;

  Hubert stood to retrieve the coffeepot that had begun to boil. “Since you may not have a house to go back to, why don’t you stay here?”

  Another sigh hung on the air as Everett refolded the letter and tucked it back into his coat pocket. “You’ve made a life for yourself in this place, but Iowa isn’t where I belong.”

  “It could be.” Hubert poured two cups of coffee and set one before Everett. “I have a comfortable home and the mercantile. I know it’s not the life to which you are accustomed, but—”

  Everett waved his hand and took a sip of coffee. “Mr. Goss indicates he will have some papers for me to sign and there should be a small inheritance after all the creditors are paid. I’m afraid it will be a fraction of what I was expecting, but at least it’s something. Once I return to Baltimore, I’ll weigh my options.”

  “Couldn’t Willow Creek be one of your options?”

  Everett hesitated before answering. “No, Father. I have no future here. I hope you can find happiness in Willow Creek, but I think it’s best if I leave.”

  Since Everett needed the wagon to carry his trunk and his valise, Hubert had taken his time walking to the mercantile. The normal sounds of Willow Creek’s commerce that usually brought a smile to his lips failed to cheer him this morning. The sun hid behind gloomy gray clouds that matched Hubert’s melancholy mood. He puttered around the store, waited on a half dozen customers, and opened a crate of merchandise. When the clock on the shelf behind the counter chimed, Hubert pulled out his watch, thinking the clock must surely be running fast. But the hands of his watch confirmed it was nearly time to bid Everett good-bye.

  He hung the CLOSED sign on the mercantile door and walked down the street to meet Everett at the depot before the stage arrived. As painful as it was, he’d not let his son leave without telling him one more time that he loved him and wanted him to stay.

  Everett stood beside his valise and trunk on the boardwalk in front of the depot. There wasn’t much left to say, other than repeating what had already been spoken. Hubert opened his mouth to entreat his son one last time to stay in Willow Creek when he heard a shout from down the street. He’d hoped on this day the stage might arrive late, thus giving him extra time with Everett. But instead, the conveyance must be pulling into town early. They both looked in the direction of the noise.

  Within moments, more people added their voices to the shouting, and Hubert realized it wasn’t the stage’s arrival. Some kind of commotion drew the attention of nearly everyone on the street. Several folks ran toward the clamor. Just as he turned to see what was happening, he saw billows of smoke rising above the trees, and one of the men yelled over his shoulder as he ran.

  “The boardinghouse is on fire!”

  Horror gripped Hubert by the throat. He forced his brain to function and his feet to move. Down the alley was a shorter route. With his heart pounding in his ears and his chest constricting, he ran toward Pearl’s place.

  “God, let her get out of there. Please let her be safe.”

  He was vaguely aware of footsteps hammering out a rhythm behind him in step with his own.

  “Father!”

  When he reached the yard of the boardinghouse, men were already manning the pump, working the handle up and down with ferocity. Others carried buckets and burlap sacks.

  But where was Pearl? His eyes darted from one side of the yard to the other. “Pearl!”

  He raced to the front of the house. No Pearl, but the curtains at the parlor window were already in flames. Yelling Pearl’s name at the top of his lungs, he elbowed past the lilac bushes. There was no answer. His frantic search brought him back where he’d started. Pearl was nowhere outside.

  As he pushed past the men who had formed a line, slinging water buckets, the crackle of the fire reached his ears. Dense smoke nearly blotted out the location of the back door.

  “Pearl!”

  Without hesitation, Hubert lunged toward the door. Several hands grabbed at him, and a conglomeration of voices accosted his senses—urgent entreaties for him to not enter the burning house.

  “Stay back! Don’t go in there!”

  “Are you crazy, man? You won’t come out of there alive.”

  He yanked his arms free of the restraining grips and pushed forward. Another voice pierced through the commotion.

  “No, Father! Stop!”

  But he couldn’t stop. His feet, propelled by a force he didn’t see, carried him past the porch steps. A degree of strength he’d never known before sent jolts of energy through him.

  “Pearl!”

  A roiling wall of black smoke met him when he flung the door open. He raised his arm, waving the deadly veil away, and covered his face in the crook of his elbow. “Pearl!…Pearl!”

  He plunged into the kitchen. The smoke drove him to his knees. It unfurled against him from every side, and he couldn’t determine the direction from which the fire came. The thick vapor was denser near the ceiling, but lower down he could make out the forms of the kitchen table and chairs, the legs of the cast-iron stove, the bottom edge of the pantry door. He tried to scream out Pearl’s name again, but black fog that tasted like tar burned his throat. If he’d taken a moment to wet a cloth and tie it over the lower half of his face, he might be able to breathe easier, but the action would have taken several precious seconds, and he didn’t know how many seconds he had to find Pearl. He pulled his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth, and continued crawling through the kitchen, but Pearl wasn’t there.

  “P–P…earl.” Spasms of coughing choked him. The sound of the crackling grew louder and something crashed behind him. “P–P—” Impenetrable smoke wrapped virulent fingers around his throat. He could no longer push Pearl’s name past his lips, but his heart continued to scream. Only God could hear him. Heat intensified moment by moment, but awareness of time began to slip away. Coughs tore at his windpipe and wracked his chest.

  Pearl, my love, where are you? God, please show me where she is. Lead me to her.

  His shoulder came in contact with something solid, and it fell over with a thud that joined with the growing cacophony of the fire. He crawled blindly, unable to open his eyes to the searing heat and smoke. Something scraped and toppled behind him. From the same direction he’d come? He couldn’t tell. Another thump and a knocking sound reached him. Somewhere a window shattered and an ominous cracking and splintering of wood meant the beams would soon collapse.

  Please, Father, lead me to Pearl.

  With his hand he groped to the right of him and encountered a wall, then an opening. A doorway. He stretched his arm and probed farther through the recess. His fingers floundered in the space and collided with warm softness lying on the floor just inside the door.

  His lips formed the word Pearl, even though he couldn’t force out any sound. He’d found her, but darkness entombed him and his sense of where he was in the house began to slip away. Locking his hand around her limp arm, he tried to drag her. A sensation of lightness overpowered him and took possession of his ability to think. The urgency that drove him into the house faded as oppressive heat enveloped him. His last shred of strength withered and died. The demon smoke was swallowing them, and they were falling…falling…

  Chapter 14

  Hubert fought to breathe through a snarled labyrinth of cobwebs, seeking an escape from the burning in his throat. Muffled voices called his name and encouraged him to open his eyes. Part of him desired to push his way through the fog and another part simply wanted to sleep. Could he find the strength to open his mouth and tell whoever was repeating his name to go away? A searing pain knifed his throat when he swallowed. He turned his head to one side and met gentle fingers touching his cheek and blotting his face with something blessedly cool.

  “Mr. Behr, can you hear me?”

  The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t connect a name or face to it. If responding to the entreaty intensified the pounding in his head, perhaps lying perfectly still was his best option. His
lips refused to cooperate when he tried to form the question Where am I?

  “Don’t try to talk. Just open your mouth and take a sip of water.”

  Water. The very word sounded heavenly. He parted his lips, and his bottom lip cracked painfully. He pulled his eyebrows in as a wince filled his whole being. But an instant later, cool water dripped into his mouth and quenched some of the pain. His tongue, thick and swollen, detached itself from the roof of his mouth and relished the wetness. Gradual awareness seeped into his brain. Whoever held the cup to his lips poured a tiny bit more water into his mouth, and Hubert let the precious moisture roll over his tongue. Since his first attempt to swallow was so painful, he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. He mentally braced himself and allowed his swallow reflex to work. As expected, it felt like pouring kerosene on an open wound.

  “I know your throat hurts, but the doctor said you must try to take some water.”

  Understanding finally broke through. The voice belonged to Hannah Vogel, the doctor’s wife. Most people just called her Mrs. Doc. Along with the realization of who ministered to him came the horrific memory of crawling through the burning boardinghouse. Shred by shred, the picture came together.

  Footsteps scurried away from where he lay, and he heard Mrs. Doc’s voice again. “Mr. Behr is awake.” Heavier footsteps accompanied those of the town doctor’s diminutive wife.

  “Hubert? It’s Doc Vogel. Can you hear me?”

  Hubert fought past the pain and tried to force his lips to work. Was there enough air in his lungs to push a single word out? “P…P…” He reached deep within himself for the determination to speak. The word came out as a hoarse whisper. “Pearl.”

  The doctor’s fingers forced one of Hubert’s eyes open, then the other. The air stung his eyes and they watered, blurring the image of the doctor. “Let’s take a listen.” Doc laid an instrument on Hubert’s chest and moved it around several times before he seemed satisfied.

  “Mm-hm. Mm-hm.” Doc thumped his fingertips on Hubert’s chest. “Has he coughed yet?”

  Mrs. Doc answered in the negative. “But he has swallowed a few sips of water.”

  “Good. Let’s sit him up.” The two pairs of hands grasped his arms and shoulders and pulled him forward. His head swam, and the cot on which he lay floated like a leaf on an air current. Hubert opened his eyes again, tiny slits, enough to see Doc and Mrs. Doc standing on either side of him. Mrs. Doc moved to stuff pillows behind him. Then they leaned him back on the pillows and after several moments, the room stopped swaying like a runaway stagecoach.

  “Pearl.” It hurt to even whisper, but his concern for Pearl outdistanced his own discomfort.

  “Hubert, I want you to try and cough. It’s going to hurt, but you need to expel that bad air in your lungs. We don’t want you developing pneumonia.”

  Why wouldn’t Doc tell him about Pearl?

  Hubert commanded his eyes to open as wide as he could make them. He wrapped his fingers around Doc’s wrist. “Pearl.”

  Doc’s grave expression sent shards of fear through him. “She’s in the next room. She hasn’t awakened yet. I’m afraid she took in quite a bit of smoke, and she has a few burns on her arm and hand.”

  Hubert tightened his grip involuntarily, and the doctor’s expression softened. “If she wakes up in the next few hours, and if we can get her to sit up and cough like we are trying to do with you, I’ll have a better idea of her prognosis. But right now, the best one I can give you is guarded.”

  Hubert gave the doctor a nod. Even the muscles in his neck and shoulders ached. A cough climbed up his tortured windpipe. He tried to hold it back, but it burst forth with lancing pain. Once he started coughing, he couldn’t stop and the spasms wracked his chest. Perspiration collected on his face. Mrs. Doc continued to blot the damp cloth over his brow until the throes of coughing subsided. Exhausted, he leaned back against the pillows.

  Doc Vogel listened to Hubert’s chest again. “I know it hurts, but you need to cough.” He pulled up a chair and sat next to Hubert’s cot. “You probably have some questions, and since speaking is difficult, I’m going to guess what those questions are and answer them the best I can.”

  Hubert locked eyes with the doctor, hoping to communicate his concern over Pearl. He remembered finding her but not pulling her out of the house. How had they gotten out? “Nobody knows yet how the fire started, but the sheriff is still poking around over there. You and Mrs. Dunnigan were both unconscious when you were pulled out. The flames broke through the wall, and the place was starting to collapse.” Doc leaned forward and put his hand on Hubert’s shoulder. “If it wasn’t for your son pulling both of you out of there when he did, we’d be burying you today. He pulled you out first, then went back in for Miss Pearl. He even had the presence of mind to roll her in a rug. Otherwise, her burns would have been much worse.”

  Everett pulled Pearl and me out? I didn’t even realize he’d followed me into the house. With the memory of the harrowing trek through the smoke-filled boardinghouse, more pieces fell into place. He recalled hearing something thump behind him. Was that Everett?

  The idea of Everett saving not only his life but Pearl’s as well, sank in. With the realization came fear for his son’s condition. “Ever–ett.” He pushed out the hoarse croak.

  Doc Vogel’s brow knitted into furrows. “He has some pretty nasty burns. Before the laudanum took effect, he kept asking if he had gotten to you and Mrs. Dunnigan in time.”

  More coughing seized Hubert, and he fought his way through the spasm. “How bad…Everett?”

  Doc shook his head. “Well, he didn’t swallow too much smoke because he’d tied a wet rag over his mouth and nose. Unfortunately, parts of his clothing caught fire when the ceiling caved in. I’m not going to lie to you, some of his burns are serious. But if we can keep infection from setting in, he has a good chance.”

  Hubert slumped back onto the pillows. Everett saved his and Pearl’s lives at the risk of his own. It was a staggering revelation. But Doc continued to fill in the blanks.

  “One of the men who helped fight the fire said Mrs. Dunnigan had come out, but then she ran back in before anyone could stop her. When your son pulled her out of the house, she had a silver music box in her hands. I had to pry her fingers away from it.”

  Her head throbbed and wracking pain filled her chest and throat, but Pearl opened her eyes to find a small mountain of pillows behind her back and shoulders, and Hannah Vogel bathing her face. As soon as the doctor’s wife realized Pearl was awake, a huge smile split her face. “Oh, thank the good Lord. We’ve been praying for you for two days.” The woman hurried to the doorway and called her husband, then returned to Pearl’s bedside.

  Doc Vogel’s smile matched his wife’s when he saw Pearl. “You certainly gave us a scare, young lady.” He immediately poked the ends of his stethoscope into his ears and listened to her chest.

  Young lady? Mercy sakes, who did he think he was talking to? She started to open her mouth, but the doctor stopped her.

  “No, no. Don’t try to speak.” He flipped the stethoscope around his neck. “You suffered some burns in your throat from breathing in the hot air. The smoke caused some damage, too. You’ve already coughed up some blood. That’s why we have you propped up like this.”

  He motioned for his wife to bring a lamp closer, and he stuck a piece of flat wood in her mouth. The doctor frowned and made some grunting sounds as he peered inside. “Well, your throat is still swollen, but it’s showing signs of healing. Until it heals completely, I don’t want you to talk at all. Drink sips of water, as much as you can, and Hannah will help you gargle with some salt water later.” He patted her shoulder.

  When she tried to raise her arm, a sharp pain jolted her, and she noticed the bandages on her left hand and arm. Doc Vogel partially unwrapped one of the bandages and peered beneath it. “The burns aren’t too serious. In a few days you won’t need the bandages any longer. I’m more concerned with the burns in y
our throat.” He gently replaced the swathing around her hand.

  Pearl tried to mouth words, but the doctor kept admonishing her to keep silent. She held up her hands, palms facing each other, a few inches apart, and Hannah brightened.

  “I think I know what she wants.” The woman went to a small bureau and opened the top drawer. When she turned, she had Pearl’s music box in her hands. “Is this it?”

  Relief filled her. The box looked a bit tarnished but otherwise unscathed. She reached out for the cherished treasure.

  “You have a couple of visitors. Mr. Behr has been in the next room asking about you ever since he regained consciousness yesterday.”

  The peculiar statement took Pearl aback. Hubert regained consciousness? Puzzlement must have shown on her face because Mrs. Doc hurriedly explained that Hubert was pulled out of the burning boardinghouse along with her. It still didn’t make sense.

  Doc Vogel instructed his wife to give Pearl sips of water, as much as she would take. Then he turned back to Pearl. “The sheriff has been waiting to talk to you. He can tell you everything that happened, at least what he knows so far. Do you feel up to a visit with him?”

  Confusion boggled her mind. She vaguely remembered the fire but didn’t recall Hubert being there. Why were they telling her Hubert had been pulled from the burning house? Was he all right? And why did the sheriff want to speak with her?

  Doc Vogel went to the door and motioned with his hand. Sheriff Webster stepped into the room and removed his hat. He was a pleasant sort, and although he’d only been in Willow Creek for a little over a year, she knew Hubert liked him.

  “Ma’am. I’m sure pleased to see you doin’ better, and I apologize for intrudin’ like this while you’re recoverin’.”