Firefly

by Linda Hilton

  She got up to help her mother, but even that did not save her. Morgan returned the favor, dishing a healthy spoonful of buttered corn onto Julie’s plate, then spreading butter and jam onto a thick slice of bread for her.

  “You’ll need plenty of strength if you intend to be my nurse,” he said without looking at her. “It isn’t easy work, and if you don’t put a little meat on those bones, you’ll waste away to nothing in no time.”

  “My daughter is not going to work for you, Morgan,” Wilhelm interjected. “She works here, in her own home, taking care of her own family.”

  Morgan buttered a slice of bread for himself and bit back the words. A woman’s “own” family is her husband and children, he thought, not her mother and brother.

  “But, Wilhelm, think how much more help Julie could be if she learned something about medicine,” Katharine suggested.

  Julie stared briefly at her mother, unable to believe that, for the second time in as many days, Katharine had sided with her in direct opposition to Wilhelm.

  “And who will do the work here?” he asked. “You are too ill, and until the arm is mended, you can do nothing anyway.”

  Satisfied that the issue was therefore ended, Wilhelm leaned back in his chair for grace.

  “Perhaps Dr. Morgan would like to do the honors,” Katharine hinted sweetly.

  For the first time since Wilhelm’s arrival, Julie saw Morgan’s composure slip. He regained it quickly, however, and murmured a short, simple prayer that, if it didn’t measure up to Wilhelm’s long-winded standards, it got them eating quickly. And back to the conversation.

  “Did you tell your folks about last night?” Morgan asked Julie.

  With her mouth full, she had to shake her head. That loosened her spectacles, and she pushed them up again.

  “Well, let me tell you,” he began, taking advantage of her inability to speak for herself. “She was marvelous, especially when you consider the circumstances. With formal training, she’d be another Florence Nightingale or Clara Barton. I know Horace got along without a nurse, and I don’t know how he did it, but even ten years ago there was a doctor in Yuma, or maybe it was Prescott, I don’t remember which, who offered fifteen dollars a week for a qualified woman.”

  Julie brought her head up so suddenly the glasses fell completely off. Luckily, they landed on her lap rather than in her corn.

  “Fifteen dollars a week?” she gasped.

  “Whoa! I hope you don’t think I could pay that kind of money! I might be able to manage seven and a half to start, plus free medical care, of course.”

  He looked at Julie, but he hardly saw her. His attention was focused on her father. Had the tactic worked? Was Wilhelm greedy enough, or did his cruelty outweigh his avarice?

  Morgan realized too late that he had underestimated the man’s pride.

  “I do not send my daughter out to work!” Wilhelm thundered, rising half out of his chair. “And I take no charity.” Again the finger waved sternly, then pointed toward the door. “Out, drunkard! You want to trade, all right, I will trade. You saved my son, so I fed you lunch. We are even now, no?”

  “Wilhelm, please,” Katharine begged. She reached across the table for him, but he was too far away. “Sit down and eat your lunch. This shouting gives me a—”

  “You always have a headache, whether I shout or not!”

  It happened very quickly, but Julie was neither surprised nor angry. Katharine got shakily to her feet and, before anyone could reach her, softly and silently collapsed in a dead faint on the floor.

  Chapter Eight

  Katharine Hollstrom managed a tentative smile as she let Julie tie the sash of her dressing gown around her waist. At Morgan’s request, Julie left the bedroom and closed the door. Curious as she might be, Katharine knew her daughter would never dream of listening. Plus the fact that Morgan himself, for all his faults, was a man of honor and integrity. He would never betray a confidence.

  Neither would he lie.

  “You’re perfectly healthy, Mrs. Hollstrom, except for the arm, of course.”

  “Am I?” she asked while she sat on the edge of the bed and demurely swung her legs up. “Then how do you account for my dreadful headaches?”

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe a lack of exercise and fresh air. Maybe your stays are too tight.”

  She laughed just a little. “I suppose that accounts for the stomach trouble, too?” she added.

  “It could.”

  His examination suggested her brief, if dramatic, fainting spell had been contrived to end the escalating argument with her husband. She had recovered quickly and with only minimal assistance from Julie climbed the stairs to the bedroom she shared with Wilhelm. Morgan, who had followed at her request and then conducted a more or less cursory examination, withheld any speculation as to other motives.

  “And the sleeplessness?”

  He looked her straight in the eye and told her, “Maybe you’ve got a guilty conscience.”

  “Maybe I do. And now that you’ve given me your diagnosis, what’s the treatment?”

  She sat propped up against a huge fluffy pillow, a rather attractive woman of forty-six years who didn’t look her age. Most women lied in the other direction.

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how much of my advice the patient will follow.”

  She laughed again. “Have no fear, Dr. Morgan, I’ll follow all your advice. I am as eager to be cured as you.”

  “I see.”

  Morgan leaned against the closed door and studied her, noting the almost cocky hint of a smile, the sparkle in the eyes that were so like Julie’s, the tilt to her head. He wanted desperately to know what was going on inside that head right now, though he doubted he’d like it.

  “You have only two children, correct?” he asked.

  “Yes. Julie is twenty-six, and Willy almost nine.”

  “A long time in between.”

  She shrugged, but the smile didn’t change.

  “And none since?”

  “I was not a young woman when Willy was born, and I nearly died. We felt it best not to risk having any more.”

  “You and your husband do not indulge in marital relations.” He stated it without embarrassment and without query.

  “Not since Willy’s birth.”

  Her voice altered slightly. Defiance tinged it, and her words had a ring of finality about them. Morgan understood completely. This woman loathed her husband, and apparently with good reason.

  “My suggested treatment will be very simple. I’m going to prescribe a tonic to be taken daily. If it is to have any effect at all, you will have to adjust yourself to the climate. Those stays must be loosened, and you need more exercise. A little light housework wouldn’t hurt.”

  Katharine nodded her approval.

  “Would you estimate that by the time this thing—” she raised the splinted arm, “—is healed, I’ll be well enough for my daughter to take on some duties outside the home?”

  “I see no reason why she couldn’t do so right now.”

  He waited for her next comment, but she slipped into what seemed serious contemplation. No doubt she’s deciding whether to give up the indentured servant who waits on her hand and foot or to take advantage of an opportunity to rid herself of an unwanted daughter, Morgan thought. Perhaps the father had something to do with it, something that lay beneath Katharine’s undisguised hatred of her husband. Oddly Morgan did not sense the same emotion when Katharine spoke of Julie. Here there was concern, not hostility.

  “If Julie were to go to work for you, Dr. Morgan, there’s her reputation to consider.”

  “I didn’t ask her to wear red satin dresses and black feathers and get up on a bar and sing.”

  “No, of course not, and I suppose nursing is a very honorable profession.”

  “Damn right it is.”

  “But I am remembering your own reputation. One would hardly describe it as ill
ustrious.”

  He hadn’t the faintest idea what direction Katharine was headed in or why, so he had no choice but to let her lead on.

  “No mother wants to hand her child, especially her daughter, over to a man of less than honest intentions. I would hate to see her chances ruined by an association with someone whose habits might reflect poorly on her.”

  Chances for what? he almost asked her. Marriage? To whom? Not counting the scattered miners and prospectors, there were exactly four eligible men in Plato: Lucas Carter, Bern Hicks, Mr. Nisely the postmaster who was older than Julie’s father, and Skip the smith’s apprentice who was barely eighteen and had a face full of pimples. Oh, and the blond farmer who wanted so badly to get married that he had to sneak into Nellie’s every time he said good-night to Julie.

  “I would be a fool if I tried to deny what I’ve been for the past few years, Mrs. Hollstrom.”

  When he drew himself up like that, Katharine remarked to herself that he looked much younger, stronger. He lost that kicked puppy look, though she wasn’t at all sure she wanted him to. At least not so soon.

  “Let me be blunt, to a point,” Katharine began. They laughed at her unintentional contradiction, yet there was a cold, serious bitterness even in the laughter, and no humor. “We both want the same thing, which is for Julie to assist you. Our motives are probably quite different, but not necessarily, so let it suffice for now that we desire the same end result.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  “And we know that we have an obstacle, namely my husband. Now, it so happens that I know how he can be manipulated.”

  “Not many women would confess to that.”

  “Well, I do simply because I do not have many opportunities. Wilhelm has very few weaknesses. He doesn’t drink or chase women or gamble. His vice is money.”

  She fell to a whisper, as though revealing a dread secret.

  “Wilhelm is a very methodical man when it comes to his greed. He is not the usual penny-wise, pound-foolish miser. I, on the other hand, am a fairly foolish woman with no head for finances. But when I see a chance to get my own way, I take it. I see such a chance now.”

  The woman’s selfishness brought a bad taste to his mouth, one he tried to spit out with angry words.

  “Did it ever occur to you to ask your daughter’s opinion first?”

  Undeterred by Morgan’s reaction, Katharine smiled back at him.

  “I don’t really think I need to do that, Mr. Morgan,” she replied in that same whisper. “We both know the way she looked when she left this house yesterday afternoon. Julie was positively beaming.”

  *

  Morgan’s craving for a drink increased with every step he took. Laughter from the Castle beckoned him to join in the companionship of oblivion. He had money for it, too, though these last few dollars were intended to pay for the telegrams. Even if he decided not to spend it all on whisky, he could certainly use a shot or two of courage.

  He felt a trickle of sweat slide down his spine until it encountered a place where his shirt already stuck to his skin. He knew it wasn’t just the blistering sun that drew the perspiration like his life’s blood from his pores. He was terrified.

  Reaching in his pocket for the list of items he had to order, he shut his eyes to the sight of the welcoming saloon door. He needed all his wits about him if he were to keep his story straight and persuade Hollstrom to let the girl go. Morgan wasn’t used to lying, or at least not consciously so, and he wondered just how much of the truth he could get away with.

  And when it was over, when he walked out of the telegraph office and left an angry but believing Wilhelm Hollstrom behind, Morgan’s thirst had at least tripled. He licked dry lips and swallowed convulsively as he put one foot in front of the other toward the row of boardwalked shops that ended at McCrory’s General Store. Once his boots touched wood, he felt as if he could breathe again, as though he had been drowning and finally broke through to the surface.

  There was no ice cream parlor in Plato, but Simon usually kept some in the store. There was a short counter and a couple of chairs that could be supplemented with stools or barrels. When Morgan entered the store, he saw Julie waiting, her back to him with Willy seated on the chair beside her.

  “Julie, Julie, Mr. Morgan’s here!” the boy shouted.

  Julie gave Morgan a smile as he pulled up a three-legged stool and sat at Willy’s other side. He removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket, but before he could make any further statement on the weather, Ada McCrory waddled up to wait on them.

  “Del Morgan? Is it really you?” She placed her fleshy hands on the counter and leaned forward to get a closer look at him, revealing a good deal more flesh as she did so. “I heard someone say this morning that—”

  “Have you got any chocolate ice cream?” he interrupted to avoid her inquisition.

  “A bit, not much. Is it true you—”

  “And how about some strawberry?”

  “Simon and the boys made some last night and there’s a little left, I think.”

  He turned to Julie, noticing that she had changed her dress for a navy blue skirt and a blouse the color of sweet cream butter. “Which would you prefer, Miss Hollstrom?”

  “Strawberry would be fine,” she said quietly.

  “Good, and I’ll have—”

  “You’ll have vanilla, Del Morgan, ‘cause that’s all I got left. No butter rum today.”

  She set three small bowls on the counter and then served up the ice cream. Julie’s portion was somewhat larger than the others, as though Ada had seen the girl’s painful thinness, too. Willy didn’t wait for permission; he dove noisily into his quickly melting treat.

  Morgan spooned the cold sweetness slowly, savoring the shiver. As hard as he tried not to watch Julie, he couldn’t keep his eyes from straying in her direction and watching her over Willy’s bent head. The boy smacked greedily, and Morgan quelled an urge to scold him, only to have Julie do it a few seconds later.

  “Willy, mind your manners!” she admonished sharply. “Don’t slurp.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s melting.”

  “Then just eat it faster,” she suggested.

  The faster, the better, Morgan thought. Then go out and play so I can talk to your sister, alone.

  But even when Willy had finished, there was Ada to contend with. A customer took her attention for a while, but almost as soon as Willy had dashed outside, Simon’s wife returned, full of questions.

  Morgan didn’t have the time to waste satisfying her curiosity. And he doubted Julie would consent to go anywhere else with him. Already he sensed her nervousness.

  “Ada, have you any of those fancy Cuban cheroots?” he asked before the heavy woman had a chance to speak.

  “Sure. You want one?”

  “Give me a couple. And some matches.”

  If he was going to do without the comfort of his whisky, he would at least be able to smoke. As Ada waddled off, he took the opportunity to watch Julie, knowing she was aware of his study.

  She, too, let the pleasure linger, enjoying each mouthful of berry-flavored goodness. He couldn’t help but compare this scene to others, to one night in particular that stood out in his memory suddenly stronger than all others. Perhaps watching another woman’s delight in the cold refreshment made the image come so clearly, but whatever the cause, he saw it all again as though it were yesterday, and not fifteen years ago.

  Amy St. Rogers in a ruffled blue dress was a picture of summer ecstasy. She had sat in her father’s buggy with a blue parasol to shade her face while she watched Del play shortstop in a Friday night sandlot baseball game. He’d had a good game, three hits including a home run. He was hot and he was tired and he was so dusty he felt the sand grate in his joints, but he was happy, too.

  After the game was over, they all piled into Peter Eiseley’s wagon, Del and Ship McCullough and Tom Barrows and the girls who always came to watch them play, ev
en Amy this time. She had never consented to ride on the wagon with them before, and when they went into Grandpa Barrows’ ice cream parlor, she led Del to a table by themselves. He hardly tasted the ice cream that night because his eyes feasted on Amy St. Rogers, her laughing dark eyes, the curls of lustrous auburn hair that snuggled against her neck under the edge of her blue bonnet, her lips wet and sweet with buttered pecan ice cream, her favorite.

  Lost in those memories, he didn’t notice when Ada returned with the cheroots. It wasn’t until Julie set down her spoon and wiped her mouth daintily on a handkerchief that he took his eyes from her a moment and there lay the cheroots beside his empty bowl.

  Now it was his turn to feel nervous. Breaking this news wasn’t going to be easy, but it was better done and out of the way.

  “I had a long talk with your father just before I came here. I had a little difficulty persuading him to try my methods.”

  “He is a stubborn man.”

  “So I discovered. But he is very concerned about your mother’s health. Since nothing the other doctors have tried has worked, I suggested it was time to try a different technique.” So far, so good. He took a deep breath and continued.

  “Do you remember what I said about the more your mother rests, the more she needs to rest? Well, I intend to turn that right around. The more exercise she gets, the more she will need. And we are going to start tomorrow.”

  The combination of hopefulness and weariness that filled her eyes touched something inside him. No doubt she had been through so much of this already that she didn’t care. He wanted her to care, wanted her to hope. And he wanted to take those spectacles off her nose to see if he was right about her being more than almost pretty.

  He swallowed thickly and took another puff on his cheroot.

  “Tomorrow morning I want you turn over some of your chores to your mother. She can dust, can’t she?”

  Julie nodded, and within a few minutes they had made a list of several tasks Katharine could take on. Then, when she regained the use of the injured arm, she would tackle the heavier chores.

  “Can you teach her how to cook?” Morgan asked.