The Seeds of Change

by Lauraine Snelling

  “She may have a concussion.” Adam examined the gash matting her hair with blood, then lifted her eyelids and examined her pupils. He pulled out his stethoscope to listen to her heart and breathing. “Why don’t you crush up some of those hailstones outside with a hammer and wrap them in a cloth. The ice will help lower the swelling and minimize any bruising to her brain.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Jorgensen eased his wife’s head down on a pillow and hurried out the door.

  Adam wet a cloth in the water jug he found in the kitchen and set to cleaning Mrs. Jorgensen’s head wound, wiping the blood from her graying hair.

  She moaned and turned her head from side to side, then fluttered her eyelids open. Focusing unsteadily on Adam’s face, she frowned. “What are you . . . doing here? Where . . . am I?”

  “You’re in your home, Mrs. Jorgensen.” Adam lowered the cloth. “Your husband called for me. I’m afraid you took a blow to the head during the storm.”

  “Storm?” She tried to lift her head, then laid it back down with a grimace. “Where’s . . . Edgar?”

  “Right here, Lucretia.” Mr. Jorgensen hurried in, bundle in hand. “I’m here.” He handed the rag wrapped around crushed ice to Adam and fell to his knees beside his wife, stroking her hand.

  Adam settled the compress on Mrs. Jorgensen’s head. “Keep this on until it melts or as long as she will tolerate it. She must have absolute rest for the next twenty-four hours, and watch her carefully for signs of confusion or increased pain.” He hesitated, but he should let them know. “Or seizures. If any of these occur, summon me at once.”

  “Is there nothing else to do?” Mr. Jorgensen laid a hand on the ice compress.

  “Not at the moment. But it’s a good sign she has come to already. Most concussions heal with rest and time.” Adam stood and closed his bag. Likely the storm had left other casualties in town that needed tending. And the storekeeper’s wife wouldn’t want him around any longer than necessary. “Let me know if there is any change.”

  “Doctor.” Mrs. Jorgensen’s weak voice halted him at the door.

  He turned back.

  Her unfocused gaze rested on him, regret in her face. “Thank you.”

  Adam nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  Jesse met him in the yard, coming from the back door of their place. “Uncle Adam, there’s lots of p-people here to see you.”

  No surprise. He quickened his pace.

  Inside, townsfolk filled his office—mothers, fathers, children. Gashed foreheads and a couple of broken limbs, by the look of it. One woman cradled a girl bleeding heavily from her leg.

  Adam scanned the gathering, trying to think. How to organize who needed help most? Where to put them all? His office held nowhere near enough room.

  Henry Caldwell appeared at his side, his arm wrapped in a bandage. “How can I help?”

  Adam grabbed his friend’s wrist. “You’re hurt.”

  “Just a scratch.” Henry shook him off. “There’s many far worse. Where do you want them?”

  Adam thought quickly. “Let’s open up the store. Mr. Jorgensen won’t mind. Jesse?”

  His nephew nodded and opened the door adjoining the office to the mercantile, holding it wide.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please.” Adam raised his voice above the clamor. “Wait in the store, and I will see you one at a time, the most urgent cases first. You may enter through this door or go around outside. You, ma’am,” he said to the woman with the bleeding girl, “stay here, and anyone else who is bleeding heavily or suspects internal damage.” He wasn’t sure how they would know, but he had to start somewhere.

  With Henry and Jesse’s help, they got the murmuring crowd moving, slow as a herd of reluctant cattle.

  Adam lifted the young girl with the injured leg to his examining table. She was probably about eight years old, and she shrieked as he moved her. He pushed her calico skirt aside and started to unwind the clumsy, blood-soaked bandage.

  “She got caught under a falling beam.” The mother twisted her hands, her voice choked. “The bone is broken. It’s awful.”

  Adam removed the bandage and swallowed. Indeed, cracked white bone poked through the gash in the girl’s shin. A compound fracture, and bleeding heavily.

  “We’ve got to stop the bleeding first. Jesse, bandages.” He grabbed the cloths from his nephew and pressed them to the wound. The little girl screamed again, then sobbed, her hands grasping for her mother.

  “I’m sorry, child.” The pain would be horrific. He needed to give her some laudanum before trying to set the bone. “Jesse, do you know where the laudanum is?”

  “I d-don’t know.” Jesse crossed to the cupboard and opened it, staring inside.

  “Which shelf is it on?” Henry limped over to help him.

  “The top, I think.” Adam squinted, trying to picture his cupboard. “A small brown bottle.”

  “This?” Henry held out a brown glass vial.

  “No, that’s quinine.” He couldn’t let up the pressure on the girl’s leg. She’d bleed to death before they could set her leg.

  “Let me look.” A quiet feminine voice entered the conversation. Forsythia Nielsen hurried past him, unwinding a scarf from her head as she went. “It’s laudanum you need?”

  “Yes.” Relief expanded in his chest. Oh, Forsythia, you knew I needed you.

  Gently she pushed past Henry and Jesse to the cabinet, then moved to Adam’s side with the correct bottle in hand. “How many drops?”

  “Try ten to start.”

  “Here you are, dear one.” Forsythia laid a hand on the little girl’s shaking shoulder. “Open your mouth. That’s it. This will help.” She dispensed the dosage, and the child lay back, still trembling but quieted by Forsythia’s touch.

  Forsythia set the bottle aside and took off her coat. “An open break, then?”

  “Yes.” Adam checked beneath the cloth he’d been pressing. “The bleeding’s slowing a little. As soon as the laudanum takes effect, we need to set her leg.” He glanced around. “Henry, can you go into the store and get a tally of who is here and what their injuries are? I need to know who needs care most urgently.”

  Caldwell nodded and disappeared through the door, relief on his face.

  Good. His friend excelled at organization and managing people, but clearly not so much with medicine.

  The little girl’s eyelids fluttered, the pain relaxing from her face.

  “Jesse, I’ll need you to help hold her leg.”

  His nephew stepped near. “S-sorry I c-couldn’t find the laudanum.” His face twisted in regret.

  “That’s all right.” Adam smiled and shifted the child’s leg into position. “Perhaps I should just make Miss Nielsen my official nurse. Forsythia, you hold her shoulders. Jesse, I need all your weight across her ankles.” He glanced at the child’s mother. “Ma’am, you may not want to watch this.”

  With a shudder, the woman turned away.

  “Ready?” At his assistants’ nods, Adam clenched his jaw and pulled. A horrible grating sound, then a click. Despite the laudanum, the little girl tensed and cried out.

  “There.” He released a breath. This was never a doctor’s favorite chore, but the bone had been set back into place. “Now we just need to close the wound.”

  Forsythia was already gathering his suturing supplies. How did she even know where they were? Adam sent Jesse to monitor the front door, where more patients were already assembled, then started cleaning and stitching the little girl’s leg back together.

  Henry Caldwell stepped back in from the store. “We’ve got an older man who got caught under the saloon when it collapsed. He doesn’t say much, but his chest—” The attorney shook his head. “It doesn’t look good. Otherwise, some possible broken arms and head injuries. The rest seem mostly minor.”

  “Thank you.” Adam tied off the stitching. “Jesse, help bring in that older man.”

  Jesse and another young man hauled in a wizened little man who must hav
e been out in these parts long before most settlers arrived. He wore a bulky coat and an uncomplaining expression, which was probably why Adam hadn’t noticed him earlier. But when he got the coat off and opened up the old man’s shirt, Adam drew a sharp breath. Deep bruises and lacerations covered his chest.

  “It’s bad, ain’t it?” The older man gave a resigned sigh and winced at the effort. “Well, I had a good life.”

  Forsythia met Adam’s gaze over the man’s head, her eyes anxious.

  Adam set his stethoscope in his ears and listened to the man’s lungs, then gently palpitated his ribs.

  “Yow,” the man yelped. “If a man’s gotta go, let him go easy.”

  “I wouldn’t set your affairs in order just yet.” Adam removed his earpieces and smiled. “You’ve got some cracked ribs, which will make breathing painful for some time, I’m afraid. But as best I can tell, your lungs are intact.”

  The old man blinked up at him. “You mean I ain’t gonna die?”

  “Only the Lord knows our time, my friend. But I don’t think yours is just yet. Forsythia, get me the bandages, please. We’ll wrap his ribs tightly to help stabilize them and ease the pain.”

  Darkness fell, and still they worked together, cleaning and stitching and bandaging wounds, and setting more broken limbs. Lark, who had been helping Mrs. Caldwell clean up some of the mess inside Henry’s office, came by and assisted for a few hours as well.

  It was nearly midnight when the last patient hobbled out of the office. Many families who had lost homes or endured damage were bedding down with others for the night. Adam made up cots in his office for the little girl with the compound fracture and the man with broken ribs, wanting to keep them close overnight for observation.

  “Where is your sister?” he asked Forsythia, concerned by the exhaustion lining her face.

  “Lark went home to update the others and get some extra blankets for you here. She’ll be back for me.” She leaned on the back of a wooden chair.

  “Come upstairs and have a cup of tea.” Adam extended a hand to her. “Our patients are sleeping, and thanks to the gift of laudanum, I don’t think they’ll need us anytime soon. We’ll hear Lark when she drives up.”

  Forsythia hesitated, then accepted his assistance up the stairs. In the little sitting room, she sank into the rocking chair he kept pulled close to the stove. Nearby, Jesse snoozed on the sofa.

  “This is cozy.” She held out her hands, warming them. “Thank you.”

  Adam set the teakettle to boil. “No, thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you tonight.” Weary to the bone himself, he sank into another chair beside her and met her eyes, hoping she could see how much he meant it. “I can’t think of anyone else who would have worked beside me like you did.”

  “What, not Henry or Jesse?” She quirked a smile.

  “Definitely not Henry or Jesse.” He chuckled.

  “What about Elizabeth?”

  Adam stilled.

  “Forgive me.” Forsythia twisted her hands together. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No.” Adam reached across and laid his hand over hers, stilling her nervous fingers. “It’s all right. And no, not even Elizabeth. She was my first love, the light of my life. And she unfailingly supported me in my work. But sharing it . . . that has been something new with you, Forsythia.”

  Her fingers trembled under his, and he gripped them tightly. He hadn’t meant to speak just yet, but suddenly he knew it was time.

  Forsythia sat still, barely daring to breathe. Every ounce of her pulsed with the awareness of Adam’s hand over hers, the warmth of his fingers. What was he saying?

  “I know I told you I needed time.”

  “And I understood. I understand.”

  “And that has meant more than I can say. But what I’m trying to tell you, dearest Forsythia, is that . . . I think I have had enough. Time, that is.” He shifted and slipped from his chair to kneel beside hers.

  “You have?” She dared to meet his eyes. Those wonderful, warm brown eyes.

  He twined his strong fingers through hers. “When the tornado hit, and Jesse and I were hunkered down in the barn out back, all I could think was that I wanted to be at your side, wherever you were, whatever you were doing. And to have you at mine. Then when I needed help in the clinic . . . you were there.”

  Forsythia lifted her hand and brushed a wayward dark curl from his forehead, as she had so often longed to do. “And all I could think was that you needed me.”

  He lowered his head, brushing his lips across her knuckles, then looked up again. “You know I am not perfect. I’m as flawed as any man, and I can’t even promise I’m finished grieving Elizabeth. But if you still want me, with all my imperfections . . . then I would ask you, Forsythia Nielsen—would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  A tear slipped down her cheek. “I don’t come unencumbered either. Are you sure you want three ready-made children?”

  He caught her tear on his finger. “Elizabeth and I couldn’t have children—at least, she couldn’t. And your care for those little ones is one of the things I loved first about you.”

  Love. Lord, he loves me. Forsythia closed her eyes.

  “I’d say those three are less encumbrances than extra blessings, wouldn’t you?”

  She nodded, teary laughter bubbling up. “Then, Dr. Adam Brownsville, yes. I would be honored to become your wife.” And then, to the surprise of both of them, she leaned forward and kissed her doctor squarely on the mouth.

  “Hello?” A step sounded on the stairs. “Anyone home?”

  Lark. Forsythia pulled back with a gasp. “You said we’d hear her.”

  “Well, I didn’t know we would be quite so distracted.” A grin lighting his face, Adam kissed her quickly once more and then jumped up. “Yes, Miss Nielsen. We’re here.”

  Forsythia pressed her fingers to her lips, her heart pounding. Lord, I love him, but are we truly ready for this? And what is Larkspur going to say?

  29

  So much to be thankful for.

  Standing within the plain wooden walls of the Salton church, Lark stood in charge of the pot of hot cider at the community Thanksgiving meal, breathing in the sweet, spicy scent rising beneath her nose. Children scampered around, their laughter and squeals mingling with the chatter of women spreading food on the tables. The wooden pews had been cleared to the sides to make way for the tables and benches now lining the sanctuary, laden with the fruits of the farming families’ harvest.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Del appeared before her, beaming, and Lark dipped her a cupful of cider. “I was just talking with some of the parents of my students, and we think we’ve already raised nearly enough for the new schoolhouse.”

  “Just with the plate charge for the meal?” Lark served cider for a little boy and his mother.

  “A few people made generous extra donations too—Mr. Young, even Dr. Brownsville. Plus, we’ve still got the pie auction after dinner.”

  “I guess you won’t be holding class in the church too much longer, then.”

  “Well, we won’t be able to raise the school building until the snow is off the ground. But hopefully in the spring.”

  Lark loved seeing the shine in Del’s eyes and the happy flush in her cheeks when she talked about teaching. Truly her sensible sister had found her passion.

  “Miss Nielsen.” A small girl ran up and tugged at Del’s hand. “Come see the new piano.”

  “Piano?” Lark raised a brow and turned to see where the child pointed. At the back of the church, Rev. Pritchard and some other men were wrestling a bulky item through the door.

  “Oh, I heard about this.” Del set down her cup. “Rev. Pritchard’s home church back east donated a piano to us. I can’t wait to see Sythia’s face. Excuse me . . .” She followed the little girl’s tugging hand to go see the instrument the men were hauling to the front of the sanctuary.

  A piano. What a gift. Lark couldn’t hold b
ack her smile. Now the Nielsens’ musical offerings during services would sound complete once more. She closed her eyes. Thank you, Lord.

  “You look mighty happy about somethin’, ma’am.”

  At the soft drawl, Lark opened her eyes with a start.

  The man standing before her had trimmed his scruffy beard and exchanged his ragged army uniform for simple farmer’s clothes, but she’d recognize that voice anywhere.

  “Isaac McTavish?” she blurted.

  He frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “Oh.” Lark’s ears heated. How to explain this? And what was he doing here? “Forgive me. I’m Larkspur Nielsen. You met my family when we were on the trail and also at the Herrons’. When I was . . . Clark Nielsen.” That likely made little to no sense. “We played music?”

  Isaac’s face cleared. “I remember now. Mrs. Herron mentioned something in her letter about your, shall I say, necessary subterfuge?” His eyes twinkled.

  Lark relaxed. At last, someone who didn’t take her masquerade too seriously. “You might say that. I’m glad you aren’t too shocked.”

  “I’ve seen a heap too much these past few years to shock easy. Besides”—he tipped his head to the side, studying her— “can’t say but that it’s rather a nice surprise.”

  Lark didn’t know what to say to that. Her cheeks warmed.

  “Be that as may be, might a weary traveler get a cup of cider?”

  “Oh, of course.” Grateful for the distraction, Lark dipped him a cup of the hot, spiced brew. “So what brings you out here, Mr. McTavish?”

  “Well, I’ve been lookin’ for what might be the next stop on my journey. I’ve been traveling hither and yon between here and Ohio, helpin’ with harvestin’ and such. Then I heard about the cyclone damage y’all suffered up here, and havin’ word from Mrs. Herron that my friends the Nielsens had settled up here—well, I thought I’d see if I could be of any help.”

  “So you knew we were here.” He’d come all this way to find them?

  “Better to settle where one finds friends, I believe. They’re a precious possession in this world.”