by Deeanne Gist
Though she missed the spontaneity of going from house to house, she didn’t miss traveling about in wet weather. Especially not with her cough and headaches.
As she turned onto Cherry Street, a light mist began to fall. She draped the cape up over her head, tossing one end over her shoulder. Today was Saturday, which meant she only worked in the morning, and Joe would be in town by the afternoon. Her excitement over his impending proposal resurfaced. She couldn’t wait for him to ask her and couldn’t wait to tell him yes.
Opening the gate in front of the Maynards’ home, she walked through, then headed toward the side entrance. Raindrops had just begun to fall when she slipped inside.
Hanging her cape on a hall tree, she knocked on the surgery room door.
“Come in.”
The smell of soap, chloroform, and carbolic acid overpowered Anna. Her headache pounded. “Good morning. I didn’t expect to see you yet.”
“No?” The doc sat with his back to her at a large oak desk, flipping through a giant volume whose title was obscured. “And why is that?”
“Because you’re hardly ever here on Saturday mornings.”
“I wanted to talk with you.” Arriving at the page he was looking for, he skimmed it with his finger, then took a few moments to read.
Anna washed her hands, then opened his medical bag and began to take inventory of its contents. He was low on bandages, arnica, and mutton tallow. She turned to retrieve replacements from a cupboard, then paused. Doc had swiveled his wooden chair around and leaned back to watch her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I need to talk to you.”
She frowned. Had he gone on a call last night? Had someone had a terrible accident? Or worse, died?
Taking advantage of the chair’s rollers, he propelled himself to a corner, snatched up a stool, then brought it back. “Please. Have a seat.”
She sunk down. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened.”
She took a deep breath of relief, triggering a faint rattling noise in her chest. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.” Pursing his lips, he propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and threaded his fingers across his stomach. “I want to talk about your cough.”
“Again? But you just gave me another exam a few days ago. I thought everything was fine.”
“I never said that. As a matter of fact, I didn’t say anything at all because I didn’t want to alarm you.”
She blinked. “Alarm me?”
He nodded. “It’s been going on too long, Anna.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a—”
“I don’t think so.”
Folding her hands in her lap, she squelched her protests. It was nothing, but she would do him the courtesy of listening. “Go ahead.”
“For the six weeks you’ve been with me, you’ve had a cough, difficulty breathing, headaches, poor appetite, and weight loss—all getting increasingly worse instead of better.”
She moistened her lips. “I haven’t really lost that much. And I’m sure it’s due to the fact I haven’t been eating like I should. I’ll make a concerted effort to do better. I promise.”
“That’s good, but it doesn’t explain the cough, the raspy sound in your lungs, the headaches, and the breathing episodes.”
“Maybe if I retire a little earlier, I’d be—”
“Have you had any fever?”
“No. You asked me that before. I haven’t had any.”
“You never feel overly warm at night?”
She’d been having trouble sleeping but not because she was hot. More because of her cough. “Not that I can remember.”
He tapped his thumbs together. A frisson of panic zipped through her. She’d seen this expression on his face before but only when he had bad news. Very bad news.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees. “I think you might have tuberculosis.”
She gasped, triggering her cough.
“Have you coughed up any blood at all?”
Shaking her head, she whipped a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her mouth. It hurt to cough. Way deep down in her chest. Could it be true? Did she have tuberculosis?
She’d had a neighbor in Granby who’d died of consumption. It was slow and painful. The woman eventually drowned in her own lungs. Tears rushed to Anna’s eyes.
Taking her hand in his, Doc patted it. “Since the symptoms have come on since your arrival in the Territory, I imagine it’s our climate that’s the problem.” He took a deep breath. “I think it would be best if you moved to a place with dry weather.”
“Moved?” The idea so startled her, she could hardly comprehend it. “Back to Granby?”
He shook his head. “Down toward Texas, where it’s drier.”
“Texas!” Her coughing started again. A deep, hacking cough that doubled her over. But southerners live in Texas, Anna wanted to scream. Yet she could do nothing until her coughing subsided.
Maynard stood and made a mixture of onion juice and honey, but before he could give it to her, her neck and chest muscles tightened.
Oh no.
In order to breathe, she had to take quick, rapid intakes of air. The wheezing grew more severe. The pain in her chest increased.
Doc rubbed her shoulders. “Sit up straight, Anna. Try to relax. Take slow breaths.”
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything but wait until the episode passed. And when it did, she acknowledged to herself that they were, in fact, getting worse instead of better.
Exhausted, she dabbed the sweat beading across her nose and cheeks. She would have collapsed if Maynard hadn’t braced her and guided her to his examination table.
“Lie down for minute until you regain your strength.”
Stretching out on the table, she covered her eyes with her arm. “I don’t want to go to Texas. I don’t want to go anywhere. I love Seattle.”
I love Joe, she thought. A fresh bout of tears filled her eyes. She had loved him for some time now, had even told him so back when he was hurt and she thought he was asleep. But he’d never acknowledged it, never asked her about it, so she wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard her or not. Tonight, though, he’d be wide awake, and when he proposed to her, she intended to tell him again.
“If you don’t go, Anna, I’m afraid you won’t survive.”
Moaning, she curled up into a ball. This couldn’t be happening. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d been sick. Until recently. Until she’d arrived in Seattle.
“I was fine when I was up at Joe’s,” she cried.
“Sometimes it takes a while for the moisture to have its effect.”
Anger ripped through her. Why her? Why now? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Pushing herself to a sitting position, she swiped her eyes. “I want to go home.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m really concerned about Granby being dry enough. You need to head south. If you don’t want to go to Texas, Kansas would probably be all right.”
“No. I meant home. The Occidental.” She slipped off the table.
Maynard cupped her elbow. “Of course. Let me drive you.”
She jerked away from his clasp. “No, thank you. I’d prefer to walk.”
She knew she was behaving poorly, but she needed to get away. To be alone. Hurrying from the room, she grabbed her cape and ran outside.
A sheet of rain hit her face, mingling with her tears. She made no attempt to protect herself from it. What difference would it make? If she stayed or if she left, one thing was certain: She was going to lose Joe.
Crushed, she could hardly stay upright. But she plodded ahead. Through the puddles, the rain, the remorse.
Bitterly she cried out to the Lord. I can’t bear to leave him. I can’t.
Nor could she ask him to go with her. The land was a part of him. Leaving it behind would kill him. Not right
away, maybe, but eventually. And as much as she wanted to marry him, she knew what she had to do.
Give me strength, Lord.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Anna studied her reflection in the cheval mirror. The cotton voile shift next to her skin might have been velvet, it was so soft and supple. She’d spent entirely too much time on the trimmings. Along the neckline, ribbon wove in and out of the fabric with delicate forget-me-knots bordering it on both sides. She’d added scalloped crocheted edging to both that and the sleeves.
Her drawers matched her shift and the whiteness of her brocade corset captivated her. She hadn’t wanted to make a wedding dress until he’d actually proposed, but she couldn’t resist sewing up the undergarments—though this was her first time to wear them.
Stepping into the new petticoat, she pulled it up over her hips, luxuriating in the freedom the hooped boning provided. Glancing over her shoulder, she checked her reflection one more time, admiring the undergarment’s pintucks and its elliptical shape—which would provide extra fullness to the back of her dress.
Even though the night with Joe was certain to be bittersweet, she wanted to look her best. She’d chosen to wear her navy wool with its tiny white leaf pattern. More than once he had mentioned his appreciation of that particular gown.
Its boned darts and tucked back displayed her figure in a positive light, while the cartridge pleating of the skirt’s train would be shown off by her new petticoat. Before buttoning the bodice, she removed a jar of scented oil she’d made from the twinflowers he’d packed in her trunk.
The perfume was her own recipe of water, oil, crushed twinflower, and her secret ingredient—a drop of vodka. She wasn’t able to make it often, for obtaining vodka was always a challenge. But Doc had been more than willing to share his once she explained what it was for.
Dipping a finger into the jar, she touched behind each ear, each wrist and the shadow between her breasts. She quickly finished buttoning herself up, then attached white collar and cuffs. She didn’t want to be late.
When she made it downstairs, Joe was waiting in his Sunday best. It was the first time she’d seen him in it for anything other than church. He smiled, a series of dimples pleating his face like a parted curtain.
He slid his gaze from her head to her toe, lingering on her skirt. Did he notice the new fullness to her dress? Did he realize she was wearing a petticoat made from the fabric he’d given her?
His eyes met hers, pleasure and heat emanating from his. “You look lovely.” He tucked her hand into his elbow, his voice low, husky. “Something’s different and I like it. I like it very much.”
He knew. Heat flashed through her as he led her outside to the coal-box buggy. His leg brushed her skirt, each step causing the boning in her petticoat to kick out to the side.
Clasping her waist with his huge hands, he paused, giving her the briefest of caresses with his thumbs. “I want to kiss you right now.”
He’d whispered it, then lifted her off the ground and into the carriage. Flustered, she frantically pressed her skirt to keep it from bowing out like a bell.
They rode toward the bay, the buggy top down. Puddles had collected in the deeper potholes, offering the only evidence of earlier rains. Stars covered the now clear night sky as if God had thrown a handful of sparkling jacks while the moon, like a ball, waited to be bounced.
Ordinarily Joe and Anna began talking the moment they saw each other and didn’t stop until he brought her home. But tonight, neither said a word, his whispered declaration echoing in both their minds.
He usually took her to supper at Our House, an expensive hotel run by the Widow Hill, but instead of turning right on Jackson, he continued toward the wharf. Anna didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t really care where they ate, so long as they were together.
The smell of Elliott Bay and the sound of gentle waves bumping against a pier soothed her frazzled nerves. She loved the water. Any kind of water. Lake, river, bay, sea. How could something so beautiful and calming be the cause of her cough?
As they approached the shore, a canoe decorated with Chinese lanterns bobbed next to the dock. The water reflected its lights, making it look as if a pixie had left sparkling dust all about the vessel. An Indian arrayed in citizen’s garb—complete with white shirt and standing collar reaching halfway up to his ears—stood inside the boat.
Before she could comment on it, Joe pulled Shakespeare to a stop. Another Indian, also dressed in itkahs, white man’s clothes, rushed forward and took the horse’s reins.
Anna's confusion lasted only a moment before realization struck. Joe had decorated a canoe and planned to take her on a moonlit ride. Her mind grappled with the image of him doing such a frivolous thing while her heart felt Cupid’s arrow strike with loving precision.
Help me tell him, Lord. Help me be strong.
Jumping from the buggy, he reached up for her. Instead of assisting her to her feet, however, he swooped her legs out from under her and carried her to the dock.
“What are you doing?” she asked, pressing her petticoat down.
“I didn’t want you to soil the hem of your dress.” But even when they reached the pier, he didn’t release her.
Stopping next to the canoe, he lowered her into it. “Iskêm.”
The Indian took hold of her, guiding her to a plank where she sat down. She noticed his feet were bare beneath his trousers and smiled to herself. The natives went only so far in their adoption of civilized clothing.
Joe loosened the moorings, then dropped into the boat, causing it to sway before he settled across from her. “Anna, this is Clat Scoot. He’ll be piloting the canoe for us tonight.”
She nodded. “Hello, Mr. Scoot.”
“Klahawya.”
The Squamish were a marine-oriented society. More than once she’d admired their finely crafted dugouts as they paddled up and down the coast, trading with the tkup, or white man. But Anna had never been in one.
Scoot maneuvered the canoe around and in seconds they were cutting through the bay, the rhythmic blup, blup of his paddle filling the silence.
Joe slipped his large booted foot beneath her skirt and toed her hem. The boning in her petticoat lifted.
“What’s this?” he asked.
The lanterns provided enough light for her to see him, but not enough to see the nuances in his expression. She had no trouble recognizing the intimate tenor of his voice, however.
When she didn’t respond, he tapped her skirt again. “Are you, by chance, wearing something new?”
She glanced at Scoot.
“He doesn’t speak English,” Joe said. “That’s why I arranged for him to do the piloting.”
Still, she didn’t answer, trying to decide if she was pleased or mortified that he’d noticed her undergarments.
The forward motion of the canoe brought with it a breeze. The length of hair she’d gathered with a ribbon and draped over her shoulder fluttered. Joe tapped her petticoat in time with the canoe paddle.
She slapped her hands against her shins. “Stop that,” she whispered.
“Answer me.”
“You already know the answer.”
“What else besides the petticoat?”
“Joe.”
“What else?”
“All of it.”
The tapping ceased. “Petticoat, shift, corset, and drawers?”
She gasped, triggering her cough.
Joe offered her his handkerchief. “Did Doc give you something new for that last week? He told me he would.”
When the coughing stopped, she took slow, careful breaths. The breeze seemed to help, despite the moisture it picked up from the bay.
Still, she didn’t rush herself. The last thing she wanted was to have a breathing episode. Joe had only observed that first one when they were at Lake Washington. She had no desire to have him witness another.
“Have you been taking your elecampane and licorice?”
&
nbsp; Anna nodded.
“And it hasn’t helped?”
“Not too much.” Her voice came out scratchy and rough.
She should tell him. Now. Before the evening progressed. But before she could, the canoe veered toward the shore. She looked over her shoulder.
In a clearing not far from the water, a half dozen torches surrounded a temporary house like those the Indians summered in. All her good intentions disappeared. He’d clearly gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf. She wasn’t about to spoil it. Not yet, at least.
Pushing thoughts of her illness to the back of her mind, she committed to simply enjoying the evening. Two squatty youths ran out, splashing into the water to help pull the boat on shore.
Once they reached the sand, Joe stepped out, scooped her up, and carried her toward the house made of woven cattail mats. The smell of food made her mouth water. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.
Inside, Joe set her on her feet. Indian women in the adopted skirt and shirtwaist of the Americans bustled around a wide trench that held the cooking fire. All were barefoot.
Smoke from the fire spiraled up through an opening in the roof. A modern table complete with two armchairs, a cloth covering, two place settings, and a small candelabra graced a corner of the hut, looking completely out of place amid the handmade baskets and stools scattered about the dirt floor.
The thing that snagged Anna’s attention and held it, however, was the Indian woman with brass rings on every finger, including her thumbs, brass rings in her ears, and a string of ten-cent pieces hanging about her neck.
It was the same woman Joe had waved and winked at back when Anna had first arrived. She was the only one who wore the traditional Indian wraparound garment of woven cedar bark. She wasn’t undersized like the rest of her tribe, but tall and striking, her dark brown hair falling about her shoulders in long, satiny freedom.
Joe placed his hand at Anna’s waist. “Ukuk nayka kluchmên.” He gave her a gentle squeeze. “Anna, this is my friend and our host, Kitlu.”