Sarah saw Nolan blink in surprise, but after darting a glance at Sarah to see if it was all right with her, he nodded slowly.
Anson took Sarah by the elbow and steered her just out of earshot of the others.
“Miss Sarah, I hope you’ll forgive me if I speak frankly, since I’m about to leave,” he said, gazing down at her, his dark eyes earnest. When she said nothing, he went on. “I—I’m sorry we didn’t get to know one another better, that I didn’t meet you before you met that Yankee doctor.” He nodded toward Nolan, who stood by Prissy’s father, who was still so weak he’d been pushed outside in a wheeled chair. Nolan was trying very hard to keep his eyes averted from them. Sarah could tell, but there was a certain tenseness about him that told her he was very aware of them.
She wouldn’t have been female if she wasn’t at least a little flattered by the ruefulness that tinged the eyes of Anson Tyler, who remained handsome even in his grief. She couldn’t help wondering, if she hadn’t already met Nolan, if she would have found Anson more appealing. But it was no use pondering the matter. She had met Nolan first, and because of that, her heart was already occupied.
“Anson, I—” she began, struggling to find the right words, but he interrupted her quickly as if to spare her.
“But I know I’m leaving you in good hands,” he said. “I’ve come to respect your Dr. Walker. He’s a good man, even if he is a Yankee.”
The admission touched her, for it represented a complete reversal of his earlier, automatic enmity toward Nolan.
“Thank you, Anson. And I believe there’s a wonderful lady out there, just waiting for you to find her. Perhaps you ought to come back to Simpson Creek some day—she could be part of our Spinsters’ Club.”
“Maybe I will.” A spark of the charm that was so much a part of Anson Tyler reappeared in his eyes.
Once Anson had departed, and Nolan had helped Prissy’s father back inside, Nolan took his leave, for he had many ill people to attend to.
Mayor Gilmore called his daughter and Sarah into the parlor.
Sarah was braced for this talk. Prissy’s father would express his thanks for her help nursing the family and for what she had taught his daughter, tell Prissy he needed her in the house and offer Sarah the help of Antonio and the use of the wagon to move her things back to the ranch.
Mayor Gilmore cleared his throat and dabbed at red-rimmed eyes with a rumpled handkerchief. “Sit down, both of you girls,” he said, then waited as they did so. “Your mother was so proud of you, Prissy—proud of how sweet and lovely you are, and especially about all you’d learned in the short time you and Sarah have been living in the cottage. But a little bird told me—” his gaze now wandered to Flora, who stood by the door in case she should be needed “—you thought it was your duty to reside again in the house and take care of your old papa. I want to tell you that I don’t feel it’s necessary.”
“But Papa,” Prissy protested, surprised. “Of course I’m going to move back in! I want to look after you!”
“Your mother would not want you to give up all you were learning just to keep an old man company day and night. Flora and Antonio will still be here, and with you living just across the grounds, you’re close enough to take suppers with me whenever you like—even cook the meals yourself—right, Flora?”
“Oh, sì, senor, I would enjoy the two senoritas taking over the cooking whenever they wish,” Flora agreed.
“I have to face the fact my little girl has grown up, just as her brothers did,” Mayor Gilmore said, dabbing at his eyes again.
“Oh, Papa, you’re the best father a girl could ever have!” Prissy said, throwing her arms around his neck.
Sarah saw a proud tear trickle down the mayor’s cheek as he hugged his daughter. “And you’re the best daughter. But once this blasted influenza lets up, I need to get back to governing the city, eh? I’ve got a reelection campaign to run this spring, remember?”
“Oh, Papa, as if any man in town wouldn’t vote for you!” Prissy cried.
“Assuming there’s anyone left to vote,” he added, shaking his head sadly. “At the funeral, I heard Mr. Patterson died the day before yesterday, and Andy Calhoun the day before that.”
“And Miss Mary, the millinery shop owner,” Prissy said. “And Pete Collier, Caroline Wallace’s fiancé. Poor Caroline! Their wedding was to be in March!”
“Reverend Chadwick looks worn to a frazzle,” Sarah murmured, mentally saying a quick prayer for the gentle old shepherd of their church.
At least word from the ranch was good, Sarah thought, reaching into her pocket to feel the note Milly had had Isaiah drop off this morning. No one at the ranch had been ill, and she had to think it was because they’d stayed away from town. Isaiah had waited outside while Sarah had written a note back to Milly, then gotten back on his horse and rode out again.
Mayor Gilmore stifled a yawn. “Why don’t you girls plan on coming for supper tonight? I’ve asked Flora to make your favorite tamales, Prissy.”
“Wonderful, Papa! We’ll be there, won’t we, Sarah?”
“Good, good. Right now, though, your old papa is tired and needs a nap.”
“That was very generous of your father,” Sarah murmured as they walked back to the cottage.
Prissy sighed. “He’s being so brave.”
Sarah agreed. Even as she mourned for the dead and fretted about the continuing ravages of the epidemic, though, she felt a sense of being reprieved. She would not have to move back to the ranch—away from Nolan, her heart whispered.
The thought stopped her short. Hadn’t she decided that no matter how she admired his fierce dedication to healing, he was not for her, because he was not a man of faith? But her heart didn’t seem to be listening.
“What shall we do this afternoon?” Prissy asked. “I feel as if we’ve been cooped up in the big house forever. I don’t want to sit in the cottage and just think about how I miss Mama. But it’s not a good time to go visiting, and all the shops are closed….”
“I had an idea,” Sarah told her, remembering the thought she’d first broached to Nolan at dinner after Prissy’s mother and aunt had died. Perhaps now was the perfect time to transform her thought into action. “Let’s go brew a pot of tea, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Prissy thought her idea was wonderful. By suppertime they had visited all the Spinsters in town who weren’t already nursing family members or mourning a loss, like Caroline, and enlisted their aid. Then they called on Nolan to inform him. And so the Spinster Nursing Corps was born.
Nolan’s first impulse, when he found Sarah and Prissy waiting at his office after he returned from yet another call upon a new influenza victim, was to forbid Sarah to have anything to do with nursing the sick. She’d done more than enough already in her care for the Gilmores. She was too sheltered, too fragile…too precious to him. He did not want her exposed again to the ravages of influenza.
Yet he realized even as his mouth opened to form the words that he couldn’t forbid her to do this. He had no authority over her. She’d accepted him as her friend, but he was nothing more to her, and she’d do this thing with or without his blessing, he could tell by the determined jut of her jaw and the warlike glint in her eyes. He couldn’t very well permit Prissy to nurse the sick and not allow Sarah to do so, also.
And he had to admit he desperately needed help. Each day brought word of new influenza cases. There were so many down with it in and around Simpson Creek that it was no longer practical to remain at the bedside of each one until they passed the crisis and either gradually got well or developed a fatal pneumonia. He needed capable assistants whom he could trust to watch over feverish patients and dose them with medications according to instructions, and who could judge when it was necessary to summon him back to the bedside. In short, he needed nurses, and here were two young women saying they wanted to be just that, and had enlisted others, too.
He met with them at his office just after sunrise the next mor
ning, and smiled in spite of his fatigue to see the row of earnest-looking young women. All of them were clad in dark, practical clothing, either actual mourning or somber-hued skirts and blouses.
“Good morning, ladies. I’m thankful you’re here, and I applaud your dedication to your community and your willingness to place yourselves at risk. You do understand, don’t you, that you could be putting yourself in a position to contract the infection?”
To a woman, they all nodded, their faces solemn. His eyes lingered on Sarah, who nodded again, almost imperceptibly. He could imagine what she was thinking—if I didn’t catch it nursing Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore, or Mrs. Tyler, surely I’m not going to.
“Very well, then, before I send you out,” he said, “we shall just cover a few basics, with which some of you may already be familiar.” Then he spoke of providing warmth for patients who were chilled, but not over-blanketing them, which slowed down the body’s natural cooling mechanism, the specific diet for those able to eat, the brewing of willow bark tea, accurate dosing of the morphine and laudanum he would send with them.
“In regard to these medicines, it is not a case of ‘if a little is good for the patient, a lot is better,’” he cautioned the would-be nurses. “These drugs can be deadly if not properly used, so you must adhere strictly to the guidelines I have given you for indications, amount and frequency.”
He saw them all taking it in. Sarah and some others took notes.
“Lastly, the most important preventative measure you can take for your own health is to wash your hands vigorously with soap and water after touching a patient. If they’re able to follow instructions, tell them to cover their coughs and sneezes. And get the proper rest and nourishment. If you fall ill yourself—” He could not look at Sarah as he said those words. Visions of his wife and son, dying so quickly and miserably in the cholera epidemic, swam before his brain. Once again he wished he could forbid her to expose herself to this danger.
He cleared his throat with difficulty. “If you fall ill yourself,” he began again, “then someone must nurse you, so do not allow yourselves to become exhausted or go without eating and resting. You must let me know immediately if you develop chills, fever, headache or sore throat—promise me, ladies?”
There was an answering chorus of yeses.
“Very well then. We shall move on to assignments. In some cases, I will send you out in pairs if there is more than one family member ill at a residence. In other cases, only one of you will go. Miss Harkey and Miss Thompson, I’d like you to go to the Fedders’ house, where both Mr. and Mrs. Fedders are ill. Miss Jeffries, to the Hotchkiss ranch. Miss Shackleford, to Mrs. Brenner…” He allowed himself to look at Sarah again, toying with the idea of asking her to accompany him on calls as his assistant, a way of keeping an eye on her and making sure she did not overtire herself in her zeal to help. But he knew it might cause talk, and worse, she’d see right through his claim of needing a nurse to accompany him and resent his ploy.
“…Miss Gilmore and Miss Matthews, to the Poteets—both the sheriff and his wife are ill.”
At this point the bell over the door tinkled, and Nolan looked up to see Reverend Chadwick entering, wearing his care like a heavy frock coat.
He didn’t wait to be greeted. “Dr. Walker, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed at the Spencers.”
“Ada’s ill?” Sarah asked, before Nolan could form the question. “Or is it…”
He knew she was trying to ask whether it was influenza, or her supposed pregnancy, but didn’t know how in front of the other ladies, some of whom still believed Ada’s story.
“Both her parents have come down with the influenza,” the minister said. “Miss Spencer seems…well enough…”
Nolan guessed Chadwick didn’t want to add physically, at least.
Sarah and Prissy exchanged glances, as did the other ladies. Ada had been their friend and part of the Spinsters’ Club, after all, before she had started acting so strangely.
Nolan rubbed his chin. “Well, then, that means a change of plans. I was going to keep you, Miss Bennett, and you, Miss Lassiter, in reserve, to take over when the others need to be relieved or if new cases should arise, but instead I’ll need you to come along with me to the Spencers.”
He sought and found Sarah’s gaze. She would understand why he dare not have her come to the Spencers, after the way Ada had acted toward her at the Gilmores’ New Year’s Day party. He sensed that her thoughts mirrored his. What might her parents’ illness—or worse, their deaths—do to Ada Spencer’s already troubled mind?
Chapter Seventeen
Nursing Sheriff Poteet and his wife was much harder than taking care of the Gilmores and Mrs. Tyler had been. At the Gilmores’ luxurious, stately home, at least, she and Prissy had had Flora and Antonio to assist them and take over when they needed to rest or take their meals. Here at the sheriff’s far humbler abode, which was actually connected to the jail, they were completely on their own, and had only each other to rely on.
They soon developed a system—Sarah kept vigil by the ailing lawman and his wife, dosing them with willow bark tea and morphine and bathing them with tepid water, while Prissy kept chicken broth simmering on the cookstove and boiled the soiled bedding over a fire outside; then they traded off. In the evening, Prissy would go home to check on her father, who continued to progress slowly in his convalescence. During the night one girl slept on a pallet in the small kitchen while the other sat between the beds of the sheriff and his wife, and they’d switch in the middle of the night.
Sarah had not forgotten the middle-aged sheriff’s complicity a few months ago with those who would have persecuted the former slaves now working as Matthews Ranch cowhands, but she could not find it in her heart to hold that against him as he struggled for each breath. Each paroxysm of coughing turned his lips blue, a ghastly sight against the florid heat of his face. The once-paunchy man looked sadly diminished in his nightshirt.
“I’m gonna die, ain’t I?” he rasped on the third full day they had spent there, after a spasm of coughing left the pillowcase blood flecked.
The sight of the crimson spots made Sarah queasy, but she steeled herself to ignore her churning stomach. She couldn’t help the desperately ill man by giving in to squeamishness. “Sheriff, you’ve got to keep fighting,” Sarah said, sponging his sweaty brow. “If we can just get this fever down…” But she feared he was right. He kept coughing, but it didn’t seem to relieve the increasing rattling in his lungs.
“Better send fer th’ Rev’ren’…got a lot to atone for…I ain’t always been the best sheriff I coulda been. Git Mabel in here, will ya?”
“I’ll go fetch him, Sarah, and leave a message for Dr. Walker, too,” Prissy said. She had just come in the room with a couple of sheets she’d dried in front of the fireplace. Snatching up her cloak, she strode back through the door that led through the jail to the street. Thank God there were no prisoners awaiting trial in either of the jail’s two cells. The criminals must be either holed up for the winter or had heard of the influenza outbreak and decided to give Simpson Creek a wide berth.
Sarah noticed Sheriff Poteet hadn’t asked for the doctor. He’d already given up hope, and probably nothing further she said about his recovery would sound convincing.
“Sheriff, your wife’s already here—she’s sick, too,” Sarah reminded him, moving aside so the ill man could see his wife lying on the trundle bed across the room. With some effort, Mrs. Poteet turned on her side and faced them, a tear trickling down her gaunt cheeks.
“Robert, you…got t’…hang on, y’hear?” she said, in between her own spasms of coughing. “I need you… Simpson Creek needs you.”
“Dunno…if I can, Mabel,” the sheriff mumbled, as his eyes drifted shut. “You been a good wife…”
Those were his last words. He drifted into insensibility and was unaware of Reverend Chadwick’s arrival or his bedside prayers. He lasted until sunset. Nolan arrived just as he heaved his
last breath.
Out of the corner of her stinging eyes, while she and Prissy did their best to comfort the new widow, Sarah saw Nolan close the sheriff’s eyes and cover the body with the bedsheet. She kept Mrs. Poteet shielded against her body while Nolan, aided by Prissy, carried the sheet-covered form out of the bedroom and into the office so the ill woman would not have to witness her husband’s removal whenever it took place. Nolan had told her the town’s undertaker could hardly keep pace with the number of victims the influenza epidemic had claimed.
When he was done, Sarah left Prissy with their remaining patient and went outside with Nolan into the winter darkness. Fatigued by her ordeal and the overheated bedroom, she’d been craving fresh air and news of the “outside world,” as she had begun to think of Simpson Creek, but she longed to spend a moment with Nolan even more.
Their breaths formed clouds in the chill night air.
“Sarah, you look so tired,” he said, stepping close and smoothing away an errant strand of hair that had plastered itself to her forehead. “Are you sure you’re getting your fair share of rest?”
His fingers felt blessedly cool against her aching head, and it was all she could do not to lean into his caress. Her head pounded and she was too tired to examine the significance of his touch, and why she appreciated it so much.
She nodded. “Oh, Prissy’s doing her share and more. In fact, I caught her trying to let me sleep through my shift. She said she couldn’t bear to wake me.” She gazed up at his earnest face, lit only from the kerosene lamp shining through the jail window. “I wanted to ask you about the Spencers, Nolan. How are they? Is Ada still well?”
His gaze fell, and she knew before he spoke what his answer would be. “Mr. and Mrs. Spencer died this morning, Sarah.”
She couldn’t stifle the gasp. “Both of them? But what of Ada? Is anyone with her? She didn’t catch it, did she?”
Nolan shook his head. “The last time I saw her, she was as she has been, physically hale but still insisting she is pregnant.”
The Doctor Takes a Wife Page 12