Maybe it was too late to save her, but he’d do his best to ease her aching heart.
“All right, I’ll get Abner. I’ll bring him back.” Tom planted a kiss on her burning forehead. “Hang on, Ma, please.”
* * * *
“Kellerman! Get your sorry ass off that damned barstool.” Tom jerked the collar of the man’s suit-jacket, and sure enough, the fellow tumbled off the seat. He would have hit the floor if Tom hadn’t caught him. “I don’t know what’s gone on between you and my mother, and to tell the truth, I don’t care. Whether you love each other, or hate each other, it don’t make me no never mind, but whatever you’ve done, you’ve got her mighty upset.”
“All I did was speak my mind.” Kellerman held a hand up in front of his face as if to ward off any potential blows. “Just told her she’d best forget about getting that babe back.”
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter to me. Only thing concerns me right now is that Ma’s sick. She’s barely able to breathe, and I’m not sure she’s going to make it. For some reason, she wants to see you. Now, sober up, and get out to the house before it’s too late.”
At the mention of his mother’s perilous condition, Tom noticed, Kellerman’s entire being changed. He’d heard of men getting real sober real fast when a situation demanded it, but he’d never seen it actually happen until now.
“What kind of sickness? Give me the details, Tom.” Kellerman took him by the arm and all but dragged him along as he headed for the door. “Tell me all you can.”
Grateful for the man’s quick response, Tom filled the physician in on when, where, and how he’d found his mother.
“Fever?” Kellerman queried.
“Yeah, I think so, but then she gets to shaking, says she’s cold.”
“What about a cough?”
Tom grimaced. “Yeah, nasty cough.”
“She spitting anything up?” When Tom nodded, Kellerman’s face turned grim. “Most likely pneumonia.”
“Can you do something for her?”
“I’ll do all I can. I give you my word.” He pulled out his pocket watch, then glanced toward the neat little row of shops along Main Street. “Listen, you get on home, tell Charlotte I’m on my way. Keep her warm, keep her comfortable. Get her to drink some hot tea, if you can.”
“Consider it done.” Tom tipped his hat, then hurried to reclaim his horse from the corral next to the saloon. For a moment, he thought about following Abner Kellerman and keeping a close eye on him. But the man had given his word, and for all intents and purposes, he seemed as sober as Tom had ever seen him. He mounted up and headed home.
Kellerman arrived within the hour. To Tom’s surprise, he wasn’t alone. Seated beside him in his old buggy was Clyde Shepherd, the town’s barber.
Tom cocked his head, gazed at the two men, and scratched at his jaw. Far as he knew, nobody was in need of either a shave or a haircut, so what the devil was Shepherd doing there? Both men climbed down from the buggy and approached the house, carrying black leather bags.
“How’s she doing?” Abner asked.
“She’s resting.”
“Good.”
The doctor and the barber continued on toward the house with Tom following close behind. When they reached the door, Kellerman stopped and looked his way. “Why don’t you wait out here, Tom.”
“Hell if I will.” He shouldered his way past both men. “I’m the one who pays for this place, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit outside while my ma’s sick in bed.” He pushed open the door and was about to reconsider the wisdom of letting Kellerman inside when he heard his mother’s raspy voice.
“Tommy, you bring him? You got Doc with you?” The woman stirred in the bed. She tossed her head back and forth on the pillow. “Abner won’t let me die.”
“No, of course not, Ma. You’re not going to die.” Tom wasn’t so sure about that. Maybe it would be best if she did. The thought crossed his mind, and at once he was stricken with guilt. He lowered his gaze and stared down at the worn floorboards. He cleared his throat and looked up again. “You’re going to be all right.” Tom looked toward the doctor. “She will be all right, won’t she?” he asked in an aside. “You can help her, can’t you?”
“Give me a moment, Tom. You, too, Clyde.” Kellerman gestured toward the door. “I need to make an examination.”
“Yes, of course.”
Much as he hated to leave the room, he understood the need for privacy. Bad enough to have Abner staring at his mother—he’d probably seen all of her body at one time or another—he sure as hell didn’t want Clyde Shepherd gawking at her.
He needed a breath of air anyway. Jerking Shepherd’s arm, Tom stepped outside into the crisp coolness of the October day. For several moments they stood in silence.
“Smoke?” Shepherd asked, holding out his makings toward Tom.
“Thanks, but, no.”
Shepherd stuffed the little cloth bag back into his shirt pocket. They fell silent again.
Still puzzled over the man’s presence, Tom studied the barber’s face. Before he could inquire, the door opened and Kellerman signaled for them to return.
“Listen, Doc, be straight with me,” Tom said as he stepped inside. The grim look in Kellerman’s eyes worried him. “I don’t want my ma to die. It’s not that bad, is it?”
“I can’t make any promises. Life and death…it’s in the hands of the Lord.” He turned away from Tom to confer with Shepherd.
“Wait a minute.” Enough of this. Tom had a right to know what was going on. “What’s Shepherd doing here? What’s wrong with Ma, and what do you plan to do about it?” His suspicions were on full alert now as Shepherd opened his leather bag. Inside, cutting implements gleamed menacingly in the flickering lamp light.
Kellerman cleared his throat. “As I feared, Tom, your mother’s come down with pneumonia. Shepherd’s here to perform the venesection.”
“The what?”
“Blood-letting.” Shepherd answered.
“No way in hell. You’re not bleeding my mother.”
The doctor placed a thick, shaking hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Venesection is an approved medical technique. It’s been used for hundreds of years.”
“I don’t care what kind of fancy name you give it, Abner. I won’t allow it.”
Shepherd glanced toward Kellerman, holding a sharp-edged straight razor in his hand. His dark eyes seemed to gleam. “So, am I supposed to do this or not?”
“Do it,” rasped Charlotte, her breathing still harsh and labored. “Put me out of my misery.”
“No!” Tom reached out to stay the man’s hand. “I’m not so sure this is the best way—”
“It’s the only way,” Abner informed him. “Her body’s filled with poisons.”
Shepherd’s somber gaze affirmed the sorry state of affairs. “He’s right, Tom. She’ll die if we don’t.” He drew back, then placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I know it hurts to watch, so maybe you better step outside.” He gestured toward the door.
But Tom wasn’t about to let Shepherd, Kellerman, or anybody else push him out.
“Did either of you gentlemen hear what I said? I will not allow this.” He gestured toward the barber’s bag of instruments. “Get your tools packed and get out. That goes for you, too, Abner.”
“Now, listen here, Tom, you don’t know a damned thing about the medical practice. I’m a trained physician—”
“—who’s been too damned drunk for the last twenty years to practice anything.”
From the bed came another moan, followed by a gasp. “Tommy…”
“Hush, Ma,” he said, rushing to her side. “You’re going to be all right.”
“If they have to do this…”
“No, Ma. I won’t let them.”
Kellerman strode across the room and stuck his face in Tom’s. “You’re making a big mistake. Her death will be on your conscience, not mine. I at least tried to help.”
Dear God, what was
he supposed to do? He closed his eyes, surprised by how swiftly the petition to the almighty came. He’d never been a praying man before, and if his ma knew he was praying for her well-being then and there, she’d probably roll over and die.
But his prayers brought a sense of peace, a sense of rightness. In a way he couldn’t begin to explain, his silent entreaty gave him comfort and an undeniable assurance that he’d made the right choice.
Would his mother live? Or would the Lord take her?
Kellerman had been right about one thing. Life and death lay in the Lord’s hands.
He escorted both men to the doctor’s buggy. “How much do I owe you for making the trip out here?”
“Two bucks,” Shepherd said. “Had to close up my shop, you know.”
“I understand.” Tom peeled off a couple of greenbacks and tucked them into the barber’s jacket pocket. “What about you, Abner? You charging me, too?”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy. I came out here at your request, and for your information, blood-letting is a standard medical procedure in cases of pneumonia. You’ve got no education, Tom, so don’t be telling me how much you think you know about—”
His sentence hung unfinished in the air, interrupted by a commotion as a wagon bounced and jostled its way across the yard, the driver shouting in a loud voice.
“Mrs. Phillips? What are you doing here?” Tom turned toward the approaching wagon. She drew to a halt a scant few feet from him.
“I hope you haven’t let that damned quack lay a hand on your poor mother, Tom. Or that one, either.” She pointed to Clyde Shepherd.
“No, actually, they wanted to do some procedure.” Tom bit his lip, trying to recall the medical term Kellerman had used. “Vene—” He shrugged. “Guess you probably know what I’m talking about.”
“Sure do. The barbaric practice of blood-letting.”
“It’s standard procedure for pneumonia,” Kellerman asserted again. “If you, Mrs. Phillips, were an actual physician, you’d know that.”
“And if you weren’t a worthless drunk, you’d know that venesection is not always the best course of action. Some very intelligent men,” she added, casting a frown in his direction, “have made scientific studies.”
“That’s hogwash.”
“You think so?” She shrugged and looked at Tom. “According to the medical reports I’ve read, almost half the patients with pneumonia who were treated by blood-letting died soon thereafter. That’s most likely what would have happened to your mother if these fellows had their way.”
“She might yet die, Tom,” Abner said, climbing into his buggy. “I’ll be real sorry to see it happen. I’ve come to care a lot about her, you know.” He gazed toward the cabin and swallowed hard.
“Yeah, I know. And if the good Lord sees fit to take her, you’ll probably be so damned broken up over it, you’ll spend another twenty years drunk as a skunk.” He turned on his heel. “Good afternoon, Doc. Good afternoon to you, as well, Clyde.”
Amanda Phillips climbed down from her wagon. “Want me to have a look at her, Tom?”
“I’d be real grateful to you, ma’am, if you would.”
* * * *
For the next week, Tom remained at home, keeping a close watch on his mother. He prayed a lot, and sometimes he pulled out the pocket bible he’d bought one day at the mercantile and read a verse or two. Even though the words were difficult and he couldn’t always grasp their meaning, they somehow brought him comfort, gave him a feeling of peace he’d never known before.
The first few days were filled with doubts, but by the fourth day, it appeared the worst was over. Ma’s fever broke, her complexion regained its color, and the hacking cough subsided. While she’d slept, he’d given the cottage a thorough scrubbing. He’d swept away all the broken glass, had made certain no more whiskey remained on the premises, and he’d done a fairly good job, in his estimation, of putting the house in order.
Now would come the more difficult task of talking a bit of sense into his mother.
“If we had the baby, Tommy,” she insisted when he broached the subject of her drunkenness, “I wouldn’t touch a drop, I swear. I only started drinking when…” Her lower lip quivered. “When we lost Faith.”
“Maybe we can get her back, but first, you’ve got to prove that you’re capable of looking after her.” He glanced over to where she lay huddled beneath the bedcovers. At the moment she couldn’t even care for herself. But she was getting stronger every day, and before long, she’d be on her feet again.
He needed to get back to work, as well.
Tom got up, grabbed his hat, then put on his leather jacket. An idea had come into his head, one that might benefit them both.
Chapter Nine
The bell jangled as Tom pushed open the door and stepped into Lucille’s shop. He wandered past the frilly laces and fancy ribbons, heading toward the sales counter. A quick glance about the shop showed no one present except Lucille. Her mother, he suspected, was at home with Faith. A twinge of disappointment jabbed at his gut. He’d hoped to see his little niece. A moment or two holding her would have lightened his heart.
Lucille had obviously heard the bell. She walked toward the front of the shop, but she hadn’t yet seen him. Tom nearly laughed at the sudden change in her demeanor when she looked up and realized it was him. As soon as she saw him, she stopped.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Is that any way to greet a prospective customer?” Tom wasn’t sure why he said it. The last thing he needed was to pick a fight with Miss McIntyre, but the question shot out of his mouth before he could catch it.
“You’re not a customer.”
“I could be. Could be I came into town with the express intention of buying a yard or two of ribbon.” To emphasize his point, he strolled to the counter where the ribbons and laces were displayed, wrapped around thick bolts. He reached out, almost touched a delicate lavender velvet, then thought better of it.
“You touch it, you buy it.”
Her voice goaded him. He stretched his hand out and with a light touch, he stroked the soft fabric. “Reckon I’ll take a bit of this.”
“How much?”
He stood back, admiring Lucille’s dark, wavy hair. She’d tied it up with a narrow black grosgrain ribbon. All Tom could think was how nice that lavender shade would look if she were wearing it instead.
“Enough to make about a dozen hair ribbons.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t come here to buy hair ribbons.” She stepped up and all but pushed him away from the counter. “Somehow, I can’t imagine your mother wearing bows in her hair.”
“You wear them.” Damn, but what was it about Lucille that made him act like a kid every time he was near her? A stubborn, ornery kid at that! He tried his best, but he couldn’t keep from reaching out, grabbing the dull black ribbon in her hair, and tugging it loose. The ends fell down across her cheeks as her rich brunette hair spilled out.
“Stop that!” She batted his hand away then bustled across the shop, heading toward a long mirror. “And put that velvet away, Tom. I don’t know what you came here for, but I’m busy. I don’t have time to play silly games.”
“I do want the ribbon,” he said, picking it up again and carrying it toward the sales counter at the rear.
She gathered her hair up into a loose bun, pinned the grosgrain ribbon into place again, then, with a sour look, she approached the counter. “Do you really want a dozen lengths?”
“Sure. Why not?” He smiled as she drew out a pair of scissors, then he stepped back. The sight of a woman with a cutting tool of any sort could make a man cautious.
“By the way, I heard your mother’s been sick.”
“A touch of pneumonia.”
“Is it true she really wanted old Doc Kellerman to bleed her?”
“Yeah, he even brought Shepherd out to the house with all his tools, but I put a stop to that foolishness.”
�
�Good for you.” Lucille stretched out the velvet and made a mark. She looked up. “When are you going to put a stop to the rest of it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. She’s your mother. Of course you’re going to stand up for her.”
“Are you talking about her drinking?” Tom leaned over the counter. “Just say it.”
“All right, yes. Your mother’s a dipsomaniac. She needs help.”
“Well, now, that’s a right polite way of putting it, I suppose.”
“Don’t make light of the situation.” Lucille deftly continued marking and cutting as she spoke. “That’s your problem, Tom. Always treating everything in life as if it were a joke.”
“And you know what your problem is?” He moved closer. “You’re always taking life too seriously. At least I know how to laugh, how to have a good time.”
“Life isn’t about having a good time.” Lucille laid the scissors aside and gazed up at him. “It’s about accepting responsibilities, doing the right thing.”
“Like standing up to Abner Kellerman and Clyde Shepherd?” Shifting his weight, he kept his eyes fastened on hers. “Or how about bringing Ma here to Sunset in the first place? Does that sound like somebody who’s not willing to shoulder responsibility?”
“Well, no, but—”
“And how about Faith?” he challenged. “Did I do the right thing by her?”
Lucille bowed her head. She picked up the scissors and resumed cutting the lavender velvet into neat, even lengths. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I guess I did speak out of turn. You have taken on a lot of responsibility recently. Learning to read and write, doing your best to provide for Faith, all the while working hard.” When she looked up again, her expression had softened. “You deserve more credit than I’ve given you.”
Her apology touched him. “Thank you.” He held the ribbons up and nodded his approval. “How much do I owe you?”
Lucille grabbed a pad and pencil. Quickly she scribbled a few figures on the page. “It’s three pennies a yard. That means it would be about twelve cents, total.”
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