Dr. Pickens raised his brow. “Still can’t do it? Neither could your mother. And yes, there is a new study out about germs being in unexpected places. It’s possible leaves would carry bacteria spores, but your happiness matters more to me, so I kept quiet.”
“Thank you. The decorations made the entire dinner party more festive. If the leaves make people sick, wouldn’t everyone be ill when they fall from the trees?”
“It does seem I have more patients in the winter, doesn’t it?”
“That’s because it’s cold and we don’t get enough fresh air. You taught me that. So I’m like you, too, Papa.”
“I’d like you to be more like your mother and me—married.”
This conversation was going down a corduroy road she didn’t wish to travel. Distraction always worked with her father. “Who was the letter from that you were reading last night?”
“Someone you don’t know. How about Mr. Bruin? He’d make a good husband.”
“I can’t marry him. I won’t. I know you’re concerned for me, but I’d never be happy married to a miner. I’m surprised you would even consider him. He must bring home lots of germs every night. Why, I could catch something and die before spring if I were to marry him.” She tried one more time to arch her eyebrow. It wouldn’t go, so she pushed it up with her finger.
In the distance, Alma saw a horse and a rider coming up on them fast. “Look, someone else is out for a ride today.”
“Doesn’t appear he’s riding for fun. Must be an emergency. He’s got that horse running at a gallop.” Dr. Pickens pulled back on the reins. “Wise to slow down and let him pass. No need to give our boy Charlie here a reason to bolt.”
The horseback rider whipped off his hat and waved. “Dr. Pickens! We need you at the Gibbonses’.” He stopped his horse next to the buggy.
“Pete, you came up so fast I didn’t recognize you. What’s the problem?”
“Roy Gibbons’s little one is sick. She can’t stop coughing, and he said she’s burning hot as a barn afire. He sent me to get you. Can you come straight away?”
Her father wore his serious face; she knew he wouldn’t hesitate.
“We’ll follow you.” Doctor Pickens urged Charlie into a trot.
“What does Mr. Gibbons do for a living, Papa?”
“I heard he bought Becker’s farm.” His forehead furrowed like a freshly plowed field.
“He’s not married. Jewel says he never comes to town without the girls. Why do you suppose that is?”
“I take you places.”
“Yes, but not all the time. Do you think he’s taking care of the girls by himself? That would explain the oatmeal in his hair and the torn hem.”
“Oatmeal? What are you talking about?”
“I saw them at the bank. The girls were going to a birthday party and were excited, but they weren’t dressed for the occasion. I wanted to take them home, curl their hair, and buy them pretty dresses. I hope the other children weren’t mean to them.”
“Were they mean to you?” Her father’s mouth turned down.
She hadn’t meant to hurt him. “No. Well, sometimes. It didn’t happen after you asked for help from Mrs. Wilson.”
“She was a saint to step in. I’m not sure you would have learned how to be a lady if not for her.”
“You tried, Papa.” Alma pushed back memories of the times she missed her mother. She’d kept many of them from her father.
The two-story farmhouse appeared when they came around the bend in the road. A house built for a large family, not a father and two little girls. “Will you let me help?”
“Don’t believe you’ve become a doctor since lunch, have you?”
“No.”
“You can carry my bag.”
“I’m no longer a child.”
“Believe me, I’m aware.”
The door opened, and Mr. Gibbons stepped onto the porch. “In here, Doctor. Franny is sick. I don’t know what to do.”
Alma followed her father into the house. She’d learned early to step back when her father was needed. Too many times she’d landed on the floor as he rushed by her.
Mr. Gibbons hadn’t waited for either of them, but it wasn’t difficult to locate him or the patient. The coughing led them to the sick child.
Dr. Pickens felt Frances’s forehead. “Definitely a fever. You need to take those blankets off of her right now. You’re making the fever climb higher. I need a basin of cold water and a cloth, please.”
When Mr. Gibbons removed the covers, Frances cried out. “I’m cold!”
Alma rushed to the child’s side and stroked her arm. “Do you like to build snowmen? I bet you’re as cold as one, aren’t you?”
Frances quieted. “Yes.”
“Mr. Gibbons, the water please?” Papa dug in his black bag. It was a good thing he’d acquired the habit of tossing it into the buggy whenever he left home.
Alma spoke to Mr. Gibbons. “I’ll watch over her while you’re gone. It won’t take but a minute to get what Papa needs.”
He nodded and hastened from the room. Alma felt compassion for the man. Not having a wife to help him through this trying time had to be difficult.
“I’m cold.”
“Keeping the covers on will make you sicker longer. Then you’ll be sad if it snows and you can’t go outside to build a snowman.” Alma sat on the bed next to Frances and picked up a book. “Were you reading this?”
“Sissy read it to me.”
“Where is Sissy?”
Frances pointed to the corner where Elisbet stood, her eyes focused on Alma’s father. She seemed frozen in fear.
Alma smoothed Frances’s hair. “My papa will take good care of you. Right now, I’m going to talk to Sissy.” She went to Elisbet and knelt in front of her.
She grasped the child’s hand. “You don’t need to be afraid. My papa is a good doctor. He can make your sister well. Do you want to watch?”
Elisbet yanked her hand away, eyes wide. “No! She’s going to die like Mama.”
“No, she’s not going to die.” Roy strode into the room in time to hear Elisbet. “Right, Doc? Tell them everything is going to be fine.” Tell me, too. He couldn’t bear losing Frances. God, please don’t take her, too. He’d been praying for her to get better. But then, he’d prayed for Janie, and it didn’t make a difference.
Dr. Pickens removed the stethoscope from around his neck and returned it to his bag. “She’ll be fine. She’s got the croup. Feed her soup and give her tea with honey to soothe her throat and cough. I have a tincture you’ll need to give her three times a day.”
“Will Elisbet catch this, too?” If both girls were sick, he wouldn’t be able to work at the mill. As it was, the idea of leaving Elisbet alone with Franny caused him some concern.
“She might. If she does, follow the same procedure. Keep a cool cloth on Frances’s forehead for the night. Dip it in cold water when it warms. That will help bring down her fever. Keep her in bed for a few days.”
“I don’t have to go to school?” Frances propped herself up on her elbows.
“Then I’m not going either.” Elisbet strutted from the corner. “I’ll take care of Franny.”
“We’ll discuss it when the doctor has gone.”
“Mr. Gibbons, do you have someone to watch the girls?” Dr. Pickens asked. “They are too small to stay home alone.”
“I don’t have a choice. You don’t understand. It’s the three of us that looks out after each other.”
“I’ll watch them.”
He turned and noticed the doctor’s daughter was the woman from the bank. She held Elisbet’s small hand in hers. It took him back in time. Janie with her daughters. Would it hurt them to have another woman look after them? Would they become attached, or worse, badger her about marrying him?
“Please, Papa?”
“Pretty please, Papa?”
Roy rubbed his forehead. He needed help. He’d deal with the consequences later.
> Chapter 3
Alma’s father waited in the buggy at the Gibbons farm. The sun cracked open the morning sky. Alma had brought fresh eggs, since she wasn’t sure what their pantry held.
Mr. Gibbons met her with a finger over his lips. “They’re still sleeping.” He yawned. “Sorry, I was up most of the night.”
“Is Frances better? Papa wants to know before he drives back to town.”
“I think so. She doesn’t feel as hot this morning, and she’s not restless.”
She turned and waved to her father. He tipped his hat in her direction and jiggled the reins. Charlie shook his head, pawed the ground, and the buggy wheels turned.
She didn’t smell coffee brewing. “You haven’t eaten?”
“No, you woke me up. It’s a good thing, too. I need to do the barn chores first. I would have been late to work if you hadn’t come when you did.”
Alma held out the basket she’d brought along. “I brought eggs. If you don’t mind, I can make breakfast.” She didn’t think twice about offering, but the grin on Mr. Gibbons’s face said she’d given him a large gift.
“You wouldn’t mind?” He was already sticking his arms into his coat sleeves.
“Not at all.” Especially if he kept flashing those dimples at her.
“None of us are too picky about food. If you can make the oatmeal, I’d appreciate it.” He took off out the door.
The minute she walked into the kitchen, Alma knew Mr. Gibbons didn’t have a woman helping him. The stove was filthy, and there were dishes caked with dried oatmeal stacked on the table. She shrugged off her cloak and searched for an apron. Mr. Gibbons had left a shirt draped over a chair. With a sigh, she tied the sleeves around her waist. Not the best use of a shirt, but maybe it would save her favorite day dress.
She stoked the stove and put on the coffee. Next, she gathered the dirty dishes and put them in the sink to soak. She hadn’t had breakfast either, and she hated oatmeal. There had to be something else for her to make that would be easy for Frances to eat. A quick search of the food supply and she had the makings for griddle cakes. The syrup would go down Frances’s throat easier than lumpy oatmeal.
She found a clean bowl and mixed the ingredients.
“What are you doing?” Elisbet, hair tousled and in her nightclothes, peeked around the corner.
“Griddle cakes. Do you and your sister like them?”
“Better than oatmeal.” Elisbet skipped across the floor. “Can I help?”
“Can you get out the griddle for me?”
Elisbet disappeared into the pantry and brought out the heavy cast-iron piece. “I can grease it. Mama showed me how.”
“That would be helpful, thank you. Before you do that, could you get dressed and check to see if your sister is awake?”
“She’s sleeping, but I bet she wakes up when she smells these cooking. Don’t grease it, promise?”
“I promise. Off you go, and put on some warm clothes. It’s cold today.”
While the batter was resting, Alma started cleaning. She was wiping down the table when Mr. Gibbons came in the back door.
“Thanks for starting breakfast. I can finish up.”
“I’m making griddle cakes, not oatmeal.”
His dimples came out to torment her again. She needed a diversion. “Why don’t you check on Frances? See if you can get her to come to breakfast?”
“You have flour on your face.” Mr. Gibbons reached over and brushed her cheek then withdrew his fingers fast, as if he’d been burnt. He whirled around and headed for the bedroom, muttering something about checking on Frances.
Alma touched her cheek where his fingers had been. If she were made of butter, she’d be a puddle on the floor.
Next to the window in her bedroom sat Alma’s art studio. She’d tried to capture the playfulness of the barn kittens from last spring. The laundry basket looked right, but the kittens in it were giving her a great amount of difficulty. Jewel had been instrumental in helping her find an outlet for her creativity after her attempt at weaving palm leaves together to make hats failed.
Would it be easier painting children? Frances and Elisbet would make good subjects, with their big blue eyes and blond curls. Curls that were a mess. After she’d cleaned the kitchen to a tolerable standard, she’d spent the rest of the day with the girls. She’d combed and braided their hair, even found ribbons to tie at the ends.
Their imaginations sparked hers, and they made up stories of castles and trolls. She could feel how they wanted her attention, and she was happy to give it. She prayed Elisbet’s Christmas wish would come true, and they would get a mother.
Splat. Black paint hit the canvas in the wrong spot and trailed like a tear. She ought not be thinking of those little ones. God would see to them. After all, He’d helped her father take care of her.
As the sun set, the light faded from golden to silver, making it difficult to see. Alma set her paintbrush and palette on the table next to her easel. Time to stop for today, which, by the look of the work she had accomplished this afternoon, was a good thing. Kittens shouldn’t have cone-shaped heads, but she couldn’t quite get them more rounded. Frustrated, she removed her painting apron and draped it over the chair. She had to get that painting kit and discover how to do it correctly.
Heavyhearted, she headed to the kitchen. On Wednesdays she always made stew. Papa made calls that day and was often late to dinner, which gave her time to work on her art.
She couldn’t let the problem of the kittens’ misshapen heads alone. How did other painters get those round shapes? How did they paint children’s heads? Did they trace something until they learned to do it freehand? Maybe she could use one of her mother’s china cups. But would a real artist resort to something so amateur? She would ponder that. Maybe for this painting it would be okay. The next time she saw Jewel, she’d inquire about the rules. She was determined to be a real artist, not just occupy her time, even though that’s what Papa said she was doing.
Her shoulders drooped. If this painting didn’t sell, he would surely start talking about husbands again. He’d given her three choices and asked her to pick one. She shuddered. She’d known all of them since grade school and had never been fond of any of them.
She gave the stew a quick stir. The kitchen felt closed in and dark this evening. There were so many things she wanted to do in here. Despite being dirty, the Gibbons’ kitchen was cheerful and full of light. Jewel had painted candlesticks with sunflowers in her kitchen and planned to paint her hutch with flowers. It was time to broach the topic with Papa again about brightening up this room. Could she convince him to let her paint the corner cabinet?
He hated change. If you asked her, he lived too much in the past. Mama wasn’t going to come back to life and complain about the look of the kitchen. Not when she was living in heaven, where everyone knew Christ had built her a mansion. Mama must love it there, all those bright colors and the sparkles on the streets. It was a shame they couldn’t experience a bit of that here at home.
“It’s time for a change. I’ll tell him right after supper. I live here, too, and since neither of us is getting married and I do the cooking, the kitchen is as good as mine.” Her hand flew to her mouth. Had she said that out loud? It was a good thing Papa wasn’t lurking around the corner. He’d think she was daft. No, best find a way to ease into this change. He was a stubborn man, set in his ways, and his rules applied in this house. Maybe she should go to St. Louis on her own and take painting classes. That’s what Jewel suggested, but Alma couldn’t leave. Not when she’d promised to watch over him. Which brought her back to her plan of finding Papa a wife.
Alma stirred the stew again. Papa was late, and she didn’t know if she should continue to keep the food warm. Sometimes when he stayed out this long, the family that needed him fed him.
The back door creaked open, and she spun around. The air rushed in, making the kerosene flames dance in their glass, casting graceful shadows across the room. �
�Papa, you’re so late. What happened? Did you deliver a baby?”
“Not tonight. Is supper still warm?”
“Yes, but I do believe I’ll warm it a bit more for you.”
“Not too long, I’m hungry. Been looking forward to a hearty meal tonight.” Papa took off his coat, slung it over his bent arm, and grabbed his hat. “I’ll put these away later.” He dropped them on a kitchen chair and sat at the table. “How was your afternoon?”
Papa asking about her day before eating sent a shiver up Alma’s back. He was up to something. Food always came before conversation. She turned to face him. “You know that it’s painting day. Are you getting too old to remember? It’s a good thing you have me around to help you through your days.”
He had the grace to flush and bend his head. Yes, there was something he was about to say, and Alma knew she wouldn’t like it.
“Don’t sass me, Alma. I was being polite.”
“I’m sorry, Papa. I was teasing. Your last call must have been difficult. You haven’t complained about my joshing with you in a long time. Did you lose a patient? Would you like me to make you some cocoa?”
“Forgive me for snapping at you. It’s been a long day.” He scrubbed his hands across his face. “There’s something I need to tell you, and I know you won’t like it, but what’s done is done. We’ll discuss it later, after I’ve eaten.”
Alma slid a plate of stew across the table in front of her father and took a seat. “What do you mean, it’s done? And what does it have to do with me?”
Chapter 4
What’s done is done? Inside Alma, tension built like steam collecting in a covered pot of boiling water. If Papa didn’t finish his stew soon, she was going to snatch it off the table. How dare he drop a loaded statement that begged for questions and then say he’d discuss it with her as soon as he’d finished his supper? For once she was glad she hadn’t remembered to make the biscuits.
Chew and swallow, her father ate slower than a snake swallowing a mouse. “Papa, can’t you tell me anything?”
The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection Page 2