Golden State Brides

by Keli Gwyn

  Then there was Meghan. A little dynamo most of the time, she hadn’t rebounded as quickly as he’d liked. She hadn’t met his eyes the entire trip back to town, and no wonder. Everyone in the house had been able to hear the argument she’d had with Caleb, from the opening salvo to the final crack of the slap she must’ve planted on Caleb’s cheek.

  Though it was the moment of silence between the fighting and the slap that intrigued him.

  When he’d gone into the hotel midweek to check on the girls, he’d been surprised that all the life seemed to have drained out of Meghan. She still worked efficiently, but her smile was automatic, and the sparkle had gone from her eyes. She no longer looked as if life were a grand adventure.

  Frankly, he wanted to knock some sense into both Caleb and Meghan. Caleb for being so stubborn and prideful keeping his leg a secret and Meghan for not seeing the caliber of man who stood before her and for listening to harping old gossips with nothing better to do than judge and meddle.

  They were making each other miserable, which was a sure sign that they cared for one another. One couldn’t be in the same room with them for long without seeing the sparks flying. Before she arrived, Caleb’s trips to town had been few and far between. Since her arrival, Doc had practically tripped over him at least once a week.

  Not to mention the anguished look on Caleb’s face when she lay on the edge of consciousness in his bed and the gentle way he had brushed her hair off her face and smoothed her skin with a damp towel when she’d been delirious from the heat. Caleb had no idea how much he’d revealed in his expression and his actions. If Meghan had been able to comprehend it, she would’ve known in an instant that he loved her.

  And Caleb was fighting it with all he had in him. Of course, with Caleb, Doc expected nothing less. He was too proud and stubborn for his own good. By his own admission, his father had rejected him when he’d contracted infantile paralysis, and Doc had a sneaking suspicion that another similar hurt lurked somewhere in Caleb’s past. From the way Caleb was fighting his attraction to Meghan, Doc suspected it had to do with a girl who had let him down.

  He hoped Meghan wouldn’t do the same. A man could only take so much.

  Maybe he’d head out to Caleb’s this evening. On the pretense of doing a little night fishing on the river, maybe he could induce Caleb to open up a bit. And a chance to dabble his feet in the river or even wade in up to his neck seemed like a good idea.

  Footsteps on the front porch drew his attention. The bell buzzed, and then buzzed again. He was halfway across the foyer when a fist pounded the door. His heart rate picked up.

  “Yes?” He swung the oak and glass door open.

  Jeremy Peterson, a bellhop at the hotel stood there panting, sweat dripping from his temples. “There’s trouble at the hotel.” He gasped, pressing one pudgy hand to his chest while gripping the doorframe with the other. “Mrs. Gregory sent me to fetch you.”

  “What trouble? Is it Miss Daviot or Miss Thorson?” He knew he should’ve insisted they take the whole week off to recover, especially Natalie.

  Jeremy’s brow crinkled. “Who? No, they’re fine. It’s the train. More than a hundred soldiers, and they’re all sicker than a foundered mule.” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “Mrs. Gregory says it’s the influenza.”

  Doc’s heart tripped, and a hollow feeling grew under his breastbone. Lifting his bag from the table beside the door, he made a mental list of everything he would need and where he might procure supplies. “Go roust the druggist and Mr. Weeks or Mr. Claypool from the store. We’re going to need help. You said a hundred soldiers?”

  “Yep. They started feeling sick right after the stop in Barstow.”

  “Let’s get going then. Tell the pharmacist I’m going to need every bottle of aspirin and rubbing alcohol he’s got, as well as whatever he has on hand for coughing, too.”

  Braking to a stop in front of the hotel, Doc hopped from the car and grabbed his bag. His worst fears had come to life, and now it was up to him to meet the challenge. At least he had some idea what to expect from his brother’s letters. But the prospect of a hundred sick soldiers made his insides quake.

  A wild-eyed baggage man met him at the door. “Shore glad you got here, Doc.” His eyes rolled, showing a lot of white in his black face. “Miz Gregory is shouting at everyone, and Mr. Stock is trying to figure out what to do with all the people. We’s all so scared.” He looked over his shoulder toward the lobby as if he expected the influenza to reach out and grab him. “I been posted at the door to keep folks out.”

  Doc brushed past him with a nod. He had too much to do to palaver.

  He stopped short just inside the door. Every chair, bench, and several yards of floor in the lobby were occupied by groaning soldiers. A sea of brown uniforms and miserable faces greeted him. Mrs. Gregory rushed up to him. “Thank heavens you’re here. What should we do?”

  A soldier lying on the floor by the front desk rolled to his side and vomited across the tiles. Several more coughed, their bodies wracked with spasms. Overwhelmed at the sight of so many ill young men, Doc closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself.

  Dear Lord, give us all strength. Guide me through this.

  He opened his eyes. “I want these men in beds as soon as possible. If there are any soldiers who aren’t ill, put them to carrying men up to the rooms. Send the busboys and bellhops to fetch basins, pans, buckets, whatever they can find. Gather the rest of the staff for a brief meeting.”

  Mrs. Gregory hastened to do his bidding, proving once again what a capable lieutenant she made, but how unsuited for command she was. Why hadn’t she thought to get these men to beds? Though to be fair, the sheer numbers of ill men paralyzed him.

  Meghan wove through the soldiers, her face pale, eyes wide. She clasped a stack of towels to her middle. “Doc.” She took his elbow and drew him into a corner. “Natalie is going to want to help, and she shouldn’t. We have to get her out of here.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You know?”

  “Yes, she told me. What are we going to do?”

  He thought fast. “Tell her to pack a bag and get to my house. She can stay there until this is over. If Mrs. Gregory asks, we’ll tell her Natalie is specialing a patient for me. Which she will be doing, taking care of herself.”

  Lines of strain eased out of Meghan’s face. “That’s perfect. I’ll tell her.”

  Busboys and waitresses began assisting soldiers to their feet. One of the handymen took a door off its hinges to use as an improvised stretcher. Mr. Stock roped in burly railroad men to help with the moving.

  Doc commandeered the south wing of the hotel, turning it into a makeshift hospital. “Move any hotel guests into the north wing. I have a feeling they won’t want to stay in any case. Close the dining room and lunch counter for the time being.”

  When Mrs. Gregory protested that train passengers had to be fed, he said, “Have the cooks prepare boxed lunches. Once folks hear we’ve got influenza in the hotel, I doubt they will object to staying on the train. I’m going to need the Harvey Girls to nurse sick patients. I can’t spare any for serving coffee and sandwiches.”

  When every soldier had been placed in a room, Doc called the hotel staff together. They met on the second floor loggia. A stiff, hot breeze ruffled aprons and lacy headbands. “There’s no pretending this is going to be easy. At latest count, seventy-three of the one hundred soldiers are in the beginning stages of the Spanish Influenza. From what I’ve read and what my brother, an army physician, has told me, this disease moves fast.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “Mr. Stock, I’m putting you in charge of keeping us supplied with clean basins, hot and cold water, and clean linens. You’ll also need to see about moving in more beds. I’m sure these cases won’t be the last we’ll see. The laundry will need to be going day and night. We must have clean bed linens, and we’re going to go through a mountain of washcloths and towels.”

  The thin, sallow manager nod
ded. “It shall be done.”

  “Each waitress will have at least four patients. We’ve put the men four to a room, with one girl in charge of each room. There isn’t a lot you can do, but keeping the patients as cool and comfortable as possible is your first priority. Try to get them to drink, and above all, keep the room clean. We have a limited supply of medicines, and we’ve wired for more to be sent.” He nodded toward Miss Ralston.

  “I asked Miss Ralston to break into the Red Cross supplies you’ve been preparing to send to Europe.” He withdrew a gauze mask from the box she offered. “Wear this at all times. This illness is very aggressive and will seek any way it can to infect you. Wash your hands often, and turn your head away if your patient is sneezing or coughing.”

  He looked out over his allies in the coming war. Some scared, some eager, all unprepared for what was to come, even as he felt himself unprepared. Young, strong, healthy, the exact types who were most vulnerable to this strain of the disease. How many would succumb to the illness over the coming days? How many would survive?

  Meghan swallowed hard, tied her gauze mask over the lower half of her face, and opened the door to room twenty four. Two double beds, both occupied by soldiers still in uniform on top of the covers. She braced herself. Unaccustomed to illness, she wasn’t sure what she should do. One of the men lay on his side, coughing hard enough to rattle the bedsprings.

  His bedmate lay with his arm flung up over his eyes, groaning softly. The others lay with fever-bright cheeks, coughing or sneezing, moving their legs and arms restlessly. The fan overhead clanked softly, stirring the heavy afternoon air.

  Meghan bent over the first man. “Is there anything I can do for you?” She touched his arm, shocked at the heat radiating from his skin.

  “Water.” His voice rasped.

  Relieved at so simple a request, she hurried to the hallway. Mr. Stock had set up a table there with pitchers of ice water and ranks of glasses. A dishpan sat on the floor to receive used glasses, and stacks of towels, washcloths, and sheets stood ready for use.

  Mrs. Gregory went by with her clipboard. “I’ll be in to get the names of your soldiers in a minute. Be sure to catalog their belongings and put them into separate laundry bags with a tag.”

  Meghan nodded, but her heart beat hard under her ribs. She’d have to help them all out of their uniforms and get them properly to bed. Quelling the blush that wanted to soar into her face, she reminded herself not to be silly. Though she’d never performed such personal tasks for men, and strangers at that, she knew her duty and she would do it.

  You’re a nurse and they are ill. You’ll do what you need to do, and you won’t be silly about it. You can blush for a whole day after all this is over, but for now, pull yourself together and get on with the job.

  She pressed the glass to the young soldier’s lips. He drained the contents and let his head fall back as if he couldn’t keep it up an instant longer. His eyes closed, and his chest rose and fell rapidly.

  Meghan went to the far side of the bed to the soldier with his arm over his eyes. “Sir, I need to get you out of your uniform. Can you sit up?” The mask muffled her voice and made the air taste and smell like cotton, but she was thankful for it.

  He lowered his arm, revealing startlingly dark eyes in his pale face. Even more alarming, the whites of his eyes were no longer white, but red. And the pain in his expression reached out and grabbed Meghan by the throat.

  “Please, leave me alone,” he whispered.

  “I wish I could. Just let me get you settled and you can go back to sleep.” She reached for the buttons on the front of his tunic. “Are you thirsty?”

  “No.” He gave a token protest, pushing softly at her hands before resigning himself. The most difficult part was getting him to sit up so she could remove his blouse. Mindful of Mrs. Gregory’s orders, she bundled his belongings into a hotel laundry bag and tagged them.

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Patrick Newton.”

  Each of the other three did their best to help her, and the last boy blushed hard and insisted she leave the room for a moment, that he could get himself undressed. When she returned, she found him under the light sheet, his eyes focused on the ceiling.

  Patrick, Wesley, George, and Harold. All army privates, all from California, all very ill.

  “Here, let’s put this over your eyes.” She folded a damp cloth and set it on Patrick’s brow. “It will cool you off and cut the light.” She’d drawn the shade, but his headache was so fierce, even the smallest bit of light seemed to stab his brain cruelly.

  Wesley’s fever soared, and she sponged him, wringing the cloth over and over, wiping his face and neck and arms.

  This is what Caleb did for you.

  She forced that thought away. Thinking about Caleb was useless, and she needed to focus on her patients.

  George coughed and coughed until she feared he would tear his lungs apart, and Harold lost the contents of his stomach over and over again, leaning over the side of the bed, his head over a bucket. Meghan moved from one to the next in a continual round, seeking to help, her alarm at the speed and severity of this sickness mounting.

  Doc came in. “How are they doing?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t seem to be doing very much for them.” Helplessness swept over her. “I’m sponging them off and trying to make them as comfortable as I can, but what else should I be doing?”

  “That’s about all you can do.” He bent over Wesley and placed his stethoscope on the rapidly moving chest. With his other hand, he popped a thermometer into Wesley’s mouth. “Get some of the hotel stationery out of the desk, one page for each man, and put their names on the top. I’m going to have you chart their conditions. If you notice any changes, make a note on their paper. Do it every time. If you don’t, things are going to blur together. You won’t remember when you gave them medicine or when they last had something to drink or when their breathing changed.”

  He took the vital signs of each man, and she carefully recorded them along with the time.

  “I’ll send someone in with a couple of bottles of cough syrup and some aspirins. Be sure to mark when you give each man the medicine. And keep the aspirin bottle in your pocket at all times. It’s too precious to mislay. In about an hour someone will bring you some chicken broth. Don’t be alarmed if they don’t want any.” He stuffed his stethoscope into his pocket and inclined his head toward the door.

  Once in the hallway, he rolled his head as if loosening tight neck muscles. “I want you to watch their breathing and their skin. If they can’t fight off the sickness, the next step is petechia, hemorrhages under the skin. The one boy, Patrick, already has bleeding in his eyes. After the small bleeds start, my brother, who has seen quite a bit of this, says the lungs will begin to fill with fluid, causing pneumonia. When that happens, their breathing is going to become much thicker, and might even sound bubbly. Prop them up with extra pillows. If they request anything, try to give it to them. If anything worries you, send someone to find me. There will be a bellhop posted in the hall to run errands and track me down if you need me.”

  She nodded. The weight of responsibility settled on her, but she refused to bow under it. She could do this. “How are the others faring?”

  “Another ten soldiers from the train have come down ill. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.” She forced some strength into her voice.

  “You should still be resting after your heatstroke. You both came back to work too early.” He rubbed his hands down his face, disturbing the mask. “You did get Natalie away all right?”

  “Yes. She protested, but I threatened to come and find you. She gave in because she knows it’s for the best.”

  “Did Mrs. Gregory give you any trouble?”

  “No, she barely seemed to hear me because she was so busy getting sick men into beds.”

  “It’s going to be a long night, and with the way things are going, I expect we’ll
be seeing more patients. The flu is bound to spread to the town, despite our best efforts. The hotel had townsfolk in it when the sick soldiers arrived, and they carried the sickness to their homes. I’ve put the police chief wise, and he’s going to send his constables around town to check on folks. Those who are the most ill or who don’t have anyone to care for them will be brought here.”

  “What about the trains?”

  “For now, they’ll stop and refuel, but no passengers will be allowed to get off unless they’re sick or live in Needles. The AT&SF will try to keep their schedule, but they’ll inform passengers that there won’t be any meals or lodging in Needles until we give them the all-clear.”

  Mrs. Gregory marched past them carrying two buckets, and Meghan nodded to the doctor. “I’d best get back to my patients.”

  She lost all track of time. Her hands grew red and puckered from wringing out cool cloths, and her back ached from bending over the beds. Her apron bore stains she’d have been chastised for had she worn them into the dining room, and her shoes pinched, her feet swollen and hot.

  Harold finally stopped retching and lay still. George’s cough grew worse, and he gasped for breath, his face turning purple with each prolonged spasm. When Patrick’s breathing changed for the worse, the hairs on Meghan’s arms lifted. She sent the bellboy for more pillows and with his help, got Patrick propped up. It seemed to do little good. And most alarming, Wesley’s nose began to bleed. She sent for Doc Bates.

  His hair seemed to have gone grayer, and new lines had appeared on his kind face. He lifted the sheets and checked his patients’ feet. Patrick’s and Wesley’s were both an odd bluish color.

  She wiped the trickle of blood off Wesley’s upper lip once more. His eyes moved behind his eyelids, but his lashes remained closed.