by Keli Gwyn
Patrick had slipped away quietly, his labored breathing becoming more and more shallow, until he’d sighed his last. His face lost its tension, and all movement ceased. Meghan called for the doctor to confirm her fears, and when he’d completed his cursory examination, he’d pulled the sheet over Patrick’s face and summoned men to carry the body away.
Wesley had left this world hard. At the end, he’d turned dark, purplish blue, fighting for air, clutching her hand, his eyes pleading with her to help him. Finally, he’d coughed up a great cloud of blood and passed away, his hand growing limp and his eyes unfocused.
Nothing had prepared her for the speed, and in Wesley’s case, the violence of death. One moment they’d been alive, and the next, dead. She leaned against the wall, trying to summon the courage to return to the sick room. She’d need to strip the bed and disinfect every surface. George and Harold needed her.
And yet, her stomach quivered at the thought of going back in there. She hadn’t known those men at all, but they had been under her care. Had she failed them somehow?
“Miss Thorson?”
Mrs. Gregory pushed a laundry cart down the hallway. She stopped beside Meghan. “I heard you lost another one.” She adjusted her mask. “So fast. They’ve been here less than three days and we’ve already lost seventeen men.”
“Are there any new cases?”
“Nine hotel workers, including Mr. Stock. And a handful of folks from town. They were in the hotel when the train pulled in. And a couple of railroad men have come in, part of the group that helped us transfer patients from the train to the hotel.” She shook her head.
A creepy, crawling feeling skittered across Meghan’s skin. Such slight contact was enough to catch the illness? Her mask seemed less than adequate to shield her from something so pervasive. And she couldn’t get the image of Wesley, drowning in his own blood, out of her mind.
“Do you have any bedclothes that need to go to the laundry?” Mrs. Gregory jarred her back to the present.
“I do. I’ll get them.” Forcing herself away from the wall, she slipped into room twenty-four. A quick check told her nothing had changed in either George or Harold’s conditions. Early morning light seeped in around the edges of the window blind. While the rising sun of a new day usually filled Meghan with optimism and energy, today it just filled her with dread.
With hasty jerks, she tugged the sheets loose from the empty bed, trying and failing to ignore the bright red splotches staining the once-white fabric. Taking the pillows as well, she balled everything together and carried them to the hamper.
Mrs. Gregory gathered fresh bedding from the table a few doors down and brought it back. “We’re running out of clean pillows, but Doc insists we not reuse them until they’ve been washed and dried and sprayed with bleach. The next westbound train is supposed to have more pillows, sheets, towels, and other supplies.”
“What do I do about the mattress? Blood soaked through the sheets.”
“We’ll spray it with that new Lysol stuff the hardware store sent over, flip the mattress, and hope for the best.”
“Meghan.” Doc’s voice called from the head of the stairs. “I have a new patient for you.” Doc and Caleb held Joshua up between them. “Hurry and get that bed made.”
Meghan wasn’t sure which jarred her most, the sight of Caleb standing in the hotel or Joshua, hanging limp, his arms stretched across the shoulders of his boss and the doctor. She stood rooted to the floor. The last time she’d seen Caleb, she’d practically thrown herself at him then slapped his face. Her shocking behavior still had the power to send shame shivering down her spine.
“Miss Thorson?” Mrs. Gregory shoved the stack of sheets into Meghan’s hands. “You heard the doctor. Get to work.”
Out of habit, she leaped to obey the head waitress, her mind spinning. Joshua had come to the hotel to see her. If he hadn’t, surely he wouldn’t have fallen ill. Together, she and Mrs. Gregory got the mattress sprayed and flipped. Meghan snapped open sheets, tucked in edges, shoved pillows into slips, and folded a clean blanket across the bottom of the bed. Mrs. Gregory worked on the other side, mirroring Meghan’s work.
A wry twinkle lit Mrs. Gregory’s eyes. “We’d have made decent chambermaids, wouldn’t we?”
Doc and Caleb shuffled through the door with Joshua and lay him on the bed.
He moaned and squeezed his eyes shut. “Why don’t you leave me alone?” The words came out slurred but discernible.
Doc stuck a thermometer under Joshua’s tongue and lifted his wrist to check his pulse. “Caleb, you’ll get him undressed in a minute, and you can stay and help Meghan since you’ve already been exposed to the sickness. Mrs. Gregory will give you a mask, and Meghan can show you what to do for Joshua.”
George and Harold slept on, and Meghan took a moment to feel their foreheads and straighten the sheets. The water pitcher on the bedside table held only a half a glass, so she picked it up. “I’ll step out while you get him settled.”
When she returned with fresh water and a stack of cloths, Joshua lay under the sheets, undressed down to his small clothes and restless. Caleb had donned a mask, his eyes watchful and serious, and his skin tanned against the stark white of the cotton gauze. She looked away, unable to meet his gaze for long.
Doc had gone, leaving them alone.
“What should I do for him?” Caleb stood beside the bed, his hands in his pockets, his weight resting on one leg.
She checked the notepaper on the desk to decipher Doc’s scrawl, trying to put some distance between her chaotic thoughts and what needed to be done. Temperature 103.9. Pulse 126. Aspirin and cool cloth treatment for fever and aches. Encourage fluid intake.
“There’s a basin of water on the bedside table. Wet this cloth.” She handed him one of the clean washcloths. “And bathe his face and chest and arms. If that doesn’t help lower his temperature, we’ll use alcohol. Until the next train comes, there’s not much ice left, so we’ll use what we have sparingly.”
Harold groaned and turned his head on the pillow. A spasm of coughing caught him, and Meghan hastened to his side to help prop him up until it passed. She held a cloth under his chin as he coughed, praying he wouldn’t bring up any blood. After a minute or two the coughing ceased, the redness subsided from his face, and he fell back limp on the pillow once more. She smoothed the hair on his forehead and offered him a drink.
“Shhh, just rest. You’re going to be fine.” His skin felt paper-dry, and his fever-bright eyes disappeared behind his eyelids once more. She wrung out a cloth and passed it over his face and neck.
“What else can I do?” Caleb pulled the chair from the desk and dragged it to Joshua’s bedside. She couldn’t miss the helpless note to his voice. It resonated with her own feelings of trying to hold back a sea surge. All her efforts were futile in the face of such a rushing, relentless foe determined to take what it wanted.
She withdrew the precious bottle of aspirin tablets from her apron pocket, her only real weapon in the fight. “Try to get him to take two of these. If he can’t swallow them, we’ll crush them up and give them to him by spoon in some water.”
“Is that all?”
“I’m afraid so. Keep them comfortable, write down everything you do for them and when, and pray.”
Pray. Pray. Pray. How many prayers had she uttered for the men under her care in the last three days? She closed her eyes to compose yet another imploring, beseeching plea.
When she opened her eyes, Caleb stared at her above his mask. “When was the last time you slept?” He squeezed water from the cloth and pressed it against Joshua’s forehead. She handed him a half glass of water and the two tablets.
“Here, kid. You have to swallow these then you can rest.”
Thankfully, Joshua opened his mouth for the pills and swallowed them down. A chill rippled through his lean frame, and Meghan tugged the sheet a little higher around his bare chest.
“You didn’t answer my question. When was
the last time you slept?”
Blinking hard against the grittiness in her eyes, she shook her head. “I’ve dozed in the rocker at night.”
“Why don’t you rest for a while? If all we can do is change wet cloths and watch them, I can do that.”
“You’re sure?” The thought of sleep beckoned like a powerful dream.
“I’ll wake you if anything happens.”
She eased down into the rocker in the corner of the room and let her head rest against the high back. As disturbing as having Caleb here made her feel, she had to admit not being alone was comforting. Weariness tugged at her limbs and eyelids, and sleep claimed her.
“Meghan.” Something shook her, but she ignored it. “Meg—” The sound broke off, caught in a maelstrom of coughing.
Her weighty lashes parted. Cotton-wool filled her head, and pillow-ticking coated her mouth.
“Meghan. Are you awake?” The hand shook her shoulder again.
Caleb’s voice. She blinked, sitting upright.
“Meghan, I’m so sorry.” More coughing. He put his hand to his chest, his mask puffing in and out with the jagged coughing. Fever brightened his cheeks and eyes. “I think it’s got me. So fast. I felt fine awhile ago—” More coughing obliterated his words.
Dread surged through her, yanking her to her feet. She put her hands on his shoulders and then felt his forehead. Heat seared her skin. “Oh, Caleb.”
“I’m sorry.” Another racking spasm of coughing grabbed him, and he yanked down the mask, gasping for air.
“You need to lie down.” She turned him to the double bed where Joshua lay. “I’ll send someone for Doc.”
The last bit of sleepiness drained from her as she hurried down the hall. Where was that bellboy? The clock at the head of the stairs told her she’d slept for almost four hours. From the open doorways of the rooms she passed the sounds of coughing and sneezing, wheezing and moaning emanated. She checked each room for Doc’s reassuring presence, but couldn’t find him.
She finally ran into him downstairs in the kitchen, seated at a table, his head pillowed on his crossed arms, snoring softly. Poor man. Should she wake him? What could he do, really? She settled for leaving him a note.
Caleb is sick now. I’ve put him to bed with aspirin and liquids. I’ll wake you if things look bad for him.
She hurried back to the sickroom. Caleb had undressed and climbed into bed next to Joshua. He coughed, holding his chest. Red suffused his face, and he fell back against the pillow gasping. “Feels like I’m being stabbed.” His voice rasped.
Dosing him with aspirin, bathing his face and neck with cool water, encouraging him to drink. All things she’d done a hundred times for her patients and yet, this was Caleb. Just being near him set her nerves to jangling, jerked her thoughts in every direction, and made her wonder if she was coming down with the flu herself. Her breath hitched in her throat, her heart beat erratically, and heat warmed her through. How could he have this effect on her when she’d done everything she could to put him from her mind?
“Check on Joshua.” He grabbed her hand, his eyes bright and insistent.
“I will. Lie still. If you try to talk, the coughing will get worse.”
She checked on all her patients. Resting her hand on each brow, she tried to determine if their fevers had abated any. George stirred and rolled to his side, his breath slow and even. A spark of hope for him lit in her chest. For the first time, he appeared to be resting naturally.
Harold’s head tossed on his pillow, his cheeks still red. She pressed a fresh cloth to his brow and consulted her notes and the clock. Time for more medicine. Every ministration came by rote, all her thoughts on Caleb.
“Meghan,” he called.
A quick check on the sleeping Joshua, and then she rounded the bed to Caleb’s side. He reached for her hand.
“What can I do?”
“Sit.” His throat lurched, as if he fought against a cough. “I need to tell you something.” He gave in to the cough, his chest heaving, the bed lurching with each racking spasm.
She moved to sit beside him, holding his shoulders as he curled in a half sit-up against the tearing coughs. “Don’t talk. It will be all right.”
“Don’t leave.” The worry in his eyes pulled at her heart. “Promise me you’ll take care of Joshua.”
Her fingers moved of their own accord, smoothing back the hair on his forehead and letting her finger slide down his cheek. The beginnings of a beard prickled her fingertips. “I’ll take care of you all. Rest now.”
His lashes lowered, but his grip on her hand remained tight.
Caleb wandered in a strange land. In moments of lucidity, he knew he was very sick, but between times, he drifted and dreamed. His bones ached deep in the marrow, and his joints radiated pain. Sharp-clawed beasts tore at his chest with every breath, and his head throbbed with every heartbeat. He staggered across a parched desert wasteland in search of water to quench his raging thirst, tripping, falling, fighting the thorns and sliding sand, the scorching heat and wind. In the distance, standing beside a waterfall, surrounded by trees and grass and cool mist, Meghan stood with her hands outstretched, a ring of yellow flowers gracing her hair. Her lips stretched in a beckoning smile, and she waved him on, but no matter how many sand dunes he stumbled over or cactus thickets he forced his way through, he could never narrow the distance between them. In time, her image began to waver and fade, and he clawed his way up yet another slippery slope, calling to her, begging her not to leave him. The wind sucked his words away, and she disappeared from view.
“He’s so restless.” Meghan mopped Caleb once more, holding down his arm when he tried to swat her away. “Half the time he’s fighting me, and the other half, he’s squeezing my hand so hard, it goes numb.”
Doc Bates bent over Joshua on the other side of the bed, listening to his breathing while he waited for a thermometer reading. He straightened, his back cracking. “I sent word to Mr. and Mrs. Hualga at the reservation to tend the horses until Caleb and Joshua can go home. I told them under no circumstances to come here. They wouldn’t be allowed into the hotel anyway, and I don’t want them taking the sickness back to the reservation. I have enough patients as it is.” He held the thermometer up to the light.
“How is he doing?”
“No better, no worse.” He pressed his hands to the small of his back and kneaded. “I want you to get some rest. Mrs. Gregory is working out a schedule so we can spell everyone.”
She wanted to protest that she couldn’t leave her patients, but she was too tired. “What about you? Who’s going to spell you?”
He rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There’s a doctor coming from Flagstaff on the next train. As soon as he gets here, I’m going to fall into bed.”
Meghan checked the clock, though the temperature in the room told her it had to be nearly noon. Four days since the train had come bringing the sick soldiers. Caleb stirred again, a soft moan escaping his lips. She smoothed the hair off his brow.
“At least we haven’t lost anyone in the last few hours.” Doc removed the thermometer from Joshua’s mouth and squinted at the glass tube. Shaking it down, he swabbed it with alcohol before slipping it into its metal case and returning it to his pocket. After jotting a few notes, he swiped his wrist across his forehead. “Keep a close watch. From what I’ve been able to observe, the first sign of a patient heading toward real complications from this sickness is a bluish tinge to their extremities. From now on, I want you to check your patients’ feet and check them often. I’ll add it to the patient notes.” When he’d finished writing out his instructions, he turned to leave and staggered, grabbing the edge of a dresser to steady himself.
Meghan rounded the bed to his side to grasp his elbow. “Are you all right? You’re not feeling ill, are you?” Worry tightened her throat.
“No, just tired to the bone, like everyone else.” He smiled and patted her hand. “You get some rest just as soon as som
eone comes to take your place.”
She crossed her arms at her waist and bowed her head, leaning against the dresser. Sandpaper coated the insides of her eyelids, and her hands and shoulders ached from wringing out wet cloths. The room, in spite of her best efforts to keep it clean and fresh, smelled of sickness and heat. Lead weights pulled at her limbs, and sand dunes of tiredness invaded her head.
George shifted, drawing her attention. His eyes opened, and he stared at her. “Water?” His voice was weak as a whisper. She gave him a drink and went to check his patient notes to see when he could have more medicine.
Check all extremities for discoloration at least once an hour.
Doc’s note swam before her vision, and she blinked, focusing once more.
She blew out a breath and went to George first, girding herself for the task. “George, I need to have a look at your feet. I’ll get you tucked back in as soon as I can.” He nodded and closed his eyes.
Tugging the bottom sheet out from the end of the mattress, she laid it back, exposing first George’s feet then Harold’s. Pink, and warm to the touch. Satisfied, she retucked the sheet and made a note of the time and condition.
Moving to the beds where Caleb and Joshua lay side by side, she took a deep breath and turned up the bottom of the sheet. Her hand stopped in midair, hovering, trembling, and the sheet dropped from her numb fingers.
Her breath clogged her throat. With her mouth hanging lax and her mind clanging and clamoring, she shook her head, blinking away what must be an exhaustion-induced hallucination. Her eyes roved to Joshua then back to Caleb.
Dizziness overtook her, and she clutched the footboard, closing her eyes against the nausea and vertigo. Realization smashed through her surprise. Her heart cried for Caleb, breaking into small pieces for all the wounds he’d suffered in silence, for the way he guarded his secret, never telling the truth about why he wasn’t a soldier.