Grace, Unimagined

by Abagail Eldan

  Ward obliged and reached into his pocket to retrieve a worn envelope. He handed it to the sheriff who, while still pointing the rifle at him, quickly scanned the contents.

  The sheriff gave the letter back to him. “So, you’re Marshal Howard Henderson?”

  “Name’s Ward. I have to get Babbitt to a doctor. Where’s the nearest one?”

  Gus spoke behind him. “That’ll be his wife, out on the ranch.”

  The sheriff cocked his head and surveyed them a moment before he finally lowered the rifle. “All right. You two take him. There’s a wagon out front. The rest of these men in here are beyond our help.”

  Ward grabbed Babbitt’s shoulders, and Gus the legs. They loaded him quickly, and Ward grabbed the lines and flicked them over the horses’ backs, urging them forward as Gus lurched beside him.

  Once they’d cleared the town, he glanced over his shoulder at Babbitt lying on a quilt in the back, illuminated only by the full moon.

  His face was pale and still, as still as death, and his moans had ceased.

  Chapter Four

  As Grace stepped outside into the dark, lit by a full moon, Joshua came around the side of the house, leading the horse and carrying a lantern.

  “Dr. Robbie told me you were coming out this way,” he greeted her.

  “I didn’t wish to disturb the family reunion. Thank you for bringing the horse.”

  The night was almost tangible, like a piece of black velvet draped around them. Some of the stars were hidden by clouds although the full moon shone forth in all of its glory. Coyotes yipped in the distance, sending a shiver up her spine. She took the reins from Joshua’s hands and thanked him again.

  He allowed the light from the lantern to wash over her, and his face became serious. “I don’t like the idea of you riding out alone.”

  “You well know the coyotes are not dangerous.” She kept her voice light, as much as to still her fears as to disperse his.

  “I worry more about the two-legged varmints.” He set the lantern on the small porch, took off his hat and swiped a forearm across his brow, more from habit, for a cool breeze blew, and she doubted he sweated. His eyes still conveyed worry.

  “Have you heard news of strangers in the area?” she asked, endeavoring to keep fear from her voice.

  Joshua shook his head and resettled his hat. His gaze was focused on something beyond her, and he did not look at her when he spoke. “No, but there’s a reason Taron... Mr. Babbitt, I mean, hasn’t shown up yet. I’d feel better if you’d let me ride at least partway with you.”

  She tilted her chin and spoke with as much assurance as she could muster. “I’m sure I will be perfectly fine. Town is only a couple of miles away.”

  “I’m sure you will be, too, but Abby’s a mite worried about Mr. Babbitt and thinks I need to check on him. I can ride into town and find out what’s holding him up. Thatcher said he’d go, too.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. Someone needs to check on Mr. Babbitt’s whereabouts. But I’m anxious to get home. Mother will be worried.”

  “Wait here, and I’ll get Thatcher. Don’t you fret. I’ll be back before a goose can gobble.”

  She laughed softly as he hurried away. He was mistaking turkeys for geese. He took the lantern with him. She only hoped a cloud didn’t cover the moon before Joshua returned.

  She leaned against a post of the side porch, fiddling with the reins and rubbing the horse’s muzzle, comforted to know she would not have to ride out alone.

  From the road came a sound of hooves and the creak of a wagon. Her horse neighed as the wagon came toward them, and the moon clearly defined two men sat on the seat. She straightened and strained to see if it was Mr. Taron. It was not.

  As the wagon drew nearer and swerved around to the side of the house where she stood, her brother’s features grew clearer. Even without the light of the moon, she would have recognized him by the reek of whiskey as the wagon came to a stop.

  He jumped down, stumbled before he righted himself, and then raked his fingers through his disheveled, thick, dark hair. The other man set the brake, looped the lines, and quickly climbed down.

  He was a stranger and, although he acknowledged her presence with a nod, rudely did not remove his hat. “Miss, we wish to speak to Mrs. Babbitt. It’s urgent,” he said. His gaze did not tarry on her long but went back to the wagon as if he guarded it.

  “Mrs. Babbitt? Dr. Robbie, you mean?” His words made fear catch in her throat. She swallowed hard. “Is it about her husband?”

  “Go get her, Sis,” her brother said, his words clearly enunciated despite his drunken state. His eyes were serious and held something more, were haunted, if she had not known better.

  She swallowed hard, shook her head, and tossed her brother the horse’s reins, and hurried to the side of the wagon. A lantern hung on the back, and the stranger, without speaking, unhooked it and held it so light flooded the wagon bed. Her fingers tightened on the wagon’s side as she recognized Mr. Taron.

  Without thought, she clambered into the back and felt for Mr. Babbitt’s pulse, finding none. She lowered her head to listen for a breath, to look for the rise and fall of his chest, no matter how slight, but he was still, and all was silent eerily so.

  Then a wolf or large dog howled in the distance. She raised her head to listen, and a sadness intermingled with longing, a longing for something she could not name, could not delineate.

  She sat back on her heels. “He’s dead,” she pronounced, dispassionately.

  “Are you sure?” her brother asked. He’d come around to stand next to the strange man.

  Her brother was slim and tall, over six feet, but the stranger was taller by a good two inches and his shoulders broader. Everything came into sharp focus, the gray wagon, her brother’s forlorn face, the stranger whose hat obscured his face, the horse whose reins her brother still held, and the velvet darkness stretching beyond into infinity. The cool breeze stung her face with a million tiny needles.

  She refocused on her brother, looked down at the body that had once held the life of Mr. Taron, and nodded. “I’ve been working for Dr. Robbie long enough to recognize death.”

  Without speaking, the stranger came to the back of the wagon and raised a hand to help her down. She took it, glad of it, happy to feel the warm grasp, to be brought back from the brink, from the precipice between death and life, and hovered on the edge of the wagon, reorienting herself. She glanced down, to thank the man, when the words caught in her throat. With his free hand, he’d raised the lantern and his face was tilted to her, illuminated, ghostly and pale, with eyes that were neither blue nor green, but a vivid turquoise, as luminous and bright as her mother’s best silk dress bought before her father’s death, an unworldly color, rare and haunting. Her hand still grasped his, and she felt caught upon a ledge, frozen in place.

  He hiked a brow in question, and heat rose to her cheeks. She breathed deeply, focusing on her breath until she was able to glance away and finally step down. She smoothed down her dress. “Thank you, Mister...”

  “Please, call me Ward.”

  She dared not look at the man again. She licked her dry lips. “I’ll go break the news to Dr. Robbie. She’ll want to see him...her husband’s body. If you and my brother will please bring him in and put him in the first room on the left.”

  He nodded, and she went inside, to the kitchen. The sisters were there, helping Mrs. Franklin.

  “Where’s Dr. Robbie?” Her eyes would not focus, but she heard Melly gasp and blinked to see only her back.

  Abby, beside her, pressed a tightened fist against her lips,

  Mrs. Franklin spoke, her voice breaking, before it resumed her normal tone. “We thought you were long gone.”

  Grace shook her head, swallowed hard, and repeated her question.

  “She’s nursing Catherine. Do you want me to fetch her?” Mrs. Franklin asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  Mrs. Franklin put a hand to her thr
oat and hurried away.

  The roast and potatoes were on the kitchen table along with side dishes, and the smells filled the room. Grace suppressed a gag.

  Abby cast her a quick glance and spoke quietly to Joy. “Please take Melly into the sitting room while I see to Grace.”

  Grace puzzled at her words and noted for the first time the paleness of Abby’s face. Grace apologized as Joy escorted Melly from the room. “I am afraid I frightened you.”

  Abby sighed heavily, glanced away, and made a motion with the back of her hand. “You have blood on your dress.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know...” Grace looked down in dismay and held up blood-stained hands.

  “Do you have a change of clothes?” Abby asked.

  “No... but I can’t see Dr. Robbie like this. Will you please tell her?” Grace had already turned to leave the room

  “Certainly. I assume it is about Mr. Babbitt...”

  Grace glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. He’s dead,” she said bluntly and wished she had softened her words when she saw Abby’s face. “His body is ...” The words caught in her throat, and tears slid silently down her cheeks. She swallowed hard. “He’s being brought into the infirmary.”

  Abby moved toward her and patted her back. “I’ll tell her. You go do what you need to—to get Mr. Babbitt ready for his wife to see him.”

  As Grace started to move away, Abby caught her arm. “Hold on. I’m sure Mrs. Franklin has an extra apron in here. You can put it on to cover most of the blood on your dress.”

  “I’ll need to wash my hands before I also soil the apron.”

  Abby with her cane had already moved to the dry sink where a pitcher of water was at the ready. She poured some into a bowl and gave a sliver of lye soap and a washrag to Grace.

  Grace thanked her and hurriedly scrubbed her hands. She wanted to be finished before Dr. Robbie arrived. Abby helped her dry off and then draped the apron over her head and tied it at the back before shooing her from the kitchen.

  Grace steps faltered as she headed back to the infirmary wing. Was she being cowardly by letting Abby be the bearer of bad news? She came to a complete stop and leaned on the door frame, resting her forehead wearily against it. Abby had volunteered, and she was correct. Ward, more than likely, needed her help in arranging the body—her brother was in no shape.

  She sighed deeply. She also needed to question her brother, to find out how he came to be involved.

  She prayed he’d been an innocent bystander.

  Chapter Five

  Ward climbed in the back of the wagon and slipped his hands under the shoulders of the body while, Gus grabbed the feet. He’d only taken a couple of steps before he stumbled. The body shifted, and Ward twisted sharply to keep the body from touching the ground. He gave Gus a sharp reprimand.

  Gus surveyed him solemnly, his eyes rounding. “What’s it matter? He’s dead.”

  Ward modulated his voice. “That may well be, but the body can be further damaged and cause Mrs. Babbitt undue distress.”

  “Dr. Rutherford,” Gus corrected. “She uses her maiden name when doctoring, says to honor her father, some bigshot back East.” He scoffed.

  They continued carrying the body toward the doorway in silence, and Ward contemplated Gus. The night’s activities had done little to sober the man. He suspected he must have a flask tucked away and had been imbibing on the sly.

  Despite Gus’s stumbling once or twice more, they did as Miss Jansen had directed and placed the body in the first room on the left. After he arranged the body on the bed in what he considered a decent manner, Ward leaned against the wall and glanced around. Obviously, it was a doctor’s examining room for the bed was narrow and high with only a thin mattress. A cabinet against the wall held various medical instruments, and lamps were placed strategically around the room, although only one was burning.

  It was a well-planned room, and all was clean and orderly. He wondered if it was Mrs. Babbitt...Dr. Rutherford...who had arranged it thus or if this had been Miss Jansen’s handiwork. He cast a glance to her brother and frowned. The man had slumped to the floor and his arms hung loosely over his knees, his head between them.

  It was difficult to believe Miss Jansen was his sister. She seemed a sensible, efficient woman who kept her emotions under control. Although her look had startled him, and he frowned, trying to fathom her intention of staring so intently into his eyes. The frown increased his headache, but he did not remove his hat. Instead, he tugged the brim lower over his eyes.

  He longed to return to the hotel so he could consider what to do next. Fletcher and Babbitt were now both dead before he’d had a chance to confirm his suspicions. He needed to confer with the sheriff and consider his next step.

  Could Mrs. Babbitt have information? Would her husband have confided in her? Perhaps he could find out more from Miss Jansen, if he could figure out a way to do so privately.

  Ward glanced at the man on the floor. “Does your sister enjoy working here, Gus?”

  He raised his head and blinked at him. “Yes. Of course, one would never know if she did not. Dear Grace does each and every job with never a complaint, always efficiently with an air of cheerfulness. She’s a paragon of virtue. Everyone sings her praises except our mother. Never, no never, does Mama deign to compliment my dear sister who pines away.”

  The words irritated him, or maybe it was only the inflection of Gus’s voice and he endeavored to speak evenly. “Pines away? For what?”

  He blinked at Ward and grinned. “Grace was the one who wanted an education, whose intelligence far outshone my own, whose greatest wish was to become a doctor. But no. It was never considered for I am the apple of my mother’s eye, named for my illustrious father, the one who was to succeed.” He laughed harshly, and his laughter increased, became out of control, unseemly in this house of mourning.

  Ward, about to rebuke him, fell silent when the door swung open, and Miss Jansen entered, alone. Her brother stopped laughing but did not acknowledge her arrival. She cast Gus only a fleeting glance before turning her attention to Ward.

  “Dr. Robbie will be here shortly.” She’d tidied up and put on an apron.

  Her eyes were red, indicating she was not devoid of emotion as she’d appeared when checking the body. Ward was somehow pleased that she was compassionate, but why that concerned him, he did not bother to examine.

  She walked to the body and again checked for a pulse. Ward understood. Often, it was difficult to believe someone was actually dead, even when the evidence was overwhelming.

  She turned but bit her lip before she spoke. “I don’t know if I should cover him with a sheet. Dr. Robbie might wish to examine him... I’m not sure how she will react.” She shrugged her slim shoulders and looked to him as if he held the answer.

  “I think it would do no harm to cover him. She can always pull the sheet back if she wishes to examine him.”

  She nodded and retrieved a clean sheet from the cabinet. He helped her cover the body, and when they finished, sent her brother a furtive look.

  She moved closer to Ward. “Do you know what happened?”

  He contemplated her before answering, not sure how much he should reveal. “Yes, some men entered the saloon and shot the patrons.”

  “You mean there are more victims? Should we be arranging for their arrival?” Her eyes widened, and her muscles tensed as if she was ready to spring into action.

  He shook his head. “The sheriff confirmed the others were dead before we left. Only Mr. Babbitt was still alive although barely hanging on.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders relaxed. “But why were the men in the saloon shot? And what was Mr. Taron doing in the saloon?” It seemed she spoke to herself, as the sheriff had done, for her eyes became unfocused. Furrows appeared on her forehead before she looked at him again. “All the men were shot?”

  “Seems so—ten or twelve, I’d say. All but your brother and me, of course.”

  The door opened and a woma
n, Mrs. Babbitt, her presumed, entered, her face ashen, but otherwise composed. She was accompanied by two other women, and none gave him more than a passing glance.

  Miss Jansen approached her. “Dr. Robbie, I am so sorry,” she said simply and then moved back.

  One of the ladies pulled the sheet away, and Mrs. Babbitt laid her palm against her husband’s cheek. After a few minutes of almost silent weeping, Mrs. Babbitt dried her eyes with her handkerchief and glanced around the room.

  Her gaze landed on Ward, and he stepped forward to speak to her. Miss Jansen had nudged her brother, and he struggled to his feet, but when he managed to stand, he gagged, and she rushed him from the room before he could do more.

  Ward decided to ignore the incident. “Mrs. Babbitt?”

  She turned and gave him a wane smile. “Yes, I am Mrs. Babbitt. I understand you are the one who brought my husband home.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Before he could say more, Miss Jansen returned and spoke quietly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I must get my brother home.”

  “Joshua and Thatcher will escort you, I’m sure.”

  Ward shook his head. “No need to trouble anyone, ma’am. I can take Miss Jansen and her brother home. I’m heading back to town anyway.”

  Mrs. Babbitt eyed him for a moment, as if she had forgotten his presence. “I do not believe I caught your name?”

  Ward touched the brim of his hat to remove it but instead tugged it lower. The look Miss Jansen had given him had been of admiration—he’d finally decided. There was no escaping the formality, even if her admiration turned to disgust. He removed his hat and gave a slight bow in Mrs. Babbitt’s direction while keeping a side eye on Miss Jansen. “Ward, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Babbitt’s expression did not change, and she gave him a sad smile. “Thank you, Ward, for your offer. Grace—Miss Jansen—must make her own decisions, as to your offer.”

  He turned to raise a brow at the young woman. He’d seen her face had remained placid, calm, when she’d seen the scarring of his head. Although her eyes were tired, she now smiled softly. “Of course I will accept your offer. Thank you.”