"High tide in an hour," he said as he rushed through the kitchen toward the stairs, oblivious to the blackened kitchen and the stench of smoke and burned beans. "The fellows will be working out playing positions at the poker game tonight so I'll be going into town."
Seamus, seated at the table, muttered a quiet "Humph."
Ariah dried her hands on her apron and followed her husband. She found him in his room, pouring water into the wash basin with his right hand, unbuttoning his shirt with the left.
"I didn't know you played poker," she said lamely. It was the third time in the past week that he had gone into town. Since he couldn't get back until the next high tide early in the morning, Ariah was left alone in the house most of the night. Not having to suffer his ardent, puppy-dog stares was a welcome relief, but did little to ease her loneliness.
Pritchard barely glanced at her, too busy stripping off his undershirt so he could wash. "I don't very often, but if I don't go tonight they might leave me off the team."
"The team?"
"You know, the Tillamook Kings." He soaped up a cloth and began to scrub his arms. "Our baseball team. Stuffy Simms chose the name. He's a fisherman and king salmon is mostly what they catch here."
Ariah wasn't sure she understood. "Aren't you hungry?"
"If I take time to eat, it will cut short the time I can spend with . . . Ne . . . uh, in town with the fellows. Stuffy's wife usually serves sandwiches while we play anyway."
He finished washing, dried himself and rifled through his drawer for a clean shirt. Uneasy and unable to explain to herself why, Ariah returned downstairs where Old Seamus sat hunched over a cup of thick black coffee and an ancient copy of the Headlight-Herald. A few minutes later Pritchard pounded back down the stairs. He snatched his coat and cap off the hook and scurried out the door with a hasty good-bye. Seamus slapped the newspaper down on the table, rose to his feet and ambled off to his own quarters. The last thing Ariah heard before total silence fell over the house was a mumbled, "Cussed hen."
The next day when Ariah took Pritchard his lunch, he was snoozing in a chair balanced precariously on two legs, the back braced against the wall beside the window. His mouth was open, his head lolling to one side.
"Pritchard?"
The chair slammed onto all four legs and Pritchard's eyes flew open. Guilt flitted through the hazel orbs before they focused on his wife's face.
"Lunch time already?" He rubbed his eyes with his fists, drowsy still. Nettie had kept him up all night teaching him the many positions and methods of sexual stimulation, some he had never imagined possible. Under her tutelage, he had gained a new self-confidence that extended beyond the bedroom. Until today, he had never been brave enough to catnap on duty.
Ariah set the tray on the desk and removed the cover, releasing the spicy scent of mustard and fresh baked bread.
"The poker game must have lasted all night," she said, noting his lethargy.
"Pretty much." Pritchard stuffed his mouth with a forkful of potatoes and chewed while he talked. "But they designated me first-string striker so it was worth it."
Ariah turned away to avoid watching the food swish about in his mouth while she tried to remember what a striker was. "Does that mean you'll be first to hit that little ball?"
"The most important thing it means is that I won't be stuck on the sidelines this year." He grinned cockily. The other team members had looked at him with new respect when he spoke up for himself and demanded a chance to prove his worth. "I'll be hurling, too, on a stand-by basis. You know, throwing to the strikers from the other team."
"That's wonderful, Pritchard."
Through the lighthouse window, she could see waves breaking far below, against the huge formation of basalt Pritchard called Hat Rock because of its shape. With binoculars, she could see the puffins and murres nesting on its rough surface.
"I think I'll go up top and watch the birds while you eat," she said. "Join me when you're finished."
It was odd, Pritchard thought, as he ate a thick ham sandwich, that the idea of spending time with his new wife no longer sent him into shivers of joy or almost uncontrollable sexual urges. She was pretty and he liked her, but he felt more at home with Nettie.
In the wee hours of the morning, he had lain in Nettie's arms while she told him how she had run away with the first man who came along, a tinker nearly twice her age, in order to escape the beatings her father inflicted on her daily. The tinker had taught her how to please a man, telling her all the while how he loved her and would take care of her. One night he brought a man home and commanded her to show the man how nice she could be in bed.
Pritchard had actually wanted to kill the tinker and her father, but Nettie had assured him that both men had been out of her life for a long time. The whippings it had taken for the tinker to bend her to his will had left her so bruised and ugly that business fell off. One day he brought home a younger girl and kicked Nettie into the street. Circumstances forced her to sell herself to survive until a sick old man rescued her. She nursed Old Saul to his dying day, grateful for his kindness. In return he had left her the shack where she now lived. She might be poor, but she had a roof over her head now that no one could take from her and vegetables from her garden to eat. She didn't need Pritchard's money, she'd said, or any other man's.
To learn that Nettie wasn't the whore gossip had made her out to be had meant more to Pritchard than he bothered to analyze. He basked in her admiration because of his new position on the team and found that he wanted nothing more than to hurry back to her adoring arms.
At Ariah's excited shout, he leaped from his chair, dropping the last of his sandwich. When he reached her in the glass tower, she handed him the binoculars and pointed past Hat Rock.
"It's a whale, I'm sure of it," she enthused. "I saw a spray of water exactly as you described, and something dark rose to the surface."
"Yeah, I see it. There it blows again. Now, see its back hump up? In another minute… There! See its tail thrust up above the water?"
"Oh, it's wonderful. Do they ever come closer?"
Pritchard handed her back the glasses. "Not often."
Ariah watched the whale swim northward for several minutes before she turned to the stairs. "I'd better get back. Hester isn't feeling well, so I have all the chores to do."
Pritchard followed her down. "Uncle Bart's worried about her. He said Doctor Wills thinks she has something called diabetes."
"He has good reason to worry. She seems to have gotten much worse in only the last few days. I think you should spend more time with her, Pritchard. You can't be certain how long she'll be around."
Ariah's hint of possible death sent a shudder down his spine. He hated to think about death; it was much too frightening. Pushing the thought from his mind, he switched to a more pleasant subject. "The first practice game will be next Saturday. Do you want to come and watch?"
"I think we'd best wait and see how your aunt is doing. We may be needed here."
Pritchard pouted like a child denied another cookie. "I have to be at the practice, Ariah. If I miss, they might replace me."
Stifling the angry retort that came to mind, she went to the desk and picked up the tray she had brought. "We'll talk about it later. I'd better get these dishes done up."
He leaned against the doorjamb and watched her climb the damp wooden stairs outside that led to the upper level of the bluff, while balancing the tray and avoiding tripping on her skirts at the same time. Her ankles, in the fitted button boots, were slim, the calf above gently curved. Nettie's legs were long and lithe and wrapped about him in a way that drove his blood wild. Maybe it would be just as well if Ariah stayed home to take care of Aunt Hester on Saturday. That way, he would be free to visit Nettie after the game. He closed his eyes and envisioned her naked breasts cradled in his palms. His body hardened. With a smile, Pritchard turned back inside and shut the door. He thought again of Nettie's plump breasts while his fingers freed the buttons
of his trousers. Another virtue Nettie had taught him was self-reliance.
♥ ♥ ♥
Bartholomew nudged his horse to a faster gait, surprised at how eager he felt to get home. He had spent three days, going to Tillamook to take care of business and visit his brother Calvin at the old Noon dairy farm. It amazed him how much he could miss a woman. But, Ariah wasn't just any woman.
At last he broke from the trees and cantered toward the barn. Even the old mare under him seemed eager for home now, and for the oats she knew would be waiting. A tendril of smoke rose from the chimney of the assistant keepers' house, filling Bartholomew with the warmth of knowing that Ariah was there, preparing the morning meal for her men. How he wished he was one of those men who could simply stride into the house and take her in his arms.
There was no smoke rising from his own house, but he'd expected no welcome there.
After seeing to his horse, he hoisted a burlap sack over one shoulder, tucked a box under the other arm and headed for his back porch. The kitchen door was locked. An oddity, for there was no reason to lock a door here. He set down the goods he'd brought home and stepped over to the door that led into the hallway. It too was locked.
"What the hell?"
Over in her own kitchen, Ariah heard him shouting Hester's name and pounding on the door. She raced to the window, her heart flooding with joy. The station had been horribly lonely without him. He looked more handsome than ever, now that he was back. Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried out the door and around the side of the house, wanting to warn him about his wife's odd behavior while he'd been gone. She came to a skidding halt as his back door gave beneath the thrust of his hard-soled boot, the wood splintering with a loud crack.
"Hester? Damn it, Hester, where are you?"
He reached through the hole he'd made, unlocked the door and vanished inside. Even from where she stood Ariah could smell the awful odor that rushed out through the fractured door. Her hand over her mouth as a frisson of dread sleeted down her back, she debated what to do. Hester would not welcome her, but what if Bartholomew needed help? Should she go in, or wait to see if he called for her?
Bartholomew found the house eerily silent. The stench was so bad he had to cover his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. He tried to brush aside the unease that had niggled at him since dawn, but it had lodged in his throat, threatening to choke him. Remembering Dr. Wills' warning about how quickly Hester's illness could escalate didn't help. He thought of the unnatural sheen of sweat on his wife's skin before he left, the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat and her sudden lack of appetite.
"Hester? Where are you, woman?"
God, it smelled like something had died in the house. Terrified at what he might find, he raced up the stairs to Hester's room. The smell was worse here, not unlike the dead whale that had washed up on shore once and gone rotten. There had been a trace of this same stink even before he had gone to Tillamook. Hester had blamed it on a dead mouse in the wall.
"Hester?" He rapped his knuckles on her door. "Hester, open up."
When no sound answered his demand, he tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. It swung inward on noiseless hinges he himself kept well oiled. The heavy drapes over the windows blocked out the light. Trying not to breathe in the foul odor, he lit a lamp on the bedside table. Hester lay huddled beneath the covers of her narrow bed, blinking at the bright glare with sunken eyes devoid of emotion. Her gaunt face was as white as the handkerchief he held over his nose. Sweat beaded her skin, though it was cool in the room. He was afraid to speak, afraid to find out what he was facing. Afraid he already knew.
"God, Hester, what's happened? You look two steps from death's door. I'm getting Dr. Wills out here as soon as possible."
He had expected her to argue, but she said nothing. Metal drapery rings scraped along the wooden rod as he yanked open the curtains. Though the day was gray with a coming storm, she squinted at the additional light. He raised the window, letting the room fill with a brisk breeze.
"Just getting that stink out of here will make you feel better," he said, drawing an extra quilt over her so she wouldn't catch a chill. "I'll empty the chamber pot and bring you up something to eat."
The chamber pot was full, but, although he wanted to feel surprised at finding only urine, and no feces, he wasn't really. For a long moment he stared into the bowl while terror clawed up his spine. He stood and looked down at his wife. She turned her face toward the wall.
"What is it, Hester? You smell like . . ."
Without another word, he flipped back the covers to expose her lower limbs and nearly gagged. For a long while he stood there, gaping at his wife while his throat worked to keep from vomiting and icy fingers of dread dug at his flesh.
Death itself looked back at him.
Chapter Twenty-One
At Bartholomew's frantic bellow, Ariah rushed into the house. She found Bartholomew in the upper hallway, his face white as sea foam. He met her questioning gaze but, otherwise, did not move.
"Hester is deathly ill,” he said finally. “Have Seamus relieve Pritchard, send the boy into town for the doctor and come up to her room. I'm going to need you."
Ariah didn't question him. His fear was as tangible as the cotton apron wadded in her fists.
Five minutes later, having roused Seamus and passed on Bartholomew's instructions, Ariah let herself into the head keeper's house. She pressed a hankie dampened with lily of the valley over her nose and hurried up the stairs. At the open doorway of Hester's room she came to an abrupt halt.
Bartholomew was bent over his wife where she lay on the bed. The covers had been thrown back and her gown drawn high up her thighs, exposing two legs that looked as though they should belong to two entirely different people. The right foot was black, the leg swollen to twice its normal size. Above the black, angry red streaks ran from the ankle to the knee. The foot appeared blistered about the heel and ankle, as though badly burned. A watery discharge oozed from open sores and the smell brought Ariah's gorge into her mouth. "My God."
Bartholomew swung toward her. He watched the blood drain from Ariah's face. She swallowed hard, clapped a hand over her mouth and sagged against the door. Two strides took him to her side.
"Don't swoon on me, dammit, I need you." His voice was rough and edged with desperation, but the hands he placed on her arms were gentle, almost caressing.
Ariah gulped in air. When the nausea passed, she straightened. "I'm all right. Let's get her into a clean gown and change the bed linens."
They worked in silence, knowing this wasn't the time for questions or for answers. When he lifted Hester into his arms so Ariah could whip off the wet sheets, the woman opened her eyes and spoke in a cracked, high-pitched voice. "Get her . . .out. Slut. You . . .you'll have him soon enough. Soon enough. At least have the decency to leave him to me while I’m still livin’."
Hester actually looked more dead than alive. Her green eyes glared dully from sockets sunk in a skeletal face, the skin stretched tautly over the bones like dry, wispy paper marked by a network of lines as fine as the crackled glaze on an ancient vase.
"Get . . . out," she repeated in a whisper-thin screech.
Ariah merely went about her work, glad they had gotten her into a clean gown before she awoke.
"She stays, Hester." Bartholomew turned so that she couldn't see Ariah. "I must have help if I'm to take care of you."
"No, no, I—”
"Save your strength. You'll need it if the doctor ends up having to remove your leg because of your stubbornness."
Hester's eyes grew round and large as sand dollars, the whites an unhealthy yellow as she stared at her husband. "My leg? Remove my leg? No, no." She thrashed about in his arms until Ariah motioned for him to lay her on the bed.
"Shh, Hester," Ariah crooned as she tucked the clean bedclothes about her. "It's all right, he doesn't really mean it."
"Oh, but I do mean it, every word, and it's her own
fault. She has gangrene, the stupid fool."
Ariah heard his anger and frustration, saw it in his dark eyes and in the harshness around his mouth, and understood. Men were never good at dealing with their own helplessness when someone was in danger. She well remembered her father's rage when her mother became so deathly ill and died. Considering all Hester had put her husband through in the seven years of their loveless marriage, one might expect him to welcome the chance to be rid of her. But Ariah was too familiar with the depth of Bartholomew's integrity to be surprised. His honor would never allow him to stand by while another human—any human—suffered.
Hester muttered the same words over and over: "My leg, don't cut off my leg."
"A blister." Bartholomew's disgust was apparent in his voice as he paced the floor. "A lousy blister on her heel she wouldn't take care of because of a foolish notion that illness is the result of sin."
"I tried," Hester whined. "Tried . . . Wouldn't heal."
"Please, Bartholomew, you're terrifying her." Ariah stroked Hester's damp brow and spoke of whatever came into her mind, how many peas she had picked in the garden that day, how the sky looked all marbled with purple and gray as the storm built, the kid birthed by one of Seamus's goats during the night, anything to get the woman's thoughts off her diseased leg.
When Hester calmed and seemed to sleep, Ariah went to Bartholomew where he stood staring out the window. "I don't understand," she said softly so Hester wouldn't hear. "Blisters heal on their own, we've all had them. How did hers get infected?"
"I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with this diabetes Dr. Wills thinks she has. All I know is that once gangrene sets in, if it isn't taken care of immediately . . ." His voice trailed off, the words too painful to say.
Hester whimpered and cried out in her sleep. "Don't wanna die. Didn't know, didn't know. Don't wanna die."
Ariah sat on the edge of the bed and took the woman's frail, fluttering hands in hers. "It's all right, everything will be all right."
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