Embers of Love

by Tracie Peterson

  Dr. Clayton got to his feet and motioned to the exam room. “Tell them to bring him through the side door. It will be quicker that way. Miss Vandermark, I’d appreciate your help. You know where everything is in the exam room, and I’ll need someone who can work fast to help me.”

  “Of course,” she said, feeling a surge of excitement.

  The doctor went immediately to wash up, and Deborah opened the side door to admit the men. She had presumed Jeren had exaggerated the degree of injury, but as the men rushed into the examination room, she could see for herself that he had not.

  Butch Foster’s clothes were drenched in blood, despite the fact that someone had thought to tie a tourniquet just above where the arm had been cut. The man was pale and unconscious, not offering so much as a moan when the men placed him on the metal table.

  Dr. Clayton motioned Deborah to his side. “Hold his arm.”

  Deborah frowned. “But I haven’t washed.”

  “We can’t save that part anyway. Hold on to it while I cut away the remaining piece. All we can hope to do is stop the bleeding and keep the man from infection.” He worked quickly, freeing the arm from the man’s body. Deborah stood rather dumbstruck for a moment, not knowing what to do. She looked down at the arm, then back to Dr. Clayton.

  “Put it in the spare washbasin,” Dr. Clayton instructed.

  She did as he told her, washed up, and hurried back to the table to see what she might do to help. The men who had brought Mr. Foster in had backed away from the scene, keeping their distance from the injured man. Dr. Clayton was already busy examining the oozing stump and cleaning out pieces of debris. Time seemed to stand still, yet Deborah knew the minutes were flashing by. When Lizzie called out from the front room, Deborah had nearly forgotten all about her. The medical emergency had consumed her focus. She glanced at the clock and realized it had already been an hour.

  “I’m in here helping the doctor, Lizzie.”

  Her friend came to the entrance. “What’s happened?”

  “Mr. Foster lost an arm at the mill. The doctor’s trying to get the wound cleaned and cauterized so that he won’t bleed to death.”

  Dr. Clayton stopped and looked at Deborah with a frown. “Mr. Foster? As in a relative of Mrs. Margaret Foster – the very one who cursed me?”

  “The same. This is one of her sons.”

  He shook his head and went back to work.

  “Lizzie, if you don’t mind – I’m going to be a while. Why don’t you take the train back? They’ll be returning shortly, and you can hitch a ride in the engine. Let Mother know what’s happened and tell her I’ll be home later.”

  Her friend hesitated but finally nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  The train whistle blasted and Deborah motioned her toward the door. “Hurry or you’ll miss your ride.”

  As Lizzie left, Mr. Perkins showed up, anxious to know of Butch’s status. “Will he live?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dr. Clayton replied. “He’s lost a lot of blood and infection is bound to set in. I’ll do what I can to ward it off, but there’s no guarantee.”

  Mr. Perkins nodded and then seemed to notice Deborah. “This is no place for you! Why are you here?”

  “I asked her to stay,” Dr. Clayton told him. “She helped me set up the examination room and knew where my instruments were. She also has proven herself to have a strong stomach and stable nature in the face of such matters.”

  Mr. Perkins looked to the men who’d brought Butch to the doctor. “Why don’t you men get on back to the mill? You too, Jeren. I’ll stay and see what happens.”

  “Do you want me to go find Mrs. Foster?” Jeren asked.

  “No,” Dr. Clayton replied before Mr. Perkins could speak. “Not yet. I don’t need to have a distraught mother hanging over my shoulder. She has little use for me as it is.”

  “You heard him. Go on with you now.” Mr. Perkins inclined his head. “See to things at the mill.”

  Jeren nodded and took the two men with him as he left. Deborah couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when Mrs. Foster did learn of her son’s condition. If Dr. Clayton could save him, this might turn out to be the very thing that would change Mrs. Foster’s mind about him. Mother always said that God worked in mysterious ways, and Deborah supposed losing an arm might well be one of the strangest she’d seen.

  “He was a good man,” Mr. Perkins said, coming alongside the table. “Hard worker. I hate to see this happen to him.”

  “If he lives, he’ll have a long recovery,” Dr. Clayton told Perkins. “He’ll have to learn to do for himself all over again – this time without two hands. He certainly won’t be able to work at the mill.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so. Not unless I could find something for him to do that required only one arm.”

  “His balance will be off, and the pain will be excruciating for a long time. Of course, that’s only if he can somehow recover from the blood loss.” Dr. Clayton stood back and eyed the patient in serious contemplation. “He’s a fighter; I’ll say that for him. I would have expected to lose a lesser man by this point.”

  “Well, I think I’d best go find Mrs. Foster, now that you have things under control. She won’t take kindly to being left in the dark about this.”

  “She won’t take kindly to me treating her son,” Dr. Clayton declared with a shake of his head. “She won’t like that at all.”

  Mr. Perkins rubbed his finger and thumb over his graying reddish mustache. “Hopefully you’ve saved the boy’s life. She can’t fault you for that.”

  But Deborah knew she would. Mrs. Foster’s superstitions would cause her to believe that her son’s recovery had been jinxed by Dr. Clayton’s interference. She went to the cupboard for more bandages. She would need to stay with Dr. Clayton and explain the good he’d done to Mrs. Foster. The older woman would never listen to the doctor, but she might well be willing to hear Deborah and Mr. Perkins.

  Mr. Perkins lingered a moment longer, as if he had something else to say. He shook his head instead and headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”

  “Oh, how I wish this weren’t her son.” The doctor began to wrap the stump, shaking his head the entire time.

  “Dr. Clayton,” Deborah began. He didn’t seem to hear her, so she broke with protocol. “Christopher.” He looked at her. “You’ve done good work here. He would have died by now if you hadn’t interceded. Mrs. Foster will have to realize that sooner or later. She might resent the fact that she wasn’t allowed to care for Butch immediately, but in time she’ll understand that this was for the best.”

  “If he lives,” he replied. “The man is barely alive. The shock alone may kill him.”

  “I know.” Evidence of the blood and trauma surrounded them.

  From Dr. Clayton’s earlier instructions, Deborah knew that she’d find warm water in the stove receptacle in his kitchen. “I’m going to clean him up a little.”

  Dr. Clayton met her gaze and nodded after a moment. “Thank you. That’s a good idea. There are towels in the cupboard over there,” he said and pointed. “I’ll wrap up the dismembered arm before Mrs. Foster arrives.”

  Deborah nodded and hurried to see to her tasks. Once Mr. Perkins found Mrs. Foster, it wouldn’t take any time at all for her to make her way to the office. Deborah returned with the water and retrieved two towels before going to work to remove the blood that had matted on the man’s chest and neck. She had just managed to clean Butch’s face and neck when Mrs. Foster came screaming into the house.

  With something akin to a wounded animal’s cry, she crossed the room and all but threw herself upon her son’s bloodied chest.

  “Git away from him. Git, I say!”

  Backing away, Deborah put the towel aside. “Mrs. Foster, Dr. Clayton has managed to stop the bleeding.”

  “Bah! Git away from him. You have no right. No right at all.” She straightened and noted the missing arm. “You done cut off his arm.” It was more accusation than dec
laration. Her face screwed up and she began to wail. “Oh, you done took away his manhood.”

  “Mrs. Foster, the accident at the mill did that,” Deborah interjected before Dr. Clayton could speak. “Didn’t Mr. Perkins tell you what happened?”

  Margaret Foster rocked back and forth, hugging Butch’s good arm to her breast. “Oh, my boy. My boy.”

  Dr. Clayton exchanged a glance with Deborah. She could see his growing frustration. Just then Mrs. Foster let go of Butch’s arm and pointed a gnarled finger at Dr. Clayton. “You’ve done your worst, but I’ll save him yet. He ain’t stayin’ here. I’ll be back to take him home.”

  “You can’t move him, Mrs. Foster. He’s lost too much blood already. If you move him, he’ll start bleeding again,” Dr. Clayton argued.

  She fixed him with an angry stare. “I know what I’m doin’. You just want him here so you can finish him off. The devil is using you to try to hurt me, but I won’t let him. I’ll fix you with a spell that you’ll never throw off.” She stormed out the door, leaving Deborah and Dr. Clayton in stunned silence.

  The silence didn’t last, however. Dr. Clayton had clearly reached his limit of patience with the old woman’s nonsense. “Of all the ridiculous, absolutely stupid . . . argh.” He turned away, muttering.

  “I’ve spent half my life learning medicine, studying and working to be the best doctor possible, and now this backwoods witch comes to undo everything. She’ll be the death of this man.”

  “You’ve performed to the best of your abilities,” Deborah reminded him. “Whatever she chooses to do and whatever happens to Butch – it won’t be your fault.”

  “That hardly matters!” His voice grew louder in his anger. “A reasonable person would understand the danger of the situation. If this were your brother, I could make your mother understand the need to leave him here.”

  “You certainly could, but she would be just as upset as Mrs. Foster. You cannot change a mother’s desperation to save her child. Mrs. Foster might calm down by the time she returns.”

  Dr. Clayton looked at her in disbelief. “Neither one of us believes that. She won’t listen to reason. It’s impossible to imagine that woman calming for any reason, but especially in a situation like this. She hates me. She’s made my life a nightmare. She’s maligned me and spoken against me.” He began to pace, flailing his arms as he walked. “She thinks her ways are the only way. She doesn’t believe in book-learned medicine.”

  “It’s hard for – ”

  “And no matter how I work to prove myself, I have no chance with these people.”

  His tirade continued, the volume of his voice growing. Without thinking, she went to where the pitcher of clean water stood beside the washbasin. She drew a deep breath.

  “She has no desire to understand what I can do for this community. I can’t even talk to someone on the street without them fearing it will get back to Mrs. Foster and she’ll put a curse on them. A cur – !”

  In one smooth move Deborah turned. She didn’t say a word, but instead swung the pitcher forward and allowed the contents to hit Christopher Clayton full in the face. He stopped in midstep, his jaw dropping in surprise.

  As water trickled down, dampening his bloodstained shirt and coat, Deborah offered him a sheepish smile. Dr. Clayton’s shoulders relaxed along with his expression. “I suppose I deserved that. I don’t often lose my temper, but when I do . . . Well, I’ll just leave it at that.”

  She shrugged. “I completely understand. You might well have to do the same for me one day.”

  He grinned. “I’ll remember to keep the pitcher handy.”

  –––––––

  Hours later, Christopher sat in the silence of his bedroom. Mrs. Foster had arrived with a half-dozen male relatives and directed them to take Butch back to his home. He had tried to reason with the woman one more time, but she wouldn’t hear any of it. Christopher gave up.

  “His blood is on your hands now,” he declared. “If your son dies, Mrs. Foster, it will be because of your poor judgment.”

  But she hadn’t heard him, or if she had, she didn’t care. No doubt she didn’t believe his words. Christopher ran his hand through his hair and sighed. Why could these people not understand the good he could do? He had a great deal to offer, and if he wasn’t allowed to do his job, Perkins would have no choice but to get rid of him. Then he would have left his mother and father, his siblings, and his life in Kansas City for nothing.

  He shook his head. “God, did I misunderstand your direction? Did I fail to hear correctly?” He sighed. “What am I supposed to do, God? Please . . . show me the way.”

  CHAPTER 15

  On their third night in the woods, G. W.’s companions seemed only interested in the amount of liquor they had left. Each evening, they had made a habit of sharing what they said was extremely expensive, smooth whiskey. They’d offered G. W. a drink each time, and each time he had refused. Had he any say on the matter, the men wouldn’t have brought liquor into his camp at all. He’d seen the results of alcohol around logging, and it usually resulted in someone getting hurt.

  Stuart Albright seemed rather amused by G. W.’s abstinence. He spoke of it several times, but always G. W. maintained his calm and refused to comment. He certainly didn’t owe Albright an explanation. What G. W. chose to do with his evening was no one’s business.

  Taking up a cup of strong coffee, G. W. walked away from the fire to think. He’d been watching Stuart Albright and trying his best to figure out what the man was about. The trio of easterners had discussed a great many ideas regarding logging. Apparently they were all in agreement that it would behoove them to buy up many thousands of acres of prime forest while the prices were still low. The idea grieved G. W. – this was his home, and the idea of eastern businessmen buying up the land really disturbed him.

  They wouldn’t relocate to Texas; it was the mentality of “cut out and get out,” as Wright and Bishop had mentioned more than once. Use the resources until they’re gone, and then move on. There was no concern about what would be left behind in their destructive wake. G. W. remembered his father saying years ago that they were guardians of the land. That God had given mankind the earth to tend and care. Stripping the land of trees hardly seemed a good way to do either.

  He finished off his coffee and headed back to the center of camp. To his surprise, Stuart Albright seemed to be waiting for him. He was sitting by the fire with a book, and when G. W. approached, he quickly pocketed the thin volume and stood.

  “So, Mr. Vandermark, it’s my understanding that your family has been in Texas since before the Southern states seceded, causing the war.”

  G. W. figured the man hoped to goad him into some sort of political argument. “That’s true enough.”

  “Why did they choose to come here?” Albright asked.

  “My father believed it was a good place to live,” G. W. stated. Albright pulled out a cigar and offered it to G. W., but he shook his head and continued speaking. “There was a mighty push for settlin’ this land.”

  “If you have people living upon the land, it’s much harder for someone to come in and take it away.” He clipped the end of the cigar and drew a stick from the fire to light it. “It was not that long ago we were fighting Mexico for this very place.”

  “So are you figurin’ to settle in Texas?”

  Albright drew on the cigar for a moment. “I hardly think so, although I’m not against the idea of investing. I see the potential, just as Mr. Wright and Mr. Bishop suggest. There is a great amount of virgin forest to be harvested. It could prove advantageous.”

  “For whom?” G. W. asked. “I don’t see that layin’ waste to the land is going to help the folks who stay behind.”

  The man shrugged. “People will find other uses for the land. This seems to be hardy soil. Surely they can plant and raise crops or increase their herds and produce cattle for market. It’s a narrow view to believe the land is only good for one thing.”


  “So you’d cut down all the trees and move on – leave the land to be cleaned up by someone else?”

  “Probably.” Albright’s disinterest in the subject was clear. “So what of you? Will you stay after the logging is finished?”

  “If I have any say about it, the loggin’ will never be done. I hope to pass this down to my children.”

  “And you actually believe that is possible?”

  “Of course it’s possible. My pa passed it to me and my brother.” G. W. decided to turn the tables on Albright. “So do you think your father and the president are gonna be impressed with what your friends are seein’ here?”

  “I can hardly speak for either man. They will consider the profit to be made, and that alone will influence their decision. My father has a knack for such things. He’s always been able to see the future potential of a product or industry. He was born into money, but it was nothing like the vast fortune he’s created.”

  “I think my father did the same thing here. When he arrived, he and his brother bought what acreage they could. It wasn’t much, but they continued to add to it, takin’ in small pieces of land as they became available. It wasn’t long before they could buy up bigger ones.”

  “Was it always their thought to manage the land rather than harvest it?”

  G. W. thought back to the days when his father had still been alive. The old sadness seemed to drape him like a wet blanket. How he wished his father were still here. He would be able to set Albright straight.

  “My pa was a very wise man,” G. W. finally replied. “He couldn’t read or write well, but he had wisdom that few can boast. He loved God and his family – this land, too. All he ever wanted was to provide a good place to live for his kin and to honor God with whatever he did.”

  Albright said nothing for several minutes. When he did speak up, his question took G. W. by surprise. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.” G. W. couldn’t imagine why the man wanted to know, but didn’t question him.