Beyond the Ashes

by Karen Barnett

  Ruby’s stomach fluttered. What is he doing? His warm touch sent shivers up her arm.

  He smiled and pressed one of her fingers upward. “I think this will work for a flame, don’t you, Nurse?”

  “Oh, I see.” Clever. She kneeled in front of the patient and pointed skyward. “Rosie, pretend my finger is a light. Do you think you could blow it out?”

  As the girl screwed up her face and blew across Ruby’s fingertip, Gerald lowered his gaze to where the instrument touched the child’s back. “Barely a flicker. Take a big breath this time.”

  Rosie giggled. She puffed up her cheeks and spluttered a long exhale through pursed lips.

  Ruby swung her wrist back like a treetop bending in a gale. “There’s some wind!”

  Gerald smiled, fine lines crinkling about his eyes. “Once more.”

  Rosie sucked in more air, but gasped into a coughing fit, eyes watering.

  Gerald removed the earpieces. “I believe you’re right, Nurse Marshall. It does sounds like asthma.” He turned to the girl’s mother. “Some people have decent luck with the asthma cigarettes from the drug store, but I don’t recommend them. Especially for one so young. I’d try the paregoric, but be careful not to give her too much. It contains traces of opium, and it will make her sleepy. You want just enough to ease the paroxysm, no more.

  The mother accepted the bottle from Ruby’s hand and nodded. “I know, doctor. My auntie used to use it for her coughing spells. I’ve seen what happens when someone nips too much.”

  Ruby cleared her throat. “Dr. Larkspur, what about epinephrine?”

  He nodded, turning back to the girl’s mother. “Nurse Marshall is correct. If your daughter gets into a coughing fit and can’t find her breath, bring her to the hospital and ask for an epinephrine injection. It works in mere seconds.” Gerald scooped the girl off the table and walked the family toward the door, explaining more about the injections.

  Ruby sighed, pushing a stray curl over her ear. Gerald seemed unique among the doctors for whom she’d worked: impartial, kind, and well mannered. And rarely had she seen a doctor—other than her father—with such a tender approach to working with children.

  Another woman and a boy waited at the door. Gerald guided them inside, pushing a chair up against the table so the child could clamber up to its surface without being lifted. The grimy hand clamped to his elbow suggested the source of trouble. The youngster plopped onto the tabletop, his red hair flopping over one tear-stained eye as he pinned Ruby with a pointed glare.

  “Let’s take a look, shall we?” Gerald took the child’s arm in his hands.

  The boy winced as Gerald palpated the elbow joint. The little fellow blinked several times, his chin quivering.

  Gerald released the grubby arm. “How long has it been like this?”

  The mother hovered at the doctor’s elbow, her fingers plucking at a lace cravat about her neck. “Just since yesterday. Not long. He and his brother play too rough.”

  The boy pulled the arm back to his chest and tucked a hand under the elbow with a scowl. “He plays rough, I just give it back to him.”

  Ruby stepped closer, offering the child a smile. “What’s your name?”

  He chewed on his lip, glancing up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Henry Rogers.”

  “And you’re what . . .” Ruby studied the youngster. He was probably seven or eight years, but better to guess high. “Nine?”

  His frown trembled, chin jerking upward. “Eight.”

  “Seven.” The mother folded her arms across her bosom.

  Henry cast his gaze downward before darting a glance back at Gerald. He stuck out his lower lip. “Seven.”

  Gerald winked. “You want to help me fix your arm so you can get back to roughhousing with your brother?”

  A shadow crossed the boy’s face. “I’d like to take a lickin’ to him.”

  “Henry!” Mrs. Rogers frowned.

  Ruby hid a smile. The boy had spirit. Good. He’d need it for what lay ahead.

  Gerald leaned forward. “Pretty tough to do with your arm hurting. So what’s say we put it back in fighting condition, eh?”

  Henry nodded, his hair—bright as a pumpkin—fluttering in the breeze coming through the open window.

  Glancing at the mother, Gerald smiled. “I noticed a delivery of fresh, juicy peaches being delivered to the commissary tent. Perhaps you’d like to step out and claim a few while Mrs. Marshall and I help him with his arm? Tell them I sent you.”

  The woman hesitated for a moment, glancing down at her son. “Are you certain? Henry?”

  “Oh, Ma. I’m not a baby.” Henry jutted his chin forward, but his Adam’s apple bobbed twice.

  Ruby’s heart ached for the little fellow—trying so hard to be brave. She longed to sweep the child into her arms, but clearly he desired to be treated like a man. Little did he realize how many men acted like tots when hurt.

  Henry’s mother pressed a kiss to his forehead before hurrying away.

  “Girls aren’t strong like us, right, Doctor?” A corner of the boy’s mouth lifted as he blew the hair from his eyes.

  Gerald leaned forward, cocking a hand around his mouth. “Don’t tell anyone, but Nurse Marshall here is tough as nails.”

  Ruby shot him a glare before turning to Henry. “That’s because it takes a strong woman to keep doctors in line.”

  * * *

  Gerald grinned, Ruby’s tough expression sending a ripple of mirth through his chest. For half a moment, he pictured her face peering over the steering wheel as the automobile hurtled across the cow pasture a few weeks ago. A woman forcing herself to face her worst nightmare? Ruby Marshall contained an inner strength equal to ten men. Hopefully she could give a little of her strength to their patient.

  He caught her eye, jerked his chin toward the table, and held out a hand. “I think you know what needs to be done. Do you think you could assist Henry?”

  Ruby’s gaze softened as she placed her fingers in his grip. “I’d be pleased to, Dr. Larkspur.”

  The warmth of her palm pressed against his, for the second time in twenty minutes, made Gerald’s heart race. He’d worked with female nurses before without ever managing to touch one. How come he kept finding excuses to take her hand? He squeezed her fingers for a moment before helping her up to the tabletop next to their young patient.

  “What’cha doing?” Henry scooted away from her, mouth agape.

  Ruby settled herself, bracing one high-button shoe on the top of the wooden chair. “Dr. Larkspur is going to fix your elbow by doing something called a reduction. He’s going to pop the ligament—the band holding the joint—back into its proper position. You’re going to sit on my lap, so I can help you hold the arm still.”

  The nurse’s matter-of-fact tone surprised Gerald. Most female nurses coddled their younger patients. Ruby spoke to him as an equal.

  Henry’s jaw twitched. “I’m no sissy. I can sit tight.” Henry glanced back at Gerald, color fading from his face. “Is it going to hurt bad?”

  Gerald folded both arms across his chest, eyeing the boy. He preferred not to lie—even to children. “Does it feel good now?”

  “Nuh-uh. Hurts like the devil.”

  Ruby touched Henry’s shoulder, her tone softening. “After Dr. Larkspur is done, it will feel much better. The more you can relax, the faster it’ll go.”

  Henry sighed. “All right. But don’t tell no one.” He clambered up on her lap, tucking his ruddy head under her chin.

  Gerald waited as she moved Henry into position, locking one of her arms around his midsection. With their matching coloring, he could have been Ruby’s son. If her husband had lived, she might have a child like this one. Though—knowing Ruby—he’d be a mite cleaner. And better dressed.

  She grasped the boy’s arm just above the elbow. “I think we’re ready. What about you, Henry?”

  The boy pressed his lips into a line and managed a curt nod.

  Gerald took Henry’s wr
ist in one hand, sliding his other under the boy’s forearm. Turning it palm-upward, he eased the limb forward.

  Henry whimpered, tucking his face against Ruby’s chest, his tough façade dissolving.

  “You’re doing fine.” She murmured, pressing her cheek against his hair.

  Gerald tore his gaze from her face and fingered the joint, checking the ligament. He extended the arm further as Henry tensed. With one final tug, the band clicked into place.

  Henry gasped, a shudder coursing through his small frame. He lifted his head, eyes wide and glimmering with unshed tears. “Was that it? It don’t hurt no more.”

  Flexing the boy’s arm back toward the shoulder, Gerald kept his fingers in place, checking for proper rotation. “All finished. Well done. Are you sure you’re not ten?”

  Henry grinned and sniffled. “My brother’s twelve. He’s strong.”

  Gerald rocked on his heels. “You tell him not to yank on your arm again, or he’s going to have to deal with me.” He released Henry’s hand, patting the boy on the leg.

  “No, Doc. He’s going to have to deal with me!” Henry hopped off Ruby’s lap and held his arm out in front of him. “I didn’t think it was ever going to work right again.”

  Ruby brushed her hands across her apron. “You were brave, Henry. I’m sure your brother couldn’t have done better, so let’s not see him here next.”

  Henry bent the elbow and smiled. “He’d have cried like a girl. He’s strong, but I’m tough. That’s what Papa says.”

  She touched his chin. “You didn’t need my help at all.”

  The boy smiled. “Nah. But it was nice, anyway.” He swiveled his head toward Gerald. “Thanks, Doctor.”

  “You’re welcome, Henry. Be careful with your arm. I don’t want to have to do this a second time. Why don’t you run along and see if your mother found any of those peaches?”

  Ruby slid down from the table as the boy scampered off, bending and flexing his arm.

  Gerald folded the stethoscope and laid it atop the medical bag. “Nice kid.”

  “It’s a shame his family has to live here. What about his schooling?”

  “They’ve set up a temporary schoolhouse on the outskirts of the camp. I’m sure he’s being looked after.”

  She turned, a line pinched between her brows. “How long will people be living like this? There’s barely room to walk single file between those cottages. This is no place for children.”

  “They have food, shelter, and medical care. Some folks are saying with all the help, the refugees won’t want to leave.”

  The door burst open, slamming against the wall a few feet away from Gerald’s shoulder.

  Ruby shrieked, scampering back against the table, eyes rounding.

  Gerald spun to face the door, placing himself between Ruby and the entry as two men appeared silhouetted in the doorway, half-dragging a third. Gerald gestured to the table. “Place him up there.”

  The wounded man’s feet scraped along the floorboards as his friends hauled him inside.

  Gerald helped them lift the patient to the examination table, and he ran a quick assessment. Blood oozed from an injury above the patient’s right eye, his clothes reeking of whiskey. Gerald pressed a rag to the head injury. “What happened to him?”

  The red-faced man whisked off his flat cap and bent over, puffing. “Fight. Down on the edge of the camp. We hauled Davis out before the soldiers got there. Didn’t want more trouble.

  The patient stirred, groaning.

  Ruby edged forward. “Can I help?” Her gaze flickered to the open door, as if briefly considering an escape route.

  The second fellow stepped into her path, slamming the door shut. “Just patch him up, and we’ll go. If the army gets involved, we’ll be tossed out on the street.” He held a hand outstretched. “Please, ma’am.”

  Gerald turned to the table as the patient’s lids flickered. He checked the man’s pulse—strong and steady. “What did you say his name was?”

  The man at the door folded both arms across his chest. “Davis. Jeremy Davis.”

  Lifting one of the lids with a thumb, Gerald leaned down and checked the pupils. “Mr. Davis?”

  Davis turned his head away and blinked several times, his forehead rippling into a row of weathered creases. “Gaw.” He brought both hands up over his eyes. “What happened?”

  His buddy stepped closer. “Mildred’s husband’s what happened. Took you out with the butt of his gun, though you’re a mite lucky he didn’t use the other end. What were you thinking?”

  “Nurse, will you please hand me some gauze?” Gerald cleared his throat before the story progressed. “We’ll get Mr. Davis cleaned up.”

  Ruby bobbed her head, hurrying for the supply cabinet.

  Davis lowered his hand, eyeing the blood smeared on his fingers. “The lout. I didn’t expect he’d find out, what with him being gone most of the time. No wonder Millie gets lonely.” He struggled up to a sitting position.

  Ruby stepped forward with a handful of dressings. “Shall I . . .”

  “I’ll take care of this one.” Gerald frowned, supporting the patient with one arm. “Why don’t you step next door and see if there’s any coffee left?”

  “I’m not leaving.” Lines formed around her mouth as her gaze darted between him and the man standing near the door.

  Gerald cleared his throat, addressing the men. “I’m sending my nurse over to the supply tent. If it’s a problem, perhaps you should take your friend down to the county hospital.”

  Davis pressed fingers against the bridge of his nose. “No, she can go. I’m sorry if these fellas here frightened you, Miss. We don’t want trouble.”

  The red-faced man wrung his cap. “Davis, you didn’t see how steamed up Johnson was. If he turns the army on us, we’re history.”

  “Ruby, go.” Gerald gritted his teeth. She’d likely return with a whole garrison, but it wouldn’t prevent him from treating his patient. And she’d be safe.

  After a moment of hesitation, she nodded and slipped around the men, snatching her hat from the hook. She reached for the knob, but the door flew open a second time.

  Gerald’s stomach fell as he spotted the Goliath-sized man standing on the threshold, the barrel of a shotgun pointing directly at Ruby.

  Ruby backed up, hands held out to each side. “Dr. Larkspur, I believe we have additional company.”

  16

  Heart pounding, Ruby edged backward. The small room was not designed for six people—especially when one wielded a shotgun. The sticky smell of sweat hung in the stale air. Did the scent emanate from the hooligans or from her? She pressed her back against the medicine cabinet, reaching behind to grasp the handle. Perhaps if the man were distracted, she could retrieve something of use. Like what, a wad of bandages?

  Gerald elbowed his way through the men to stand between the newcomer and the patient’s bristling companions. “Gentlemen, this isn’t the place—”

  “Where’s Millie?” The intruder’s lips pulled back from his teeth, his bulk filling the doorway. He swung the weapon toward the man on the table. “What’ve you done with my wife?”

  The fellow standing closest to Ruby sniggered. “What hasn’t he done?”

  The thug’s eyes narrowed, and he swung the shotgun in a wide swath. “Where is she?”

  Davis staggered up behind Gerald, his palm pressed against the oozing scalp wound. “She ain’t here. I haven’t even spoke to her in a week.”

  Johnson’s brows bunched. “You’re lying. She told me you were over last night.”

  Ruby eased the cabinet open behind her back, hoping for a scalpel or a syringe.

  Gerald stood firm. “I won’t allow violence in here. Take your disagreement outside. And don’t expect me to patch you up when you’ve finished.”

  Johnson advanced, eyes locked on his target.

  The patient ran a palm across the back of his neck. “I ain’t lying to you. If Millie said so, then she’s the liar.
Perhaps she’s entertaining other fellows while you’re off working.”

  Johnson lifted the shotgun and jammed the weapon into the smaller man’s chest. “Let me hear you say that again.”

  Ruby’s gaze darted between the figures, her stomach tightening. She dug her hand into the cabinet and rummaged through the supplies, trying to find something more useful than tongue depressors and cotton gauze.

  Gerald placed a hand on the gun barrel. “If you commit a murder in front of all these witnesses, what will you gain?”

  Sweat dripped down Johnson’s brow. “I got nothing left—my house, my business, and now my wife. I got nothing but revenge.”

  A tapping from the doorframe stilled the room. Patrick Allison stood on the threshold, a round hat clutched to his chest. “Now, Mr. Johnson, is your missus telling tales again?” The reverend strolled inside, the men parting before him like the Red Sea. He nodded to Ruby. “Mrs. Marshall. A pleasure.” He turned and faced Johnson, placing his back to Ruby.

  The shotgun barrel dipped toward the floorboards as a scowl crept across Johnson’s face. “Patrick, this doesn’t involve you.”

  Ruby’s hand settled on the smooth, wooden box. Keeping it hidden, she opened the lid and pulled a small pair of shears into her palm. It wouldn’t be of much value against a gun, but it felt good to have something in her hand. She slid the cool object up into her cuff.

  The Irishman clasped the thug’s shoulder. “Johnson, let’s take this discussion outside—and away from the lady. We can’t have you fellas stinking up the place.” He wrinkled his nose. “Your Millie came crying to me, fussing about your brawling and a-fearing you would be arrested or worse. Let’s go reassure her you got no holes in your head—besides those the Good Lord put there.”

  Johnson’s expression softened. “She fears for me, does she?”

  Patrick placed a hand on the shotgun and pushed the barrel even lower. “She’s a scrappy, quick-tempered one—not unlike yourself, eh?”

  The big man smirked. “She is. And she knows how to get attention. D’ya know she used to be a dancer over Barbary Coast way?”

  The minister gripped Johnson’s arm and steered him toward the door. “Truly? Tell me more as we walk. I’m sure she’s worked herself up into a full-blown hysteria by now.” He moved to follow the large man through the opening, tipping his brown derby to Ruby as they departed. “Pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Marshall.”