A Lady in Attendance
Page 28
She rambled on and on, never slowing her pace or her talking. “Sometimes I imagine I’m young again and this farm is run by my father and my mother is inside the house. It was all so much easier when my father was alive.” She bit her lip, frustrated that she’d led the conversation back to the dead. “We have cattle and hogs. And we grow wheat and corn.”
She sighed. “That’s what we always had and we did so well, except when my father gambled. Don’t judge him too harshly. He still managed to keep this place going. With him gone, I’m the one who’s failed this place. But . . . but Jake’s going to fix everything.” He’d blown into her life like the dust on the wind—seemingly small but capable of overtaking everything. “He’s got to.”
She led the horse the rest of the way to the house in silence, mindful of her charge but also deep in thought. So much had happened in such a short amount of time, she could hardly keep up. She looked back at the man on the pallet, another unexpected happening. And now he was going to be in her home, under her care. She cringed, thinking how that would sound to the already less-than-cordial neighbors. Come what may, he was here and she would not leave him to the birds.
Getting him inside the house was far from graceful, and she couldn’t help but hope he didn’t remember a moment of it. She dragged him by his arms, rolled him across the floor, and even attempted to push him by his feet. Several times she had to stop and catch her breath but always went back to her task, refusing to forsake him. More pushing and pulling and at last he was securely inside.
“You’re a brute, too big for your own good,” she snapped at him when his head bumped into the wall. Remorse followed, and in a gentler voice, she said, “I will choose to believe you would help me if you could. Since you’re not up for talking, I’m going to assume you are the victim of an atrocious crime and in desperate need of kindness.” She laughed at her own absurdity. “Whatever you are, you showed up on my land.”
Rather than attempt to lift him onto a bed, she pulled the mattress from her parents’ room, laid it on the floor of the parlor, and rolled him onto it. Sweat ran in streams down her face when at last she had him settled.
She groaned when she thought of all she still had to do today. Everything in her wanted to collapse, curl up, and sleep for hours, but animals needed feeding, her garden ought to be weeded, and her stomach hadn’t been filled since daybreak. But first she had to see to the stranger’s wounds. A squeamish fear niggled its way into her mind, attempting to steal her resolve. Cleaning him would require her to see more of this man than she wanted to see. Perhaps if she went for the doctor, he’d not only see to any wounds but also wash this poor man’s stench away.
Unsure what to do, she looked out the window at the sun, low in the sky. Fetching a doctor would take time, and she’d have to travel in the dark. She scowled, knowing her situation was less than ideal, but what options did she have? Leave him and ride into the night or stay beside him and hope her mediocre doctoring skills would suffice. She felt ill-equipped to make such a decision. At last she decided to first inspect his wounds and see how severe they appeared. At the very least, she knew how to feed a convalescing invalid—nursing her sickly mother had given her plenty of experience.
Still stalling, she offered the man water, only to have it run down his cheek. She put the water aside and braced herself for the inevitable. With fresh rags and soap in hand, she set to work cleaning the caked-on mud and blood from his skin. The bruises could not be so easily washed away, but with time the swelling and color would dissipate. When she’d been bruised or scratched, her mama never fetched a doctor. Granted, this man had a great many more such injuries than she’d ever had, but they still did not seem so bad that a doctor needed to be summoned in the night. She took a deep breath, knowing that his internal injuries could be worse than those on his purple face.
His shirt was tattered. Rather than save it, she cut it off and washed his arms and chest. It’s merely doctoring, she reassured herself when she felt her pulse jump with each stroke of the rag against his flesh. There were two gashes in his upper chest that required bandaging, and when she touched his ribs, he jerked to the side. Poor man—his ribs so tender, likely broken or badly bruised. Once finished with his upper body, she covered him with a sheet and stepped away to catch her breath and prepare herself for what she must do next.
Many years ago, her mama ran out to help a field hand who’d been injured. He’d cut his leg awful bad and she’d slit his trousers up to his thigh without even batting an eye and stitched him up like his leg was nothing more than a seam to be sewn.
Just doctorin’, Norah reminded herself before returning to her patient. Shoulders squared, she attempted to display the same body language she’d seen in her mama all those years before. With forced confidence, she cut his already-torn trousers from his ankles up to his thighs and inspected him for injuries. Though she tried to think of nothing but chores and how many hogs she ought to sell when the time came, she couldn’t help but notice that this man was muscular and clearly worked hard for his daily bread.
“Who hurt you?” she asked aloud before tackling any more of the much-needed cleaning.
He rolled his head toward her. She gasped and flung the sheet over his entire body before dashing a few steps away.
“You’re injured. That’s all this is. I was just trying to help.” Her words were true, but she still felt guilty about the skin she’d seen.
“Where?” His voice was hoarse and uneven.
“You’ve some gashes on your head and a broken nose. I believe your ribs may be broken, and, well . . . you’ve bruises everywhere. Though I . . . I haven’t inspected all of you.”
“Where”—he tried to clear his throat—“where am I?”
“The King farm just outside of Blackwell, Iowa.” She swished her rag absently in her bowl of water, now darkened by the blood she’d washed from his skin. “If you think you’ll be all right while I am gone, I can fetch a doctor. It would take some time, but I’d ride fast. I’d go for a neighbor to help, but . . . well, no one’s very close, and most wouldn’t want to help. Or I don’t think they would. But I could ask.”
“No. Don’t go.” He tried unsuccessfully to prop himself up. “Where am I?”
“Blackwell, Iowa.” She said the words slowly, emphasizing each syllable. Perhaps she should check again for head injuries.
“No.” His head rolled to the side as though it were too heavy to control. “I can’t be in Iowa.”
“Unless everyone I know has been lying to me for my entire life, then this is assuredly Blackwell, Iowa.”
He groaned.
“We’re small, but we have a doctor. You needn’t worry.”
“No doctor,” he said. With his right hand, he patted his chest. “Where’s my shirt? Give me my clothes and I’ll go.”
Heat rushed up Norah’s neck all the way to her ears. “I cut your shirt and . . . and your pants. They were torn, and I ha-had to see if you were injured. I did not expect you to wake. I can only guess that getting you out of the sun has helped.” She grabbed the soiled shirt and held it out to him. “Here. But you won’t be able to wear it. I’ll get you clothes of my father’s when you’re ready to be on your way.”
His weak hands reached for the shirt before falling to his sides. “Money? Was there money in my shirt, in my jacket?”
Norah shook her head. “You didn’t have a jacket, and I didn’t go through your pockets.” She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t agitate yourself. I’m sure whatever is wrong can be set right. If you’ll trust me, I’ll help you.” She looked away when she said it. So many things were impossible to set right and she knew it, but she couldn’t help but hope his problems could be resolved. “I’ll get you feeling better. Let me get your water.”
She reached for the cup she’d brought earlier, only to see it overturned. As she headed to the kitchen, away from him, the reality of her situation settled on her. He could be bad, she thought. She knew nothing about
him, not even his name. Without getting his water, she darted back to the parlor. “What’s your name?”
His eyes had been closed, but he opened them when she spoke. “Quincy Barnes.”
For no reason at all, she felt herself relax. Apparently, it was more comfortable being under this roof with a man whose name she knew. “Mr. Barnes, I’m Norah King.”
“Call me Quincy.”
“If you insist.” She pivoted away from him. “I’ll fetch you your water now.”
When she returned, she sat on the floor beside Quincy and fidgeted, unsure what to do next. He drank a few sips of water and then fell asleep, shifting and moaning from pain. When he cried out or winced, she put a hand to his shoulder and he settled.
When he woke, she gave him more water and tried to comfort him with her words. “Would it help to talk about whatever it was that brought you to my land?”
A crease formed between his dark brows. “I don’t know how exactly I came to be here.”
“I told you all about my land and even about my struggles. You may not have been awake for it all, but I did an awful lot of prattling as I struggled to get you under my roof. Seems if I’m to sit beside you and bring you water and soup and nurse you back to health, you ought to tell me about yourself. What if you’re some awful villain and I don’t know it?”
The corners of his mouth pulled upward, and her fidgeting hands stilled at the sight of it. With his injuries so fresh and plentiful, she didn’t dare call him handsome, but there was something enticing about his faint smile that intrigued her. “If I were a villain, do you think I’d tell you?”
“You have a point. I suppose I’ll have to heave you back outside and let the vultures have you. It’s a shame though. You were ever so much work to drag inside.”
He laughed, then grimaced. His hand went to his side as he struggled to catch his breath. “I woke up out there once, and I saw the birds.” He shuddered. “You saved my life. I’m indebted to you.”
Norah brushed her hands on her skirts, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. “No, I did what anyone would do. You were in need and so I helped.”
“You’re alone here?” He attempted to look around her parlor, only to give up before much of an appraisal. Norah observed it even if he could not. It was a pretty room but with sparse furnishings since she’d sold so many of the family’s pieces when money got tight. Still, it remained warm and inviting, with rich wallpaper, a dark wood floor, and large windows along the front. She frowned. Her fine house kept her safe from wind and hail, but it’d not been able to save her family’s reputation.
“I’m sorry it was your land I ended up on.”
“Don’t be. I’ve not had many guests lately, so in a way you’re a welcome surprise.” She blinked quickly, fighting off the ache of loneliness that had so often blanketed her since her father’s death. “It can be quiet out here, and there’s always so much work. Nursing you back to health will be a diversion and a reason to work faster.” Her engagement ring caught her attention. An odd impulse nearly caused her to tuck her hand away. Instead, she said, “I am to be married soon. My home will not be this quiet for long. And on Monday a few field hands will be stopping by to help. They aren’t much for conversation, at least not with me, but I feel less alone when they’re here.”
“Engaged.” His voice grew soft. Was it from his pain or something else? His eyes moved slowly to her hand. “I was in love once. Well, I thought I was at least, but”—he winced again—“love is a farce.”
“Oh, I’m not in— I mean, you think it’s a farce?” Her hand flew to her mouth, shocked by the confession she’d nearly made. She didn’t love Jake, not yet anyway, but she was grateful for him. “I have animals to feed. It’s already late. They’ve been neglected.” She spoke fast and frantically, ashamed by her verbal misstep. “I think you should rest. If you wake and need something and I’m not here, there’s water in the cup beside you and”—she cleared her throat—“there’s a chamber pot if you can manage and a bowl with a rag and water. And there’s soap. I didn’t . . . there are parts of you that still need cleaning. I won’t be long. I know you’re weak, so don’t overwork yourself.”
“Norah.”
“Yes.” She flinched at his informal address, but the sincerity in his eyes kept her from making a fuss.
“I won’t hurt you.”
For a long moment, they stared at each other. “I believe you.” She smiled, knowing that despite the odd circumstances and his massive size, she did believe him. Perhaps it was his injuries and helpless demeanor that evoked her trust. Or was it something else . . . something she couldn’t pinpoint, but that she could feel? She shrugged and said, “I don’t think you could if you wanted to.”
He raised a weak hand and let it fall. “You’re right. I’m useless.”
“You’ll be on your feet soon enough.” The swiftly setting sun cast long shadows over the room. If she didn’t hurry, it would be dark before she was done for the night. “I have to go. I have chores, and I left my boots by the creek.”
Quincy opened his eyes again, wider this time. “Your feet have blood on them.”
She reached for the door. “It’s nothing. A minor scratch. Don’t waste your energy worrying about me. Just rest.”
“I’m going to pay you back,” he said before closing his eyes again. “Someday I will.”
Author’s Note
The inspiration for this story came in several ways. First was when I was with my husband at the dental school in Buffalo, New York, and we were looking at their displays of antique dental instruments. I realized that dental assisting (as we call it today) was a field that women were involved in but I’d never seen featured in a historical novel. I also really wanted to write a dentist as my leading man who was not evil or a bumbling fool. Books and movies rarely show dentists in a good light, and I decided I wanted to! It became my mission to write about a terribly romantic dentist that readers would enjoy (I hope you loved Gilbert as much as I did).
When I began diving into Hazel’s backstory and trying to discover what made her journey unique, I came across the reformatory movement. In a sense, reformatories were the first juvenile facilities (although the age limits were different). The details were beyond fascinating, but sadly this story did not have room for all of them (perhaps another book someday). If you have spare time, read up on reformatories of the late-nineteenth century and learn about the forerunners in this movement—you will find some new heroes.
While writing this book, I truly came to love both Hazel and Gilbert and enjoyed every moment I shared with them as they came together, learned to forgive, and discovered how truly right they were for one another. I hope the reading journey for you was as sweet as the writing journey was for me.
This book was written years ago, set aside, reworked, and finally published. Due to its long path to publication, I am unable to properly thank everyone who helped me. I hope all my early readers know how grateful I am for your feedback. I apologize that I can’t thank you all by name.
I would like to quickly thank my editors, Rachel McRae and Amy Ballor. I also want to thank the rest of the amazing team at Revell, who put up with my emails and crazy ideas, and my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim. What amazing people I have cheering me on!
I also have a whole fan club living under my roof (the joys of a big family). My husband and kids are a gift from a loving God. I feel truly blessed not only when they encourage my writing but during each day we share together. It’s a loud and wonderful life!
Thank you, dear readers, for picking up my books, giving them a chance, and asking for more. Thank you for reading, for messaging me, and for all the little ways you help others find my stories. I truly appreciate you.
Rachel Fordham is the author of The Hope of Azure Springs, Yours Truly, Thomas, and A Life Once Dreamed. She started writing when her children began begging her for stories at night. She’d pull a book from the shelf, but they’d insist she make one up. Finally, she
paired her love of good stories with her love of writing and hasn’t stopped since. She lives with her husband and children on an island in the state of Washington.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Books by Rachel Fordham
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Epigraph
Prologue
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Discussion Questions
Sneak Peek of Another Story from Rachel Fordham
Author’s Note
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
List of Pages
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