“I ain’t got a couple of days, Doc. I gotta be able to sit on that wagon by tomorrow and make my rounds,” Ned whined.
Just as Mr. Beachum moved to his side again, his wife walked into the room. She still held Anna, but now the child was clean and wearing a diaper and a shirt. “How’s it goin’ in here?”
He explained his findings and the remedy left at their disposal. “But if he doesn’t use the oil, eat more fiber, and stay off the area for a few days, I can’t guarantee the situation will improve.” He pulled from his bag a bottle of medicine and set it on the bedside table. “And I’ll leave something a bit stronger for the pain.”
“I ain’t got much of a choice, Doc. I’ve got to get back to work tomorrow,” Ned grumbled.
“Mrs. Beachum, I noticed when I came through the kitchen you own a foot-peddle sewing machine. Do you do a lot of sewing?” Cassia asked.
He frowned. What on earth did Mrs. Beachum’s sewing talents have to do with the matter at hand?
“Yup, it’s the only way to keep our backs covered since store bought cloths cost too much.”
Cassia then turned to Mr. Beachcum. The frown upon his face indicated his confusion on the question of his wife’s sewing ability as well. “Do you have a small tire, perhaps one that came off a child’s tricycle or a baby’s carriage?”
“Yup, I believe we do…a tube of a child’s wagon wheel is in the shed out back,” Ned said, his frown deepening.
Cassia’s light blue eyes twinkled. “Well, I was just thinking, if Mrs. Beachum could cover that tire with some cloth, you can sit upon it, leaving your troubled area to fit in the hole and off the wooden wagon seat. That might help you to continue healing without missing any more days of work.”
Mrs. Beachum smiled. “I know exactly what yer after and what yer wantin’.” She handed Anna to Cassia and took off after the wheel.
Cassia hugged the child affectionately. “And now let’s see what ails you, little Miss Anna.”
Anna Beachum was just suffering from teething gums. Again Cassia pulled a tincture from her bag to remedy the problem. And the Beachums gave them each a jar of homemade bread and butter pickles as payment for their services.
Back in the wagon, Cassia licked her lips. “I love bread and butter pickles, don’t you?”
He chuckled lightly. “I can’t think of anything better.”
Chapter Eleven
As the week progressed, Cassia accompanied him on all the house calls, maladies ranged from toxemia to a broken foot. At the clinic she was beside him as well, preparing each patient for examination, reading the next step of the procedure without him telling her what he needed or what he wanted her to do. They worked together like a well-oiled machine.
On one rainy day, they found themselves behind on their calls, wagon wheels sinking into the muddy road, and summoned to the Wexley home. Thankfully, it was the last stop on their schedule. Colin Wexley, a ten-year-old boy suffering from a mental disorder since birth, raged with fever. In his delirium, his mental issues became out of control. He not only thrashed around in the bed, tearing it apart, but took to racing around and destroying the bedroom. The mother, Edna Wexley, was a widow. She was heavy-set and appeared to be somewhere into her fifties. Certainly she was neither young enough nor fit enough to stop Colin, also heavily built and tall for his age. Consequently, the poor woman was beside herself and at a complete loss as to what to do, other than cover her face with her hands and cower in a corner.
Examination of any sort was impossible. Colin continued to shake his head and moan as he pulled repeatedly on his left ear. Brodie suspected an ear infection. No doubt, with the boy’s inability to relay his discomfort, the infection had climbed to extremes before help had been called.
“Nothing can be concluded without an examination, but there’s a strong possibility Colin has an ear infection. With his mental disorder hampering care, the best place for him to be is in a hospital,” he conferred with Cassia. “But I’ll never get him to settle down long enough to get him into a medical transport.”
“What about sedating him first,” she suggested.
His frown deepened. “We’ve got the same problem there too, getting him to stay still long enough for me to administer a hypodermic of morphine.”
Before they could come up with a strategy to the problem, Colin ran out of the bedroom. In a flash Cassia was right behind him. By the time he came to his senses to follow them, Colin had run out the back door. Cassia remained in hot pursuit.
“Get the sedative,” she yelled to him, leaping over a large branch.
Quickly he ran back to the bedroom, where he’d left his bag, and prepared the injection. He made it back to the yard just in time to witness Cassia cutting Colin off at a mud puddle. She jumped, actually leaped off the ground, and pounced upon the boy. Mud flew everywhere.
“Now,” she yelled.
He waded into the puddle, pulled Colin’s wet, muddy pajama bottoms down to his kicking feet, and stuck him with the needle. Cassia continued to hold the child, keeping his head from flopping into the puddle, while the sedative worked. Then he carried Colin back to the house.
Edna Wesley covered the kitchen table with a towel, and that is where he laid Colin. He watched as the two women stripped the boy of the rest of his nightwear and washed him clean. He was a mess himself, mud soaked shoes and trousers soiled to the knees. But Cassia was worse for wear. Mud covered her crisp, neat pinafore from her neck to hem, as well as her legs and white shoes. Her stockings were torn and hanging in shreds around her ankles. And the cap, which once sat prim and proper atop a head full of golden curls, hung down the side of her face. If the situation weren’t so dire, it could almost be comical. Despite all her disarray, Cassia worked on at her duties. Not once did she complain or worry about her appearance. Her only concern was for the patient.
He’d never catch Dorothea in such a state. Truth be told, Dorothea would never so much as soil her hands. Cassia was dirty from head to toe. And he found her positively radiant, even with the mud caking around her nose and down the side of her face. Never did he admire or respect a woman more.
“He’s ready now to take to the hospital, Brodie,” she said.
He nodded, taking the child’s temperature rectally before helping Mrs. Wexley to re-dress the boy and get him into bed. And Cassia did her best at the kitchen sink to scrub her hands again, as well as cleaning her face, and repositioning her cap upon a tangled mass of muddy curls.
“I’m sending for a medical transport when I get to the office, Mrs. Wexley,” he said. “Colin’s temperature is nearing 104. He is far too ill to remain home. He needs round the clock care and attention only Willow Creek General can give.” He sighed. “He should remain asleep until the transport arrives.”
Edna Wexley nodded, looking very relieved over his decision and the fact her child would stay sleeping until help arrived. “Thank you, Doctor O’Clarity.” She turned to Cassia. “And you too, Nurse Holmes.” She bit her bottom lip as she surveyed Cassia’s filthy, disheveled condition. “I’m so sorry for all your trouble. I’ll be more than happy to clean and starch your garments.”
Cassia gave the woman an affectionate pat on the arm. “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Wexley.”
The older woman gasped. “But how on earth will you continue your day looking like that?”
Cassia giggled. After all they’d gone through on this call, she could still bring forth a measure of mirth. “Thankfully, you’re the last call on our list.”
When they were back in the wagon, he had to ask. “Saints preserve us, where did you learn to run and tackle like that?”
Again she giggled—a sound he found most enjoyable and refreshingly uplifting. “Nora and I would help her father shear the sheep. On occasion there’d be one or two who decided to make a run for it.” She squared her shoulders proudly. “Doubt this or not, Brodie O’Clarity, I always got my sheep.”
He smiled, completely enchanted and thoroughl
y amused. “Believe me; I have no doubts at all.”
A small town doctor was always on call, but if there weren’t emergencies, weekends were days of rest—days he didn’t see Cassia. Better yet to say, days he didn’t need to see Cassia. If it were at all appropriate, he’d try his best to make up some excuse to be in her presence, as he truly enjoyed her company. She was smart, funny, and interesting. And the thought of spending a day without her dampened his spirits.
His mother still stayed at Betsy’s home in Willow Creek but left meals for him to eat and the entire house at his disposal. So, he lacked for nothing. However, the quiet only pleased him for a morning, before boredom and a bit of loneliness crept in.
“This house was never meant to be so still,” he mumbled, while fixing himself another cup of tea. His mindset stemmed from the fact the O’Clarity household, with four very verbal children, was constantly brimming with many voices of opinion, vivacious action, both medical and domestic drama, and the constant clatter of dishes being washed after the many meals prepared.
He looked at the empty chairs at the kitchen table. The vacant seats were almost an affront to their existence. If they owned faces, their mouths would be turned down in sadness. As grown children left their childhood homes for lives of their own, parents felt empty and lonely, evermore so if spouses had passed. Thankfully his parents still had each other, but now with his father suffering a heart attack, his mother had to be worrying about the length of time they still had together. It was clearly a factor on his mind. And when that time came, she would sit at this kitchen table by herself, as he was doing now, and remember the times when her family dwelled beneath one roof.
No doubt either Betsy or Shailyn would want Sadie to come and live with them, as each one has said as much since their father’s illness. But his mother’s will to remain independent and the ruler of her own roost, as she’s already voiced, will keep her from accepting their offer for a long time.
He closed his eyes and dove deep within to his own heart’s desires. He wanted what his parents had, the deep and loyal, devoted and passionate love for one another, and a house full of children. He briefly thought he’d have a chance at such a life when he met Dorothea. But as things transpired, she’d never be his better half, working alongside of him, as his mother complemented his father, and vice versa.
“Cassia would be that type of mate,” he whispered. She’d be the sort of wife who would stand beside her husband, take responsibility for what needed to be done with the children, the home, and even with her medical career. This last week, working with her as he did, it didn’t take him long to realize if any woman could accomplish it all, it would be Cassia.
He opened his eyes and once more scanned the quiet room. The kitchen was the hub of the house, the family’s central meeting ground. Not only were meals served and shared, but at times it was where babies were bathed, skinned knees were dressed, punishments were handed down, late night studying was done, and bills were paid. He wanted a kitchen just like this, in a house of his own, with a wife and children. Never had he wanted these things as much as he did this very minute.
He drank the rest of the tea, grown cold with all his musings. Taking the cup to the sink, he washed it and placed it on the drain board to dry. Then he made his way to the telephone and removed the earpiece. Clicking the earpiece’s holder a few times brought him an operator’s attention, thus connecting him to his sister, Shailyn’s phone.
“McCrea residence,” his sister’s smooth, soft voice announced.
“Hi, Shail—it’s me. Thought I’d go for a walk,” he said.
She giggled. “Is that big old quiet house getting to you?”
He sighed. “Yup.”
“Well, if anyone should call in for medical help, I’ll send Patrick Jr. out looking for you,” she offered. “If there’s one thing P.J.’s good for, it’s hunting down life. I can attest to that with all the injured critters he’s brought home over the years. He and that dang bike can scout out places I never knew existed. The investigator instincts he’s inherited from the McCreas…taking after his grandpa Mickey, Uncle Michael, and his own father at various times when he’s not doing the blacksmith work.”
He chuckled, picturing P.J. his awkward, but gentle, eleven-year-old nephew going to heroic lengths to save a sick or wounded animal.
“But his desire to heal the wounded reminds me of you and Tucker,” she continued.
“I’d say, that side of him is from our blood,” he supposed. “And as long as you mentioned Tucker, has anyone heard from him?”
“Not so far. Mama sent word to his last known address when Pa first took ill,” she explained. “I reckon when he returns from whatever he’s doing, wherever he’s doing it, he’ll see it. And then I hope he’s got the good sense to make his way home.”
He frowned. Tucker had proven to be unreliable. Selfish too, looking only out for himself. “I hope so too. But you know how he is—how he can be.”
Shailyn sighed. “Yes, I know, but fretting over what Tucker will or won’t do isn’t going to change things.”
“You’re right about that,” he admitted.
“Come over later for dinner. I’m making corn beef and cabbage—Mama’s recipe—just the way you like it. We’ll talk more then. I don’t want to get into too much over the phone. You never know what other ears are listening.”
He arched a brow. “And isn’t that the truth.”
“Now, go take your walk,” she concluded.
The day was exceptionally warm for early spring, a bit of a breeze helped to evenly distribute the heat from a scorching sun. His parents’ home was located on a tree-lined street, the main street where the business district of town sat. It was two minutes by foot to his father’s medical office, as that building was next door. And beside that, the General Store. Needless to say, they’d lived in a prime location, privileged to the goings on about time, yet a comfortable distance for the sake of privacy.
Once he was down the front steps and onto the road, he veered left. He made his way about two blocks down Bentley Drive before making another left onto Cornelia Road. At the end of this short causeway on a corner lot sat a brick, two-story home with a side-view yard, enclosed with a white picket fence. As he made his way past the house and rounded the corner, he heard familiar laughter.
Cassia, dressed in men’s denim overalls and a red checkered shirt, leaned against the fence, chatting with Clara Morris, the dairy farmer’s wife. Her golden curls peeked out from beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, and her high cheekbones were flushed a deep shade of pink.
“I reckon we’ve got enough plant matter now to start with the boiling,” Clara commented.
Cassia, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead, nodded. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she glanced skyward. “It’s getting too hot to do any more work out here anyway.” As she turned to gaze back at Clara, she spotted him. A large, welcoming smile spread across her beautiful face. “Why, Brodie, what brings you to this part of town?”
He shrugged, nearing the fence. “Just thought I’d take a walk.” He returned her smile. “I could ask the same of you.”
“On Saturdays I help Clara with her herbal tinctures,” she explained. “In that way I’m able to stock my medical bag with fresh balms and syrups for the week.”
“Aha! So this is where you get your inventory. And all this time I thought those bottles just magically appeared,” he teased playfully.
She giggled—the sweet, lilting expression of mirth he had so quickly grown to enjoy. “Would suit me just as well if that were true,” she kidded back. “Then I wouldn’t have to help plant, hoe, pick, and boil down the contents that go into each bottle.”
He glanced over the fence, down to the freshly turned earth, spotting her tiny feet clad in fishermen’s sandals. Peeking out from the cut-out tips of her shoes were light pink, polished toenails, evenly filed. As his eyes roamed upward, he caught sight of her dainty ankles, as well as the rest
of her shapely legs since her trousers were rolled above her knees.
His face grew hot with the thought of viewing her thighs, and he averted his gaze to Clara. “How are Owen and the dairy business going, Clara?”
“Better now that Ned Beachum’s back to work. Before that, my Owen was fillin’ in for him and havin’ to do all the deliveries besides the rest of what he’s gotta do. Was a hard week, but thanks to you and Cassia fixin’ up Ned like ya did, he’s back to work.”
“I’m glad to hear all is well. I know Ned was concerned to miss too much time,” he said, fighting to keep his eyes from wandering back to Cassia’s legs.
“Yup, he’s a good man. Very reliable. When his wife told me he was ailin’, I talked her into callin’ ya to help.” Clara sighed. “They ain’t got too much of anythin’ to speak of. We pay Ned what we can, but with four youngsters to feed…”
“Perhaps we can help them in some way,” Cassia interrupted.
Clara shook her head. “They’re mighty proud—the two of ’em. Owen and I tried a few times to send over cheese and clothes my youngins outgrew. I think they took offense.”
“What would make you come to that conclusion?” he said.
Clara shrugged. “Just the way Ned looked away when I handed him everythin’ one day when he returned from a run. His face reddened—embarrassed, he was at first—and then he appeared annoyed.” She shook her head again. “Ya can’t help folks if they don’t want ya to.”
“But that’s just foolishness on his part. Clearly Ned knows they could use a measure of help,” Cassia said.
He glanced in her direction. The frown creasing her brow was of deep concern. “Not at the expense of his pride, Cassia,” he said, understanding fully Ned’s mindset.
“He’s right, Cassia,” Clara said. “A man’s pride is…”
“Stupid,” Cassia interrupted. “Especially when it gets in the way of him accepting aid to help his family.”
He softened his tone, endeared by the fierce way she felt moved to help the Beachums. Her kindness and caring moved him. “It’s how it is, Cassia. Some things, no matter how stupid or miniscule they seem, are not worth relinquishing your pride for.”
The Last Bloom Page 9