by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May
“Lad near wore out the floorboards, pacing around while he tried to recollect what the mystery ingredient was. Finally, he looked at the root cellar door and remembered ’twas onions.”
“I’d never hae thought to boil onions to ease a cough.” Rosalind felt Luke’s forehead with the back of her hand. “He’s still o’er-warm.” She cast a concerned glance over at Da, wondering whether the onions had wrought any effect on his symptoms.
“Arthur’s taken well to it,” Grandmam answered Rosalind’s unspoken question. “He’s stopped coughing, at least.”
“Praise the Lord for that,” Rosalind whispered, relieved that at least one of them was improving. Perhaps the onion treatment would eventually aid Luke as well. She looked to where he lay, half reclining, his breaths shallow and raspy…. No. She bent closer, listening intently.
No. Please, let me be wrong, she prayed, even as the ominous rattle came again. Luke fought not only tightness—there was fluid gathering in his lungs. With each breath, the rattling gurgle gave hideous warning. Rosalind dropped down, putting her arms about her brother and holding him close. Come on, Luke. Fight it. Just keep breathing. Let the poultice do its work.
Jesus, please, help him. This is as bad as he’s ever been. His chest and ribs ache from the coughing. His head pounds wi’ it. Only in this uneasy sleep does he find any respite. ’Tis grateful I am that Da begins to recover, but what of my brother? He’s never been hardy—he can’t take a prolonged illness. The tears she thought long shed came slipping to the surface once more as she battled for her brother the only way she knew how—on her knees. Prayer was the most powerful tool she could wield, if it served the Lord’s purpose to grant her request. If ’twasn’t the Lord’s will…That didn’t even bear thinking on.
Father, ’tis my negligence that is to blame. I should hae checked on him, watched him more closely. I should hae made him sip more broth and tea to ease his throat. I should never hae allowed myself to fall asleep when he needed me. Lord, don’t let Luke suffer for my failings. Please, make him well. Let Ewan’s treatment work for Luke as it has for Da. Please, Lord. Please…
The shrill of a steam whistle broke through her thoughts. Startled, she looked up to see Ewan bolt out the door, leaving his coat and hat behind as he raced off into the distance. He was heading for the train tracks.
Please, Lord. Don’t let me be too late. Let the train stop. ’Tis the answer we’ve all been praying for—the train can bring Luke to the doctor at Fort Benton where a wagon through the cold could not. Let me be on time.
He ran faster than he’d ever imagined—not for his life, but for Luke’s. Ewan pictured Rosalind’s tired face, the bruised-looking circles around her eyes, and pushed himself even harder. He rounded the smithy and found the train—already stopped.
Thank You, Father.
Ewan rushed aboard to have a short conversation with the engineer, a man by the name of Brody whom he’d worked with before.
“Brody, I’ve a sick little boy not far off who needs the care o’ a real doctor. Will you wait a very short while so I can fetch him? ’Tis a matter o’ life and death.” Ewan didn’t take a breath until he’d gotten through all of his request.
“We’ll wait.” Brody shook Ewan’s hand. “I’m glad to see the railroad put to such worthy use. We’ve only stopped now to let off Johnny Mathers. Go on, now. Get the boy.”
God’s timing. Ewan didn’t even stay to look for Johnny, instead rushing back to the MacLean household. When he stormed through the door, Rosalind stared in cautious hope.
“They’re holding the train for Luke.” Ewan began grabbing the boy’s coat off the peg by the door. “The railroad will get him to Fort Benton—and the doctor—when he wouldn’t make it on the long wagon ride. Arthur, Kaitlin?” He strode over to the bed, waking them both. “The train is waiting to take Luke to Fort Benton. He needs a doctor’s care. Will you trust me to look after your son?”
“Aye.” Arthur nodded weakly. “Though one of us should go.”
“Rose will go.” Gilda stood up. “I’m too old to start a new journey, and Kaitlin should stay to help keep you on the mend.”
“Aye, Rosalind should go,” Kaitlin said, though Ewan could tell she was torn between staying with her husband and going with her son—any mother’s greatest dilemma.
“I’m ready.” Rosalind held a valise in one arm and her cloak in the other. “I’ve packed tea and blankets and socks…everything I can think of to keep him comfortable on the journey. If ’tis settled, we need to go before the engineer changes his mind and sticks to his schedule.”
“That’s my girl.” Ewan scooped Luke into his arms and strode toward her. “We’ll be back before you know it. I give you my word.”
“Godspeed!” Kaitlin called with a break in her voice. “We’ll be in constant prayer.”
With that, Ewan and Rosalind hurried out the door and toward the waiting train—their last chance to help Luke. Ewan didn’t relax until they were on the train, steaming toward Benton at full speed.
They spoke little during the journey. Rosalind kept anxious eyes on her brother, propping him up and giving him sips of water as he slipped in and out of consciousness.
Ewan repeated a litany of prayer. Thank You, Jesus, for sending the train. Let it not be too late. Work through the doctor in Benton to heal our Luke….
If asked, Ewan wouldn’t have been able to say how long they spent on the train, only that it seemed much longer than it probably actually was. When they arrived, he tipped a porter to go fetch the doctor.
“He’ll be all right now.” Rosalind spoke words of hope, but her face was drawn with concern as she mopped Luke’s brow. “He has to be.”
“Hello?” A man clambered into the car with them, lugging a physician’s bag. “I’m Dr. Carmichael. This must be the boy.” Wasting no time, he knelt beside Luke.
Ewan and Rosalind watched with bated breath as he checked for fever and listened to Luke’s breathing and heartbeat. The doctor’s ruddy face grew long, his eyes dulling behind the round spectacles perched on his nose.
“I’m afraid it’s not good news.” Dr. Carmichael sat back, shoving his spectacles higher. “His fever is quite high and, I’d guess, has been for some time.” He waited for Rosalind’s despairing nod before continuing to share his assessment. “The cough has settled in his chest—pneumonia.”
“What can we do?” Ewan strove to remain calm and find how best to serve Luke. “How do we help him now?”
“Make him as comfortable as possible. Keep him propped up, give him hot fluids, and make sure he’s warm.” Dr. Carmichael looked defeated as he spoke the words.
“We’ve done all that.” Rosalind spoke in desperation. “We’ve been doing it since he first fell ill. Is there nothing else?”
“The only other thing I’m sure you’ve already been doing.” The doctor looked from one face to another. “Pray.”
Chapter 20
Is there no hope?” Rosalind turned to Ewan as the doctor left.
“Only if ’tis the Lord’s will.” His bleak stare offered little of the comfort she sought, though he reached out to take her hand in his. “Though I’ll not pretend to understand it.”
“No.” A dry sob escaped her. “God won’t take him away from us. We need him. God won’t give us more sorrow than we can bear. Surely not. Luke!” She shook him, alarmed at how light he felt in her arms. “Luke!” Rosalind called louder, trying to rouse him where the doctor had failed. “Come on. Open your eyes.”
His pale face seemed even more drawn, the dreaded tinge of blue creeping into his lips to steal him further away from her.
“Lucas Mathias MacLean,” she ordered, ignoring the way her voice shook, “wake up this instant. Do you hear me, Luke? Open your eyes.” She jostled him slightly.
“Rosalind,” Ewan began, but her fierce glare silenced him.
“No. He’ll listen. He’ll wake up.” She cupped Luke’s face in her hands. “He’s not so warm
anymore. Maybe the fever is breaking.” The blue tinge deepened, and his breathing grew shallow. “No. Wake up, Luke. You have to wake up.” The whispered plea did no good.
“You have to!” This last came in a shriek as his chest rose and fell one last time and was still. His skin grew cold beneath her hands.
“No, Luke. Luke.” She clutched him, leaning as close as possible. “Don’t leave! Please, Luke. Don’t go. It’s my fault,” she babbled, tears streaming down her face. “I know ’tis. I should hae taken better care o’ you. I love you. I’ll do better. I promise I’ll do better, if you’ll only just wake up. Smile at me one more time, little brother. Luke? Luke!”
But it was too late. She knew it by his unnatural stillness, the cold clamminess of his skin, the blue that was deeper than ever before in his lips and fingernails.
“Rosalind.” She felt Ewan’s warm hand on her shoulder, heard his deep, melancholy tones. “ ’Tis over. He’s gone.”
“No!” The heartbroken whisper was all she managed before the swirling darkness claimed her thoughts.
At the parson’s house, Ewan covered Rosalind with his own coat and sat by the fire to wait. She’d revived fairly quickly, though not before his own heart had skipped a beat in mortal dread. They’d made it through the short burial before she cried herself into unconsciousness once again. The train had moved on and wouldn’t be taking them home to Saddleback. Arthur and Kaitlin wouldn’t have even the cold comfort of burying their son.
“I brought you some tea to warm your bones.” The parson’s wife whisked in and set down the tray. “Though I’m afraid it won’t help with the sorrow. Only God’s grace and His time will lessen that burden.” She glanced around before leaving them alone in the small parlor.
With Rosalind sleeping, Ewan had no company but his own grief, which came rushing forward in the silence. Tears welled in his eyes as he thought of lively little Luke, so welcoming, such a blessing to his family. He remembered how the boy had welcomed him to the table, threw snowballs with reckless abandon, skated as though he hoped to fly off the ice, and bolted down frozen maple syrup with more enthusiasm than sense.
Gone. Lost to us forever. Why, God? He buried his head in his hands, trying to swallow the tears and the pain. Why now? Why Luke? I understand Your wanting him by Your side, but could You not hae spared him to us for a while longer, knowing he was Yours for all time? He struggled to understand, to accept, but failed. It seemed like years he sat in the chair, trying to fathom the reasons why Luke should be robbed of his life and his family stripped of their joy. No understanding came.
“Luke.” Rosalind stirred, her eyes opening. For an all-too-brief moment, she seemed fine. Then remembrance clouded the bright blue, and she hugged her knees to her chest. “He’s gone.”
“Yes.” Ewan walked over to sit beside her, drawing her close to offer what little solace he could. “He’s gone to be with our heavenly Father now. We’ll see him again someday.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But it doesn’t make it easier today.” She drew a shaky breath. “At least—at least he’s where each breath he draws doesn’t pain him. He’s beyond the reach of that now. ’Tis all I can think of to be glad about.”
“ ’Tis no small thing,” he soothed. “We always want what’s best for the ones we love. Luke has that, and we should rejoice that he’s found peace and joy with our Savior.”
“Yes.” She straightened her shoulders a little. “He’s happy. I should be happy for him. And I am.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears once more. “ ’Tis myself, and Mam and Da and Grandmam, that I grieve for. ’Tis our loss.”
“Aye.” Ewan rubbed his hand over her back. “ ’Tis certainly our loss. But, Rosalind”—he tipped her chin to keep her gaze fixed on him—” ’tisn’t your fault.”
“Ewan”—she tried to pull away from him—“you don’t understand….”
“I understand better than you think.” He moved to cup her cheek with his palm. “You watched o’er him as best you could, and he cherished your love. There was nothing you could do about his weak lungs, or the illness, save stay by his side and offer what comfort and aid you could. You did all of that.”
“No.” She shook her head so vehemently that she freed herself from his grasp. “I could hae done more. I should hae watched him more closely. I shouldna hae fallen asleep. I should hae—” She gasped back a sob. “I should hae shown him every moment how much he meant to me—how I loved him.”
“You did, Rosalind.” He took her fidgeting hands in his. “It may not feel that way now, but you did. Wi’ every smile, every snowball, every mug of hot cider…you loved him each day he was wi’ us. I saw it, and I know he did, too.”
“Do you think so?” She met his gaze, seeking reassurance.
“I’m certain.” He shifted a tiny bit. “His life was never ours to keep, Rosalind.” His eyes stung. “No one’s is.”
“Ewan?” Her gaze was searching. “What—what made you say that last part? Are you feeling poorly?” Her voice rose as she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “We’ll call Dr. Carmichael again….”
“No.” He captured her hand and held it. “I wasn’t referring to myself. I thought of my mother.” He saw that she waited for him to share more. Maybe my experience will help her through the grief, he reasoned. Besides, there’s nothing I want hidden betwixt us.
“When I was about Luke’s age”—he winced at her hiss of indrawn breath but continued—“my da left Ireland to seek his fortune in America. He charged me to look after Mam and look after things while he was away. He planned to send money back to us so we could book passage to join him.”
“Go on.”
“It seems that Da was one of many, many men who had the same idea. Work was harder to find than he’d anticipated, and it took longer to gather the money. Months passed, then years. I worked at odd jobs—smithing, shoeing, whatever I could be paid to turn a hand to—and managed to keep food on the table and a roof o’er our heads. Every scrap o’ money Da sent, we saved to buy our fare. But every day, the light in Mam’s eyes dimmed just a wee bit more. She missed Da so.”
“It must hae been hard for you both.” She squeezed his hand.
“Aye, ’twas.” He took a deep breath. “Finally, I could no longer bear watching her fade away before my eyes from missing him. As the man of the house, I made the decision to use our money for a single ticket. I sent her ahead, alone. The plan was for me to follow later. She gave me her wedding band, the only thing she owned of any value. If I needed to, she instructed me to sell it.”
“How wonderful of you.” She nestled close. “So selfless of you—to send your mam back to your da and ask to be left all alone. Such love. Your parents must hae been proud.”
“No.” The words thickened in his throat, but he managed to grind them out. “Mam never stepped foot on the American shore. Alone on a miserable ship, she caught an illness on board. Wi’ no one to look after her, she died during the voyage.”
“Oh Ewan.” Her grip tightened. “That wasn’t your fault.” She spoke with fierce conviction. “You have to know that.”
“I didn’t know”—his voice became hoarse—“I didn’t know about her death until Da wrote me. The letter reprimanded me for sending Mam alone when he’d left her in my care. ’Twas the last I ever heard from him.” He ignored her shocked gasp and plowed ahead. “I saved money on my own, refusing to sell Mam’s ring. When I made it to America, I spent years searching for him, but it didn’t work.” He paused and choked out the final words. “I don’t even know whether or not he’s still alive.”
“Ewan.” She held his head to her shoulder and rocked back and forth. “You can’t blame yourself for your mother’s death. You did the best you could by her. ’Twasn’t fair o’ your father to lash out at you. I’m sure ’twas done only in grief.”
“Perhaps.” He straightened up. “I’ve never told anyone about this.” He traced the band of gold adorning her fing
er. “But you wear her ring, and you are to bear my name. We should hae no secrets betwixt us. And just as I had to come to terms wi’ my mam’s death, so, too, do you hae to stop blaming yourself for Luke’s.”
“Luke…” Her face fell at the mention of her brother.
“You did the best you could by him,” Ewan softly echoed her own words. “ ’Tisn’t fair to blame yourself in your grief.”
Silence stretched between them for a long while.
Finally, Rosalind spoke. “You’re right.” They sat for a while longer. “Ewan?”
“Yes, Rosalind?”
“Not too long ago, I was reading Da’s Bible. I looked at the death records—and the marriage lines—and wondered what our future held.”
“Oh?”
“And I turned to one o’ my favorite chapters—Ecclesiastes 3.”
“ ‘To every thing there is a season,’ ” he recited along with her, “ ‘and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die.’ ” They both stopped.
“And I thought how strange it was, that in the family records, birth and death are placed side by side and that it is the same in the scriptures.” She bit her lip. “Ewan? When we have a son—”
“We’ll name him Luke,” he finished firmly. She nodded, a ghost of a smile breaking through her grief. “Rosalind, that chapter continues until it comes to another portion I think applies here.”
“ ‘A time to laugh; a time to mourn’?” she asked. “For now is certainly the time to mourn.”
“Aye, ’tis.” He threaded his fingers through her hair. “Though I was thinking of the part that says, ‘a time to lose; a time to keep.’ ”
“Oh.” Rosalind thought for a moment. “We’ve lost Luke. What is there to keep? Our grief?” She seemed despondent at the very thought.
“No, though Luke will always be in our hearts.” Ewan waited until her gaze met his. “You and I, Rosalind. Our love. The beginning of our life together. That is what we are to keep—hope for the future and trust that the Lord will see us through.”