“Hold tight to his arm, just below the elbow. I have to pull at his wrist to put the bone back together, then we’ll splint it.”
Brianna swallowed noisily. He caught her gaze. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you? I need your help.”
She rapidly shook her head. “I’m fine.”
He hoped it was true.
He positioned his hands, looking only at the arm. He was sweating profusely. It was only a simple broken arm, he told himself, but that didn’t relieve his anxiety. Anyone could set a break. It didn’t mean people would find out he used to be a doctor.
It was over in less than ten minutes, and Jake couldn’t even remember what he had done. Ben was crying quietly, the sound muffled as his face was turned into his mother’s skirts. She was awkwardly patting him on the back, tears in her own eyes.
He took a deep breath and stood, wanting out of the room as fast as possible. But he didn’t make it without catching a glimpse of Brianna’s face. She still sat on the bed, hands clasped in her lap, but it was her expression that felt like a blow to the chest. Eyes wide, mouth forming a small “o”, she was looking at him as if he were a…a hero. For just an instant, he let himself soak up the feeling, even though he knew it wasn’t his right.
Then he swore vehemently and left, hoping the salon was open and he could get a drink; or three.
* * *
The rain had quit and the night had quieted other than the natural sounds one heard on the river. Jake had gotten the steward to fetch him dry clothes and he had changed in a room off the salon. Now, hours later, he felt marginally better with a full stomach and a drink in his hand, but knew he would get no sleep this night.
In addition to bringing his clothes, the steward had informed him that the mother and child still occupied his bed and Brianna was curled up on a chair. All had remained fast asleep, he was told, and that was good. By the time the boy woke, the worst of the hurt would be gone.
“And why do you care?” He spoke to the swirling black water below him. He hadn’t doctored another person since his wife had died. Damn Brianna for making him do so now. He would have preferred remaining in his mediocre life because it meant he didn’t have to deal with death. Not that the boy had been in danger of dying, but the intent was the same. His own feelings had been in turmoil even before he had gazed at Brianna, and her look had only made it worse. He had been a gifted doctor at one time, and in some ways he missed that. But the cost was too great.
“Thank you.” The softly spoken words pulled him from his reverie and he hung his head in defeat. It seemed he was safe nowhere.
“For what?” His reply was gruffer than he intended but again he thought, why do you care? “For letting you once again take over my stateroom with your entourage of misplaced mothers and children?”
“They’re not misplaced; just…you set that break easily, like you’ve done it before.”
Her change of subject put him on guard. “What is it about you that you have to be in the middle of everybody’s business?”
Her brow rose at his question. “I believe we are put on this earth to help, in any way we can.”
He had once felt the exact same way. “But you go out of your way. Can’t you just do what women are put on this earth to do and be done with it?” He knew that would raise her hackles and so he intended, because it would take her mind off him.
She sputtered. Then she smiled and reached out to touch his arm. “I won’t be as easily deterred this time from the subject at hand. You were very gentle with Ben and you knew exactly what to do. Why?”
He momentarily ignored her question and concentrated instead on her touch. Light, yet he felt the heat of it through his coat as it traveled up his arm to his chest. He wanted to curse her again for thrusting him back into the human race, but he could not. She cared, and her insinuation into his life had brought him out of his self-imposed solitude. There was a spark between them but that did not mean he would pursue it; nor would he give up his cabin, and his bed, for all her pet projects.
“I will tell you what you want to know if you promise to remove any evidence of your helpfulness from my cabin.” He quirked a brow. “And without allowing them to eat through my meal allotment.”
She smiled again, the motion lighting her eyes. “They have already gone although Mrs. Brown didn’t want to leave without expressing her gratitude.”
Jake started to protest but she held up a hand. “I know you don’t want it. You don’t want anything from anybody. But people are grateful for help when it’s…freely given.”
He laughed at that. “Coerced is perhaps the word you were looking for.”
Her eyes narrowed. He watched, fascinated, as she appeared to struggle with herself. Exerting self-control that he had not often seen in a woman, she closed her eyes briefly, gave a sigh, and then looked at him again.
“You are not at all the stereotypical gentleman of this century.”
“What is that supposed to mean? How could you possibly know about any other century than the one in which we live?”
She appeared flustered, glancing from him to the dark night and back. “I have studied history, but you were saying…about your medical knowledge?”
She changed subject as easily as he did and he wondered at her secrets. It would seem they both hid more than they revealed.
“Setting a broken arm is hardly medical knowledge. Anyone hoping to survive on the frontier knows basic medicine; like treating a snake bite or healing with herbs.”
“And a gunshot wound?”
He shrugged. “Well, that would take a little more knowledge. I assume,” he added, trying to steer her away from the question she was bound and determined to get answered.
She yawned loudly, belatedly covering her dainty mouth. “I know you’re not telling me the whole truth of it, but I’m too tired to care at the moment. It has been an exhausting night.” She glanced about them and it was only then he realized dawn was breaking.
“Go get some sleep. We will be underway shortly. Any stops we make between here and Arrowrock will be for provisions only and no one will be allowed to leave unless it is their destination. It is the only way to make up the time lost in the storm.”
For once she didn’t argue, but turned and walked toward their cabin. And if he wondered why he had thought their instead of his, he wasn’t about to dwell on it.
Chapter 8
The rain had stopped; I had gotten some sleep, so today started out being rather nice. If I could forget about being in the wrong century, which wasn’t going to happen given everything I had already been through. Even if I feel sheltered within this cabin, there’s an entirely different world outside the door. For the most part, ladies are treated with deference. I have noticed this more now because I wear petticoats and dresses rather than my work pants and flannel shirt. It makes one wonder if Women’s Lib did all of us a disservice. Of course, the politeness may only hold true because I’m on the Hurricane Deck. The constant cacophony from the main deck and boiler deck leads me to believe this may not always be the case. And yet, as unlikely as it may seem, 1988 is not so different from 1856.
For example, people like Maggie and Mrs. Brown are heading west to meet their husbands and start a new life. The children are children; rambunctious at times, easily hurt, but sweet and endearing. The type of transportation is different – steamboat versus airplane – but the process and harried feelings the people projected are the same.
Towns are similar though certainly not as large. Businesses, churches and saloons (bars) are frequented by the same types of people you would find anywhere. What distinguishes them more than anything are their attitudes. People here take every gesture, no matter how small, as worthy of gold. I can remember when a simple thank you would have lightened my heart.
And then there is Jake. I have to grin at how many times I mention him. Just goes to show how much he’s on my mind. There, too, is a resemblance between one century and another, as he is
like many men of my acquaintance. He seems to want everything his way; doesn’t like it if I question him, and takes off whenever he pleases. I have to breathe deep to quell the panic that always arises when I think I am alone in this century. Which I am, of course, in the true sense of the word. It is ridiculous to assume Jake can help me return to the twentieth century, given he doesn’t even know about my problem.
Bri kicked at her long skirt as she turned in her pacing of the small cabin. She needed to get out; talk to people, for thinking about her situation would get her nowhere. She had tried three ways to Sunday to figure out how she had gotten here; how she could return, and nothing came to her except to throw herself overboard. And that certainly was not a choice she wanted to make.
For whatever reason, Jake no longer locked her in the cabin. She supposed it was with the hope that she would run away. She rarely saw him, and a few questions to the steward who served her meals gave her no information. She frowned. His clothes were still in the clothespress. He still came to the cabin, though not frequently and he never stayed long.
She likened him to a wolf in the wild with settlements closing in on his habitat. He would come around, sniffing, inquiring, but never get close enough to be caught and certainly not to be tamed. Wanting to lay claim to the territory, perhaps, but skittish.
She laughed at the comparison. A hungry wolf would take the plump chicken if he wanted, and damn the consequences. Perhaps Jake was not yet hungry enough to be dangerous. She wondered, regardless of her antidotal comparisons, what it would be like to surrender to him when the time came, as she felt intuitively it would.
She could hear the engines as she stepped out onto the promenade. She hardly noticed them anymore inside the cabin. Although much louder than her air conditioning at home, it had become one of those normal everyday noises that slid through her subconscious without her taking note. Normal in this case meant her present, because she had come to recognize that her circumstances were her “new normal.”
She confined her wanderings to the main deck where there were no stateroom doors for passengers to hide behind. She wanted to talk to everyone; wanted to learn firsthand the day to day lives of those heading west. Here, there was no internet; no telephones for one adventurer to call home and tell his kinfolk to come out west, where the grass was green and the rivers wide.
She rolled her eyes as she maneuvered between people. She thought she sounded somewhat like Mark Twain, and could only wish she remembered enough history to know the chances of actually running into him. Though she could ask the Captain, since she did know Twain piloted a riverboat, she thought it best to steer clear. The pilot didn’t know her as a passenger and she didn’t want the repercussions if he thought she was a stowaway.
She drifted toward music; a soft, lilting sound accompanied by a deep gruff voice. She came across a bearded man sitting on a large, humped-topped trunk, playing a squeezebox, she thought, for lack of a better word. There was a group of small children at his feet, faces lifted with solemn eyes or grins as each interpreted the music differently. She didn’t understand the words and thought he might be singing in German. Regardless, people around him quieted, grateful for a small time of peace and quiet, setting aside the worries of where the next meal would come; what they would find at the next town, or their destination.
The man caught her eye and winked, then nodded his head sideways, scooting over to make room on the trunk. She couldn’t resist the invitation, adjusting her skirts as she sat. He never broke rhythm, and continued the jovial tune to a furious and frantic end with a final squeeze of the instrument. Applause broke out around them as the children hollered for more.
“In a bit, my little ones,” he said in rough English. “First, I think Gustoff will speak to the pretty lady.” Ignoring their moans, he turned to her. “You are not from here.” He indicated the area with a wide sweep of his hand.
There is no way he could know, Bri thought, unless he was one like her. “Here?” Her voice squeaked.
He gave her an indulgent smile. “From those of us without the coin for a room.” He tilted his head. “Though I think you do not look down on us for where we sit.”
“Never.” She shook her head quickly, with mixed emotions. If he had been a time traveler, she could have perhaps gotten some help. But even as she thought it, she knew he would have been just as stuck as she.
“I have seen you here on the main deck before,” he continued when she didn’t. “You have been a help to the children and the mothers. Are you a Sister?” He crossed himself.
Far from it, she thought, but she smiled. “No. Just someone who helps when she can. What about you? Are you traveling far? What do you hope to do when you get there? Where is that to be?” The questions simply poured out, for she hadn’t had time to talk to the men, and because the entirety of her situation fascinated her, she wanted to find out as much as she could. Besides, if—make that when—she returned to her own time, perhaps she could write a paper, though no one in the academic field was likely to believe her. She wasn’t sure just exactly what academic jurisdiction time travel might fall under.
Gustoff laughed, the sound loud and jolly, but his eyes were kind. “So many questions, but because I travel alone and have been fortunate enough to have a pretty lady sit at my side this sunny afternoon, I will explain what I can.” He winked at her again.
If he was flirting with her, Bri didn’t mind. It was certainly better than being scowled and grumbled at. She gave the gentle man her full attention.
“I am Gustoff Hoffenmyer, whose parents emigrated from Prussia before I was born. I am proud to say I am an American.” He thumped his chest. “Though of course I would still claim my heritage and hope to pass it down to my children and their children.”
“And do you have any children?”
His face saddened, his posture slumped. “Ya, and she is safe with her mother in Saint Louis. The journey to this new land is hard and complicated and I would not wish my sweet Anna and my child to travel here until I know what it is about.” He paused and looked beyond her, to the river’s edge, or perhaps even to something she could not see.
“Back east, in New York, we heard stories of the richness of the land, the vast spaces and the mountain peaks that touch the clouds. We heard that any man, willing to work hard, could make a good living for himself and his family.”
“And so you decided to see?” Bri asked the question on a sigh. It was the American Dream.
“Ya. I am a carpenter by trade, and will find a place where there is building to be done; towns to grow. There I will build a house for Anna and my child and they will come to me.” His face suddenly lightened and he levered himself off the trunk, turning toward her.
“Up, up,” he said waving his hands in the air. “I have something to show you.”
When she stood, he unlocked the huge padlock on the front of the trunk and carefully lifted the lid. Inside were the tools of his trade—hammers, a saw, files and more. She could tell by their look that he took good care of them as they were his livelihood. When he reached for a small, balled up piece of cloth on the top tray, she had a sudden flash of recognition.
Oh, dear God. She knew this trunk, these tools. She remembered the day they had unearthed it, full of mud, the tools rusted, the small keg of nails clumped together. She knew, without doubt, what he would dump out of the worn sock into his hand.
“A Frozen Charlotte doll,” she whispered, as he poured out the small, white porcelain figurine that reminded her of a kewpie doll.
“Ya, that is what the lady in the mercantile said, though I don’t remember the story. This I bought for my little Bella. She will like, don’t you think?”
Tears swam in Bri’s eyes because she knew the little girl would never get the present her father had so lovingly picked out for her. He would never get to use those tools he had brought half way across the country to build a new life for himself and his family. As an archeologist, she hadn’t had to deal
with the emotions and very real lives of the people who had left behind artifacts for her to discover. She supposed she had wondered, off and on again, who had made something or what the people were like, but she had never been in a position to actually see and talk to them, and feel the culture she had only studied.
And it hurt, more than she could imagine, knowing that these people were gone now. Their lives had been led, their children grown, and then they had died. More tears fell.
“There now.” Gustoff patted her hand as she again sat on his closed trunk. “It will not be much longer before I will see my family again. Do not be sad for me.”
The only thing that kept Bri from completely falling apart was that she knew no one had drowned when the Arabia went down. Although all Gustoff’s tools and the beloved Charlotte doll would be lost for more than a century, he would still be there, on the shore at Parkville. He would be able to start over again.
And where would she be, she wondered? Would she sink into oblivion and be washed downstream? Would she climb the banks of the river from a rowboat, rescued with the other passengers? Or would she somehow, miraculously, swim through time again and get back to where she started? She glanced up through watery eyes and saw Jake leaning on the railing. Did she want to go back where she started?
* * *
Jake watched from high on his perch on the hurricane deck. She was beautiful, in an unpainted and eloquent way that had other men turning in her direction when she laughed; even when she just walked by. He scowled and thought perhaps she should don her trousers and shirt again, for the simple gingham checked dress she wore pinched in at her narrow waist and accented her bosom. He thought he could hear her; could distinguish her voice from all the others below. He closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. Regardless of all his attempts to push her away, she had invaded his mind, his senses, his very being. No matter how cross he was with her, she saw past it. If he had no other senses; indeed even if his heart stopped, he would still know if she were near him.
The Lost Knight of Arabia Page 8