Kansas Courtship

by Victoria Bylin

  Contentment washed over him, but it disappeared with a stabbing pain in his leg. Zeb had made peace with the Almighty, but he had another problem. He loved Nora and he wanted to marry her, but only if he survived the infection as a whole man. No woman, even a doctor, should be saddled with a cripple, especially a cripple who’d be as cantankerous as he’d be. Zeb didn’t think he could stand himself if he lost the leg. No way would he ask the woman he loved to put up with his foul moods.

  As he looked out the window above his sickbed, he made a decision. He’d thank Nora for saving his life. He’d absolve her of responsibility in case the worst happened. He’d give her the respect she’d earned, but he wouldn’t tell her how he felt until he could walk.

  As he heaved a sigh, Zeb saw Alex in the doorway. “Hey, kid.”

  The boy handed him a familiar wooden horse. “Being sick is boring. I brought you something to do.”

  “Thanks.” Zeb made the horse gallop down the length of the bed, making clopping sounds with his tongue until Alex laughed. The sound of it, high and bright, made his chest ache with the longing he’d felt during the tornado. He wanted children, and he wanted to have them with a certain lady doctor. He brought the toy horse to a halt, reared it up and imitated a stallion ready for a fight.

  Alex grinned. “I named him Ranger.”

  “It’s a good name.”

  Nora came through the door with a tray holding a bowl of water and fresh bandages. When she smiled at Alex, Zeb felt a longing so strong he could barely breathe. For this single moment, they were a family and he liked it.

  She set the bowl on the nightstand. “Out you go, Alex.”

  “Can I help?” the boy asked.

  “Nope,” she answered. “This is my job.”

  The boy hugged her for no reason except that he could, then he scampered out of the room, blessedly unaware of the dangers lurking in Zeb’s flesh.

  Nora pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat. “I’m sure you want to go home, but I’d like you to stay for a while.”

  Zeb didn’t mind at all. “How long?”

  “Maybe a week.” She raised her chin the way she always did, but the gesture had no pride. “I’ve done my best, Zeb. But infection is inevitable.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “How soon?”

  “Maybe a week.” She knotted her fingers in her lap. “The wound will turn red, and the sutures might be puffy. Pus will form, and you’ll have seepage. If we’re lucky, you’ll fight off the infection before it spreads.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You’ll run a fever. You know the rest.”

  Yes, he did. The damaged flesh would rot. Gangrene would set in and she’d have to amputate before it poisoned his blood. By nature, Zeb made plans. He wanted facts. “When will you know?”

  She reached for his hand. “If you can go two weeks without a fever, I’ll be relieved. I’ll do everything I can. I promise you—”

  He squeezed her fingers. It was a handshake of sorts, a sign of trust and more. “No matter what happens,” he said, “you’re not to blame. I trust you completely.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “I do.” He meant every word. Aching inside, he grinned at her. “You’re hired. Permanently. For men and women alike.”

  He expected her to smile back, maybe gloat at her victory. Instead, she unwound the soiled bandage from his leg and replaced it with a swath of white cotton. She looked disappointed, as if she’d wanted something more. Zeb understood because he wanted more, too. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He thought of the kiss at the river, how she’d revealed her feelings but held back because of her principles. Now he had to hold back because of his. As she headed for the door, he fought the urge to tell her he loved her. She deserved a whole man for a husband, but he couldn’t let her leave in silence. “Nora?”

  She turned, but dipped her chin to hide her eyes. “Yes?”

  “There’s something else I want to say, but I don’t want to say it here.” He indicated the sickroom with its bowls and bandages. “I want to be standing on my two feet, and I want to be wearing pants, not a nightshirt.”

  Her eyebrows arched but instantly settled. She looked pleased. “You look fine to me.”

  “No, I don’t.” He rubbed his bristly face. “I need a shave and a bath.” Put more simply, he stank. “When I say my piece, it’s not going to be lying flat on my back in a sickroom.”

  A smile touched her lips. “Where will it be?”

  Zeb knew just the spot. “There’s a hill two miles west of here. Wildflowers grow in a blanket so big you can’t see the end. If you look hard enough, you can see the future. We’ll take a long buggy ride, have a picnic.”

  He watched her eyes, gauging her expression to see if she’d understood. When he saw a sparkle, he knew she’d gotten his drift.

  She raised her chin in that saucy way of hers. “Will we have to worry about poison ivy?”

  “You bet,” he said, deadpan. “Where I’m taking you, there’s poison ivy everywhere. But don’t worry, Doc. I promise to keep you safe. We won’t touch it. Not until we’ve said a few things to each other.”

  Her cheeks turned a shade of pink only slightly less red than her hair. “I see.”

  “I hope so.” He wanted to tease her some more, but he’d already said more than he’d intended. His heart beat faster and his fingers ached to touch her hair, to caress her cheek before he kissed her. Until he could propose marriage as a whole man, he had to fight such thoughts. But neither could he deny them. He loved this woman and wanted to bring her joy. He let his eyes linger on her face. “So will you go with me for that ride?”

  She blushed. “I’d like that very much.”

  He took a breath.

  So did she.

  With hope binding them together, she left the sickroom with a bounce in her step. Zeb closed his eyes and prayed the fever would never come.

  On the second day of his recovery, Zeb hurt so badly he couldn’t see straight. Nora offered him laudanum, he took one dose, slept all day and decided to never take it again.

  On the third day, he woke up with less pain and felt hopeful. Nora cleaned the wound four times a day with whiskey. It stung, but then she’d coat it with lavender oil and he’d feel better. The smell alone relaxed him because it matched her special soap. Like the whiskey, the lavender fought putrefaction. Every time she replaced the bandage, they both checked for signs of infection. He saw some redness and the stitches itched, but he took it as a sign of healing.

  He and Nora were having a good time together. Instead of asking Carolina to serve his meals on a tray, Nora brought them herself. She’d set up a table where she and Alex joined him for supper. They made a nice family.

  As much as Zeb enjoyed supper, he liked her morning visits even better. Along with fresh nightshirts, Cassandra had brought his shaving tools. On the fourth day of his recovery, Nora showed up in his room before breakfast, carrying a bowl of steaming water. When she offered to shave him, he accepted. Looking rosy, she mixed soap and scraped his jaw clean.

  Shaving him had become a ritual, one he appreciated considering the number of visitors he had. Cassandra came several times a day. Clint had been banned from his sickroom, but he sent word about the mill through Nora. Zeb’s construction-crew foreman had everything under control, and the town hall was close to finished. From Nora he learned that Clint had shaken the cough. Zeb expected the cowboy to win the arm-wrestling contest hands down, pun intended.

  On the fourth day of his recovery, Will and Emmeline visited with Bess and the twins. Zeb envied his friend and hoped to follow in his path.

  On the fifth day, Pete and Rebecca arrived with a pie that made Zeb’s mouth water. He’d enjoyed it with the evening meal, but he’d enjoyed the second helping even more. Unable to sleep, Nora had wandered downstairs after midnight. She’d brought two plates into his room and they’d shared the sweetness by lamplight.

  On the sixth day, Zeb h
ad company he didn’t want. Judging by the aroma wafting from the parlor, Abigail and her mother had brought cinnamon rolls. Without asking him, Cassandra refused the baked goods and told them to leave. Ever since the committee meeting, his sister had been bold in her criticism of Abigail. Zeb kept his mouth shut, but he shared Cassandra’s opinion. He wanted nothing to do with Abigail. With time on his hands, he’d searched his conscience to see if he owed her an apology. Considering he hadn’t asked for permission to court her, hadn’t kissed her or even thought about it, he felt right about letting the flirtation die a natural death. He didn’t care about his pride, but he worried a clear rejection would send Abigail into a snit.

  As the seventh day dawned, Zeb rubbed his hand over his jaw in sweet anticipation of Nora’s arrival. He hadn’t slept well, and he had a headache behind his eyes. His skin felt prickly and his bones ached. Groaning, he leaned forward and touched the bandage covering the wound. Heat resonated to his fingers. The cotton felt damp but not from blood. Yellowish pus had oozed into an ugly oval.

  He dropped back to the pillow. “Please, Lord,” he prayed. “Don’t let this happen now.” In another week, he could take Nora on that buggy ride. He’d use crutches. He’d use a cane. He didn’t care as long as he still had a leg.

  Nora came through the door with a bowl of steaming water and a smile. “How’s my best patient?”

  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  As she stared into his fever-glazed eyes, the bowl wobbled in her hands. She set it down, then pulled the sheet back from his leg. A sickly-sweet smell wafted to his nose. Nora inhaled sharply, then looked into his eyes. “The fever started, didn’t it?”

  “I think so.”

  She touched his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  Before he could protest, she left the room. In minutes she came back with the willow-bark tea he’d grown to hate. She cleaned the wound, prepared a poultice and assured him—too many times—infection was to be expected. When visitors came, Nora sent them away herself. She allowed Cassandra to help at his bedside, but Zeb told his sister to leave. The leg smelled of infection and it looked even worse. He’d been relieved when Clint had offered to take her to the boardinghouse for a meal, then got annoyed when she’d said no because she had plans with Percy.

  Zeb had to live. He had to protect Cassandra from mistakes like the one he’d made in Boston. He wanted to marry Nora and love her right. He wanted to adopt Alex and see High Plains prosper. He wanted the legacy he’d imagined during the tornado.

  He dozed throughout the day.

  At midnight he woke up drenched with sweat. He’d been dreaming of wolves and realized the howling had come from his own throat. As fever burned in his bones, lamplight spilled into the sickroom. He opened his eyes and saw Nora. She had on the same blue dress and white apron, but she’d let down her hair. It brushed her shoulders in waves. Tendrils wisped around her ears and he thought of all the things he wanted to whisper.

  She set the lamp on the nightstand, sat on the chair next to the bed and put her cool hand on his brow. “You’re still feverish.”

  “I know.”

  She left and came back with a bowl of water and a towel. As she bathed his face, water ran in rivulets down his neck and throat. Avoiding his eyes, she spread a wet towel over his chest. It soaked the nightshirt and felt good, but an instant later the towel was as hot as the infection in his blood and she removed it.

  Carolina approached from the door. “Do you need help?” she said to Nora.

  “Yes, thank you.” Her objective tone scared him to death. “Zeb needs fresh sheets and a dry nightshirt.”

  “I’ll do it.” The nurse pulled the linens off a shelf, then rested a hand on Nora’s shoulder. “There’s hot water on the stove. Go drink some tea.”

  Nora touched his cheek, then offered a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

  Zeb nodded and she left. He was glad she’d asked Carolina to tend to his basic needs. He didn’t want her to see him helpless. If he lived and they got married, he’d be glad to bare his soul and everything else, but not now. He’d never been so needy in his life, so dazed by fever and pain. And fear, he admitted.

  When Carolina finished her ministrations, Nora came back and sat by his bed. For the next several hours, he floated between consciousness and a tortured slumber. Not once did she leave his side. She cooled his brow with damp cloths. She checked the bandages. She held his hand, softly humming melodies from church and childhood to comfort him.

  Near dawn, he felt a spike in the fever. The room spun in clouds of black and white. He imagined the infection surging up his leg, entering his blood and brain. He blinked and imagined a stump in place of his leg. Fearing he’d pass out, he gripped Nora’s fingers. “When will you know?”

  She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. “The biggest danger is blood poisoning. I’m watching the wound for red lines. If they spread upward, I’ll have to take your leg.”

  A man could argue with God, but he couldn’t shout at rotten flesh and expect it to obey. Zeb had no control over his fate. He could only hope, pray and prepare himself. “Tell me what to expect.”

  She swallowed so hard her throat twitched. “If I have to amputate, I’ll give you chloroform.” She sounded matter-of-fact, as if they were talking about a bad tooth. “I’ll make the cut above the knee.”

  Zeb groaned. Why, God? Just when I’ve found Nora…

  She laid her hand on his brow. “There’s still time, Zeb.”

  But her voice had a quiver. He’d never been so close to death. Without Nora, he’d have gone mad. With her, he had hope. Clutching her fingers, he whispered, “Pray for me.”

  “I am. I won’t stop.”

  An hour later, the sun came up. When morning had a firm hold on the day, Nora excused herself to see to her own bodily needs. With gold light pouring in the window, Zeb begged God for mercy. Helpless and tortured by feverish images, he rubbed his jaw. Nora wouldn’t be shaving his face this morning. He could only pray she wouldn’t be cutting off his leg instead.

  Chapter Twenty

  Nora slipped into the kitchen and collapsed in a chair by the window. She’d done everything she could to save Zeb’s leg. She’d made poultices. She’d cleaned the wound with whiskey and lavender. She’d brewed teas, kept him warm and prayed with every breath. Unless he turned a corner before dusk, she’d be forced to do the unthinkable.

  Nothing—not her training, not her faith—had prepared her for this moment. If she took the leg, she’d save Zeb’s body but scar his soul. Aching, she bowed her head. “Please, Lord. Don’t ask me to—”

  “Dr. Nora?”

  She looked up and saw Alex in dungarees and a misbuttoned shirt. Nora motioned him forward and fixed the buttons. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “I’m scared,” he said in a small voice. “Is Zeb going to die?”

  Nora never lied, not even to reassure a frightened child. Honest questions deserved honest answers. “I hope not, Alex. But he’s very sick.”

  “My ma died from fever. Zeb looks worse than she did.”

  Nora pulled the boy into a hug. With his head nestled on her shoulder, she made the only promise she could keep. “I’m doing my best, but we have to pray. Okay?”

  Alex pulled back. “Eli’s dead, too. Everyone dies.”

  A small truth…A painful truth. Nora ached to comfort him. “My brother died when I was a little older than you. I’m sad, but I’m going to see him again in Heaven. You’ll see your ma and Eli, too.”

  “Really?” Alex looked hopeful.

  “Yes, really.” When she hugged him again, he snuggled against her. She wanted to be this boy’s mother. She wanted to marry Zeb and give him children, but if she had to amputate his leg, the buggy ride would never take place. He wouldn’t offer marriage. No way could she stand loving Zeb without the hope of a future. She’d have to leave High Plains.

  As her throat closed, she squeezed Alex tighter. The boy
hugged her back, then let go. “Can I go play with Jonah?”

  Nora recognized his friend at the boardinghouse. “Sure.”

  As Alex scampered out the back door, Nora bowed her head. “Only You can heal, Lord. Only You can save us from disease and pain.” And death. The thought humbled her. It also reminded her of the most basic truth of all. A man’s soul mattered more than his body. As she’d tended to Zeb, she’d sensed a new peace in him. Just as the splinter had been removed and his thumb had healed, Zeb’s pride had been broken and the bitterness had left his heart. Would the bitterness return if he lost his leg? She didn’t know. And what about her own faith? How could she honor a God who asked her to do such a terrible thing? She felt as if God had dangled candy—a husband and children—in front of her nose and snatched it back.

  Carolina came into the kitchen. “Zeb’s asleep. Why don’t you get some air.”

  Nora desperately needed to think, to pray. “Thank you. Maybe I’ll walk by the river.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” the nurse answered.

  Nora went upstairs to change her dress. She put on her walking shoes and a hat, then slipped out the front door. The river beckoned to her, but so did the steeple of the church. If she went to the river, she’d see the waterfall and boulders scraped raw by the current. She’d see the inevitability of a hard choice. The church had miraculously survived the tornado. Nora needed a miracle, so she turned up Main Street.

  As she passed the mercantile, Winnie Morrow came through the door. “How’s Zeb?”

  Nora searched for hope. “He’s struggling.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Winnie replied.

  A sweep of the broom drew Nora’s attention to the front of the mercantile. Mrs. Johnson, broom in hand, glowered at her through the dust, but didn’t call out a greeting. Nora refused to be insulted. “Hello, Mrs. Johnson.”

  The woman gave a curt nod. “Dr. Mitchell.” She swept more dust, then gave in to her curiosity. “How’s Zeb?”