by Zina Abbott
Dahlia watched the twitch of Nathan’s forehead as he turned his head to face away. What did it mean? Did the odor confuse him? Did a part of him recognize the scent as being connected to her but reject it?
Feeling overwhelmed and sensing the tears that prepared to flow, not for the first time, Dahlia dropped the letters on the top of the chest and fled the room. She grabbed her black shawl on her way out the back door of the house. Grateful she wore her everyday boots instead of dress slippers, she lifted the pink ruffled hem of her gown as she tromped through the snow blanketing the back of the property in the direction of the Prosperity Mountains—part of the range being mined by her husband’s employer. At least, she hoped the Bainbridge brothers still considered Nathan an employee—that they hadn’t written him off yet.
Dahlia stopped, leaned her head back, and inhaled deeply. She had not been able to leave Nathan’s side even to take care of basic shopping because he had not recovered enough that she felt comfortable asking one of the other wives to sit with him for an hour or two. She already felt hemmed in by life.
Count your blessings. She recalled the many times her mother used to tell her that when she was a child. In her mind, she began to review the good things that had happened since she arrived in Jubilee Springs.
She lived in a well-built home. Her neighbors had drawn her into their fold as they showered her with friendship and assistance. She had the promise that, after Christmas, the men in the neighborhood would help her find more firewood. She had a source of income, limited though it might be. She had the assurance from Royce Bainbridge that, even if Nathan could never return to work at the mine, they could stay in the house until another miner was chosen and he married.
Most of all, Nathan had shown progress. The swelling on his head had all but disappeared, and his bruises were fading. Dr. Sprague had declared his clavicle was healing properly, and Nathan’s shoulder joint showed good range of motion. The doctor had even removed the bandage from the stitches on the back of his head and told her, now it no longer drained, to keep the incision area clean and let the air get to it.
Nathan’s limbs—including his right side—responded well to stimuli. In addition, he moved on his own, and occasionally mumbled words, although she could not make out what he tried to say. The past two days, whether she rubbed his right hand or left, his fingers had closed over hers—not limply or in a crushing grip—but as if he clung to a lifeline.
Sometimes, Nathan thrashed and grunted as he pulled his left shoulder next to his head. she worried he might throw himself from the bed and injure himself again. She eventually recalled that, as her father healed from his various infections and then his surgery, itching set in. She discovered with Nathan, if she carefully rubbed—even lightly scratched—his face, neck, and shoulder with her nails, he usually settled down. She could see he was getting better.
Still, at times her insides twisted with worry. Why did he not regain consciousness?
She opened her eyes and stared ahead, squinting to protect her eyes from the bright glare reflecting off the snowy rise before her. Prosperity Mountains. Please, Lord, if You’re listening, I don’t want or need prosperity. I need my husband returned to me—all of him.
Dahlia glanced back over her shoulder at the house. She slowly exhaled and yielded to the calm that wrapped around and through her like a warm blanket—a calm that encouraged her to keep a positive attitude.
As she turned toward the house, Dahlia chided herself for allowing her fears to overwhelm her. Coming back from the kind of injury inflicted on Nathan took time. She must be patient.
If only Nathan would open his eyes and could be aware of the world around him.
.
.
.
.
Chapter 21
~o0o~
D ahlia placed the bowl of beef broth on the counter and emptied the rest of her pan into a glass bottle to cool before she put it in the icebox. She next filled the pan with water and the diced potato and carrot one of the wives had gifted her two days before. She smiled as she recalled the size of that carrot—almost larger than the potato. The small roast had shriveled up to be barely enough meat for two servings. She speared it with a fork to balance it on her cutting board where she sawed crosswise on the meat fibers to cut the meat into fine bits.
Now that Nathan swallowed so much better, almost as well as a conscious person, she planned to mix the minced meat along with mashed vegetables in some of the broth. For a short time the past two days, the doctor had helped her prop him up on pillows and folded blankets. If whoever came this night could help her do the same, she would attempt to feed him the slightly thicker soup to see if he could eat it without choking. One thing she knew for certain—even though he drank enough liquid, he needed to somehow get more solid food in his body.
Upon hearing the pounding on the back door, Dahlia nearly dropped her knife. A glance at her father’s clock on top of the icebox assured her it was too early in the day to expect one of the neighbor couples to visit. She set the utensils down and rushed to the back window.
Upon seeing Herbert Price standing on the other side of the door, Dahlia’s heart sank. A foolish grin on his face, as soon as he saw her, he lifted a dead chicken he held by the feet.
Dahlia turned her back to him. What do I do now?
The previous night had been Aaron’s night to visit. He had told her Herbert had been fired from his job and was not allowed on mine land, including their neighborhood. Yet, Herbert stood on her porch. Now Christmas services at the church were over, her neighbors were busy with their holiday celebrations. She must deal with him by herself.
Dahlia jumped in response as Herbert once again pounded on the door. Sucking in a deep breath, she turned and opened it. “Hello, Mr. Price. I was told you were not allowed to come—”
Herbert pushed Dahlia aside as he barged into the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind him. As he rushed to stand next to the stove, he tossed the chicken into her sink. “Colder than a witch’s kiss out there.”
Her teeth clenched, Dahlia followed him. “What are you doing here, Mr. Price?”
Swaying on his feet, Herbert stared at Dahlia as if she were insane. “It’s Christmas. I came to eat Christmas dinner with my brother.” His grin returned as he reached over to the sink and once again held up the limp fowl, its wings bouncing with the movement. “I even brought you a chicken to cook. Ma always fixed chicken for Christmas.”
“I’m surprised the butcher was open today.”
Glowering, Herbert lowered the bird. “Don’t worry about who I got this chicken from. I’ll make it up to them tomorrow when I get the rest of my pay.”
From what she knew of the man, Dahlia suspected he had no intention of making things right with whoever owned the chicken. It would fall to her, once she was able to go to town, to discover who it was and pay them for the bird. She slowly edged away from the pathway between Herbert and the door with the hope she could persuade him to leave. “I don’t really have the fixings for a Christmas dinner. I mostly was preparing a thin soup for Nathan.”
Herbert again held up the chicken. “Now you can fix some of this for him.” He looked around the kitchen. “I see you got bread already. You have a potato? You can roast this chicken and a potato for me. Better yet, fry it up so I can take what’s left with me. Meanwhile, I’ll take a sandwich made with that beef. I haven’t eaten today, and I’m hungry.”
“That beef is for Nathan. Besides, I was told you were given enough money for a room and food to last until you left tomorrow.”
As Herbert spewed a string of expletives, Dahlia shrank away from him. “He gave me hardly nothing. Got me a cot in one of the boarding houses, but barely had enough for last night at the Corner Saloon. Now, fix me a sandwich with some of that beef to hold me off while you cook that chicken.”
Dahlia debated whether she should run outdoors and over to either the Brinks’ or McNeill’s for help or do what he said and
hope he left once he ate. She finally decided that the man, no matter how irritating, was family. She would feed him Christmas dinner. It would deplete her stores of food, but she would somehow manage. However, she realized if she wanted anything of the meat she cooked still available to feed Nathan, she needed to prepare the food herself.
“Put the chicken back in the sink, Herbert. I’ll fix your sandwich, and then you can sit with Nathan while you eat it.” Dahlia moved next to the meat, slicing it thin. When she had enough for a sandwich, she put the rest in a bowl, covered it, and quickly shoved it in the icebox. She hoped Herbert did not insist on seeing, and then eating, everything she had inside. She placed the meat between two slices of bread and handed the sandwich to him. “There’s a chair already next to Nathan’s bed.”
Herbert frowned at the sandwich. “You sure cut the bread mighty thin.”
“It’s how I always cut bread. Now, please visit with your brother while I clean and cook this chicken.”
Watching out of the corner of her eye for him to leave the room, Dahlia filled her biggest pot with water and put it on the stove to bring to a boil. She then grabbed her knife and lifted the dead fowl by its feet to carry it to the wash room. She shut the door, hoping Herbert would not filch more of her food while she cleaned the bird and plucked the feathers. With that done, Dahlia carried the meat to the pot and, holding it by the feet, dipped it in the hot water long enough to loosen the pin feathers. After she cooled it with water from the inside pump, she finished plucking out the small feathers that remained. When she cut the chicken in pieces, she kept the back, neck, half of the white meat, and the giblets aside to cook into broth. The rest she dredged in some of her limited supply of flour and used most of the lard she had on hand to start browning the meat.
As she shook salt on the chicken, Herbert sauntered into the kitchen. “Where’s the rest of it?”
Dahlia knew her irritation at the man’s selfishness bled into her voice, but she refused to feel remorse. “It’s for Nathan, remember? You said you wanted to share Christmas dinner with your brother. I set his portion aside to cook later.”
“He’s only my stepbrother. He don’t eat that much.”
“You’ll have a couple of pieces to eat tonight, and you can take the rest with you. Now, please excuse me while I put this and your potato in the oven to bake.”
“You going to make me biscuits? I like biscuits with my chicken. And I want a pie, too.”
Clamping her teeth shut to keep from saying something rude to this man who had invaded her house, Dahlia whirled to face him. “You’ll have to buy a pie at the bakery tomorrow because I don’t have the makings for a pie. The best I can offer you is three biscuits to go with your chicken.” Using the last of the lard, she turned to her task of mixing the dough.
“I want both drumsticks tonight. Ma always saved them for me.”
“I’ll serve you the legs tonight, Herbert. The other three pieces you can take with you. I hope you still have your lunch bucket to carry them in.”
“Yeah. It’s with my bedroll. You’ve got something to wrap them in for now, don’t you?”
“Yes. I have some muslin you can have.”
Dahlia almost laughed out loud as a thought occurred to her. She realized who Herbert reminded her of. It was not her brother, Cy, who had run off, but her sister-in-law, Jenny. Both Jenny and Herbert behaved like spoiled, whiny children who expected others to do for them.
Once Dahlia had dinner ready, she called Herbert in the kitchen to sit at the one chair left by the table. Wrinkling his forehead, he studied the plate. “Chicken looks all right. Ma don’t make her potatoes like this, though.”
“It’s the best I could do, Herbert. I think they will taste fine. And you’re welcome.”
Herbert scrunched his eyes, as if confused. “Welcome for what? Were you waiting for me to thank you for the dinner?”
“Not really. But I thank you for the chicken you brought to cook for Nathan.” Even if she ended up being the one to track down the owner and pay for it, Dahlia at least had the meat and bones in the house to stew.
Herbert picked up his fork. “The gravy looks like country gravy, not chicken gravy.”
“It still tastes like chicken gravy. There’s enough for you to sop your biscuits in, if you like.”
“I like jam on my biscuits.”
Dahlia closed her eyes and inhaled, praying for patience. She did have that precious plum jam she had brought from Kansas. Was she willing to share it with him? Starting at her head, she felt the tension that had seized her since Herbert forced his way in her home flow down and out of her.
This was Christmas. She could not celebrate Christmas the way she wanted to with her new husband, but she could give to “the least of these”—her brother-in-law, who seemed to have trouble dealing with the realities of life and conforming to what was expected of him. “I have some jam I brought to Jubilee Springs, but you can’t have it all. I want to save some for Nathan. Give me your biscuits, and I’ll spread some on them.”
By the time Dahlia returned the six biscuit halves, each topped with a thin layer of jam, Herbert had most of his meal eaten.
He bit into a biscuit half and leaned back with a satisfied smile on his face. “This is good—almost as good as pie for dessert.”
Herbert ate the other half, then he put together the halves on the other two biscuits, trapping the jam inside. “I’ll take these for breakfast, since I didn’t pay for board where I’m staying. Put them with the rest of my chicken, will you? I don’t suppose you’ve got some good whiskey in the house, do you? You know—for medicinal purposes?”
Dahlia shook her head. “Dr. Sprague advocates carbolic acid for cleaning wounds. Otherwise, I use soap and water.”
Grumbling, Herbert rose from his chair. “Figures.”
Dahlia set the biscuits onto the plate with the remaining chicken while she grabbed a lantern. “I need to go to the front room to cut a square off my length of muslin to wrap around your food. Why don’t you say goodbye to your brother before you leave?”
Herbert grinned knowingly. “Trying to get me out of here, aren’t you? Maybe I don’t want to leave.”
Dahlia closed her eyes and groaned out a sigh. “It’s up to you, Herbert. What I know is, it’s Declan McNeill’s night to help me with Nathan. I expect him here before long. I know Mr. Bainbridge told you what would happen if you were found on this side of the river, and Mr. McNeill has his orders. He won’t be happy if he finds you here.”
As she watched his body stiffen and his eyes tighten with consternation, Dahlia knew she had gotten through to Herbert. She spun away and rushed through both doors of her shotgun-style house to prepare the cloth to hold Herbert’s food. Hopefully, he would leave right away without causing more trouble.
After she returned to the counter next to her sink and knotted the chicken and biscuits inside the makeshift napkin, Dahlia turned to take the bundle to the table only to discover Herbert standing directly behind her. The expression on his face immediately set her on edge. She shoved the bundle forward, almost slamming it into his chest. “Here’s the rest of your food, Mr. Price. When Nathan gains consciousness, I’ll tell him you came by to visit and wished him a good Christmas.”
Herbert never took his gaze off her as he accepted the bundle with both hands and reached around her to set it back on the counter. “You still owe me a kiss. I stood in for Nathan so you could marry him, and you never let me kiss you. I won’t go until I get my kiss.”
Anger bubbling up within her, Dahlia shook her head and stamped her foot. “No! Absolutely not. You suggested the proxy marriage so you wouldn’t need to take care of your brother.”
“He’s my stepbrother.”
She raised her voice, the panic tightening her throat such that her words came out as a screech. “No matter! I will not kiss you. I’m reserving my kiss for when Nathan and I reaffirm our vows. He’s my husband, not you.”
As Herbert lunge
d for her, Dahlia ducked. When she felt his arms tighten around her, she knew she had not escaped him. “Stop it, Herbert! Let me go!” He trapped the back of her neck in the crook of his arm and pulled her face toward his. She turned her head to the side as she struggled to pull her legs away from him far enough to knee him in the groin. As if sensing what she planned to do, he used his other arm to grab her at the waistline and cinch her close.
“Think you’re too good to kiss someone like me, don’t you? I know how to deal with women like you.”
At the threat, Dahlia shuddered. Her lower spine struck the edge of her sink as Herbert pinned her against it. She winced. Instead of using her free hand to beat at his back and head, she reached behind her and groped, searching for the handle of the cast iron frying pan she had placed there to soak. Her fingers closed around the metal at the same time she raised her shoulder and buried her ear against it to keep her face away from Herbert’s lips.
Dahlia tightened her grasp on the iron pan and swung it in a wide arc until it connected with the back of Herbert’s head. Her breaths coming in gulps, she stood in place, unable to move, as she watched the man, a dazed look on his face, stagger back. She wrapped her second hand around the handle and hefted it higher, prepared to swing again. She watched his jaw work as the red in his face deepened.
“You had no call to do that. By the time I get done with you, you’ll be sorry you didn’t just kiss me like I wanted.”
Herbert started forward, but a loud knock stopped him. He, along with Dahlia, glanced in the direction of the back door.
Dahlia sucked in a deep gulp of air and shouted as loud as she could. “Get out of my house, Herbert Price! Take your food and go.”
As soon as the door swung open, Dahlia realized she had not locked it after Herbert barged inside. In the doorway stood Declan McNeill with his wife, Rilla, behind him. Her neighbor’s eyes narrowed, and the muscles of his face tightened. Dahlia knew it had taken him only a second to assess the situation.
