by S. C. Wilson
Jesse forced a smile. “Now, do you think your ma or me would let anything happen to you? You’re going to be just fine. I promise. I’ll be right back,” she said standing, gently pulling her hand away. She motioned for Abby to follow her out into the hall. “I’ll be back,” she whispered.
“Where are you going?”
“To get Aponi.”
“She’s gone. Remember her and Toby left yesterday?”
Jesse had momentarily forgotten she had gone with him. He had been hired for a farrier job up north for a yearly horse round up, and they wouldn’t be back for at least two more weeks.
“I’m going into town to get the doctor, then,” Jesse said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She hurried back to her room and threw clothes on over her long underwear. Her feet barely made contact with the stairs as she ran down them and rushed out the front door. Once inside the barn, she didn’t bother with a saddle for Buck. She simply slipped on a bridle and tore down the lane, galloping into town bareback.
Abby sat on the bed next to Jim, fighting back tears as she waited for Jesse to return. The cool rag she placed against his fevered head did nothing to quiet his weak cries. Stroking his black bangs back from his forehead, she did her best to soothe him, promising him he would feel much better soon. Inside, she was a writhing ball of agony. Every minute Jesse was gone felt more like an hour, and it was all she could do to sit there, whispering reassuring words to her son.
After what seemed like an eternity, Abby heard the bang of the screen door, and the sound of several pairs of boots walking over the foyer tile. She released the pent up breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding as she stood and moved to make room for the doctor. Consumed with worry, she hadn’t noticed the doctor wasn’t the only person Jesse brought home with her until the preacher placed his hand on her shoulder. She reached out and took hold of the bedpost for support. Her own pulse was the only sound she could hear, and for a moment, she thought she might faint.
“Mrs. McGinnis,” Reverend Tucker said, “while Doc Montgomery tends to your son, why don’t you and your husband come pray with me?” He motioned for Jesse to follow him out into the hall.
It wasn’t Jesse who had sought him out and brought him back to the house with her; it was more a case of divine intervention. He happened to be with the doctor when she rode into town. He had offered to come along, and she wasn’t about to waste a single second trying to persuade him that his services weren’t needed. All she wanted was to get back to Jim.
Despite his kindness, the last thing she wanted to do was pray with him. All she wanted was to be with her son. He needed her. She felt Abby nudge her and saw her bow her head. Jesse followed suit and stared at the floor.
“Heavenly Father…” were the only words Jesse heard before she completely tuned out his prayer. She tilted her head and peeked through the open doorway. The doctor had removed Jim’s bed shirt and was examining him. Her eyes widened when she saw the bright red rash covering her son’s chest. Fearing her knees would buckle, she put her hand on the wall for support.
During his examination, the doctor instructed Jim to open his mouth. Jesse didn’t know what the physician was seeing, but she could tell by his expression he was concerned. Terrified now, Jesse squeezed her eyelids shut and prayed. She didn’t know who she was praying to—God or Frieda’s Great Spirit, or whether she was even being heard, but she felt helpless and didn’t know what else to do. Please don’t take him from us. I’ll do anything. Take me instead.
“How long has he been sick?” Doc Montgomery asked.
Jesse and Abby both hurried to the bedside. Abby’s answer came out in a rush. “He complained of a sore throat yesterday. When he woke up this morning, he said his ear hurt.”
The doctor nodded in understanding. He stood and opened the window by the bed. “Best to keep it cool in here. Let him rest. Try to get him to drink as much as you can.”
He looked down at Jim. “We’ll be right back,” he said, snapping his black bag closed. “Let’s step out into the hall.”
The doctor waited until they were all out of Jim’s earshot before he continued. “He’s got the fever. Not much I can do for him. Best medicine is to keep praying. He’s in the Lord’s hands now.”
“There has to be—” Jesse lowered her voice. “There has to be something you can do. You must have something to help him in that bag of yours.”
“There is no remedy for what ails him. How’s your daughter? She showing any signs?” he asked.
“No,” Abby said. “She’s fine.”
“I suggest you keep her away from him. Don’t want her catching it too.”
“Abby, take Gwen over to Armand’s. Tell him what’s going on—and tell them to stay way.”
As soon as Abby disappeared into Gwen’s room, Jesse turned back to the doctor. “Be honest with me, Doc. Will he die?” It took all of the strength she had to utter those words.
“I honestly don’t know. Some children pull through. Some don’t. No way to know.”
“When will we know if he’ll make it?”
“Should know in about a week.”
Reverend Tucker placed a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Tomorrow, during Sunday service, we’ll all pray for him.”
For the next week and a half, Jesse and Abby sat vigil at Jim’s bedside as his sickness worsened and he struggled to breathe. While he spent most of that time sleeping, unmoving for hours on end, they went without rest, caught in a waking nightmare. He was a thin boy to begin with, but he became thinner still as the sickness sunk its teeth into him. Other than the ugly quilt of red dots covering him, he was still their same little boy, albeit a paler version.
Jesse and Abby both suffered from their own weight loss and fatigue seeped from their bodies. Food and sleep had become an afterthought to both of them. They were terrified to leave their son’s side, afraid they would come back to find he would never wake up again.
Finally, on the eleventh day, Jim showed small signs of improvement. Another two long days would pass before the doctor would declare him well enough to be considered one of the lucky ones.
Although Jim had beaten the fever raging through him, it left devastating effects on his heart. The permanent organ damage would leave him prone to fatigue, fainting spells, as well as bouts of shortness of breath. Even so, he proved to be exactly like Jesse. He too was a survivor.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ely, California - Spring of 1873
Eight-year-old Burton sat at the kitchen table pushing food around on his plate. Edith was cooking over the stove, and like most mothers, she knew her son’s behavior without having to look.
“Eat your breakfast, son, and stop fiddling,” she said, flipping the ham steak in the cast-iron skillet.
“Listen to your ma,” Felix said, entering the kitchen. He patted Burton on the head, tossed the day’s newspaper on the table, and took a seat across from him. “When you get done with your chores this morning, I need you to come to the store.” Edith set a steaming cup of coffee down in front of him. “I got a shipment coming in and those shelves won’t stock themselves.” He unfolded the paper and reached for his mug. He stared at the headline, his coffee cup suspended and forgotten as he turned toward his wife. “Edith, come look at this.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and made her way over to the table. Over his shoulder she read the headline: Corp of Engineers To Conquer Mighty River.
“Says they’ll have the bridge in Granite Falls finished in four months,” he said. “You should send that letter we promised.”
“Oh, I will. Hopefully when Jesse comes through, he’ll bring the family with him. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
Edith had no understanding of the seriousness of the article, or the true impact it would have on Jesse. So, it wasn’t until she had her family fed and the kitchen cleaned before she gave it any attention.
Later that morning, Edith took a seat at her desk.
Pulling open the top drawer, she took out a sheet of ivory colored stationary and found her pen. After dotting it in the inkwell, she wrote. By the time she had finished, the page was so crowded with words there was barely enough room for the elegant flourish she added at the bottom. She had just finished sealing the envelope when there was an unexpected knock on the door.
Burton ran right past his mother who was still seated at her desk. He opened the door to find Hank Johansen standing there, his hand poised, ready to strike again.
“Where’s your Ma?” he asked, with a tone of urgency.
Before Burton had time to reply, she was already standing behind him.
“What’s wrong?” Edith asked, her voice cracking with worry.
“It’s Felix. He was patching the roof and a shingle slid out from under him. He took a nasty spill.”
Burton instinctively made as if he was going to run out the door, but Edith, unsure of Felix’s condition, reached out and held him by his shirt collar.
Hank continued. “Didn’t mean to give you both a fright. He’s fine but needs you to come run the store. Says his ankle’s bothering him.”
Edith nodded to Hank. She took hold of Burton’s chin and tilted his head. “I need you to run over and mail those letters for me,” she said, gesturing toward the desk. “When you’re done doing that, head right to the store so you can start stocking the shelves like your father asked you to.” She gave her son a quick peck on the forehead, and left with Hank.
Burton went to his mother’s desk to retrieve the letters with every intention of doing as he was told. He was, however, an eight-year-old boy with an overactive imagination.
Two months ago, he had been forced to ride along with his mother when she went to Granite Falls to shop for fabric. Bored, he had wandered the aisles, messing with the many items lining the shelves. Worried he’d break something, Edith had sent him to the front of the store to stand while she finished her shopping. He had waited for her with his nose pressed against the glass, watching as the people outside moved along the busy street. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a throng of people running toward the courthouse.
Burton cast a swift glance over his shoulder to see what his mother was up to. He could tell she was preoccupied with the salesclerk, and knew from past experience she took forever to pick out her materials. His curiosity quickly got the better of him. He took one last glance over his shoulder and slipped out the door, joining in with the crush of people making their way down the street.
As he neared the steps of the courthouse, he overheard someone nearby say, “They reached a verdict!” Burton had no idea at all what the words meant, but he was determined more than ever to find out. He followed the people filing into a room. Inside, the courtroom was packed, and foot traffic came to a standstill. Standing on the tips of his toes, he tried to get a peek toward the front. When that didn’t work, he hunched down, using his elbows to push his way through the crowd, ignoring the irritated looks he got as he shoved his way through the sea of legs.
He made it to a row of chairs and craned his neck, straining to see over the heads of the people in front of him. He saw a man seated at a desk on an elevated platform. The man’s black robe was stretched taut over his large paunch and gave him a foreboding look. In front of the robe wearing man stood a lanky fella, his manacled hands before him. He had an ugly bruise over one eye, its color the same grayish black as the thick stone of the building.
Burton heard men whispering behind him.
“What’s he accused of?”
“Murder. They had so much evidence against him, there’s no way the judge will find him not guilty.”
Now, murder was a word Burton was familiar with. He had overheard it once in a conversation his parents were having. When they had explained to him what it meant, it had elicited even more questions from his young mind.
Burton could see the man in shackles trembling as the judge rendered his verdict. When the gavel slammed down onto the mahogany wood block, the sound echoed through the room like a gunshot blast. Startled, Burton jumped, his feet coming off the floor. The convicted man exploded in a rage, and he had to be dragged from the room by two constables. An icy shiver ran down Burton’s spine. The entire scene had been both frightening and exhilarating.
With nerves already on edge, Burton leapt again when a hand landed on his shoulder. Without having to look, he knew whose hand it was—he had felt that exact grip many times in his young life already. Humiliation stained his cheeks as his mother pulled him by the ear and led him through the crowd of onlookers, yelling at him for scaring her half to death all the way down the courthouse steps. The escapade earned him one of the worst whippings he had ever gotten from his father when he got home. Still, what he had witnessed at the courthouse was a thrilling experience he would never forget.
Burton eyed the stack of letters sitting on his mother’s desk. He pulled the chair out and took a seat, his back straight in an effort to seem taller, as he tried to emulate the judge. The toes of his shoes barely skimmed the floor as he looked out over the empty room, visualizing it packed with spectators. Jumping back up, he searched for the one thing he needed to complete his illusion. He snatched his father’s coat from the peg by the back door.
Draping it around his shoulders, he returned to his seat and cleared his throat. In the most commanding voice he could manage, he said, “Order! Order, I say!”
In the absence of a proper gavel, he finished the edict by pounding his small fist on the desk. He pulled open a drawer and selected a blank piece of stationery. A scowl creased his forehead as he pretended to read the imaginary words. He turned to the empty chair next to the desk. Frowning, he glared at the accused as he repeated the words he had heard in Granite Falls. “Clyde Holmes, I find you guilty and sentence you to hang.”
Burton’s courtroom erupted as soon as he read the verdict. Such behavior would not be tolerated. “Quiet!” he yelled. His hand swung through the air, and he slammed his fist down in another call for order. “Order in my court—”
He sat in stunned silence when he realized what he had done. His mother’s inkwell was resting on its side. He immediately set it upright, but the damage had already been done. His relief over the fact none of it had spilled onto the desk was short lived when he noticed the sinister puddle of black liquid on the top envelope. Wasting no time, he jumped off the chair and sprinted to the kitchen in search of a rag. Running fast, he skidded to a halt and did his best to dab away any evidence, but his efforts only seemed to make matters worse. Instead of getting rid of the spot, somehow he had managed to make it larger. It was of no use. His mother’s letter was ruined.
Burton knew he would be in trouble—big trouble. His parents had warned him countless times not to horse around in the house. As with most kids his age, scared of being caught, he panicked. He pulled the bottom drawer from its slot and tossed the envelope to the back. After putting the drawer back in place, he slammed it shut, snatched up the remaining mail, and hurried out the door. At the bottom of the steps, it suddenly dawned on him. He hurried back inside and fetched the ink-stained towel. On his way down the street, he quickly tossed it behind a bush. Then, he sprinted the rest of the way, laughing to himself on the inside. “They can’t find me guilty if there’s no evidence.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Neva, California
The following summer, with the early sun starting to show along the eastern horizon, Jesse and Gwen hunkered on the ground using a fallen tree for cover. Birds chirped in the branches high above their heads. Their songs, along with Gwen’s measured breathing, were the only sounds cutting through the stillness of the morning.
Jesse watched as her eight-year-old daughter lifted the rifle, her heart overflowing with pride. The scene sparked memories from her own childhood: reminiscences of climbing tall trees with gnarled branches, fishing in the inlet, and pestering her siblings. Of all the memories she had from when she was Gwen’s age, not one of t
hem included hunting. Her parents had their beliefs and stayed true to them, believing their daughters should follow the same standards society deemed appropriate. Some things were acceptable and some weren’t. Her parents deemed hunting unladylike. As much as she loved them, she had a much different perspective on what girls should and shouldn’t do. Gwen would never be denied any opportunities because of her gender as far as Jesse was concerned.
“Hold steady,” she whispered to Gwen. “Aim just behind his shoulder.”
As Gwen took careful aim, flapping wings overhead beat the air and nearby wildlife scattered. She fired. A white tail disappeared through the break in the thick undergrowth as the large buck fled for his life.
“Sorry, Pippa,” Gwen said, lowering the rifle.
Jesse went from a crouching to sitting position, resting her back against the tree. “No need to be sorry. I don’t always get one either. Besides, he knew we were here.”
Gwen cocked her head. “How’d he know?”
“Those birds gave us away. They’ve been sending out warnings for some time. They flew away just before you fired. When they did, it was a signal for all the other animals to flee. The woods will speak to you if you’re smart enough to listen.”
Gwen sat on the ground beside her and placed the rifle in her lap.
“I’m sure you’ll get the next one,” Jesse said. “It’s getting late. We should probably head back, don’t you think? I’m sure your brother is chomping at the bit waiting on us.”
“Are you disappointed he doesn’t like to hunt and you have to take me instead?”
Jesse put her arm around her and pulled her close. “Never. Hunting isn’t his thing and that’s all right. I love spending time with you.”
Gwen wrinkled her nose. “He’s crazy. He’d rather have his nose in a book reading about things instead of actually doing ‘em.”
