Rand was here? That was another detail Rachel didn’t recall. “How are the Fosters’ children? Have you heard anything?”
Lizzie hesitated, as though reluctant to voice her thoughts. “Charlie Daggett came from town a few minutes ago. And, mind you, this is just a rumor. He hasn’t seen Dr. Brookston yet to confirm it. But . . . Charlie told me that folks are saying it’s influenza.”
13
R and smoothed the hair from Paige Foster’s forehead, feeling heat radiate from her skin. Severe headache, muscle pain, malaise. Similar symptoms to influenza but with two major differences in this case—the intestinal ravages on the body and the rose-colored spots dotting the upper abdomen.
Fairly confident in his diagnosis, Rand knew there was only one way to be certain.
Ten-year-old Paige was in worse condition than her older brother, who lay sleeping on a pallet in the corner of the bedroom. She was lithe and fragile, and had a sweet disposition to match.
She drew in labored breaths through parched lips. Her eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for her to focus. “Thank you . . . Dr. Brookston,” she whispered, her fingers tightening around the piece of stick candy.
“You’re welcome, sweetie. There’s more where that came from as soon as you’re feeling better.” He checked her pulse. Slightly elevated, but that was to be expected with the high fever.
He heard Mrs. Foster in the next room, preparing soup her daughter hadn’t requested, nor that she would likely eat. Not in her current condition.
The hour had to be approaching noon. His jacket lay across the room with his pocket watch tucked inside, but he was too tired to retrieve it.
Rand sank down in a chair by the bed and rested his head in his hands. He’d been up most of the night and needed to get back to town to check on Ben and Rachel, and whoever—and whatever— else might be waiting for him at the clinic.
He stared at the little girl in the bed before him, considering the labored rise and fall of her chest, and wishing he had better facilities in which to care for his patients, more reliable methods for receiving medications. And—the greatest luxury of all—more opportunity to educate the people of Timber Ridge about proper hygiene and nutrition.
The weight of responsibility he’d felt when crouching over Ben Mullins, trying to get Ben’s heart restarted, returned with a force that sucked his breath away and pulled him back to a moment years past.
“You care too much about your patients, Dr. Brookston,” the head of medicine at a New York City hospital had admonished. “You must learn to keep a proper distance, emotionally. You must view patients through the framework of science, learning all you can during the course of treatment and then building on that knowledge for future patients. We want to encourage when needed, comfort as we can. But you’ll never grow to be the physician I know you can be—that I already see in you—if you persist in caring about them in such a personal manner.”
Rand exhaled, knowing that if Dr. Bellingham could see him now, he would not approve—just as the venerated physician hadn’t approved of the choices Rand had made following medical school, or of his decision to come to Timber Ridge.
He ran a hand through his hair, hoping Rachel would follow his orders of complete bed rest. His conveniently “forgetting” to send her cane home with her would greatly increase those odds. It was imperative she stay off that leg for three to four days, at a minimum, in order to give the incision time to heal, as he’d explained to her last night. Her wound was more serious than she’d let on, and the sutures more invasive than he’d originally thought they would be.
But there was another reason she needed to heal quickly, one she didn’t even know about yet—he needed her assistance with Ben’s surgery.
Pulling his thoughts back, Rand probed the slender column of Paige’s throat. “Tell me if I press on a place that hurts worse than the others, all right?”
She nodded.
He palpated the back of her neck and shoulders, then checked her arms and legs. The rash hadn’t spread, not yet, at least. Hoping to coax a smile, he gave her cute little button nose a tweak. “How about there?”
She sighed a tired giggle.
Anticipating her next reaction and already regretting it, Rand pressed on her belly, under her rib cage, and literally felt the confirmation to his diagnosis.
Paige let out a gasp and drew up her legs. “That hurts bad,” she whimpered, tears edging from the corners of her eyes.
“I’m sorry, honey.” Rand cradled the side of her face, so small and warm against his palm. “I won’t do it again.” He didn’t need to. He’d seen the symptoms before, and seeing them again dredged up memories he preferred remain buried.
Unsummoned, haunting images of Confederate camps returned, one after another. The rows of filthy tents, tattered and beaten down, like their occupants. All these years later, the memory of the stench was still thick—the grounds littered with refuse and rubbish, heaps of manure and offal only steps away from where the men slept. For every grave he’d dug for a fellow soldier struck down by bullets, he’d dug three more for one struck by disease.
Typhoid being among the most devastating.
The bedroom door opened behind him, and heavy boot steps rang hollow on the wood floor. They stopped abruptly at his back.
“I need a word with you, Brookston.”
Rand turned and adjusted his gaze slightly upward to meet the solemn stare of Graham Foster, Paige’s father.
“Look, Papa . . .” Paige held out her hand, the candy sticky in her palm. “See what Dr. Brookston gave me?”
Graham Foster’s gruff demeanor softened ever so slightly. “That’s real good, darlin’. ” He patted his daughter’s arm as though he feared she might break. “I’ll be right back. I just need to talk with the doctor for a minute, all right?”
She looked from him to Rand, her uncertainty clear.
Foster inclined his head toward the hallway and Rand followed, surprised when Foster strode through the kitchen and toward the front porch. Helen Foster stood by the stove, watching as they passed.
Once outside, Foster stopped short. “Just so we’re clear, Brookston”—he stood close—“my wife believes in doctors . . . I don’t. If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t be here.” A bead of sweat trailed down Foster’s forehead and into his eye. He didn’t blink. “All doctors are good for is promisin’ things they can’t deliver. They feed you full of their concoctions with one hand, while robbin’ your pockets with the other.” He moved closer. Rand felt the heat of his anger. And fear. “I won’t have you fillin’ my wife’s head with notions that aren’t true. I’ve seen this sickness before.” He swallowed, his eyes hardening. “I know what it does.”
Rand stood his ground, sharing the man’s fear, though unable to show it. “I’ve seen it too, Mr. Foster. I know how to treat it and I know how it spreads. And I’m not going to give you false hope. I believe your son will be fine, but your . . .” Rand saw the glisten of emotion rise in Foster’s eyes. “But Paige,” he continued, voice soft, “is very ill. Still, I’ll do everything I can for her, and you don’t need to pay me a thing.”
An hour later, Rand guided his mare down the mountain trail leading from the Fosters’ cabin into town, feeling the weight of Graham Foster’s love for his family, and also of his distrust. Rand intended to do everything he could to earn the man’s confidence but feared that might not be possible in this case.
He rode on, intending to check on Ben first and then stop by the sheriff ’s office to see McPherson—to let him know about the typhoid fever. But as he neared the main thoroughfare, he heard a low thrum, like the sound of water rushing over rocks. And when he rounded the corner, he reined in sharp.
A horde of people surged in and out of the Mullinses’ store, pushing and shoving their way across the crowded boardwalk. Guiding his horse through the fray, Rand spotted Lyda standing in the doorway of the store, her back to the street, arms outstretched.
People
rushed past her, their arms loaded with goods.
A burly, unkempt-looking man—a miner, judging by his coat and dungarees—exited the store, holding as much as he could carry. Lyda attempted to stop him, and Rand watched in disbelief as the man shoved her back, nearly knocking her off her feet.
Rand leapt from his horse, keeping Lyda in his focus. She somehow gained her balance and pursued the man, grabbing hold of his shirtsleeve. “You need to pay for those!”
The man shrugged her off again, and Lyda would have fallen if a gentleman hadn’t come to her aid. Rand headed straight for the miner, cutting a path through the human maze.
Rifle shots shattered the chaos, and Rand came to a skidding halt. As did everyone else. The blasts thundered off the mountain range and echoed back across town. People turned in all directions, searching the street, clinging to what they held.
“Everybody stay right where you are!” James McPherson stepped to the boardwalk, rifle in one hand, the other resting on the pistol holstered at his hip. His gaze moved to the miner who’d strode past Lyda, and the aim of his rifle followed suit.
Rand felt the heat of McPherson’s indignation from where he stood.
Apparently the miner did too, because the man shifted the items in his arms, looking decidedly less belligerent than moments before. “I told that woman there”—the miner nodded toward Lyda—“to put this on my credit.”
McPherson looked at Lyda, who shook her head.
McPherson cocked the rifle. “The lady says that’s not the way of it, friend. So why don’t you head on back in there and settle up with her. Then you and I can settle our account over at the jail.”
“But, Sheriff,” another man said, “we heard about the influenza. We need these supplies!”
A young woman moved closer, baby on one hip, a sack of flour on the other. “Once people start gettin’ sick, Sheriff, the stages won’t come through. How are we supposed to feed our—”
Rand stepped forward. “It’s not influenza!”
James’s attention shot to him, and his eyes narrowed as if he wished he knew what Rand was about to say. Then he gave a subtle nod.
Rand stepped to the boardwalk alongside James. “It’s not influenza,” he repeated, “and there’s no need to panic. There is need for precaution, however—”
A restless murmur rose from the crowd.
Seeing the opportunity, Rand raised an arm. “How many of you are sick right now? Right this minute. Raise your hand.” People scanned those gathered, then gradually traced a visual path back to him. No one lifted their hand. “The truth is”—he lowered his arm—“none of you are sick. And the odds are great that none of you will get sick. If we’ll all take some simple precautions.”
The man who’d spoken earlier scoffed. “I heard the Fosters’ two kids came down with fever and chills. If it’s not influenza, then what is it?”
Rand thought fast. How to admit the truth without inciting panic? Everyone knew the devastation typhoid fever could bring, but few understood what caused it. Even Paige Foster’s mother had taken a step back when Rand told her, her expression defensive, as if he’d accused her of giving the disease to her children herself. Having learned from his experience with Mrs. Foster, he hoped a more subtle approach would work better. “How many of you wash your hands each time before you eat?” The comment was met with blank stares. “What about washing your food before you cook it? And the water you drink . . . Would you be willing to boil it to make sure it’s clean?”
“I been gettin’ my water from the stream for years,” an older woman said. “Never had to boil it before.”
“And you won’t have to always boil it in the future. But for now, I’m asking you to do these things. It will help prevent you and your families from becoming ill.” He read confusion in some faces, skepticism in others, and still borderline panic in a few, and chose his words carefully. “I’ve seen typhoid before—”
A collective gasp rose from the crowd.
“Listen to me.” Rand raised his voice. “I’ve seen typhoid firsthand, many times, just like you have. We know what can happen. But it doesn’t have to happen here in Timber Ridge. Once you know what causes typhoid, it’s easier to stop it from spreading.” He felt a ripple through the crowd and willed a calm to his manner that would somehow ease the air of uncertainty. “The most common way in which people contract typhoid fever is by eating food and drinking water that’s been contaminated with human feces.”
As he expected, looks of disgust replaced those of fear and worry.
He turned his attention to the man responsible for most of the instigating. “I just came from the Fosters’ home. Their son, Benjamin, is already showing improvement. He contracted a much milder case. But the Fosters’ daughter, Paige . . .” His throat tightened remembering how small and weak Paige looked, and how brave a girl she was. “She’s very sick. She’s fighting hard and needs our prayers, but those are the only two cases that have been reported. And hopefully, if we all work together, there won’t be any more.”
The woman with the baby on her hip raised her hand. “What about the milk we give our children? Do we need to boil that too?”
Another woman spoke up. “And what about the meat we get from the butcher? Has that been washed?”
More questions followed, one atop the other, and Rand raised his hand, feeling a gratitude for the people of Timber Ridge that he hadn’t before. He also sensed the sheriff wanting to say something. “I’ll answer any and all questions that you have . . . after Sheriff McPherson is done.”
Gratitude shone in James McPherson’s expression. “The sheriff’s office will work alongside Dr. Brookston to get the information out to everyone. We’ll ask Mrs. Ranslett at the newspaper to print a special edition first thing tomorrow morning with the doctor’s instructions on what to do.” He briefly looked at Rand, who nodded his agreement.
“But for now . . .” McPherson’s focus shifted back to the miner still in his aim. “To those of you who haven’t paid for what you took from Ben and Lyda’s store . . . and we all know who you are.” He leveled his gaze. “Either pay up, or my deputies and I will be paying you a visit.”
Being a student of human nature as well as science, Rand found it easy to distinguish the guilty parties. Patrons who were innocent looked directly at Lyda. Those who weren’t either studied the ground or the items they’d stolen.
Rand stayed after and answered everyone’s questions, feeling a renewed sense of why God had directed him to Timber Ridge. As he was leaving, he saw Mathias Tucker pull up in a wagon. Concern on the man’s face portended ill news, and Rand met him in the street.
Tucker motioned. “I got two of my girls in the back of the wagon. They got fever real bad.”
Rand took one look, and knew.
14
Later that night, after checking on Ben, Rand climbed the stairs to Rachel’s unlit cabin, bone cold and weary, feeling every hour of lost sleep. He rapped on the door, and made himself wait a full ten seconds before knocking a second time. The moonless night draped the covered porch in shadows, and though his heart didn’t race the way it usually did when he was alone in bed and the memory returned, he breathed easier when blessed lamplight illuminated the darkened window.
Molly McPherson peered through the curtain before lifting the latch. “Dr. Brookston.” She motioned him inside.
“Dr. McPherson.” He returned the professional courtesy to the former college professor, glad to be out of the cold and wind.
“How’s Mrs. Boyd?”
Molly’s smile, along with the shake of her head, told him much. “She’s in bed, for now, asleep. One thing I’ve learned today . . . those with the most knowledge about medicine make the least cooperative patients.”
He frowned. “She didn’t get out of bed, did she?”
“She tried, the stubborn thing. Once with Elizabeth this morning, and another time with me this afternoon. She said she needed to get to her chores. I told her Charl
ie Daggett was seeing to things.” Molly sighed. “She hardly got as far as the bedroom door. It must have hurt pretty badly, though, because she asked for laudanum afterward.”
Rand rubbed the knotted muscles in his neck. If Rachel had torn those sutures . . . He’d warned her not to get out of bed, and of the dangers of putting weight on her leg before it had time to heal properly. Perhaps he needed to warn her again, in more graphic detail this time.
“Looks like it’s been a long day.” Molly’s expression held both understanding and concern. “From what James tells me, it’s been a busy one for you. Come on back. I’ve got coffee on the stove.”
He followed her to the kitchen, where her daughter, Jo, lay nestled in a basket on the table. He brushed a finger against Jo’s cheek, pleased when the baby gurgled and reached for his hand— and made contact on her first try. Good hand-eye coordination. She’d been born prematurely but was progressing well, and was a beautiful child.
“Thank you.” He accepted the steaming cup and took a sip. “Mmmm . . . that’s good.”
Molly claimed the chair closest to the baby. “One of the most important things I’ve learned since becoming the sheriff ’s wife is to always have a pot of coffee on the stove in case company drops by, no matter how late in the evening.”
Rand returned her smile, admiring Molly’s gracious spirit. He knew only too well that Molly and James didn’t have much “company” dropping by. Molly McPherson had gotten a rocky start to life in Timber Ridge, and people in town were still reluctant to fully accept her, especially since she and James had married. In truth, she hadn’t made the best choices upon her arrival, but in his estimation, she’d more than paid for those mistakes and was working to bring good from them—if people would let her.
He updated her on Ben Mullins’s unchanged condition, the Tuckers’ two children, and the three miners who had shown up at the clinic with similar symptoms—thankfully, none of them as serious as Paige Foster’s. He’d left word with James about where he’d be and had also tacked a note to the clinic door. He’d needed to check on Rachel—or that’s what he told himself. Truth to right, he wanted to check on her.
Within My Heart Page 14
