“Yes.”
“Then I’m going to wash up.”
She drew in a breath as she stood. A wave of dizziness washed over her, but she willed it away. If she let on to her father that she felt lightheaded, he would hover over her the rest of the day. Not unlike the way she’d hovered over him when he had the influenza.
But that was different.
She turned slowly and gave each of the men—even Woody—a determined smile. “You can all go about your business. I’m perfectly fine.” With back ramrod straight, she left the kitchen and went upstairs to bathe.
Sherwood wouldn’t soon forget the sound of Cleo’s head striking the side of the barn or the cry of pain torn from her throat. For one horrid moment as he’d stood over her—her eyes closed, her face deathly pale—he’d feared the worst. Even he didn’t know how he’d managed to kneel beside her or lift and carry her to the house. He supposed his leg must have complained, that pain must have been present from the start, but he hadn’t noticed it until now as he walked toward the horse and buggy, his limp more pronounced than it had been in some time.
“Sorry about that, boy.”
He laid a hand on the horse’s rump. His gaze rose to the second story of the house, and his imagination was teased with the idea of Cleo reclining in a bathtub, steam rising from the water, her short curls growing more unruly in the humid air. By Jove, what a pretty sight she would make!
He gave his head a shake. What was worse? Imagining his employer’s daughter in the bathtub or thinking she was a pretty sight. Didn’t much matter. Either one would get him killed if Cleo learned to read his mind.
TWENTY
By the twenty-fifth of June, there wasn’t a soul in Crow County over the age of sixteen who didn’t mention the hot, dry weather at least once a day. There hadn’t been a drop of rain since the end of April, and that storm had been preceded by a winter without the usual snowpack. Drought was on everyone’s mind, whether they were a farmer, a rancher, or a waitress in a local restaurant.
Cleo saw the worry in her father’s face, especially after the three creeks that ribboned through the Arlington land began to run noticeably lower. The men dug irrigation ditches to water the hay fields, but those ditches would do little good if the streams ran dry.
And so it was, when Cleo, her father, Stitch, and Woody came out of church on that warm Sunday morning, the dark clouds rolling across the heavens brought smiles to their faces. The smell of rain was in the air, although it hadn’t begun to fall as yet.
“Thank the good Lord,” her dad said, looking skyward.
“Amen,” Cleo added.
As had happened a number of times in recent weeks, Stitch bid them a good day and went off to visit his lady friend, and Cleo’s father invited Woody to join them for Sunday dinner at the McKinley home. Cleo had stopped being surprised or irritated when Woody was included. In truth, she’d begun to feel he was an extended member of the family. She didn’t allow herself to wonder if that was a good thing.
After bidding farewell to a few more of their friends, all of them commenting on the promise of rain, Cleo and her father climbed into the buggy while Woody mounted his saddle horse, and the three of them rode up the hillside to Morgan and Gwen’s house.
Gwen—four months pregnant with the rounding of her stomach now visible—met them at the door. “Isn’t it wonderful? It’s going to rain at last.”
“An answer to prayer.” Their father kissed Gwen on the cheek.
Cleo kissed her sister’s other cheek. “With any luck, we’ll get such a downpour you’ll have to put us up for the night.”
“I’d love to. We have plenty of room.” Gwen turned toward Woody. “Lord Sherwood, I trust you’re doing well?”
“Yes, and I have your husband to thank for it.”
The men entered the house, but Gwen turned once more toward Cleo. “I trust you haven’t let another horse knock you unconscious since the last time we were together?”
“That happened three weeks ago. I don’t even have a bump on my head left to show for it. I wish you and Dad would quit bringing it up.”
“We love you. We worry about you.”
“You and Dad worry too much. Now let’s go in. I’m getting hungrier by the minute.”
Laughing softly, Gwen went into the front parlor where their dad and Woody had joined Morgan, while Cleo made her usual dash up the stairs to change out of her Sunday dress. As she changed into her shirt, Levi’s and boots, piano music drifted into the bathroom, and she paused. Was it Gwen who played or Morgan? Gwen, she decided. Morgan’s expertise hadn’t caught up with his wife’s as yet.
She was descending the stairs a short while later when she heard thunder rolling in the distance. Rain was welcome, but not lightning. Lightning was the last thing they needed. Underbrush and trees were too dry from the drought. Please, Lord. Stop the lightning. Make it go away.
In the parlor, she found her family and Woody standing at the bank of windows that overlooked the town, no doubt repeating similar prayers to her own. She joined them there, hoping to see raindrops already wetting the parched earth.
But there was no rain as of yet, only a rising wind that caused the trees to bend and whistled beneath the eaves of the house. As they watched, the clouds darkened, a perfect contrast for the flashes of lightning that grew in frequency as the storm rolled closer to Bethlehem Springs.
Cleo glanced to her left and saw Gwen standing close to Morgan’s side, his arm around her back. It was in this room, her sister had told her last year, that Morgan first kissed her. There’d been a lightning storm that day too. Cleo wondered if they were remembering it now.
What would it feel like to have someone to reassure her with a tender embrace? Her gaze shifted to Woody. What would it feel like to have him stand at her side with an arm around her back? Nice, she decided. It would feel nice.
As if drawn by her thoughts, Woody looked toward her, and their gazes locked at the same moment another peal of thunder rolled across the heavens. Her heart tripped and then raced, but she knew it had nothing to do with the loud noise and everything to do with Woody. It had been like that a lot lately.
She swallowed, her mouth dry.
“Look!” Gwen cried. “Is that smoke?”
Cleo turned her gaze out the window. “Where?” And then she saw it—way in the distance on the south end of the valley, smoke and an unmistakable flicker of orange licking the tops of the trees.
“I’ll alert the fire department,” Morgan said.
“I’ll spread the word for volunteers.” Her father headed for the door.
Morgan stepped closer to Cleo, saying softly, “Look after Gwen and Daphne for me.”
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. As dry as things were and if the winds were right, a fire could sweep through Bethlehem Springs in a flash. Cleo would have to be alert to the danger and take the other women away if the fire spread toward town.
Morgan and Woody followed her father out the door.
“Take care,” she called after them.
Daphne turned from the windows. “I’m sure they’ll have it out in no time.”
“I hope you’re right.” Cleo drew a deep breath, trying to calm her jangled nerves. “But I’ve seen what a firestorm can do. Not that many years ago it burned Glen Hollow, a little town to the east, clean to the ground. We’d better all be praying it doesn’t do the same thing here.”
“Mrs. McKinley?” The housekeeper appeared in the doorway to the front parlor. “Dinner is ready. Will you be sitting down soon?”
“The men had to leave, Mrs. Cheevers,” Gwen answered. “The lightning has started a fire.”
Alarm widened the woman’s eyes. “In town?”
Cleo answered, “No. I’d say it’s a couple or three miles to the south.” She glanced at her sister. “We probably should eat without them, Gwen. No telling when they’ll be back.” Silently, she added, Who knows when we’ll get to eat again, if worst comes to worst.
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“I don’t think I could eat a bite.”
Above the noise of the wind, they heard the alarm bell ringing from the firehouse.
“Let’s give it a try anyway. You’ve got a baby there who needs nourishing. Besides, there’s no point in the food going to waste.” Cleo motioned for Gwen and Daphne to precede her out of the room. Her plan was to get them both seated in the dining room, eat a few bites, then slip away to observe the fire from an upstairs window.
Following Morgan’s instructions, Sherwood galloped his horse along the road that led into the mountains to the southwest of Bethlehem Springs, looking for the occasional cabin and calling out warnings to any inhabitants. The wind blew hard into his face. Not a good sign. It meant the fire would continue to push north. When he reached the end of the road, he turned and rode hard back the way he’d come.
As he neared the town, he saw something falling from the sky that resembled dirty snow. Ash from the fire. There had been times it had fallen just like this on the battlefields of France, often for days at a time.
He kicked the gelding hard with his left heel. Minutes later, he rounded a bend in the road and the Baptist church came into view. Then he saw the billows of black smoke rolling into Bethlehem Springs and heard men shouting instructions. He rode on, looking for somewhere he could be of help.
He turned the bay onto Shenandoah Street and rode past the Methodist church and the schoolhouse. He was at the corner of Shenandoah and Wallula when he saw the fire truck. Firemen and volunteers were wetting down the roofs of the houses on this southern most end of town, hoping to defeat any hot embers the wind carried there. Others were leading away horses and carrying possessions out of houses, in case the efforts of those fighting the fire failed.
Sherwood dismounted and tied his horse to a picket fence. Then he hurried as fast as his leg allowed toward the fire truck. He slapped a hand onto the shoulder of the nearest fireman.
“How can I help?”
“We’ve got men over the hill there, clearing brush and trees, trying to make a fire break. They could use you.”
He started off without a word.
“Better cover your nose and mouth with a kerchief,” the fireman shouted. “The air’s even worse yonder.”
Sherwood didn’t have a large enough kerchief to tie around his head, but he didn’t bother to say so. He would have to get by the best he could. He had a feeling that every able-bodied man was needed as quickly as possible.
Pain shot up his right leg as he climbed the hillside. Twice he stumbled and fell to his knee. Ash continued to rain down upon his head, and it felt to Sherwood like a blanket of doom. He hadn’t endured this kind of fear since the day he’d charged out of the trench, shouting some sort of battle cry along with his comrades, and believed his life was about to end.
“If You’re really up there, God, if You listen to prayers like the priests and reverends say You do, then I hope You will heed all the prayers that are going up to You now.”
At the top of the hill, he got a perfect view of the forest fire as it raced toward Bethlehem Springs, moving in a V, widening its path as it came closer. God help them if it jumped the fire break that was being carved out of the earth below where he stood. Without rain, it almost certainly would.
“I can’t stay here another minute,” Daphne said. “I must go home. There are things I must save, things that can’t be replaced.”
Gwen placed a hand on her sister-in-law’s shoulder. “Your house is too near the fire line.”
“I don’t care. I must save what I can.”
Cleo saw the worry in Gwen’s face, heard it in her voice. “I’ll go with Daphne. We’ll get as many of her things out as we can. And in the meantime, you put together whatever you might want to take with you up to the resort, just in case we have to evacuate.” She motioned toward the door. “Let’s go, Daphne.”
They ran to the buggy. The horse shied and tried to bolt, no doubt frightened by the wind and the noise and the smell of fire in the air. Cleo grabbed the reins close to the bit and quieted the animal while Daphne hopped into the buggy. Then she joined her, slapping the reins against the horse’s rump. “Giddup there!” The horse would have broken into a run if not for Cleo’s tight grip.
Most Sundays, Bethlehem Springs was a quiet place. Not so now. Today people—mostly women, children, and the elderly—were loading up wagons, preparing to leave if the fire reached the edge of town. Cleo had to slow the horse as she weaved the buggy from one side of the street to another to miss wagons and buggies and wheelbarrows.
Straight ahead, beyond that last block of houses, there was a hill. And beyond that hill, a growing inferno threatened to devour Bethlehem Springs. It roared and huffed like a dragon in ancient legends, spewing out thick smoke that stung her eyes and her throat. God Almighty, save us.
“Turn here!” Daphne cried, fear sharpening her voice.
Cleo knew this town like the back of her hand, but things looked different in the odd, smoky light of midday. She guided the horse around the corner and up to the white picket fence in front of the small brick house. Daphne’s feet hit the ground before the buggy was fully stopped. Cleo secured the reins and then followed her friend.
“What do you want me to get?” she called as she entered the house.
“My jewelry,” Daphne replied from the room she used for an office. “It belonged to my mother and I couldn’t bear to lose it. It’s in the box on my dresser.”
Cleo hurried into the bedroom and grabbed the jewelry box. Then she decided to take some dresses from the wardrobe. No use having room in her arms when she could just as easily fill them up. By the time she was out of the room, Daphne was there, lugging a suitcase. From the way she carried it, it was obviously heavy.
“What’s in there?”
“Journals and books. Lots of them.”
Of all the things Daphne could rescue, a bunch of books didn’t seem all that important. What about the silver service and fine china? What about that painting that hung over the sofa, the one Daphne said she’d bought in Italy?
Outside, Cleo dropped the gowns and jewelry box into the back of the buggy, then took the suitcase from Daphne and tossed it on top of the other items. “Anything else?”
“I’d better not take more. Gwen will have things she needs too.”
Cleo looked around, undecided if she should encourage Daphne to go back inside one more time. That’s when she saw Woody’s horse, tied to a fence at the end of the block. In that instant, she realized there was nothing more important than finding him and making certain he wasn’t in danger. If the worst happened and the fire reached town, she needed to make certain he got away to safety. He was, after all, still a greenhorn. He would need her…and she would need him.
“Daphne, take the buggy back to Morgan’s house. Get Gwen, and the two of you head up to New Hope. If she tries to say she can’t go because she’s the mayor, remind her she has a baby to think about. And for pity’s sake, tell the staff to get out of town too. Take them with you to the spa.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She took off running, down Wallula onto Shenandoah and straight to Jefferson Street, where firemen were spraying rooftops with water. Thank God for the new hoses. They’d been one of the first purchases Gwen had seen to as mayor.
She scanned the area for a glimpse of her father, Morgan, or Woody. Woody’s horse was only a block away. He was on foot. He must be nearby.
Seeing the fire chief, she ran toward him. “Mr. Spooner! Have you seen my father or Morgan?” The chief might not know Woody or she would have asked after him as well.
Chief Spooner barely glanced at her. “Over the ridge.” Then to one of the men handling a hose, he shouted, “Stay on that, Mason.”
Cleo turned and started up the hillside. Hell must be like this, full of soot and smoke and noise and heat and fear. Her lungs ached as if she’d run a mile. Her eyes watered, and her throat felt like raw meat in a grinder.
Whe
n she reached the hilltop, she stopped to survey the activity below. It looked as if every man who could walk—at least all those who weren’t helping the fire department in town—was down there. Trees were being felled; several teams of horses dragged them away while another team pulled a plow, turning under grass and brush, making a wide swath of land that was barren of fuel for the flames. In the ash and confusion it was impossible to distinguish one man from another.
Part of her wanted to go down and lend a hand. She was strong enough. Couldn’t be harder than busting a bronc. Another part of her knew she should go back and look after Gwen and Daphne, as she’d promised Morgan she would. But surely they were preparing to leave for the spa. Wouldn’t discovering that Morgan and their dad were okay be another way of helping Gwen?
And Woody. She wanted to know that Woody was okay as well. She had to know.
She pressed her neckerchief to her nose and mouth and started down the hillside.
Sherwood gave the heavy chain a yank to make certain it was secure. Then he waved for the man driving the team to drag away the fallen tree. He turned to see where he was needed next and winced as pain shot up his leg into the small of his back. But there was no stopping to rest. Not as long as the fire continued its swift march toward the town.
Through the haze of smoke, he thought he saw Cleo talking to someone at the bottom of the hill that separated the firebreak from the town. But it couldn’t be her. She was supposed to be with the other women. He squinted. It was Cleo. He would recognize that narrow frame anywhere.
He walked toward her as fast as his leg allowed, pulling down the borrowed kerchief he now wore. “Cleo!”
She turned, saw him, and hurried forward. “Woody. How can I help?”
“You can go back to the McKinley house.”
“I’m needed more here. Who’s giving orders?”
“Morgan asked you to look after his wife and sister. He told me.”
She stood a little taller. “Gwen and Daphne are preparing to go up to the spa right now. They may already be on the road. I’ve got two good arms and a strong back, and I want to protect this town as much as any man here.”
The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs Collection Page 37
