A sheepish grin grew on Todd’s tanned face. “Elliott.”
Anthony put his hand on Todd’s shoulder. “You’re sure?”
Todd nodded. “Yeah. I think he needs to fit in somewhere.”
A feeling Anthony couldn’t describe swept through him, making his chest tight and his pulse increase. Todd was right. Elliott did seem out of place. Anthony recognized the source of the tightness in his chest—sympathy. How many times had he felt out of place in his lifetime, being looked at differently because of his Mennonite faith? But if his men included Elliott and made him feel welcome the way he knew they would, then—best of all—they’d have the chance to expose him to their Savior.
He gave Todd a clap on the shoulder and turned toward the waiting men. “Let’s go tell him.”
21
Kansas City
Brooke
What would they tell her? Brooke tucked her thumbs inside her fists to keep herself from chewing on her nails—she’d already ruined her manicure—and tried to relax in the stiff vinyl chair. Another vinyl chair in yet another doctor’s office. At least no institutional blue or stark white glared at her from the walls. Imitation Monet paintings in soft pastels hung on the dove-gray background. Soothing colors. A vast improvement. But she still couldn’t bring her racing pulse under control. How she hated this fear. Hated it as much, maybe even more, than the thing causing it.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if last night’s dream came true? She tipped her head back and replayed the snippet behind her closed eyelids. The doctor comes in smiling sheepishly, tosses a folder in a gigantic dumpster in the corner, and says, “There’s been a mistake, Ms. Spalding. You don’t have cancer at all. Go on your way and be happy.” And she turns cartwheels all the way up the hall to the sunshine- and rainbow-laden outdoors.
Sighing, she opened her eyes and returned to reality. Best-case scenario was surgery only. But she’d given up hope on that. Not if she really wanted to beat this thing. And she did. She wanted this stuff out of her body for good, so whatever they recommended medicinally, she would do. Whatever she found online nutritionally, she would do. She would meditate and do yoga and even shake beads in a gourd. She would fight as hard as she’d fought to break free of her deplorable childhood, to get through college without a lick of help from her mother, to build a successful career in a male-dominated field. Brooke Spalding was a fighter, and she would pummel this vile monster into the dust. As soon as her heart stopped pounding and she could get a good breath.
A light tap sounded, and then the door eased open. The oncologist, Dr. Dickerson, stepped in. She searched his face, hoping for a glimpse of the expression of “Whoops” she’d seen in her dream. Of course, it wasn’t there.
“Good afternoon, Brooke.” He dropped a fat manila envelope on the desk inside the door and held out his hand. She unfolded her fist to take it. They exchanged a brief handshake, and then he slipped his hand into one of the white lab coat’s patch pockets. The coat hung open, revealing his peach shirt and silk peach, cream, and aqua tie—more soothing colors. “Do you mind if an oncology resident sits in on our meeting? It’s your choice, but it’s a helpful part of their training.”
If bringing the entire staff into the room would make this go away, she’d let them all crowd in. She shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
He opened the door a little wider and quirked his finger, and a smiling young woman bounced into the room. Brooke recoiled from the woman’s teal, hot pink, and lemon-yellow Betty Boop scrubs. Her comical scrubs, too-cheerful smile, and perfect white teeth seemed an affront, given the circumstances.
The woman took Brooke’s hand in both of hers. “Thank you so much, Ms. Spalding. I’m Raquel McNichol, but you don’t need to worry about remembering my name. I’ll just sit over there in the corner and be as quiet as a mouse. Pay no attention to me at all.”
Then she’d have to change clothes and stop smiling, because the glare off her obnoxious scrubs and movie-star teeth was impossible to ignore. Brooke forced a smile. “That’s fine.” Raquel McNichol slid a wheeled stool to the corner and perched on it, as attentive as a hawk on a fence post. Brooke shifted her focus to the envelope Dr. Dickerson had carried in.
“Is that my battle strategy?”
A giggle came from the corner. Brooke fixed her gaze on the doctor and held it there.
“That’s a perfect way to put it.” His warm smile crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes and gave him the appearance of a kindly uncle. “It is a battle, but you aren’t facing it alone. You have an entire army of well-trained soldiers fighting with you. Remember that.”
Brooke swallowed acid and nodded. “So what’s the game plan?”
He sat on the second vinyl chair and linked his hands in his lap. For the next fifteen minutes, Brooke listened to him outline the treatment plan the oncology team had tailored specifically to her situation. Although the doctor’s words could be construed as clinical and cold, his tone was professional and kind. Even so, Brooke fought the urge to screech at the top of her lungs the entire time he spoke. Would this fear be her companion every minute of the next several months?
When he finished, he slid the envelope from the desk. “I’ve given you a lot to absorb, and later you’ll probably scramble to remember it all.”
Apparently every patient who’d sat in this chair suffered anxiety-induced memory loss.
“Everything I’ve talked about is in this packet, along with instructions on how to prepare for the surgery and several pages of Q and A addressing the most common queries people have about the hospital stay, the treatments, and what to expect during and after.” He handed her the envelope. “If you have other questions or need clarification on something, feel free to call here during regular office hours. There’s also a number that will link you to a twenty-four-hour hotline if something pressing comes up and you need to talk to someone after hours.”
Brooke hugged the packet to her chest. Knowing someone was only a phone call away should ease her worries, but her heart still pounded like a child’s fist on a toy drum. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He stood, and she rose on quaking legs. He cupped her upper arm. “We’ll see you back bright and early on the twelfth for your surgery.”
Her mouth went dry. Only four days away. She’d have to be as industrious as the Mennonite workers to finalize all the arrangements for her move to Spalding. She nodded. “All right.”
Raquel “Betty Boop” McNichol bounded from the corner and captured Brooke’s hand. “Thank you again, Ms. Spalding, for letting me be here. Good luck on your surgery and treatment. But you won’t need luck, because you’ve got the best team in the whole state of Kansas.”
Brooke withdrew her hand. “Will you assist with the operation?”
The woman shook her head, making her blond-streaked ponytail swing. “No. I can’t yet. But I’ll be in the observation deck, watching the procedure. And I’ll cheer for you the whole time.”
Brooke imagined Raquel hopping around, waving pink and yellow pom-poms. Thank goodness for anesthesia. She’d be blissfully unaware of the cheering squad’s antics.
“One last thing…” Dr. Dickerson’s tone held an edge of apprehension. “I noticed in your file that you left the next-of-kin lines blank.”
“That’s right.” Brooke forced a blitheness she didn’t feel. “I’m not married, I’ve never met my father, I have no siblings, and I’m estranged from my mother.”
Raquel affected a pouty face and patted Brooke’s shoulder.
Brooke gritted her teeth and resisted shrugging the hand away.
The doctor frowned. “Is there someone we could contact in case you’re unable to speak or respond to questions?”
At least he hadn’t said “in case you die on the table.” Acid stung her throat, and she swallowed twice. “I have a friend who has agreed to bring me to appointments and so forth. I
could give you her name.”
“Please share the information with the receptionist on your way out.” He opened the door and gave her another wise-uncle smile. “Goodbye, Brooke.”
Miss Betty Boop chirped, “Have a good day!”
Brooke headed out the door, commending herself for holding back a sarcastic, Yeah, right.
Eagle Creek
Marty
Marty turned the hot-water spigot and glanced out the window above the kitchen sink. She gave a start. After a week at the ghost town, she’d finally adjusted to seeing a tall iron fence with a row of bushes and thick trees behind it instead of her Pine Hill backyard, but now the scenery had changed again. The newest trailer, which had been delivered that morning and set up on cinder blocks rather than on a poured foundation, obstructed her previous view. Too many changes in such a short amount of time. But the changes she was facing were minimal compared to all that Brooke was enduring.
While Marty rinsed pans, utensils, and plates and stacked them in the dishwasher, the entire team of men plus Brooke and Charlotte sat at the dining room table, visiting and enjoying the chocolate cake Charlotte had baked for dessert. As soon as they finished the cake and coffee and Marty had all the cups and dessert plates loaded, she and Brooke would return to Brooke’s trailer. After tomorrow’s surgery, Brooke wouldn’t feel like arranging furniture or organizing cupboards and closets, so even if it meant staying up late into the night, they intended to find a place for all the belongings delivered today by the moving company Brooke had hired.
Marty still marveled at everything Brooke had accomplished in the past few days. Her drooping shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes told a story of exhaustion, but not once had Brooke complained or lashed out or shed a single tear. Marty thought it would benefit Brooke to have a good meltdown and had even told her so, but Brooke brushed off Marty’s suggestion with a flip of her hand and an equally flippant “It’d be a waste of time, and I don’t have time to waste.” Marty hoped Brooke was referring to the limited hours remaining until tomorrow’s surgery instead of limited days remaining in her life.
She placed the last dish in the tray, and Charlotte eased past her and picked up the percolator staying warm on a stove burner. Charlotte leaned close to Marty, her eyes wide. “Did you hear what Elliott just said?”
Marty hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation, but it pleased her that Elliott had said something worth repeating. The new man on the team had said little more than “thank you” since his arrival. She shook her head.
“When him and Todd went to their trailer to clean up for supper, the package of peanut butter crackers he’d left on his nightstand for snacking was gone. Then they looked around, and their bread, cheese, and baloney weren’t in the fridge anymore.”
Marty’s heart skipped a beat. She hurried over to Anthony. “Someone broke into Todd and Elliott’s trailer?”
Anthony slid his arm around her waist. “We can’t call it breaking in because the door wasn’t locked, but yes, someone apparently went in and helped himself to some food.” His tone was light, but his creased brow let Marty know the situation worried him.
Brooke folded her arms over her chest. “So much for my ten-thousand-dollar fence keeping out riffraff.”
Marty gasped, and Charlotte froze with the percolator held above Nate’s coffee cup. The younger woman’s blue eyes widened. “You paid ten thousand dollars for a fence?”
“And a coded electric gate. Don’t forget the coded electric gate.” Brooke’s expression seemed especially grim with the purplish circles under her eyes. “Yes, I did, because I wanted the area secure.” Brooke turned a disgusted look on Anthony. “How could someone scale that thing? There are only two horizontal bars, one six inches from the ground and one six inches from the top. That means a five-foot reach in between them. The iron pickets are three-quarters of an inch in diameter. Nobody could bend those things. I had the pickets set five inches apart, which is too narrow for even a child to slip between, and I paid extra for a high-gloss coating to make them slick—no traction. Even if someone did manage to reach the top, they’d have to deal with the pointed finials in order to get over it.”
Anthony’s fingers tightened on Marty’s waist. “You chose everything right. I wouldn’t try to climb it.”
Marty envisioned the arrow-shaped finials and shuddered. “Neither would I.”
Brooke snorted. “The salesman assured me the spikes would discourage trespassers. I’m going to give him a call and let him know he misled me.”
“I wouldn’t do that yet.” Nate took the percolator from his wife and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’m not so sure someone climbed the fence. I think…” He looked at Myron as if asking permission, and Myron gave a quick nod. Nate sighed. “Maybe when you built the fence, you closed somebody in. Myron and me did some exploring yesterday after church, and we found a pile of old blankets, a bunch of tin cans, and what looked like the remains of a small fire in one of the houses farthest away from the main street.”
Lucas sat forward. “You did? I wish I’d gone with you instead of staying behind and playing checkers with Todd.”
Anthony released Marty and frowned across the table. “Why didn’t you say something then?”
Nate shrugged. “I didn’t really think much about it until Elliott started talking about somebody going into their trailer and taking food. Then it made me wonder if there could be a homeless person camping on the property.”
Brooke huffed. “If they’ve claimed one of the old houses, they aren’t homeless anymore.”
Nate took a sip from his cup, grimaced, and reached for the sugar bowl. “The person would be able to leave and get food someplace else if the fence wasn’t up. But now that it is and we’re all here, they’re kind of…trapped.”
Todd snapped his fingers. “Do you think it’s the same person who took those hamburger patties last week?”
A chill rattled Marty’s frame. “Then he was right outside our door.” Did someone hide in the bushes and watch her when she hung clothes on the line or carried snacks to the men? She reached for Anthony. “This frightens me.”
He caught hold of her hand and squeezed. “No sense in getting scared yet. We don’t know for sure someone’s living on the property.”
“But we don’t know they aren’t, either.” Brooke’s comment did little to reassure Marty. “Anthony, when you go to town next, use the credit card I gave you and buy security bars, padlocks, and several sheets of plywood. I’ll hire some men to come out and board up the windows and put locks on the doors of the remaining houses. The last thing we need is for Spalding to become a squatters’ village.”
Anthony ran his thumb back and forth on Marty’s hand. She sensed it was a nervous gesture, but she took comfort from his touch anyway. “Just to be safe, I think we’d better lock the trailers when we’re away from them. And you ladies”—he glanced from Marty to Charlotte to Brooke—“keep the door locked behind you when you’re by yourselves. The men and I will start coming back here for our morning and afternoon snacks instead of having you bring the treats to the worksite. At least until we’re satisfied there isn’t a stranger lurking around.” He stood, still holding Marty’s hand. “I’ll go over to Brooke’s trailer with you. It’ll likely be dark before you’re done helping her get settled, and I don’t want you walking back here by yourself.”
She’d walked from one edge of Pine Hill to the other—more than a mile one way—by herself without a moment’s hesitation. Only fifteen feet separated the two trailers. She should tell him she and Brooke would be fine, that he didn’t need to treat them like helpless children. But in that moment, she couldn’t find the courage to travel to Brooke’s front door without Anthony’s protection.
She clung to his hand. “Thanks.”
22
Kansas City
Marty
“Why are you nervous?”
Marty shot a startled look at Charlotte. The two of them had chosen a pair of chairs in a small waiting room set aside for family members of patients undergoing surgery. They had the room to themselves, which Marty appreciated. She also appreciated Charlotte’s company so she didn’t have to wait alone during the two to three hours Brooke would be in an operating room. But she didn’t appreciate the question that held a note of admonition.
“It’s pretty hard not to be. Brooke looked so helpless…” Marty closed her eyes, remembering the lines trailing from Brooke’s hand, the paper cap covering her hair, the paleness of her skin. And the fear that seemed to pulsate from her friend. She opened her eyes and glared at the younger woman. “There are all kinds of risks when someone has surgery. And think about why she’s having it. She has cancer. That in itself is enough to make me nervous.”
Charlotte’s expression remained puzzled. “But we all prayed before we came. We put Brooke in God’s hands. We shouldn’t worry, because what better place is there for her to be?”
“Worry’s a waste of time.” Without warning, Great-Grandma Lois’s gentle admonition tiptoed through Marty’s memory. One of the farm dogs—Pepper or Jack?—had run off during the night, and Marty feared he wouldn’t return. She’d sobbed out her concern to Great-Grandma, expecting consolation. Great-Grandma had tenderly stroked Marty’s hair, an act of sympathy, but she hadn’t minced words. “It don’t solve anything. Just gives you indigestion. So don’t make worry a habit. If you’re gonna have a habit, let it be trusting the Lord, do you hear me, Martha Grace?”
Marty rose and paced to the opposite side of the room, a feeble attempt to escape her great-grandmother’s instruction. She prepared a cup of coffee—two sugars, powdered creamer, a sprinkle of cinnamon. She had no intention of drinking it, but it gave her something to do.
“We put Brooke in God’s hands.” Charlotte’s statement stung because Marty wasn’t part of the “we.” Not since her demand for God to take her away from Pine Hill had she sent up another prayer. She held Anthony’s hand when he prayed every morning and at bedtime. She bowed her head at the table when one of the men blessed the food. She sat reverently in the church pew when the minister or one of the leaders from the Southern Baptist church they attended in Lansing prayed out loud. But she hadn’t added her prayers early this morning when the entire team formed a circle and prayed for Brooke before the women set out for Kansas City. Great-Grandma Lois would be so disappointed that Marty hadn’t put Brooke in God’s hands, but she’d put her desire for motherhood in God’s hands and He’d crumbled it to dust. Why would she trust Him with her friend?
Ours for a Season Page 17
