Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)

by Margaret Brownley

  “And I have a new practice.”

  “I guess that’s the answer, then.” She looked away. “Neither of us can afford to be distracted.”

  “Drat, Molly! Why are you making things so difficult?”

  She stared up at him. “You’re the one making things difficult. My life is the ranch now and I can’t think of anything else.”

  He grabbed her by the wrist, startling her. “Because I can’t give you what you have here?”

  “This ranch is Donny’s security. He’ll never want for a thing. He’ll always have a home.”

  “He’ll always have a home with me.” Caleb released her. “You both will. That is, if you will have me.”

  She stared at him. “You . . . you can’t mean that.”

  “I mean it,” he said.

  Momentarily speechless, she shook her head. “You have no idea what you’re saying. After my brother’s accident my parents . . . it broke them apart. Things were never the same between them.”

  Many were the nights she huddled beneath a blanket and tried to drown out their angry voices. “The strain of caring for Donny was too much for them. It’s too much for most everyone. That’s why so many people like Donny end up in asylums or begging on the street.”

  “Molly,” he said, gently but firmly, as if to draw her thoughts out of the pocket of hurt she carried inside. “I’m a doctor. I know what I’m getting myself into.”

  “Do you? Do you really know? You see Donny a few hours a week. That’s not the same as living with him day in and day out.”

  “Then let me learn firsthand what it’s like to live with him.”

  “What?”

  He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Let him come and stay with me. Give me a week to see what it’s really like.”

  Stunned by this proposal, she had a hard time finding her voice. “That’s . . . a ridiculous idea. You could never . . . your work as a doctor . . .”

  “If I can’t manage for a week, then I have no right to ask for anything more.”

  She shook her head and he dropped his arms to his sides.

  “Unless,” he said, “there’s another reason you won’t let me help. The other night . . . you said you would never forgive yourself.”

  “How can I?”

  “So you’re punishing yourself by pushing me away.”

  “That’s not true.” She wasn’t punishing herself, was she? There he went again, confusing her, making her doubt her own motives. “It’s all about Donny,” she whispered. “It will always be about Donny.”

  That was only half of it; she wanted to protect Caleb as much as Donny, protect the fragile stirrings of love she felt for this man.

  She’d watched her parents’ affection shrivel up and die. She saw what it did to her father, the nights he stumbled home and collapsed in an alcoholic stupor. Saw what it did to her mother, the bitterness and withdrawal. Looking back at her parents, she saw the future, saw what would happen if she and Caleb were to marry. It nearly broke her heart. She couldn’t do that to him. To the two of them. Wouldn’t.

  He stepped back, his expression hard as stone. “I can tear down most of the barriers you keep putting between us. But your guilt . . . I don’t know that I can fight that. I don’t know that any man can.”

  He spun around and walked away. She watched him go until blinded by tears.

  Chapter 28

  Molly kneeled in front of the wheelchair and pulled off Donny’s shoe, her mind a thousand miles away. “He’ll always have a home with me. You both will.”

  “Molly!”

  She jumped. “Why are you yelling?” She started on his other shoe.

  Donny gave her an accusatory look. “Because you’re not listening to me.”

  “I am listening to you.” She stood and rustled through a bureau drawer for his nightclothes. “You asked me . . .” Her mind drew a blank.

  “Told you so,” he said, frowning. He repeated the question. “Why are Hereford cattle more profitable than Longhorns?”

  “Because they have shorter horns,” she said, purposely giving him a wrong answer.

  He made a face. “Come on, Molly. You gotta learn this stuff.”

  She flung his nightclothes on the bed and sat, arms folded. “I don’t want to know about cattle. I hate them. They’re smelly and dumb, and I’d much rather work with horses.” She dreaded riding the range and rounding up cattle, hated even the thought of branding them.

  Donny frowned. “You better not let Miss Walker hear you say that.” He inched his wheelchair closer to her. “When you take over the ranch I’ll help you, Molly, I promise.”

  “When I take over?” He made it sound so simple. “And how do you propose to help me?”

  “You’re terrible with numbers, so I’ll handle the books. I’ll also negotiate with cattle buyers. All you’ll have to do is tell the ranch hands what to do.”

  His enthusiasm made her smile. Never had she known him to sound so positive about the future and it did her heart good. “You have it all planned, don’t you?”

  He tapped his finger on his book. “Now will you settle down and learn this stuff?”

  She stretched out on the bed and raised herself on her elbow. “Hereford cattle are more profitable because they mature earlier than Longhorns.” Instead of satisfying him, her answer only seemed to encourage his questions and he continued to bombard her until her head felt ready to explode.

  Caleb drove out to the old Madison place to check on a patient. Madison was a miner and sulfuric acid seeping from a silver mine had eaten away the flesh on his leg. After applying fresh bandages, Caleb headed for the Trotter place.

  Jimmy and his family lived on a small farm a couple of miles north of town. He pulled in front of one of the few wood-framed houses in the area, scattering chickens in every direction, and turned off the motor. One of the Trotter girls walked out of the red barn carrying a bucket. She stopped in front of Bertha and stared at Caleb before hurrying to the house.

  Jimmy’s father threw down his hoe and sauntered over to where Caleb parked. A grizzled man in denim overalls, his sunbaked flesh was carved by wind and sand. He spit out a wad of chewing tobacco before placing a calloused hand on Bertha’s frame and leaning over to look Caleb square in the face.

  “The wife said Jimmy has some sort of cancer.”

  Caleb recoiled inwardly at the man’s stale breath, a combination of tobacco and whiskey. “It’s called leukemia and I’ll do everything possible—”

  “Jimmy’s my only boy.” Trotter pointed a finger at Caleb’s nose. “Don’t let anything happen to him, you hear!” He spun around and walked away.

  Caleb watched until he vanished into the barn. Was that a plea from a worried father or a covert threat? It was hard to know. He jumped to the ground, grabbed his black case from the back of the car, and hastened to the house. Mrs. Trotter stood at the door waiting for him.

  The front room was small and sparsely furnished with only a sagging leather divan and a cot stacked with folded clothes. Books were piled neatly in a corner and a hat rack stood guard by the door.

  Jimmy looked less pale—a good sign. It indicated the medicine was working, but he still seemed lethargic and alarmingly thin.

  Mrs. Trotter hovered nearby as Caleb examined him, wringing her hands. “He won’t eat.”

  “Do you like ice cream?” Caleb asked.

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Miss Lily’s has the best ice cream you ever tasted.” Miss Lily ran the café located in the hotel. “Have your mother take you there and eat as much as you want.” He glanced up at Mrs. Trotter. “The treat’s on me.”

  Moments later Mrs. Trotter walked him to the door. “Thank you.”

  Caleb nodded. “I mean it about the ice cream. See if you can get some fat on those bones. The tonic should take care of nutrition.”

  She followed him outside. “Doctor . . .” She hesitated. “My husband . . . he’s not taking this well. The day he found out about Jimmy
’s illness, he drove to town and got drunk. The marshal has brought him home twice since.”

  Caleb glanced at Trotter hoeing the ground with the same intent a man might use in digging a grave. “Would you like me to ask Reverend Bland to talk to him?”

  Mrs. Trotter shook her head. “Harvey and the Lord haven’t seen eye to eye for a good many years. Not since his pa was killed in that awful war. If that wasn’t bad enough, his ma and two brothers died from malaria. I’m afraid he’s given up on God altogether.”

  “That doesn’t mean God has given up on him.”

  “But if he can’t even pray—”

  Caleb patted her on the arm. “Then it’s up to us to pray for him.”

  She looked up at him with liquid eyes. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Caleb walked to his car with a troubled mind and a heavy heart. It wasn’t just his conversation with Mrs. Trotter that had him worried. It was a nagging feeling that refused to go away.

  Something didn’t set right. Jimmy’s lack of fever . . . was that it? Everyone reacted differently to disease, but everything he read listed fever as a symptom of leukemia. What if his diagnosis was wrong? What if it was something else?

  He drove back to town so slowly that he stalled out twice. The second time he sat in the car, thinking. The wind had picked up and whirlwinds of sand cut across the desert floor and turned the sky gray. Magic held his face to the wind, fur ruffled and ears pinned back.

  Caleb drummed his fingers upon the dash. What kind of a doctor was he? He couldn’t do much for Jimmy and he certainly didn’t know how to help the boy’s parents. If Mr. Trotter’s sudden drinking binges were any indication, Jimmy’s illness had already taken a toll on the family.

  “After my brother’s accident, my parents . . . it broke them apart.”

  Molly insisted that Donny would come between the two of them. Now that he could see firsthand how illness affected a family, he better understood her concerns.

  Why did adversity bring some families closer and split others apart? It was a question very much on his mind as he drove the rest of the way to town.

  Molly was surprised—shocked, really—when Caleb showed up that morning to drive her and Donny to church as if nothing had happened between them. It had been nearly two weeks since they last spoke.

  He grinned and her heart did a flip-flop. “Caleb—”

  He held up his hand. “Are you coming with me or not?”

  It was the last place she wanted to go, but before she could reply, he brushed past her, hat in hand.

  “Where’s Donny?”

  “In there,” she said, pointing to the large room where she’d left Donny moments earlier.

  Caleb greeted her brother with a smile. “I came to take you and your sister to church.”

  Donny didn’t even bother to look up from his book. “I’m not going.”

  Caleb glanced at Molly as if to ask what happened.

  “Donny, don’t be rude.” Embarrassed, she spread her hands in apology. “I’m sorry. Donny has been in the worst possible mood lately and I have no idea why. I’m afraid you traveled all this way for nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Caleb’s gaze clung to hers and her pulse skittered. “I’m sure Donny won’t mind staying home alone. We’ll be back by noon.”

  She shook her head. “I—”

  “You’ll feel better, trust me,” he coaxed.

  No, she wouldn’t. Church always made her feel like an outsider. She’d much rather worship God away from prying eyes. Still, escaping her brother’s ill humor—if only for a couple of hours— was tempting.

  “Just . . . give me a few minutes.” Avoiding Donny’s gaze, she left the room. She paused at the bottom of the stairs and wiped damp hands alongside her divided skirt. It was church that made her feel jittery—nothing more. But even the thought of all those people staring and whispering didn’t spoil her eagerness at spending time with Caleb. With girlish anticipation she took the stairs two at a time.

  She flung open the wardrobe in her room and pulled out the brightest, most attention-getting frock she owned. With a start she caught herself.

  It would just be her and Caleb. No need to worry about protecting Donny from prying eyes. Today she could be herself. She hung the dress back onto its wooden peg and chose the blue one. Giving it a critical eye, she reached for her sewing scissors and snipped off the froufrou. Without all the ruches the dress looked more sedate—or at least as sedate as the bright blue color allowed. Next she worked on the hat, pulling feathers off the upturned brim and leaving only a single bow on the crown.

  After dressing, she reached for her face powder, but a quick glance in the mirror told her it was unnecessary. The prospect of spending time with Caleb had put a flush on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. No paint was necessary.

  Church that Sunday was standing room only. Molly had never seen so many people in attendance. Caleb found a place for them to stand by a stained-glass window, next to Lula-Belle.

  Molly greeted the older woman. “What’s going on?”

  Lula-Belle glowered, her springy curls shaking along with the feathers of her hat. “My sister is at it again. She got the saloons to close last night and the saloon keepers agreed to stay closed until after church. Thanks to Bessie’s meddling way, I can’t even find a place to sit. When she gets something in her fool head, there’s no stopping her.”

  Caleb leaned sideways to whisper in Molly’s ear. “What you see are a bunch of sober men praying that the saloons will be open by the time church is over.”

  Molly giggled, which only made Lula-Belle frown more. Composing herself she said, “I can’t believe the saloon owners agreed to Aunt Bessie’s demands.” Nothing like that would ever happen in Dobson Creek. Even after the fire, men lined up in front of makeshift saloons. The town was in ruins but whiskey remained king. “It was hard enough getting them to close on the eve of the wedding.”

  Lula-Belle tossed her head with a huff. “It didn’t help that you two were in cahoots.”

  “I did give her a few pointers,” Molly admitted.

  Caleb nudged her with his elbow. “A few, eh?”

  “More than a few,” Lula-Belle said. “Thanks to you, my sister now looks like a loose woman with all that paint she wears.”

  “I think she looks quite lovely.” Molly had grown quite fond of the woman. Aunt Bessie was one of the few people who treated Donny like a real person.

  “You would,” Lula-Belle muttered. She moved away, pushing past others standing by the wall, and took her place on the opposite side.

  Molly watched her go. It was hard to believe she and Aunt Bessie were related. “She should be happy her sister is wearing commercial paint rather than homemade. I knew some girls in Dobson Creek who got sick from using paint made from zinc oxide, mercury, and lead.”

  Caleb frowned. “Mercury and lead are dangerous, but a combination can be lethal.”

  She knew that now. “One of the dance hall girls died. No one knew why. She just got anemic and complained about headaches.”

  Caleb’s eyes sharpened. “How did you know she died from face paint?”

  “I didn’t. Not at first. Even the doctors didn’t know what killed her. Then I read a newspaper article warning women about the dangers of homemade cosmetics. It described symptoms similar to what my friend had and I just assumed—”

  “What kind of symptoms?” Caleb asked.

  His brusque, abrupt question surprised her. “She got very pale and thin and—”

  Caleb stopped her with a hand to her arm. “I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked, but already he’d left her side and was weaving his way to the door. She stared after him, not sure what she’d said wrong.

  Caleb rushed from the church to his office. The town looked deserted. It seemed strange to see the hitching posts in front of the saloons empty.

  Magic jumped up to greet him. “Down, boy.”

  One by one h
e pulled books off the shelves, flipping through the pages until he found the table of contents.

  Could Jimmy have mercury poisoning? Mercury, or quicksilver as it was sometimes called, was the only known metal that liquefied at room temperatures. If that was the culprit, how could an eightyear-old become exposed? His father was a farmer, not a hatter or gold refiner, professions known to create a high level of mercury poisoning.

  What about lead?

  He thumbed through the tomes, running his finger down pages until he found what he sought.

  One line jumped up at him: “Lead or its salts can often be taken into the system unawares.” The article went on to explain the danger of lead pipes or reservoirs. Lead could also be ingested through paint, or preserved vegetables and fruits that came in contact with the soldered joints of tin cans.

  The symptoms included headaches, anemia, and stomach complaints. Lead poisoning was known since Roman times. Some even thought it was the bottom of the mystery disease that affected so many inner-city children.

  He left the book open on his desk and paced back and forth, hands behind his back. Could Jimmy have lead poisoning? He had all the symptoms. Still, how did an eight-year-old boy ingest lead? And why didn’t the other family members show similar signs?

  He shook his head. He was grasping at straws, looking for a ray of hope for Jimmy’s parents.

  Still, the boy’s symptoms were more consistent with lead poisoning than leukemia.

  What could Jimmy be doing differently than other family members? Something . . . it had to be something—but what? All he knew was that time was running out. God help him!

  Chapter 29

  Caleb returned just as Reverend Bland gave the closing prayer. Molly glanced at him before lowering her head. Even now his nearness made her heart beat faster, and she ached at the memory of being in his arms.

  God, lead me from temptation. Make me strong so that I might do right by my brother. Help me be patient and less resentful. Please, God, help me.