Winter's End

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “Why?”

  “Wives and old girlfriends are an odd mix, Macklin. Oil and water. Can’t possibly work.”

  “It can if you know Sarah.”

  Marc frowned. “I know Sarah. What’s that got to do with—”

  Craig interrupted, laughing. “Housed in the lowest level of my well-mortgaged country home are three lambs that needed warming, a barn cat due to deliver and a nephew who is rapidly becoming a dedicated farmer like his aunt.” When Marc looked confused, Craig punched his arm. “Sarah’s good with strays. Kayla fits right in.”

  Marc pictured the feisty nurse. “Are we talking about the same woman?” He met Craig’s eye and raised a hand shoulder level. “So high, short blond hair, big blue eyes, crazy shoes and an attitude that barrels into next week?”

  Craig’s brow shifted up in interest. “Sounds like the same girl to me. She’s good at her job, Marc.” He shook his head, his face out-turned. “That doesn’t mean we’re solid inside. You know that.”

  They’d reached the west-facing door of the barn. Slanted beams from the early setting sun shone through the glass upper. Marc worked his jaw before facing Craig. “Life’s plenty full around here. Between Jess’s schedule and Dad’s illness keeping him up at night, the feed store, the cattle…” Marc shook his head. “I can’t imagine squeezing one more thing in.”

  “Some things don’t take space or time. They just make the rest easier to handle.”

  Craig was talking faith and fellowship. Marc refused to take the bait.

  Wasn’t it enough that he was taking Jess to services, standing by her side as their minister droned platitudes from a contradictory ancient book?

  Nope. He’d count on good fortune and hard work. They’d held him together so far. He opened the door and stepped into the last rays of daylight. “I appreciate you coming by. It would break Jess’s heart if anything happened to Grace. Or the foal,” he added.

  Craig clapped a hand to Marc’s shoulder. “Glad to do it. And you haven’t been over in a while. When can we expect you? Saturday?”

  Marc exhaled, his breath a cloud of ivory steam. “It’s tough, with Dad and all. I feel bad if I leave. And Sarah sounds busy enough.”

  “True on all counts. But you don’t want your dad to feel guilty about you hanging around, either. And I’m not averse to helping Sarah in the kitchen.” Marc’s look inspired Craig’s laugh. “Being nice in the kitchen brings rewards.”

  Marc hid a stab of envy.

  Craig was different now that he was a husband and father. Calmer. More focused. Was that because of marriage or his strengthened faith? Marc refused to ask. He dipped his chin. “Dad mentioned that this morning, how he hates to have us tied up, waiting.”

  “Come over on Saturday,” Craig urged. “Have supper, play with the baby.”

  A night away sounded good. Marc smiled. “Which one? The kittens, the lambs or the human?”

  “All of the above.” Craig’s tone was half teasing, half lament. “That’s what I get for marrying a sheep farmer. A personal petting zoo in the basement.”

  Marc laughed. “Not so bad, considering the sheep farmer.”

  Craig’s smile deepened. “No argument there. We’re good, then?”

  Marc hesitated.

  “It would give Jess a chance to have some private time with Pete.”

  He hadn’t thought of that, but Craig made a good point. It wouldn’t hurt for Jess to have Dad to herself for a while. And he wouldn’t mind an interruption in the constant round of casseroles the good women of the church seemed bent on providing. Marc nodded. “What time and what can I bring?”

  “Six, and don’t bring a thing. Let Sarah spoil you. It’ll make her day.”

  Marc surrendered, hands up, palms out. “I would love to be spoiled.”

  “Good.” Craig climbed into his car and started the engine before opening the window. “Tell Jess everything’s looking fine. She’s done well.”

  Grace and her foal were the end result of a 4-H project. The paint mare had won several ribbons with Jess as a mount, but this was her first breeding. First-time mothers were unpredictable, and Marc wanted to avoid more trauma right now. Their father’s illness was enough for Jess to handle. Having her big brother smooth the barn path was the least he could do.

  “Kayla? How’s your time frame?”

  Kayla groaned. “Why do I suddenly wish I’d taken a different route out of this place?”

  Christy smiled. “Ask the busy person…”

  “Or the last one out the door,” Kayla mused. “Whattya got?”

  Christy’s expression sobered. “A new intake in Gouverneur at one-thirty.”

  “Tricky to be in Norfolk at two if you’re in Gouverneur at half-past one.” Gouverneur and Norfolk were at opposite points of St. Lawrence County.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “If I do the two o’clock at Maeve Morris’s, you’re okay with the intake in the southern sector?”

  “Forever in your debt,” Christy declared. She held up a candy bar like the grand prize of a church raffle. “Would chocolate settle the issue?”

  “From your private stash in the dark gray filing cabinet marked ‘No unauthorized entry’?”

  Christy handed over the bar. “So much for private. Anyway, if you take Maeve, I’ll be clear for this. Who else do you have this afternoon?”

  “Mr. DeHollander, so it works out since he’s up that way,” Kayla told her. “I’ll see if I can back him off an hour. That will give me time with Maeve, then off to the beef farm, then back home to Potsdam. Keeps me in the northern quadrant for the afternoon.”

  “And we live in the largest geographic county in New York State because…?”

  “We love piling miles on our cars while we travel inhospitable backcountry roads for hours on end.” Kayla returned Christy’s chagrined smile and shrugged. “My answer’s simple. They pay me and forgave my student loans. Sweet deal, all around. What’s your excuse?”

  Christy winked. “Fell in love with a guy who thought the North Country was a great place to raise a family. I decided he was right.”

  Kayla leaned in. “Fifty states, Chris. I’m gonna go way out on a limb and wager there are other great places to raise kids.”

  Christy shrugged. “I’m sure there are. Heaven knows we get sick of winter up here about two-and-a-half months before it officially ends—”

  “In June,” Kayla spouted.

  There was no denying that. May nights got downright cold. Kayla tried not to picture her chilly living room, the comforter that was a mainstay on the couch for simple warmth. Christy grinned, noting, “Good snuggling weather.”

  “Since I’m single, I’ll take your word on that.” Kayla rolled her eyes, hefted her workbag and headed for the door.

  Chris’s voice followed her. “Romance hits when you least expect it, kiddo. You wanna hear God laugh? Tell Him your plans.”

  Biting her tongue, Kayla waved as she bumped her way out the door.

  Romance. Hello? Haven’t had a date in too many months to count. Definitely a downside to dealing with a primarily geriatric crowd.

  At the hospital she’d been surrounded by people her age. Well, okay, surrounded was generous. Canton-Potsdam Hospital was small, but well-run. A tidy operation, all told. The busyness there, nestled in Potsdam’s center, had provided her with the occasional flirtatious moment.

  Hospice? Not so much. She laughed at the differences as she climbed into her car. The car had chilled back to deep-freeze status, but the heater sprang to life easily this time. Kayla shot a look heavenward. “Thank You. And ignore what Christy said, okay? I’m not looking for anything up here. I’ve got a date with destiny coming up, and the one thing I can guarantee is that winters will be short or nonexistent. I give my word on it.”

  She waited for the promised laugh and didn’t hear it. Good. She and God were on the same page. Before exiting the lot, she dialed the DeHollanders.

  No answer. Wishing she’d go
tten hold of someone, she left a message on Pete’s machine, explaining she’d be late, then headed to her first call of the day.

  “Where have you been?” Marc’s harsh tone had Kayla taking a step back. His shoulders blocked the kitchen light. In shadow, she had a hard time assessing his expression until he turned. The darkened countenance became an easy read then.

  “Seeing patients.” Shrugging off her coat, she tried to size up the situation but fell short. Marc’s face showed anger and fear, heavy on the former. “I got your voice mail.”

  “But didn’t answer it.” His tone was ragged. Accusing.

  “I just got it,” Kayla corrected herself. She kicked off her boots and faced him. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

  “Your shoes.”

  “I was hurrying when I got your message. I must have left them at the Morrises’.” Sliding her glance to the kitchen, she dipped her chin. “Where’s your dad?”

  “Where do you think?”

  Kayla bit her lower lip hard enough to pierce it. The guy was obviously worried and scared. She’d cut him some slack for the moment. Next time he met her at the door and acted like a first-class jerk? She’d let him have it, both barrels, no holds barred.

  Okay, probably not, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t want to. Moving to Pete’s side, she laid a cool palm against his skin. “Fever.”

  “Yes. High.”

  Kayla nodded as she retrieved her thermometer. “What are his other symptoms?”

  Marc frowned. “He’s not making much sense. Confused. Almost a little—” his breath hitched as though he hated to say the word “—crazy.”

  Kayla met his gaze, sympathetic. Sometimes she forgot that family members might come into hospice with no nursing skills, especially in a house without a woman. She checked Pete’s pulse and blood pressure, then eyed the thermometer. “103.6.”

  “I told you it was high.”

  “Probably an infection,” she explained. “Has he been emptying his urostomy bag daily?”

  Marc’s blank look was all the answer she needed. “You have no idea, right?”

  “It’s not dinner table conversation,” he retorted.

  “It will be.” Drawing back the sheet, she puckered her lips. “I think we’re dealing with a UTI.”

  “In English, please.”

  “A urinary tract infection. It’s not uncommon. I’ll let the doctor know. He’ll probably phone in a prescription for an antibiotic. Amoxicillin’s a common treatment for this. Your dad has no allergies to antibiotics, does he?”

  “I’ve answered that question a dozen times in the past three months, but, no. He doesn’t.”

  Kayla retrieved her phone. “What about his bag care? Has anyone trained you on how to empty the urine bag?”

  Marc’s face paled under the late-day growth of beard. “Why should they?”

  She drew a short breath and counted to five, then decided she might want to go the full nine yards and make it ten.

  Ah, yes. Ten was better. Fighting a scowl, she looked up at him. “Your dad needs help with it. This is a small crisis overall, but keeping the site clean and irrigated is important. The bag needs to be emptied daily and we’ll change it every week or so. I’ll do that part,” she added. “Has your dad done total care of his bag since his surgery a few years back?”

  “Yes. Dad would be mortified to have me…” His voice faded as he contemplated the situation.

  Kayla returned his look of angst with one of compassion. “But he’s sick now. He’s going to need your help.” With a flash of insight, she nodded her head to the window. The big barn rose beyond the glass, its walls dark umber in the late-day light. “You’ve dressed animal wounds, haven’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  She shrugged. “Same thing. An easy but firm touch, clean and antiseptic. I’ll show you how.”

  He didn’t look thrilled by that pronouncement. “Now?”

  “No.” Turning back, she smoothed a gentle hand across Pete’s brow. “Let’s cool him off, get the antibiotics in him and go from there. We want him comfortable, and he isn’t.”

  She drew off Pete’s extra blanket. Marc moved forward. “Would cool rags help?”

  “To sponge him?”

  “Yes. My mom did that when I was a kid and Dad did it with Jess.”

  “Of course.” Kayla nodded encouragement. “Bring cool water and a washcloth. That way you can chill the cloth off as it heats up.”

  Marc looked relieved to have something concrete to do. “All right.”

  As he strode away, Kayla pressed her eyes closed. I’m too harsh, Lord. I’ve grown tough because I do this every day. I forget that for some people the simplest forms of care are mountains to be scaled. School me in my faults so I don’t get caught up in his. Give me patience. Compassion. Mercy.

  “Are you all right?”

  Kayla jerked. “Fine. Just saying a prayer.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “It’s okay. Pete and I have prayed together. Did you want to join me?”

  “No.”

  No doubt there. Marc laid the well-wrung rag above his father’s eyes. “Is that right?”

  Kayla eyed the cloth. “It’s fine.” Settling into the adjacent chair, she waited for the doctor to return her call. “You’ll want to flip it soon. It’ll heat up fast.”

  “I’ll say.” Frowning, Marc redipped the cloth, then wrung it out. “He’s burning up.”

  Kayla reached for Pete’s hand. “You haven’t given him aspirin or acetaminophen for the fever?”

  “Not yet. I thought of it, but I don’t know what things cause reactions. Drug interaction.” He lifted a shoulder, frustrated. “I assumed it would be okay, but then I couldn’t get the doctor, you were late and I wasn’t sure what to do.” After a hefty pause, he glanced her way. “I panicked.”

  “You did.” She refused to cut him any slack while she administered Tylenol. “But this won’t be the only crisis he throws your way and you’ll get better at assessing them.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Kayla thought hard before phrasing her next question. Marc’s answer could mean a complete reevaluation of Pete’s care. Not all families were meant to provide hospice. “You don’t want to be responsible for his hospice care or you don’t want to get better at crises?”

  “The answer is C. All of the above.” A frown darkened his face as Marc reapplied the cloth. “I don’t want him to die.”

  Not much choice there. Swallowing a sigh, Kayla worked to keep her expression placid. “We all die. It’s as natural as birth, just not as celebrated.”

  Marc’s shoulders stiffened. “People don’t have to die this young. They make choices that invite cancer.”

  Obviously the source of Pete’s cancer was a spot of contention. “Your dad smoked.”

  “Nearly two packs a day.”

  Kayla cringed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  She had no platitudes for him. She understood his anger all too well. Hadn’t her mother made choices that ended in her death at the hands of a madman? Oh, yeah, she understood Marc’s disappointment. Sympathized with it. His dad played the odds and lost, but at least he’d had his love for thirty years. Kayla would have given anything for that.

  The room stayed quiet until the doorbell broke the silence. Kayla stood. “I’ll get it.”

  Marc looked grateful. A definite improvement. “Thanks.”

  Kayla returned with Dr. Pentrow.

  Marc stood. “A house call?” His voice thickened with uncertainty.

  Dr. Pentrow walked to his side and clapped him on the back, man-to-man. “I had to drive this way so I swung by the pharmacy, picked up the prescription and figured I’d drop it by. How’s our patient doing?” He swept his look from Marc to Kayla.

  “Uncomfortable,” Kayla answered. “Looks like a UTI. We’ll have to train someone with his bag care. I think he’s grown too frail to handle it.”


  The doctor nodded. “Marc can do that. He’s doctored almost as many animals as the local vets, right, Marc?”

  To Kayla’s surprise, Marc agreed readily. “If someone shows me how, I can take care of it.”

  Sure. Minutes ago he was crying about not wanting to handle care at all, now he was Clara Barton in Levi’s. Please. She shot him her arched-eyebrow look, the one meant to make him feel like a chauvinistic jerk.

  His jaw tightened.

  Good. The days of bowing and scraping to doctors while nurses were treated like poorly paid servants disappeared long ago. Marc DeHollander might have every right to be upset by his father’s situation, but he had no right to single her out for his rising angst.

  “Have you got an IV setup?”

  Kayla pulled her attention back to the doctor. “I’ll order one. They’ll have it here within the hour.”

  “Good. We’ll do IV antibiotics to get them right into his system.” He turned slightly to include Marc in the conversation. “That should clear it up fairly quickly, Marc. Then Kayla can show you how to drain the bag. It doesn’t take long, but the stoma site needs to be kept clean. You can handle that, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Kayla groaned inside. She shot him another look, but he kept his eyes trained on his father. Good thing. The “knight in shining armor” act was hard to stomach from a guy who’d been nice to her exactly once. She phoned in the order for the IV and agreed to wait until it arrived. She shared a brief exchange with the doctor before Marc showed him out. Kayla sat, drew Pete’s hand between her own and mulled her situation.

  Fun, she thought, rueful. Sixty minutes of Marc DeHollander treating her like a plague carrier. Talk about a good time. Maybe she could slide hot pepper slivers under her fingernails and magnify the thrill. A solid form shadowed the bedroom door.

  “Doc says thank you for staying.”

  Kayla refused to look Marc’s way. She didn’t trust herself to speak properly. Better to say nothing at all until she calmed down. Temper tantrums and end-stage home care were at distinct odds. She drew a breath to calm the rise of feelings, then another, deep, cleansing.