Joshua stood at the window, wondering how long it would last. He’d counted on someone seeing their stalled automobile on the road and looking inside where he’d left a note, giving their location. But how much traffic did this mountainous route see in the winter? Not much, he’d wager. And even less when the snows came.
He turned, his gaze moving to the bed where Daphne lay shivering and moaning. The soft sounds that escaped her throat were torture to hear. He wanted to help ease her misery, but he didn’t know how to do that beyond applying cold compresses to her forehead in an effort to bring down her fever.
He prayed she’d told her brother or sister-in-law where they were going and when they would return. If so, someone ought to come looking for them within a day or two. If not? That didn’t bear thinking about.
He returned to the stove, opened the front, and put in more wood. Then he crossed to the tall table under the far window and poured creek water he’d boiled earlier into a cup. Returning to the cot, he sat on the edge and lifted Daphne’s head with one hand while holding the cup to her lips with the other.
“Drink, Daphne.”
She tried to turn her head away.
“Just a few sips. Come on. You need to drink at least a little.”
Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him. “Where are we?” she whispered at last.
He put the cup against her lips again. “Sip.”
This time she obeyed.
“We’re in a cabin maybe a quarter mile from the road. We’re about halfway between Stone Creek and Bethlehem Springs. At least I think so.”
His words were wasted. Her eyes had closed before he’d finished answering her question.
It snowed for days. It snowed so much, it buried the automobile. Not that it mattered. The road saw no traffic. There was no one going or coming who would have discovered the motorcar even if it were in plain view.
But the blizzard wasn’t Joshua’s first concern. He was more afraid that Daphne would die here in this cabin, far from friends and family. Her illness had left her weak and listless. Sometimes she talked nonsense, muttering to herself or perhaps to someone she thought was there. Other times she barely seemed to breathe.
On their first day in the cabin, seeing no other option—he was the only one who could care for her—Joshua had set aside worries about modesty and had removed her clothes down to her undergarments. He’d bathed her brow, her cheeks, and her throat with cool water. He’d piled more blankets on top of her when she’d shivered so hard it seemed the log house would fall down around their ears from the shaking. He’d encouraged her to drink. He’d encouraged her to eat. She’d done little of either. There had been times during the first two days of her illness when her breathing was so labored, so torturous, it had been agony to listen to it. He’d been certain the sound was what doctors called the death rattle, and the certainty had terrified him. Would he have to bury Daphne McKinley in a shallow grave, the ground too frozen to do more than that? Would he have to be the one who related her last hours to her family?
Even now, days later, he feared that would be their fate—her to die, him to live with her death on his hands. And so he gathered her into his arms, as he had done numerous times during her illness, and held her close to his chest. Placing his lips against her dark tangle of hair, he whispered, “Don’t die, Miss McKinley. Live. Please God, help her live.”
October 1, 1872
Annie is fully recovered from childbirth, and Angelica Ruth—our little angel—is thriving. She has become the center of our universe.
I left off the story of my life while I was still in California. It is time I resumed putting it to paper.
For ten years I owned the Golden Nugget and added numerous other businesses as well. I began to educate myself, although at first it was without purpose beyond wanting to prove myself smarter than the next man. But eventually I read for the law. I grew wealthier than I ever dreamed I might, but I took little pleasure in all I acquired. I was restless and looking for something that would ease my dissatisfaction. I looked in the wrong places for an answer to my discontentment.
When news arrived of a gold strike in what would soon become the Idaho Territory, I felt a strange longing to return. I even thought of looking for Gemma Picard when I got there—not that I believed she would still be waiting for me in that old cabin we’ d shared. It had been thirteen years since I left her for the promises of riches in California.
I sold the Golden Nugget and my other properties, including a mercantile and a bank, and I headed north. Certainly I was going back to the high country in better style than I had traveled on my way to California. I no longer wore tanned animal skins for my clothes. My suits were tailored, my shoes of the best quality. For all appearances sake, I was a man of quality and some importance. Inside, I know now, I was a man consumed by the maggots of sin.
I settled in West Bannock in the very heart of gold country. Two years later, the town was rechristened Idaho City. It was a bawdy place where whiskey was cheaper than water. Just the sort of place where men like me belonged. But again, I wasn’t there to pan for gold. I was there to take the gold from others the easiest way I knew how. Before I left Idaho City, I owned four of the eventual forty-one saloons that sprang up. Two of mine had fancy billiard rooms. I also had my own law office. For a while, I thought the place might end up with more lawyers than all the other laborers added together because there was plenty of call for them. All of the law offices were kept busy with disputes over mining claims.
The year before I left Idaho City, a fire destroyed eighty percent of the buildings. I was one of the lucky twenty-percent. My home and businesses survived unscathed, and during the time it took folks to rebuild the many other saloons, mercantiles, breweries, barber shops, dress shops, bakeries, livery stables, banks, and drug stores, I made another small fortune.
And it got me to thinking about how much competition there was in Idaho City. I decided that another place might suit me better. A town where they had fewer lawyers and definitely fewer saloons.
In 1866, at the age of forty-five, I sold everything once again, making another tidy profit, and moved to Bethlehem Springs, Idaho. It would prove a life-altering decision.
FOURTEEN
Daphne felt as if she were crawling up from a bottomless pit. When she opened her eyes, she found the room dark. Black as ink and eerily silent. Not a sound disturbed the stillness.
Where was she? She couldn’t seem to recall, but she was certain she wasn’t home in her cozy bedroom. Something was different. Quite different.
That’s when she felt it. Warm air upon her neck.
She rolled her head to the side on the pillow—and came nose to nose with…with someone. She sucked in a breath of surprise.
It came back to her then, little by little. Stone Creek. The Coughlin brothers. She’d taken sick on the drive back to Bethlehem Springs. Cold. Such unbelievable cold. A cup of water to her lips. A bite of fruit from a spoon. Joshua, always nearby. Joshua’s touch. Joshua’s voice.
His breathing changed slightly, and she knew he’d awakened, that he was looking at her.
“Where…are we?” she whispered.
“I’m not sure. We hadn’t yet reached the main road to Bethlehem Springs when the motorcar broke down.”
“Broke down? I…don’t remember that. I’ve been…ill, haven’t I?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t need to tell her that it had been serious. She felt it all through her body.
“I’ll fix you something to eat. You need nourishment.” He rolled away from her and rose from the bed.
It was only then she realized he hadn’t been beneath the blankets. At least not the one that was closest to her skin.
Her skin?
She drew her hand from her side and touched her collarbone, then drew her fingers downward until they touched the fabric of her chemise. She had no recollection of removing her outer garments. Was it possible Joshua Crawford had undressed her before putting
her into this bed? Heat rose in her cheeks. Of course it was possible. He’d taken care of her. For how long she couldn’t say. One day. Two days. Five days.
Rather than contemplate the possibilities of what his care had entailed, she asked, “Whose house is this?”
Joshua opened the door to the stove and shoved in more wood. Sparks flew upward, and the fire cast an orange light into the darkened room.
“Joshua?”
He turned toward her, his face captured in the firelight.
“Whose house is this?”
“I don’t know. Someone’s summer place. It’s a cabin below the road. I found the key to the door on the front porch.”
She closed her eyes, too weary to keep them open any longer. “Will they find us?”
“Don’t worry. We won’t be here much longer.”
She wondered, as she drifted back to sleep, if he was as sure as he sounded.
The sun came out the next morning, beaming down through frosted trees, turning the snow a blinding white. But there was no warmth in the golden rays. When Joshua went outside to bring in more wood, his breath froze in a white cloud before his face. The cold nipped his nose and made his jaw ache. The snow on the ground was as high as the raised porch in front of the cabin. Deeper where the wind had blown it into drifts.
How long before the road was passable, he wondered. How long before Daphne’s family sent someone to look for her? He prayed it would be soon. Although the worst seemed to be over, she wasn’t out of danger yet. She needed a doctor. She needed better food. She needed better care than he could give her.
And I need someone else to care for her.
Something had happened in Joshua as he’d nursed Daphne through the worst of her illness. Things had been tense between them ever since he’d deduced she was D. B. Morgan, but it was difficult to remain angry with her while at the same time praying for God’s mercy, while asking for healing, for a miracle. It was good that the anger was gone, but he didn’t want to feel anything for her beyond Christian compassion. Certainly not anything…tender.
With a sigh, he carried the wood inside and dropped it into the box near the stove. When he turned, he found Daphne awake again and sitting up in bed for the first time since he’d laid her on it nearly a week before. Her fingers clutched the blanket beneath her throat.
“What day is it?” she asked, her voice soft and scratchy.
“Tuesday.”
“I’ve been sick that long?”
He nodded as he took a couple of steps toward the bed. “Yes.”
“What…what was wrong with me?”
“I think you’ve had the Spanish influenza.”
Small patches of pink appeared in her cheeks, color in a face that had been deathly pale only moments before. “You’ve cared for me this whole time?”
“Yes.”
The flush in her cheeks deepened as her gaze lowered to the blanket covering her.
“There was no one else to attend to you, Miss McKinley. I promise, your honor has not been compromised.”
She looked at him again. “You mistake my silence. I…I’m very grateful for your care, and I don’t doubt you behaved as a gentleman at all times.”
True enough. He’d taken no liberties. But now that the risk of her dying seemed behind them, he felt a troubling desire to take her in his arms again—in a much different way than before. Look at her! Dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, thick and unruly. Her chocolate-colored eyes seemed to hold a world of wonderful secrets in their depths. And the cabin suddenly felt too small and too warm.
He turned on his heel and crossed to a large trunk that held blankets, sheets, and towels. From it, he withdrew a bright, multicolored blanket that he’d spotted several days ago. Then he grabbed the broom from a corner in the kitchen area and took it and the blanket outside without a word of explanation to Daphne. It was better this way. He didn’t trust himself to speak to her.
Making his way through the snow up to the road was an arduous task. Every few steps, he broke through the crusty surface and sank to his thighs. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of snowshoes. His breathing became labored, and although the air was cold, sweat beaded his forehead by the time he reached the automobile. He could barely make out its shape beneath the heavy snow.
After a few moments rest, he drove the broom handle into the snow near what he presumed to be the front of the motorcar. With both hands and feet, he packed the snow around the handle in the hopes it would remain upright until someone came looking for them. Finally, he tied the colorful blanket to the top of the broom.
As he straightened, his gaze looked west, then east. Send someone soon, God. I need them here soon.
Exhaustion forced Daphne to slide down on the bed even as mortification burned hot in her chest. She had only a hazy memory of the details of the past several days, yet she understood Joshua had to have helped her in ways no man should help a woman who wasn’t his wife. Knowing that, how on earth was she to bear being in his presence from here on out?
Stomping sounds from the porch alerted her to his return moments before the door opened, giving him entry. Daphne closed her eyes and feigned sleep, scarcely daring to draw a breath until she heard him walk to the opposite side of the one-room cabin. She opened her eyes again, but just enough to look at him through her lashes. His back was to her, so she opened her eyes a little more, watching as he took a bowl from a nearby cupboard and set it on the raised table. He took a jar from another cupboard—peaches, she guessed, judging by the color of the contents.
Then he paused, the heels of his wrists resting on the edge of the table, and he lowered his head. There was something about his shoulders that bespoke of weariness, helplessness, perhaps even hopelessness. She felt a strange need to rise and offer him comfort. But the simple act of pushing herself up into a sitting position for the second time sapped what little energy she had.
“Mr. Crawford.”
He straightened and turned to face her.
“Are you well?”
“I’m fine, Miss McKinley.” He motioned to the table behind him. “Can you try to eat something?”
She didn’t have an appetite, but it would seem ungrateful to refuse. After all, it seemed she owed him her life. “I’ll try.”
“Good. We’ve got peaches, and I can cook some oatmeal too.”
“The peaches should suffice.”
“You need more than that. You haven’t eaten more than a few bites since we left Stone Creek.”
“All right.” She offered a brief smile. “I’ll try to eat some oatmeal too.”
He returned the smile before making himself busy.
Daphne watched in silence as he prepared the oatmeal in a pot on the stove, not speaking again until he carried a tray to the bed and sat in the chair beside her. “Who taught you to cook, Mr. Crawford?”
“My grandfather.” He set the tray on her lap. “He was a man of many talents.”
“And interests.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head, regretting her words. Why had she brought it up? After all he’d done for her…
“Ah, you mean the things you wrote about him.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s all right, Miss McKinley. I’ve had plenty of time to think things over, and while I don’t believe my grandfather was the sort of man you portrayed in your books, it does seem there were things he didn’t choose to share about his past. At least not with me. As much as I hate to admit it, he seems to have been a different man when he lived in Idaho.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
Pointing at the tray, he said, “Please. Eat.”
Obediently, she dipped the spoon into the oatmeal and raised it to her lips. The cereal needed milk and some honey to make it taste good, but she was determined to eat as much of it as possible as a way of showing her gratitude.
Joshua rose from the chair and walked to the window by the front d
oor. “I wish you could have met him, Miss McKinley. I never knew Grandfather to see a need in another that he didn’t try to meet. We weren’t wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but he always found a way to give to others.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he looked out the window. “You know the many ways the Bible tells us to live as Christians? Abhorring evil. Cleaving to what’s good. Being kind to another with brotherly love. Being patient in tribulation. Praying without ceasing. Distributing to the necessity of the saints. Being hospitable. Rejoicing with those who rejoice and weeping with those who weep. In everything giving thanks. Richard Terrell embodied those traits. Those and so much more.”
The oatmeal seemed to have stuck in Daphne’s throat, making it impossible to reply.
“I have a hard time reconciling that godly man with the Richard Terrell the Coughlins knew or the one you portrayed in your books.”
She couldn’t help remembering what he’d said to her before they’d made the trip to Stone Creek: “Words have power, Miss McKinley. Even words in a novel. You may think your stories are simply for entertainment, but they still have the power to build up or tear down.”
I’m sorry. Tears welled. I never meant to harm anyone with my stories.
Many years before, when Daphne had been caught in a tall tale, her mother had said something similar: “What we say, my child, has an impact on those around us. Words can spread darkness and hate or shed light and love. Don’t misuse them, Daphne.”
She’d wanted the Coughlin brothers to prove what she’d written was true, and that’s what had happened. But being right, she was discovering, wasn’t always enough.
And being right didn’t always make a person feel good either.
That night, Joshua bedded down on the floor on the opposite side of the wood stove. It wasn’t likely Daphne would need his help—or his body heat—as she had in the worst hours of her illness, and it was his wish to give her as much privacy as possible now that she was on the mend.
Sleep didn’t come easy. He told himself it was the hardness of the floorboards, but the truth was it bothered him that he couldn’t hear her soft breathing, that he wasn’t able to reach out and touch her forehead to see if it was feverish. What if her condition took a sharp turn for the worst? It took great willpower to remain on the floor, to resist the urge to rise and go to her bedside, if only for a few moments.
Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs] Page 12
