Love Is Patient Romance Collection

by Vetsch, Erica; McDonough, Vickie; Barton, Janet Lee

  Why must her brother be so controlling? She was a grown woman, responsible for her own behavior whether wise or foolish. One of her few clear memories of her father, who had died when she was eight, was his blunt observation that “Jane was born for work, since God did not see fit to bless her with beauty.” Granny had tacitly agreed with him, preparing Jane to support herself as a midwife.

  Now that Jordan planned to marry, Jane’s need for independence loomed large. Lucretia had her virtues, but Jane dreaded the prospect of sharing a house with her. The dainty beauty had a way of making Jane feel more plain, awkward, and undesirable than ever.

  Feeling another tremor shake the table, she asked Mr. Gerard to pass her quilt, the old quilt usually reserved for wrapping up newborn infants. Gerard gave her a questioning look but obeyed. She wrapped its soft folds over Durant’s shoulders, careful to keep it away from Dr. Beaumont’s work.

  “You’ll get it all bloody,” one of the trappers protested.

  “It will wash.” With her free hand, she tucked a fold around Durant’s head, ignoring possible lice. His ragged breathing filled a silence.

  Giving a shuddering gasp, the trapper holding Durant’s left leg suddenly let go and rushed from the room, bracing himself on the door frame with a white-knuckled hand as he went. “Two down, two to go,” Dr. Beaumont muttered. “Miss Douglas, uncover the next wound for stitching. Is he unconscious?”

  “I’m not sure.” She touched Durant’s temple and pushed shaggy blondish-brown hair away from his face. His eyes opened. “No, he is awake.”

  “Keep doing whatever you’re doing.”

  Durant’s usually squinty eyes were wide and staring, their pupils tiny. His grip on Jane’s hand tightened and loosened repeatedly. “Mr. Durant, look at me.” Fear tightened her heart. “Mr. Durant!” She squeezed his hand and stroked his face. Was he dying?

  Dr. Beaumont doggedly stitched up another wound and snipped off the gut thread. His clinical detachment suddenly irritated Jane. “Doctor, he is still cold and shivering. What shall I do?”

  “Whatever you can think of. You’re keeping him still, which is most important at this point. All I can do is repair the damage. If his brute strength can’t keep him alive, nothing can. You might pray, since you’re a religious woman.” Needle in hand, he glanced up at her. “You need to move over, however.”

  Jane shifted position to stand directly above Durant’s head. He would not release her hand, so her arm bent at an awkward angle, wrapped beneath his chin. When the doctor started stitching the gash below his collarbone, Durant winced and looked around.

  “I am here,” she said. His frightened eyes focused on her, and some of the tension left his body.

  Softly she began to sing the first song that came to mind, one she sometimes used to calm a screaming infant. “Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy? Oh, where have you been, charming Billy?” After the last verse, she looked up to see the other two trappers staring at her as if spellbound. Heat rushed into her face.

  “Sing ‘Over the Hills and Far Away,’ if you please,” Gerard requested, gripping both of the patient’s moccasin-clad feet.

  Durant’s eyelids fluttered. “More,” he requested in a hoarse whisper.

  She licked her lips and began to sing, her voice sounding thin and weak. When she reached the chorus—

  I would love you all the day.

  Ev’ry night would kiss and play,

  If with me you’d fondly stray

  Over the hills and far away.

  Over the hills and far away.

  —the inappropriateness of the lyrics struck her. Yet she kept singing and smoothing Durant’s tangled hair and beard. Had anyone else ever treated him tenderly? Was his mother perhaps still living and praying for her prodigal son? Or had he grown up wild because he received no loving-kindness as a child?

  Durant had to release her hand while Dr. Beaumont closed the cut in his upper arm. The doctor then moved to the patient’s right side to repair a deeper slash across his chest. Jane shifted her quilt to cover Durant’s left side and leave the open wounds free. But his big hand lifted in search of hers, disturbing the cover. She laid her left hand in his, and he pressed it to his cheek.

  His grasp was weaker now. Silently she prayed, her lips moving as she gazed at his pale, dirty face. His prominent nose was crooked, as if it had been broken more than once. His cheeks were tanned like leather and creased, yet his skin was soft to touch. Lord, this man’s life is in Thy hands. If it be Thy will, let him recover. If not, please touch his soul with Thy love and carry him to paradise this day. Let him repent like the thief on the cross.

  Jane wiped her tears on her sleeve. She mourned deeply every time a delivery ended in a stillbirth or a mother’s death, but this patient was different.

  He needed to know the Lord. How could she tell him?

  “Love divine, all loves excelling, Joy of heav’n,

  to earth come down—”

  His limp fingers relaxed, barely holding her hand. Jane’s voice broke into a sob.

  “More,” the trapper Gerard begged. “Please, ma’am.”

  She took a deep breath and tried again.

  “Fix in us Thy humble dwelling,

  all Thy faithful mercies crown!

  Jesus, Thou art all compassion,

  pure unbounded love Thou art;

  Visit us with Thy salvation;

  enter ev’ry trembling heart.”

  Her palms framed Durant’s face, her thumbs caressing his temples. His great chest rose and fell rapidly, shuddering with each breath.

  He stopped breathing.

  Jane lifted her head in dismay. But then he exhaled quickly, drew in another deep breath, and held it. The doctor had just inserted his needle in the final wound, a shallow cut over the patient’s hip bone.

  Jane bent over and spoke into his ear. “Mr. Durant, I know the pain is terrible, but Dr. Beaumont is almost finished. Please try to live. God has wonderful plans for your life. He loves you. Your life has a purpose.”

  His quiet whimper started her tears flowing again. “Don’t give up, Mr. Durant.”

  “Gus,” the blond trapper said. “August is his given name.”

  She murmured into his ear. “August. Please, August. Try to live.”

  At last, Dr. Beaumont stepped back and brushed off his hands. “Finished. You may bandage him later, if necessary. Now, Miss Douglas, if you’ll step this way, our other patient waits across the hall. I packed his broken nose with rags in order to stop the bleeding before you arrived, but now we must set his jaw, which is badly broken. I believe he will be eating nothing but liquids for many weeks to come, if he isn’t hanged for murder before he fully recovers.”

  The trapper who had fainted dragged himself up from the floor and joined his companions. All three looked drawn and pale. “Do you need our help with McNaughton, Doc?” the yellow-haired trapper asked.

  “I’ll probably need you to hold him still while I set the bones, Mr. Armbruster. Bring that whiskey along, if there’s any left.” The doctor picked up his instruments and replaced them in his bag, then gave Jane an inquisitive glance. “Miss Douglas?”

  “Shouldn’t someone stay with Mr. Durant?”

  The doctor lifted a brow as if surprised that she would question his judgment. “I’ll return to check his condition after we care for McNaughton. I’d be grateful if you would remain and clean up afterward. Sergeant Fallon will send for the undertaker if necessary. Come along and sing to McNaughton for me.” A smile softened his face for an instant. “As I had anticipated, your presence provides exactly the distraction we require.”

  “But we cannot leave Mr. Durant alone …” To die.

  Dr. Beaumont frowned at his patient, then looked up at Jane. “Do as you like. The men will assist me with McNaughton. I’ll find someone to take you home later.” He picked up his bag and left the room. “Gerard, Nutt, Armbruster, bring some of those lanterns and come with me.”

&nb
sp; Mr. Armbruster plucked Jane’s sleeve. She met his gaze and blinked in surprise at the rapt admiration in the young man’s blue eyes. “If ever I’m dying, I pray you’ll be with me, too, Miss Douglas.”

  Chapter 3

  Dr. Beaumont left soon after he finished setting McNaughton’s jaw. Jane caught Gerard and Armbruster in the hallway and begged them to help her bandage Durant. They then moved him from the blood-soaked table to a feather tick that lay on the floor of the cluttered chamber, which was apparently the hotel’s storage area. The men tried to be gentle, but the movement wrenched agonized moans from Durant.

  Jane tucked the quilt over her patient. His feet stuck out at the bottom. The man was six feet tall, maybe more. “You can rest now,” she murmured, smoothing stringy hair away from his forehead.

  How could Dr. Beaumont leave her alone with a dying patient? Well, not exactly alone, since Fallon was staying, but she had no great opinion of the stuttering sergeant’s medical skills. “I’m a midwife, not a physician,” she muttered.

  “You done a mighty good job for a midwife, ma’am,” said a hoarse voice.

  “Thank you, Mr. Armbruster.” Jane rose and turned around to see the two trappers hovering near the door. One lantern still hung from the ceiling, its dim glow casting more gloom than illumination over their sober faces.

  “If Durant don’t live, ‘twill be none of your fault, ma’am,” Mr. Gerard said, scratching his grizzled chin. “No man could ask for better care than you gived ‘im.”

  “I’d stay and help more, ma’am, but you got Fallon here, and I ain’t good at nursing,” Armbruster said.

  “Sergeant Fallon and I will care for both your friends for the rest of the night.” Relaxing her habitual reserve, she smiled. “Thank you for all you did tonight.”

  The trappers exchanged glances, and Mr. Gerard grinned at her. “Reckon the pleasure was ours. Doc called you ‘Miss,’ so’s I reckon you ain’t married.”

  Jane felt her spine tighten. “I am not.”

  “Cain’t for the life of me guess why, but I’m powerful glad of it. Reckon I’ll be calling on ya soon, Miss Douglas.” Gerard gave her a gap-toothed grin and a wink, donned his fur cap, and headed out the door.

  Lamplight glowed on Armbruster’s pale, lank hair and fuzzy chin. He turned his red stocking cap between his huge hands. “Gerard’s too old for you, Miss Douglas. I got a place down on shore and good prospects for the future. If you’d have me, I’d settle here on the island. If you’ll think on it, ma’am, I’d be mightily grateful.” His voice cracked on every other word. “My mother named me William Henry Armbruster, and you can sing ‘Billy Boy’ to me anytime you like, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Armbruster. I am honored.” Jane hoped she sounded gracious. Armbruster beamed and bowed, then ducked through the doorway.

  After the door closed behind him, she blinked. “‘Billy Boy,’ indeed!”

  Mr. Gerard was near fifty if he was a day and Jane towered over him. Armbruster was probably five years her junior and looked younger still. These trappers were the type of men she most despised—dirty, uncouth, illiterate, irreligious—the type who ogled anything wearing skirts. She must look truly desperate indeed if such men thought she would welcome their attentions.

  Durant moaned. Instantly she knelt at his side, felt his throat for a pulse, and laid her cheek on his forehead, as she would do with a baby. He felt slightly warm. She rose and unhooked the lantern, bringing it close to his bedside. With a damp rag, she gently washed grime, sweat, and blood from his face. Pain creased his forehead. She tried trickling clean water into his mouth, but it dripped from his cracked lips.

  Lips that spewed blasphemy and made lewd remarks to virtuous women …

  The door squeaked on its hinges. Still kneeling, Jane turned. “Sergeant Fallon. How is the other patient?”

  “Surly but quiet. He can’t insult me with his jaw bound up, and the bandages cover most of his ugly face.” A smile tipped Sergeant Fallon’s trim little mustache upward at the corners. “How’s Mad Durant? The doc doesn’t think he’ll l–l–live through the night.”

  “I know. He’s in terrible pain.”

  Fallon talked on, casually referring to Durant in terms that raised Jane’s brows. She had been exposed to more profanity and vulgarity this one night than in the sum total of her prior existence.

  “Sergeant Fallon, if you don’t mind—”

  “Sorry I left you with the w–w–worst job,” he interrupted. “Doc didn’t think Mad Durant would throw a l–l–lady around, and it l–looks like he was right—unless maybe Durant was too weak to throw you by the time you arrived. You’re bigger than I am anyway.”

  Jane frowned. “If you have nothing better to do, Sergeant, would you please assist me by hauling hot water from the kitchen? I need to clean this room, and I imagine Mr. McNaughton’s is equally soiled.”

  The pink-cheeked sergeant grumbled but obeyed her request. Jane took soap from her basket and set to work scrubbing rags, dirty towels, and Durant’s bloodstained shirt. Diligently though she scrubbed, the stains would only fade to a pale yellow. She fingered the gaping rent across the shirtfront. The garment required extensive repair. Upon examining his fringed buckskin jacket, she determined it unfit for salvaging.

  She loaded Fallon’s arms with dripping laundry and instructed him to hang it up on the lines behind the hotel.

  “What lines?”

  “There must be laundry lines. Go find them.”

  Again he grumbled but obeyed. Jane savored the power of command. Always before, she had been the laborer and her grandmother or her brother had given the orders.

  Fallon returned, brushing off his damp sleeves. “Looks b–b–better in here. S–smells better, too. I’ll clean up Durant while you straighten the other room. Unless you w–want to do the job. Big cuss, ain’t he? Even taller’n you.”

  Jane drew herself up. “Sergeant Fallon, must I remind you that I am a lady and the sister of an officer? Your unguarded language is an insult.”

  His face turned red. “I b–b–beg pardon, ma’am. F–forgot myself.”

  Jane crossed the hall to McNaughton’s tiny closet of a room. The stench nearly choked her. From the rope bed, beady eyes regarded her from either side of a bulky bandage that covered most of the man’s face.

  “I’ve come to clean your room, Mr. McNaughton.”

  The man reminded her of a bear, thick-limbed and covered with coarse black hair. Despite his evident pain and weakness, something about the way he watched her work set off warning chimes in her head. But then, if Durant were conscious, he would stare in just such a rude way.

  When Jane returned to Durant’s chamber, dawn lightened the window and dimmed the lantern. A snoring Fallon sprawled on the floor, resembling a swimming frog.

  Jane knelt beside Durant’s pallet and felt for his pulse, finding it weak and rapid. She laid her hand on his chest to feel his shallow breathing. Her own breathing went shallow. Angry with herself, she inspected his largest wound. Blood stained the bandage over his left ribs where the knife had cut deepest. The few uncovered cuts looked puffy but clear of discharge. Sergeant Fallon had done his job well. The patient smelled much better and looked clean except for his mop of hair.

  Gazing at Durant’s face, she touched his forehead. Was it hot? She laid her cheek against his. A bit warm but not dangerously so. She trickled water between his lips. This time he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his scraggly beard.

  “Are you awake? Will you try to drink from a cup?”

  His chin jerked down and up, and his eyelids moved.

  Jane slid her arm behind his neck, lifted his head gently, and held the cup to his lips. He took three gulps, then grimaced and stiffened.

  “More?” she urged.

  He took a few more sips. She saw a quick glimmer of his pale eyes before he turned his face and hid it against her. Warmth flooded Jane’s entire body. She set down the cup and took his head and as muc
h of his shoulders as she could hold into her arms, cradling him close, feeling the heat of his breath.

  Such a pity to behold this powerful man reduced to this state, yet her heart reveled in his need of her. She smoothed his hair away from his face and kissed his forehead. Her fingers trailed over his features as she studied his face in detail. He sighed deeply and nestled against her; the pain lines on his countenance relaxed into blissful peace.

  Jane gently laid him down and backed away on her hands and knees, then sat back on her heels and covered her burning cheeks with her hands. You fool!

  A nurse cared only about the recovery of her patient. If by some miracle Durant recovered from these injuries, he would undoubtedly kill himself another time: capsize a canoe in a drunken stupor, pick a fight with a touchy Ottawa, or simply drink himself to death.

  Shaking her head slowly, she closed her eyes, remembering …

  This year, as every year, as soon as the ice melted off the lake in spring, Mackinac Island’s population had exploded from a few hundreds to a few thousands. Trappers and Indians alike brought their winter’s catch to the American Fur Company’s headquarters, and most remained on the island for the summer. Tepees dotted the shores, and men crowded the streets. Obeying her brother’s warnings, Jane avoided the town whenever possible.

  But one late morning after assisting at a delivery, she had walked unescorted along Market Street. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned around and looked up, way up, into the leering face of Mad Durant. “Hello, beautiful.”

  Jane wrinkled her nose, recalling the stench of him, the frank admiration glinting in his eyes, the sweaty expanse of his tanned chest, and his dirty beard and filthy buckskins. Her current weakness must be due to the fact that this revolting creature was the only male ever to call her beautiful. He probably said such things to every female he met, but her susceptible female heart ignored that obvious fact even now.