She studied her patient’s inert features and sighed. Dear Lord God, please guard my heart against unwise affections.
Chapter 4
Durant drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he awoke to see one of his trapper friends or Dr. Beaumont or a pale young orderly named Fallon, who attended with obvious reluctance to Durant’s personal needs.
He kept hoping, but she was never there. Had he dreamed her? If so, he wanted to sleep forever. Dim but delightful memories teased him whenever he drifted in that mist between waking and sleeping. Gentle hands stroking his face, a sweet voice singing of love and kisses. The clean, fresh scent of her when she bent near. For the first time in his life, pleasant daydreams of marriage and family filled his waking thoughts. Maybe love was real after all, not just a word invented to torment mankind with the impossible.
She had prayed for him, and strangely enough, he had liked it. When she talked to God, he could almost imagine that Someone out there listened. But where was the lady now?
One afternoon, Dr. Beaumont came to check on him. “You’ve got the constitution of an ox, Durant, to lose that much blood and come out alive. I almost sent Sergeant Fallon for the undertaker that night.”
Durant winced as the doctor probed his uncovered wound. “There was a woman.”
“Hmm. Healing well. No significant inflammation. Good scar tissue forming here. You’ll have almost full use of these muscles. Amazing.” While rewrapping the injury, he went off on a spiel of Latin names and medical procedures that meant nothing to Durant.
“Who was she?”
Dr. Beaumont met his gaze and frowned. “A midwife I called in to assist me. She’s married with five grown children. Fat. Ugly. Kind soul, though.”
“You lie.”
A smile twitched the doctor’s lips before he rose. “I’m sending you home, Durant. Your friends will come for you. Eat hearty and build your strength before you attempt anything rash.”
“Tell me her name,” he begged.
“Good day.” The doctor picked up his bag and disappeared into the hallway.
Had he been delirious, imagining an old woman to be young and fresh? He carefully scratched at the bandage around his ribs. Some of the cuts had already healed enough to have their stitches removed, but the doctor wanted to give this one another few days. It itched.
Heavy steps ran up the hotel stairs, and Armbruster burst into the room. “Gus! The doc says you can go home today. I borrowed a wagon.”
Durant struggled to sit upright. Pain ripped across his belly. Clenching his teeth, he stretched one hand up to request Armbruster’s aid in rising.
He dressed himself in wool trousers that sagged around the waist.
“Gerard brung your clothes.” Armbruster helped him ease his shoulders into his clean shirt. “Your buckskins were stained and ripped past saving. Betcha that jacket kept McNaughton from spilling your guts on the ground.”
“I’ve got hides. I’ll tan new ones.” He noticed faint stains and multiple criss-crossings of tiny stitches on his shirtfront. “My shirt. Who mended it?”
“Miss Douglas. She brung it back a few days ago.” Armbruster helped him slide his feet into his moccasins. “Next time, don’t get into a fight less’n you’ve got a weapon besides your thick head.”
“Miss Douglas?”
“The woman what helped Doc sew you up.”
Durant wrapped his arm over the younger man’s big shoulders and shuffled toward the door. “Miss. She’s unmarried? What’s she look like?”
“Scrawny little thing. Big nose. Squinty eyes like yours. Nasty temper. Good midwife, though, the doc says.”
“Dr. Beaumont told me she’s big and fat and kind and has five grown children.”
Armbruster chuckled. “Reckon I forgot.”
Durant gave his full attention to the stairs until they reached the landing. “Why hide her from me? I’m no monster.”
“Her brother is an officer at the fort, and he don’t know she stayed with you all night. Sergeant Fallon was here, too, and McNaughton, but Lieutenant Douglas wouldn’t care about that. His spinster sister, alone with all us men?” He shook his head.
“What is she truly like?”
“Guess it don’t matter if you know. We likely won’t never see her much. She mostly only leaves the fort for a birthing or for church.” Armbruster sounded sad. “I asked her to marry me when I drove her home. Gerard asked her, too, but she turned us both down. Kind she was about it, though. I figure the lieutenant wouldn’t let his sister marry a no-account trapper. Word around town is that some official from the Company has his eye on Miss Douglas.”
Armbruster settled him down in the bed of the wagon, and Durant stared up at a blue summer sky. Miss Douglas—out of reach? No. The rich official didn’t own her yet!
“She touched me and sang to me,” he said.
“I was there. I wanna die like that, like you did, with Miss Douglas crying and touching her sweet face to yours.” Armbruster sounded beatific. “Praying plenty, too. She’s real religious.”
“God listened.”
“If I was God, I’d listen to her.”
“Armbruster?”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t die.”
“I know that!”
Durant nodded. “Just making sure you knew.”
Armbruster climbed to the wagon seat and clucked up the horses. Every jolt, every pothole was painful. Durant sang to himself, “I would love you all the day. Ev’ry night would kiss and play.”
Armbruster spoke to him from the wagon seat. “She sung that to you while the doctor was stitching.”
“I remember.” He would become a man she could admire. Plans spun through his mind.
By the following day, Durant had thought of a way to locate and meet Miss Douglas. Billy Armbruster asked around the island about expectant mothers and proudly spouted off a short list. “Mrs. St. Francis is next, they say. She lives on lower Main Street. Miss Douglas visited her only yesterday.” He sat in Durant’s one good chair, tilting it back on two legs.
“Doesn’t Dr. Beaumont deliver babies for townspeople?”
“Only if they’s expected troublesome. He’s army surgeon. You was lucky he come to save you.” Armbruster tipped his head back, lifted a bottle, and guzzled whiskey, then choked and spat a mouthful across the room.
Durant watched the liquid soak into the sand floor. Would Miss Douglas want to live in a shack? If he could remember her face, he might have a better idea what she would expect of a husband.
“The doctor expected me to die. God saved me.”
“I expect you’re right. But God didn’t make no stitches in your skin.” Armbruster threw back his head to laugh, and the chair fell over. He lay on the floor and stared soberly at the ceiling. “D’ye think He done that? Flung me off for being disrespectful-like, I mean?”
Durant rubbed his forehead, suddenly tired to death of Billy Armbruster’s company. Tired to death of himself.
Chapter 5
At last the mother’s howls ended, and a baby’s thin wail brought a tight smile to Durant’s lips. All night he had waited and prowled Main Street; ever since his lookout, a Métis boy of seven, brought him news that the St. Francis family had sent for the midwife. Just before dark, Miss Douglas had entered the log home, but Durant’s fleeting glimpse of her told him only that she was tall.
He rose and began to pace, aware of his pounding heartbeat. Never before had he worried about what to say. Words had always come easily; in English, French, or Ottawa he could ingratiate himself with almost anyone.
But this expected encounter was different. It mattered. It mattered terribly.
For hours, he had stewed and worried, and now he felt light-headed from lack of sleep. What if he said the wrong thing and alienated her forever? Possible scenarios had haunted him throughout the night. One minute he imagined her slipping into his arms and promising him eternal devotion. The next, he envisioned her screaming
and running from him in horror.
He leaned on a fence post and rubbed his eyes. Dawn brightened the eastern sky. How much longer must he wait? The little house was now peacefully silent. Durant knew the St. Francis family only by reputation. Devout Catholics, they would scorn to associate with reprobate trappers. He suddenly wished he had lived a different sort of life.
Dangerous thoughts.
He cast them away.
“She will be well?” the nervous father asked, gazing down at his sleeping wife and child.
“Oh yes, Mr. St. Francis. Mother and daughter are both doing very well indeed.” Jane pulled on her gloves and picked up her basket. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, but a sense of accomplishment warmed her heart. “Keep Mrs. St. Francis in her bed today and be certain she drinks a lot of water.”
“I should walk you back to the fort.”
Jane opened the door and smiled at him over her shoulder. “It is light outside; please don’t trouble yourself. What harm could come to me between here and the fort? Congratulations again, sir, and God bless you.”
She stepped into the quiet street and soaked in fresh air and silence. A little flock of ducks whistled overhead, quacking as they braked for a landing on the lake. A sliver of sun appeared above the horizon; a rosy glow filled the eastern sky and reflected in the water. Could any place in the world be more beautiful?
“Miss Douglas.”
Jane jumped and dropped her basket. She could see nothing in the shadows, her eyes still dazzled by the sunrise.
Mr. Durant stepped into view. “Don’t be afraid, Miss Douglas. All night I’ve waited, hoping to speak to you. I … I …” He twisted his cap between his hands.
If anything, he looked more disheveled than ever. Gray trousers sagged around his hips—of course, braces would have rubbed his healing wounds. The shirt she had washed and mended with such care hung unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing black stitches and puckered scars, and from there down, the buttons were in the wrong holes. His black-and-white-striped waistcoat wasn’t buttoned at all. Moccasins and a red stocking cap completed his odd ensemble.
However, she noticed one positive difference. He was clean.
When his eyes caught the first rays of sunlight, she read in them genuine hope and admiration. “Mr. Durant, how good to see you standing up and looking well!” She extended her hand to him, and he clutched it with both his large hands, stepping close.
“Thanks to you and your God. I’ve seen you before around town. I didn’t know it was you. I mean, I didn’t know …” He seemed tense and excited. “May I … May I walk you home?”
His reaction to her touch startled her; she had intended no more than a polite greeting. Perhaps his quick breathing was due to exhaustion, her own caused by surprise.
“It has been only a fortnight. Are you certain you have the strength?” At first glance, he appeared hearty, but his ill-fitting clothing proclaimed lost weight. The skin around his eyes was taut, and she sensed a frailty at odds with his apparent brawn.
“I have the strength.” His pale green-gray eyes studied her face. “If you pick up your basket, I’ll carry it. I … I can’t bend.”
“Thank you, but it isn’t heavy. You shouldn’t carry things yet.” She carefully extracted her hand from his warm grasp and scooped up her basket. Thoughts and worries whirled through her head in confusing disorder. “Are your wounds healing well?”
“Yes.” With utter lack of self-consciousness, he slid his hand inside his open shirt to touch the black stitches. Jane didn’t know where to look and felt her face grow hot. He was like a child in a man’s body.
“Dr. Beaumont will remove these stitches tomorr—uh, today. I’m healed, just weak still,” Durant said. “He says I need to eat and build my blood.”
Jane started walking, and he fell into step. Conflicting reactions unnerved her. The rational part of her recoiled from a man so completely lacking in initiative and moral strength. Why did her flesh react to him so strongly? Common sense warned her to give him an icy set down. But she had prayed for an opportunity to share the message of Christ’s redemption with him, and God had provided this time.
“I’m glad you came to speak to me, Mr. Durant. I cannot help but believe that God spared your life for a reason.”
She glanced up to gauge his reaction. His smile set her heart pounding. Quickly she looked down, clutching her basket’s handle with both hands.
“You spoke of Him as my God, not as yours,” she continued. “This troubles me. Do you know the story of Jesus Christ, Mr. Durant?”
“The baby in the manger. I know the story.”
“His birth is only the beginning of His story. Can you read?”
“A little.” He sounded less cheerful.
“Then please read either the book of Luke or the book of John in the Bible. Do you own a Bible?”
“No.”
“Then I shall get one for you. Actually, I always carry a spare Bible.” She stopped partway up the bluff, dug through the basket, and pulled out her Bible. “I sometimes read it to my patients. If you wish, you may keep it. Here, I will lay the ribbon marker at the book of John. If you have questions about anything you read, you might ask the new missionary, Reverend Ferry.”
He accepted the Bible. “I promise to read this John book if you let me see you again. I must see you. May I come to call?” He tipped his head to peer beneath her bonnet’s brim.
Jane’s throat felt tight. “If you come to meeting this Sunday, I will gladly speak with you. Reverend Ferry will be preaching.”
His narrow eyes widened. “I’m not a religious man.”
“I know. As I said before, I believe God saved your life for a reason. Your duty is to discover that reason. Perhaps there is more purpose to life than you realize.”
“You nursed me to life to convert me?” His voice held an edge.
“I prayed and begged God to spare your life so that you might come to know Him.” Her voice quivered. Embarrassed, she turned her face away and braced herself for a barrage of blasphemy.
“Thank you, Miss Douglas.” He walked slowly down the hill, head bowed, her Bible tucked beneath his arm.
Chapter 6
Durant wormed his fingers down into warm sand. Lying flat on his back near the lakeshore after a swim, he felt the heat of midday sun on his bare skin like a healing touch. Only pink scars and tenderness remained of his lesser wounds. The gash across his ribs still broke open if he twisted or moved quickly, but soon it, too, would leave behind only a scar and memories of pain.
Scars and pain. Bitterness and emptiness. Four words that summed up the life of August Durant. At twenty-nine, he had nothing to show for his life. The rickety shack behind him on the shore was his best claim to a home. Each winter, he worked hard at trapping; each summer, he sold his rich harvest of furs; and each fall, he had to work odd jobs to provide himself with enough food and supplies to last the following winter. His work supported people like the clerks at the American Fur Company headquarters—people who invested their money wisely instead of drinking and gambling it away.
If he had died of his recent injuries, no one would have mourned. His fellow trappers might have volunteered to dig his grave, and they might have paused five minutes to consider their own mortality when the preacher mentioned “dust to dust,” but then their lives would have continued on without noticeable loss.
Miss Douglas had cried for him. She had wept and prayed and … Her caresses had been given only in charitable kindness to a dying patient. He desperately wanted to believe otherwise, but in his heart, he knew. A woman like Miss Douglas, so lovely, innocent, softhearted—in short, everything a woman should be—would never, could never view Mad August Durant as a man to admire and love.
He wanted to change. But aside from bathing more frequently and dumping out his whiskey, he didn’t know how.
Tomorrow was Sunday. He could attend church meeting and see her again. Perhaps she would greet him and
offer her hand. She would introduce her brother … He grimaced. Lieutenant Douglas would forbid his sister even to acknowledge a shiftless trapper who panted after her like a homeless dog. Her brother would encourage her to marry a man of good standing in the community—a man deserving of such a wife as Miss Douglas.
Durant rolled over on his belly to look for the book he’d been reading. A ghost knife stabbed him in the ribs, and he jerked up on his hands and knees. Teeth clenched, head hanging, he waited for the pain to abate. His trousers, coated with sand, clung to his legs.
Carefully he reached out one arm and picked up Miss Douglas’s Bible. It couldn’t hurt to try again, although the sections he had read so far left him puzzled. Too many of the words came from some strange culture and meant nothing to him. “Messiah,” for instance, and “Levites.” Some of the stories were interesting, even fantastic, but he had no idea why Miss Douglas thought he might find in them some hidden purpose for his life.
Perhaps he was not as good at reading as he had thought. Seated Indian-style, he lowered his head and ran his fingers through his drying hair. Sand dropped onto the open book in his lap.
He glanced to his left, then to his right. No one in sight. He prayed softly: “God, if You’re real, help me understand this book. Miss Douglas says my life has a purpose. If it does, I want to know.”
“Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.” Jane felt as if she sang alone, although she saw other mouths moving. Rev. William Ferry stood upon a rock and waved his arm, but she could barely hear his voice.
Many visitors swelled their numbers today. Many of the Indians who had camped on the shores for the summer came to hear the new missionary preach. Lacking a building, the people had set out logs as pews. Foul weather sometimes forced the church into homes or shop buildings, but today the skies were clear. No stained glass window could be more inspiring than the view from this point near the Indian agency. The lake sparkled like a blue jewel, and the plaintive mew of gulls accompanied every hymn.
Love Is Patient Romance Collection Page 3
