Following the directions the woman in the café had detailed, Claire found the path that formed a sort of alley behind the buildings and came to the little whitewashed house Gram had described in her letters. Would Gram be home? The trip from North Carolina to the Montana Territory had taken weeks longer than Papa expected. Gram was probably beside herself with worry by now.
Claire swallowed as she rounded the corner of the house and stepped onto the narrow porch lining the front. She ran both hands down her wrinkled, blue traveling suit. She looked so rumpled and stained after five days in that stage coach traveling from Fort Benton, it was a good thing Gram couldn't see her. Claire winced. No, it wasn't a good thing. Losing her eyesight was terrible. If only Gram had been in North Carolina with them, where Papa could have treated her eye disease effectively. He could have made a difference. Not let her go blind like these mining town snake-oil doctors had done.
Facing the door with its peeling white paint, Claire raised her fist and knocked. Three solid taps. Lord, please let her be happy I've come. She hadn't seen Gram since she was five years old, but reading Gram's letters through the years made Claire feel like she'd talked with her face-to-face. When the last letter had arrived, penned by Gram's neighbor because Gram had lost her sight, Claire's heart had tugged so hard, she couldn't resist. Her grandmother needed help.
Claire glanced at the window to the left of the door. No sounds from inside. Was Gram not home? The steady rhythm of wagons and pedestrians drifted from behind her, the townspeople going about their business. Surely Gram wasn’t out there alone. It wasn't safe. How could a blind woman traverse these streets on her own?
Claire knocked again, this time louder. More forceful.
A scream sounded inside. The crashing of metal.
"Gram!" She grabbed the wooden knob on the door and twisted, ramming her hip against the wood to force it open. She needn't have tried so hard. The door swung easily, and Claire stumbled inside, staggering to catch her balance with the force of her charge.
A flash of fire blazed to her left. A tortured moan filled the room as Gram stumbled back from the stove.
Flame leaped at least a foot off the stove's surface.
Claire’s mouth went dry, and her feet sank into the wood floors like they were weighted with millstones. She closed her eyes against the images the blaze summoned. She had to think. Had to help Gram. Forcing her eyes open, her gaze darted around the room. What could she use to put it out?
The coffee pot on the back of the stove. Lord, please let it be full. Claire used the hem of her skirt to protect her hand as she gripped the handle and dumped the contents over the fire. About a cup of liquid and damp coffee grounds drizzled out, but it was enough to steal the power from the blaze. She smashed the base of the pitcher over the remaining flames again and again until they were nothing but acrid smoke.
"Who? Who is it?" The weak voice from behind jerked Claire's attention.
She spun to find Gram, bent over at the waist and clutching her right hand to her abdomen.
"It's me, Gram. Claire. Are you hurt?" She inched toward her grandmother, then pressed a cautious hand to her shoulder. "Can I see your hand?" Claire slid her fingers down Gram's sleeve and closed on the frail forearm.
"Hurts." Gram's word was more of a gasp as she pulled away from Claire.
"I know. I need to see how badly you're burned. I can help." Gram eased her resistance, and Claire finally pulled the injured hand out where she could get a better view of the palm. Crimson skin peered up at her, mottled in spots by white blisters.
Claire's throat closed as the sight merged into another image, seared into Claire's mind. Huge splotches of deep red covering the young flesh of her childhood friend. She sucked in a breath. Gram wouldn't die from this burn. Not like Mandy. She couldn't.
"Get…water." Gram's voice quavered like it might crack.
"Yes." Claire scanned the room. There was a basin on the counter. She ran to it, dipping her finger in the edge. They needed cold. The water looked relatively clean, but warm from the summer evening. Better than nothing.
"Come sit at the table." She deposited the basin, then gripped Gram's elbow and led her toward the chair.
Gram's milky eyes stared straight ahead as the fingers on her good hand gripped the wood. She eased herself into the chair.
Once Gram was settled with her hand in the basin, Claire stepped back. "Stay here while I get a doctor."
"No need. There's some cream in the bedroom. Just have to wrap it."
Claire's gaze wandered back to the hand in the basin, the seared red palm peeking up from the water. "Gram, this burn is really bad. You need more care than I can give you." Something to ward off infection for sure.
The lines on Gram's forehead deepened. "We don't need to bother them."
"It won't be a bother, Gram. We need medical help." Lord, please let me find someone competent. Don't let me regret forcing this. "Stay right here, and I'll be back as soon as I can."
She didn't give Gram a chance to object as she rushed for the door.
When Claire stepped off Gram's porch, she pulled up short. Where to find the doctor? The lady at Aunt Pearl's Café would probably know. Claire hiked her skirts and ran back the way she'd come.
She was panting by the time she charged through the front door of the café. A few people at nearby tables glanced up, but the steady murmur of voices never wavered. Claire searched the faces for the woman she'd spoken to before. Or anyone who looked like they belonged to the establishment. But she found no one.
Skirting the tables, she marched toward a curtain that probably marked the kitchen. As she grabbed the fabric to pull it aside, the cloth jerked from her hand. A woman charged through, and Claire jumped to the side just in time. The look of shock on the woman's face turned to horror as she swayed, twisting to balance a full tray in her left hand and a pitcher in her right. Claire's instincts kicked in, and she reached for the tray. Just in time. Her hands closed on the edges, holding it steady. "Let me have it."
The woman—the one who'd given her directions to Gram's house—eased the tray down as Claire took possession of it.
"If you set it back on my hand, I can balance it. Ye just gave me a fright, is all."
Claire held tight to the wooden sides of the heavy tray. "No, ma'am. I'll carry it to where you need."
The woman's shoulders sagged. "Thank ye, dear. Set it on the corner right here." She motioned toward a table on the second row where two men in rumpled vests and bowler hats had watched their entire exchange.
The woman turned back to her. “Now, can I help ye with somethin'?"
Claire's mind sped. "I need a doctor. My grandmother burned herself. Bad. Can you tell me where the clinic is?"
Aunt Pearl twisted to eye Claire as she poured coffee into a mug for one of the bowler hat men. "You're in luck. Doc Bryan's right here."
Where? Claire glanced at the men under the hats. The one facing her had a mustache that hung over the corners of his mouth like the roof on a house, making his face look especially long. Was he the doctor?
"Doc Bryan, this is Alice Malmgren's granddaughter. She's aneedin' ya." The long-faced man didn't look up at Aunt Pearl's words.
A wave of the woman's hand brought Claire's attention to the table beside them. A soot-covered man wiped his fingers with a cloth and stood, scooting his chair back with a single fluid motion.
He was a doctor? Claire squinted at him. The man she'd met by the café stairs after her first visit. The one who couldn't be bothered to speak a greeting.
"Doc Bryan's the best you'll find anywhere." Aunt Pearl patted his shoulder like a doting mother.
Claire cringed at the black grime that must surely be on the woman's hand now. Could she trust this ruffian? Perhaps she could find an apothecary and treat Gram herself?
Too late. The man moved to the aisle, a black physician bag in his hand. His shoulders sagged, as though the case weighed a hundred pounds. He raised his eyes to hers,
their brown depths surprisingly clear. He wasn't as old as she'd first thought. Thirty, perhaps. Maybe less than that, though who could tell under the grime.
"Is she at home?"
The doctor's voice shook Claire from her thoughts. "Yes, follow me." She charged forward and slipped past him.
"I know where she lives." The sardonic tone in his voice caught her up short. Claire twisted to peer at him. Did his rudeness have no bounds? He strode close behind her. He might run her over if she didn't get out of the way. Claire squared her shoulders and strode toward the café exit.
She had to half-jog to Gram's to keep up with the man's long strides. He didn't seem to be trying to leave her behind. Just going about his business without regard to her or anything else besides his purpose. Lord, please let his doctoring skills be better than his bedside manner.
At the very least, she'd get salve and bandages from him and care for Gram herself. Heaven knew she'd wrapped her share of injuries when she made house calls with Papa.
With only a quick tap on the door, the doctor twisted the handle and pushed inside. Claire stopped to catch her breath on the threshold as she watched him scan the room.
He strode toward a washstand at the end of the worktable.
Claire moved to Gram's side and watched as he scrubbed his hands, bits of gray lather flicking onto the counter.
After he'd dried them on the cloth, he stepped to the table and knelt by Gram's side. He murmured something Claire couldn't hear as he reached for the burned hand and pulled it from the water to examine.
"Silly me," Gram said. "I touched the stove top when I knew better." The lines on her face folded to a grimace as he fingered the fiery red skin. "Oh," she hissed.
Claire stepped closer. "Don't make it worse. Be careful with her." Her fingers itched to jerk the man back. She gripped them in fists to fight the urge. For now.
"When you do something," the doctor said, "you don't go halfway, do ya?" He kept his focus on Gram as his deep voice rumbled. He rested her hand palm-up on the table while he dug for something in his bag. There was a hint of a brogue in his tone. Maybe Irish?
He pulled out a small bottle, removed the cork, and placed the glass in Gram's good hand. "Take a little swig of this, and you'll feel better."
"What are you giving her?" Before Claire could stop her, Gram obeyed.
At last, the doctor applied salve and wrapped the palm with a long bandage. Claire caught a quick glimpse of discolored spots on the angry red skin before she pinched her eyes shut against the sight. But the images in her mind were worse. Seared flesh, burns so deep they looked almost purple.
Spinning around, she forced her eyelids open and stared out the window. Anything to distract herself. A woman trudged down the street, one hand holding a basket, the other clutching the wrist of a red-haired boy. A swelling in the woman's abdomen signaled the pending arrival of a new sibling within a few months. Would it be a brother or sister to the child?
"There now,” the doctor said. “A few days with that on, and you'll be good as new."
Claire spun at his words. He'd worked in silence until now. Not a very talkative chap, was he?
"Thank ye, Bryan. I'm feeling better already." Gram patted his shoulder with her good hand.
Claire cringed. What was it with ladies touching this man's dirty shoulder? Of course, Gram had no way of seeing how filthy he was.
Even though he'd washed his hands, his face could use a good scrubbing. And his clothes? It'd take two tubs of water to get them clean.
"You can finish washing up while I help Gram to bed." No sense in giving him an option in the matter.
He only nodded as he closed the leather case and stood. His knees cracked like an old man's. Maybe he wasn't any younger than thirty. Claire bit back a smirk at the frightfully unkind thought. Sorry, Lord.
~ ~ ~
Bryan Donaghue scrubbed the soap over his cheeks and forehead, closing his eyes as much to enjoy the clean lye scent as to keep out water. Too bad he couldn't dunk his entire head in the little tin wash basin. What he wouldn't do for a big tub of warm water in front of the cook stove like Mum used to prepare when they were kids.
With the suds rinsed off, Bryan eyed the stained white cloth on the counter. Had he left those gray smears when he’d washed earlier? How much more damage would he do now? This dust from the mine was like a plague, infecting everything within reach. He ignored the cloth and scrubbed a palm down his face, then shook his hands dry.
He turned to lean against the ledge while he waited for Mrs. Malmgren's pretty visitor to come out of the sleeping chamber. News of her arrival hadn't reached him before tonight, although Mrs. Malmgren had chattered about her coming for months. The feisty older woman got around pretty well without her sight, but it was a good thing family finally came to help her. What took them so long?
Of course, the snooty lady hadn't done such a great job keeping her grandmother safe so far. She may be a pretty thing, but she'd do better to help her grandmother instead of being rude to people who were trying to do that very thing.
He glanced around the dingy room. When had she arrived? It must not have been long ago. Either that or she could do a better job of cleaning, too.
Bryan forced out a long sigh. That wasn't fair. She'd traveled thousands of mile to help her grandmother. He was just so blasted tired, he couldn't think straight.
He crossed his arms and allowed his chin to drop to his chest. Every bone and muscle in his body ached. He'd spent most of the afternoon at the Travona mine, helping pull timbers off trapped workers after a nitroglycerine explosion blew too early. Several broken limbs, but no deaths. This time. How many would die in the next explosion? He had to stop the dangerous conditions before it was too late.
He inhaled a deep breath, then released it slowly, allowing his lungs and shoulders to collapse. After pulling injured people from the mine and stitching their wounds, he didn’t have it in him to offer hospitality to a newcomer in town. He’d have to make it up to her later.
"How much do we owe for your services?"
He jerked his head up at the snippy female voice. The woman seemed a bit low on good manners herself. Was that what all people were like back in…where was she from? South Carolina?
Bryan pushed away from the work counter. "I'll add it to her tab. Your grandmother pays at the end of the month." He scooped up his case and headed for the door.
"Can I…offer you coffee or”—she gazed around the messy kitchen, seemed to falter—“or something before you go?"
Bryan slowed as he neared the door and turned. "Don't bother. Pearl will have my food saved at the café."
"Suit yourself."
Ouch. He hadn't meant his words to come out so short, but she didn't have to be rude. Why was he letting her rile him? With a flick of his glance, he took in the room. "You might want to clean up around here. If her burned skin gets dirty, she could lose the hand from infection." He gave what he hoped was a polite nod, yanked the door open, and strode outside.
Sleep. He'd apologize after some sleep. But for now, it took every ounce of his self-control not to slam the door behind him.
Chapter Two
Claire clasped her hands and leaned into the stretch, bending sideways to avoid bumping into the wall at the head of the bed. One by one, each of the muscles in her shoulders and neck pulled out their kinks from yesterday's long stage ride to Butte City. What an evening it had been, finding Gram with her hand so badly burned. Then the run-in with that sullen doctor. He may be handsome—in a rugged mountain sort of way—but he could certainly do some studying in the arts of kindness and sympathy. And cleanliness.
How would Gram feel this morning? She sat up in bed. Gram. Claire patted the blanket beside her. Empty. Her chest pounded. How had Gram gotten up without her waking?
Throwing the covers aside, Claire swung her feet to the floor. The coolness of the wood made her toes curl. "Gram?" Darkness swallowed the windowless bedroom. Had she overslept? She
pulled the latch on the door and crept into the main room of the small house. "Gram?" No movement. No sound.
God, please don't let me lose her already. Claire scurried through the room to the front door. Maybe Gram had gone to use the outhouse they shared with the residence next door.
Claire stepped onto the porch and stopped short at the figure in the rocking chair to her left.
"Clara Lee?"
Claire pressed a hand to her chest, exhaling a long breath. "Gram. You gave me a start."
A smile tipped the corners of the older woman's mouth as her unseeing eyes faced the distance. "Thought I'd wandered off and got lost, did you?"
Good thing Gram couldn't see the heat radiating from her face. Claire stepped over and sank into the matching rocker beside Gram. "I didn't realize I'd overslept so much."
Gram motioned toward the view in front of them. "I try to be up for the sunrise every mornin', and visit with the Lord."
Claire took in the distant horizon. Brilliant ambers, pinks, and indigos melded together where the sky met the mountain peaks. The summits were shadowed on some sides, while other sections radiated the reflection of the dazzling sky. "Oh my." Such paltry words for the magnificence before them.
"I told your grandpop it didn't matter where he built our home, just so long as I could see the sun rise over the mountains each mornin'. He always said every day's a new beginning." Gram's voice quivered with memory.
Claire glanced over and smiled. A glimpse of Gram's milky eyes brought reality into clear focus. Gram couldn't see this sunrise. Wouldn't see any more of these spectacular starts to the day. She reached over and grasped the wrinkled hand.
Gram seemed to read her thoughts. “God's given me so many wonderful memories, Clara Lee. Now it's my time to bless Him back. Sometimes I think I'd get so caught up in the beauty of the sunrise, I'd forget about the One who made it for me. Now, my focus is on Him."
The leathery hand squeezed around Claire's fingers, and Claire fought down the knot in her throat. What a special woman her grandmother was.
Mountain Dreams Series: Books 1 - 3: Mountain Dreams Box Set 1 Page 45
