Clayton scowled at the idea, but remembered the pain when he had moved his head and obediently opened his mouth when the spoon touched his lips. Cool water dribbled over his tongue, soothing the parched tissue. Water had never tasted as sweet. He swallowed the entire glassful, one spoonful at a time. “Thank you.”
Sarah nodded and put down the glass. “Let me replace these cloths.”
Before he could say no, she had lifted the warm cloth from his forehead. She replaced it with a fresh, cool one and repeated the process on the left side of his head. The throbbing ache eased a bit. Clayton took a relieved breath. “Thank you, that eases the pain.”
“That pleases me.” She smiled down at him. “I was not sure it would help.”
He held his heart firm against that smile. “What is wrong with me? Did I take ill?”
“No, you were injured.” Her eyes clouded. “You have a wound on your head.”
“Injured? How did I—” A flash of a wooden scraper bounding over the earth and arching into the air behind a wild-eyed bay brought a surge of anger. Those fools with the scrapers! The throbbing in his head increased. Clayton took a breath, closed his eyes against the pain. “How bad is the wound?” He lifted his hand.
Sarah grabbed it, held it down. “Do not move, Mr. Bainbridge.” She covered his hand with the blanket. “The doctor said your wound is better. The swelling has gone down a bit. And—” She stopped, cleared her throat. “And I am certain your waking means it is much better.”
Her voice sounded different. He opened his eyes. There were tears shimmering in hers. For him? The injury must be serious. His heart thudded. “How long did I sleep?”
She took a breath, blinked the sheen of tears away. “You have been unconscious, except for a few brief moments, since they brought you home in a wagon.” She hesitated. He held her gaze. “That was yesterday afternoon.”
“I see.” He might as well hear it all. “Any other injuries?” His head pained so fiercely he had not noticed any other specific aches.
She took another breath. “You could have other injuries we are unaware of. One of your laborers told the doctor you were hit in the back by a piece of equipment of some sort, but the doctor did not want to move you to examine you while you were unconscious and unable to tell him what was wrong.”
“Umm.” The strength he had mustered was draining away. Clayton closed his eyes and garnered the little that remained. Other discomforts were now making themselves known. “I need…Quincy.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t leave you to go after him.”
The worry in her voice gave him the will to open his eyes. “I’ll not…move. Please…get him.”
She drew breath to speak, snagged her lower lip beneath her teeth and whirled away. He heard her run lightly across the floor, open the door to the winder stairs and start down at a hurried pace.
Silence settled. His bedroom felt empty, lonely without her. How would he ever manage to erase the visions of her presence from it?
Chapter Sixteen
“I shall wait in my bedroom in case you need me, Doctor. It is there—” Sarah waved her hand toward the space beyond Clayton’s open door “—across the landing.” She glanced at Quincy, standing by Clayton’s bed ready to help the doctor, bit back a plea for him to be gentle and left the room. There was no sense in giving him and Eldora fodder for their useless hopes. It was not that she cared for Clayton Bainbridge. It was only that she had witnessed the intensity of his pain when he moved his head, and she hated to see anyone suffer.
She left Clayton’s door ajar, did the same with her own to better hear if the doctor called for her, then hovered there, close to the door, massaging the tense, tired muscles across her shoulders and listening to the faint sounds of Eldora working in the kitchen while Nora chattered in the background. A smile tugged at her lips. Nora had taken over the household. Eldora gave the toddler her meals in the kitchen, and Quincy took her to the carriage house when his work took him there—which seemed to be quite frequently of late. Her smile widened…faded. Of course, Clayton Bainbridge still held himself aloof from his daughter. But that would change when his health improved. On that she was determined.
The sound of the doctor’s muttering, to Clayton or Quincy or himself, brought a shudder. Sarah moved away from the door, not eager to overhear any of his indelicate, gory comments. She walked to a window, wrapped her arms about herself and looked up at the white clouds dotting the azure sky. That one looked like a rabbit. And that one like a dog. Goodness, how one’s mind wandered! She had not played the cloud game since she was a little girl. She would have to teach Nora. She smiled, leaned forward and searched the sky as she had when she was a child. But this time she sought a perfect fluffy-cloud pillow to give to Clayton so it could soothe his aching head.
“Ugh.”
The utterance came, muted by distance and walls, but clearly conveying pain. Sarah sucked in a breath, abandoned her childhood game. “Please, Almighty God, help Mr. Bainbridge to bear the pain of the doctor’s examination. And please, help them to not injure him further. Please do not let him be harmed in any way, Lord God Almighty, please. I pray this in Your Holy Name. Amen.”
How horrid it would be if the doctor did Clayton harm. Such things happened. Sarah blinked sudden moisture from her eyes, chided herself for her cowardice and walked back to open her door a little wider. It was of no benefit to Clayton Bainbridge for her to stand around in her bedroom imagining awful things and suffering for him. She might better put this free time to good use. She took clean clothes from her cupboard and hastened to the dressing room. The doctor said his examination would take some time. If she hurried, she would have time to bathe.
That was better. The quick but thorough wash had chased away the stiffness from sitting and standing by Clayton’s bedside. Sarah wound a towel around her wet hair, donned the chestnut-brown gown and stepped into her kidskin slippers, all the while listening for the doctor’s call. There was only silence and an occasional murmur, the voices and words indistinguishable.
A few minutes work brushed the tangles from her hair. Sarah piled it on the crown of her head, secured it with pins and the length of red roping and gave it a last pat. She turned from the mirror and walked into her bedroom, a smile flirting with her lips. She had become quite adept at styling her hair—Ellen would be proud of her. So would her parents.
She halted on her way to the dresser, arrested by a sudden awareness of how much she had changed since coming to Stony Point. She was no longer the pampered and cosseted young woman who had arrived in Cincinnati. The circumstances she had faced—was still facing—challenged her in ways she had never imagined. And she had met those challenges. The old Sarah would have run home to be coddled. Indeed, she had almost done so when faced with Eldora Quincy’s sternness on her arrival. Thank goodness she had stayed.
Sarah continued on to the dresser, took a lace-edged linen handkerchief from the top drawer and glanced at her partially open door. How different her life had become. If Ellen were here she would nurse Clayton Bainbridge and care for Nora in her stead. The maid would free her to go to town, to do whatever she chose. And Ellen would indulge and coddle her when the nightmares came. She would certainly never make her build a fire and prepare her own tea. Why, Ellen would be outraged at the very idea. And a short time ago her own attitude had been the same.
Sarah walked to the window and looked out at the wooded hill across the road. She had been resentful of Eldora’s lack of sympathy that night after the nightmare. And she had been shocked at being asked to build the fire. But the truth was, helping to make her own tea had given her a satisfaction she had never before experienced. She liked it. And she loved caring for Nora.
Clayton Bainbridge was a different matter. A frown creased her forehead. Nursing him filled her with trepidation. It frightened her. Yet, even though in the beginning she had nursed him against her will, she had come to a place where she would not want Ellen or anyone else to take her place tending him
. That strange connection she felt to him had become—
“Miss Randolph?”
Sarah spun about, rushed to the door and looked across the landing at the doctor. “Yes?”
“You may take up your nursing chores again.” The doctor disappeared into Clayton’s room.
Sarah gathered her skirts into her hands and hurried after him. Clayton was propped up on pillows. His eyes were closed and he was very pale. They had hurt him! She drew breath to speak, blew it out again. It was not her place to know what the doctor had found during his examination. “Have you any new instructions for me, Doctor?”
“No. Continue on the same.” Dr. Parker frowned, took his bag into his hand. “There’s nothing to be done for Clay’s head or back but rest. Keep him quiet.” He dipped his head and walked out of the room.
So Clayton’s back was injured. Was it causing him pain? Sarah stared down at Clayton. His skin was pasty white, his features pinched. He looked exhausted. Was he sleeping? Or unconscious? Or simply done in by his ordeal? She looked at his hands, limp on the coverlet, and a lump formed in her throat. He should not be like this. He should be at work directing the repairs to the locks on the Miami Canal. Or in his study drawing blueprints of the work yet to be done. He should be lifting his daughter and holding her safe in his strong arms.
Sarah blinked the film of moisture from her eyes, cleared her throat and headed for the dressing room to get cloths and a fresh bowl of water. It was all she could do to help him—to restore him to Nora. Except pray. And she would do that, too. She would pray without ceasing. And she would not allow herself to doubt. Not ever again.
It was like the thick fog that filled the mountain valleys before the morning sun burned its way through. Clayton turned this way and that, searching for a way through the cold darkness, struggling to reach the place of warmth and light. But the darkness closed in on him.
Sarah let go of Clayton’s arm, lifted her weight off him and slipped backward until her feet touched the floor. Thank goodness that was over. He had been muttering and thrashing around so insistently, the only way she had been able to stop him was by throwing herself across him.
She shook out her skirts, sighed and pushed back a few strands of hair that had worked loose in her struggle with Clayton. She missed Nora, but it was good that Eldora and Quincy were watching the toddler between her nap and bedtimes. She could never tend to both of them at once.
Sarah refreshed the cloths that had become dislodged, replaced them on Clayton’s head and stood studying his face. He looked gaunt. Of course, that could be the result of the whiskers darkening his cheeks. But most likely it was weight loss. How long could he go without eating? At least he had been taking water when he was awake. She reached out and brushed the tip of her finger over the dark stubble of his beard. Did it annoy him? Or—
“Oh.” Heat rushed into her cheeks. Sarah jerked her hand back and looked down into Clayton’s dark-blue eyes. His clear, aware dark-blue eyes. “You are awake.” An inane thing to say. “I mean, really awake.”
“Yes.”
Had he felt her touching his face? The heat in her cheeks increased. She wiped her fingertips against her skirt and cleared her throat. “How do you feel?”
“Thirsty.”
“I have water here for you.” Sarah lifted the glass from the bedside table and held it to Clayton’s lips, her own parting slightly as he drank. “I am sure it is much more satisfying for you without the spoon. Are you more comfortable propped up on the pillows? Does it ease your pain?”
She frowned and clamped her lips together to stop her prattling. She always did that when she was embarrassed. She took a breath and held it. Avoided his eyes. When he finished the water she set the empty glass back on the table. “Is there something more I can do for you?”
“Nothing at the moment. And, yes, being propped up does ease the pain in my head…somewhat. But the cold cloths help the most.” He lifted his hand off the coverlet toward his head.
Sarah’s stomach flopped. “Do not move!” She grabbed hold of his hand, pulled it against her. Clayton went still. Had he lost consciousness again? She looked up at his face—met his gaze, and was suddenly acutely aware of their clasped hands—of the breadth and warmth of his palm, the calluses on the pads of the long fingers that were slowly uncurling, releasing their grip on her.
She looked down and yanked her hand free. It felt naked. “The doctor said you could harm yourself if you move.”
“Not my arms. Not when I am awake. It is my head and back that are injured and must be kept still.”
His voice sounded strained. Was he overtiring himself? Sarah chanced another look at him, relaxed in relief. His eyes now held their normal, cool expression.
Knuckles rapped softly against the hallway door.
Sarah jumped, hurried across the bedroom, grateful for the interruption that would give her a chance to regain her aplomb. “Yes, Doc—” She stared at the young man standing in the hallway, hat in hand. “Oh. I thought you were the doctor returning.”
Dark curls tumbled forward as the man dipped his head. “John Wexford, at your service. The housekeeper—”
“Come in, Wexford.”
Sarah glanced over her shoulder at Clayton, swallowed the protest she had no right to make and stepped back to allow the man entrance. She started to leave, took another look at Clayton’s pale face, noted he had removed the cloths from his head. She left the door and moved to the far window, feigning interest in the view. With a slight turn of her head she could watch Clayton out of the corner of her eye.
“How are you, sir?”
Clayton scowled. “Never mind about me—how is the work progressing?”
“Work is finished at my present site. We will move to the upper lock tomorrow.” The man stepped closer to the bed. “Your crew finished work at the lock the day you were injured, and all equipment has been moved to the aqueduct site. I was there today, overseeing the setup and the initial demolition.” John Wexford frowned, slapped his hat against his leg. “That job requires close supervision, so I figure to boss your crew until you return. I set Thomas over my crew in my absence. Does that meet with your approval, sir?”
“It is your only option.” Clayton’s scowl deepened. “Thomas is a good man, but he has limited ability. You shall have to check the site often.” Clayton’s voice lost strength. The covers moved as he took a deep breath. “Keep the newly hired laborers under your control. And watch Maylor. He is…a fighter…troublemaker. He will try to run over Thomas…and you.”
Sarah frowned, willed Mr. Wexford to leave. Could the man not see Clayton’s pain and exhaustion—could he not hear it in his voice? She turned from the window, started for the bed.
“Thank you for the warning, sir. I will keep a wary eye on Maylor.”
“Good. And do not hesitate to call upon me should a problem arise, Wexford. Otherwise…I shall expect you to…report to me every other day. Good evening.”
Finally! Sarah swerved toward the door to show Mr. Wexford out.
“Before I go, sir.” She halted; John Wexford’s voice held a hint of desperation. “The needed repair work cannot go forward without your blueprints. If you will tell me where to find them…”
“They were…in shack…” Clayton’s voice faded. He took a breath. “In…leather pouch…”
“No, sir. They were not found—”
“I believe they are here, Mr. Wexford.” Sarah went to the cupboard, opened the door and lifted out the paper-stuffed leather pouch she had placed there. “Are these the blueprints you are seeking?” She stood in front of the cupboard, which was adjacent to the hallway door, and held out the pouch as a lure to draw Mr. Wexford away from Clayton’s bed.
The young man strode across the room, took the pouch and scanned the contents. “The very ones.” There was relief in his voice.
“How fortunate.”
“Yes.” John Wexford lifted his head, smiled down at her. “Thank you for your help,
Miss…”
There was an interested gleam in his eyes she did not care for. Sarah gave him a cool nod. “I am pleased to help. Good evening, Mr. Wexford.” She cast a meaningful glance toward the open door. The gleam dulled. Good. The fact that she had ignored his invitation to tell him her name had not gone unnoticed. Nor had her silent invitation for him to leave.
“Good evening.” He tucked the leather pouch under his arm and left the room. A moment later she heard the thud of his boots against the stair treads.
Sarah hurried to the bed. Clayton’s eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. He had fallen asleep. She dipped the cloths he had removed in the cold water, put them back on his head, then sat in the rocker and closed her eyes. She had a few minutes to rest before Eldora brought her dinner.
Silence settled, punctuated only by the sound of Sarah’s soft breathing. Clayton opened his eyes, studied her face. Her beauty stole his breath; her touch, his strength and determination. His face drew taut. Deborah’s death and the child would always stand between him and any other woman. And Sarah Randolph deserved a better man than he.
Clayton closed his eyes, called back the image of John Wexford’s face when Sarah had opened the door, the quick glances the young man had stolen of Sarah while he stood by his bed talking business with him, the softness in his deep voice when he spoke to her. There was no doubt the man was smitten. And John Wexford was a man of good character, with a promising future as an engineer.
Clayton set his mind against the sharp pangs of jealousy, relaxed his clenched jaw, and considered what he could do to foster a relationship between Wexford and Sarah. He would begin by extolling the young man’s virtues when Sarah awoke. And by hiding his own feelings for her behind a solid wall of indifference. He would find the strength to do that somehow. For her sake.
Chapter Seventeen
“Me gonna play wiff kitties.” Nora wiggled in her chair.
Family of the Heart Page 15
