Heaven Sent

by Duncan, Alice

  Then Callie’s sisters had assisted their brother in coming to Aubrey’s rescue. Alta, whose house was situated closest to the hospital and whose children were friends of Becky’s, offered to take Becky to her house. “I’m sure Jane and Johnny will be pleased to play with Becky.”

  Smiling, she held out a hand for Becky, who resisted, clinging to her father and staring at the bed where the doctor, hands on his hips, glared at them all.

  “Will you please leave the room?” Dr. Marshall said severely. “I have to examine Miss Prophet.”

  Aubrey stood up abruptly. “Yes. Thank you, Doctor.” He turned to Alta. “Thank you, Mrs. Watson. That would be very good of you. I—I need to know what happened and what the doctor thinks needs to be done.”

  George took his arm again. “Let’s go out to the lobby so Doc Marshall doesn’t start throwing things at us. I’ll explain everything while Alta takes care of the tyke.”

  “Thank you.” Aubrey felt as though he were walking through quicksand as he left the room. He wanted to stay. He wanted to shake Dr. Marshall until he explained fully and exactly what was wrong with Callie and assured him that she’d be all right. He clung to Becky as if she were his last link to the earth. She felt like it, even though he knew Alta’s suggestion had been a sound one.

  He nearly collapsed onto the sofa when they got to the hospital’s lobby. Glancing at each of the Prophets in turn, he collected his emotions enough to say, “What happened? That bruise on her face is—is—” He swallowed, recalling the bruise with horror. “Well, it looks awful.”

  “Is she hurt?” Becky asked in a small voice, still hugging her papa tightly.

  Aubrey hugged her back. “I’m afraid she must be, sweetheart.”

  George passed a hand over his eyes. “It’s like this: From what we can figure out, she was walking along the road from your place to the town. The fog was thick this morning, and she evidently neither saw nor heard the milk wagon. According to Simpson, the driver, the horse and Callie scared the spit out of each other when they met up in the middle of the road. Don’t know why in hell she was walking in the middle of the road.”

  “George,” Florence said softly.

  Aubrey figured she objected to his saying “hell.” Aubrey didn’t. He felt like saying worse than that.

  George sighed. “Sorry, Flo, Anyhow, when Callie and the horse met, the horse reared, and one of its hooves struck her coming down.”

  “Good God.” Aubrey shut his eyes, unwilling to picture Callie in such pain and distress. Yet she was. “Good God.”

  “Will she be all right?” Becky asked again, her voice even smaller than before.

  George smiled at her. Aubrey realized that all the Prophets had fine smiles. Friendly smiles. Smiles that invited openness and friendship. A marvelous quality, that. Funny it should have taken him so long to recognize it.

  “We’re not sure yet, Becky. Dr. Marshall has to examine her. She has a concussion.”

  “What’s a ‘cussion?”

  After exchanging a glance with George, Aubrey answered his daughter’s question. “When a person gets a knock on the head, sometimes it makes the little blood vessels inside break and the brain swell. That’s called a concussion.”

  Becky’s eyes went wide with alarm. “You mean her brain’s bleeding?”

  “We don’t know yet, Becky,” George said.

  Florence tried to stifle a sob, but didn’t quite succeed. Alta patted her on the shoulder and said, “Dr. Marshall will do everything he can, Becky. What we all need to do is pray for her. Pray hard. God hears people’s prayers, you know.”

  Aubrey could have argued with her on that subject, but didn’t want to. At the moment, and in spite of his own experience, he decided to believe what Alta said.

  “Has she been conscious at all?” he asked after a short spate of silence.

  George shook his head. “No. Not yet.” His voice sounded gravelly, and he cleared his throat. “The doctor says if she doesn’t regain consciousness pretty soon, it might mean . . . Well, it’ll be encouraging if she does, I guess.”

  “Right.” Aubrey pondered this.

  Again silence descended on the glum company. Becky sniffled audibly, and Florence sniffled inaudibly. The only reason Aubrey knew she was crying was that she kept wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.

  At last Alta spoke. “Becky, I think it would be better for you and your papa if you were to come home with me now. It’s about lunchtime, and Jane and Johnny will be coming home from Sunday school. They’ll be so pleased to see you, and you can eat with them and play this afternoon.” She glanced at Aubrey. “And I think you’ll also feel better this afternoon. Callie said you’ve been very sick, you poor thing.”

  Becky nodded solemnly. “I had ‘fluenza.”

  “Indeed, that’s what Callie said.” Alta swallowed, and for a moment, Aubrey feared she might start crying, too.

  She didn’t. Instead, she arose from the chair in which she’d parked herself and came over to Becky with her hand outstretched. She spoke to Aubrey. “Is that all right with you, Mr. Lockhart? I expect you and George and Flo and their families to come to my house for supper tonight, too. It won’t be a fancy meal, but it’ will save everyone else having to cook when we’re all so—” She sucked in air. “When we’re all so worried.”

  “Thank you, Alta.” Florence’s voice wobbled so much it was difficult to make out the words. “I want to stay here.”

  “I’d better go. home for a little while. Have to report to Marie and the kids. Marie will probably want to help you with supper, Alta.”

  Alta nodded. “That’s fine, George. Send the children too. Might as Well have a whole herd of them as one or two.”

  Aubrey marveled at the dynamics of this family. They were so easy with each other. And they seemed to accept and give help with equal facility. He wasn’t quite accustomed to such easy relationships. It occurred to him that the Prophets were, in a way, a blessing of a family, and he was momentarily overwhelmed with gratitude that they should have blessed his life and Becky’s.

  Realizing he was on the verge of blubbering, he pulled himself together and squeezed Becky. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart. Have a good time with your friends.” He gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek.

  “Please tell Callie I love her, Papa,” Becky said as she reached for Alta’s hand. “And tell her to get better. Dr. Marshall made me better. I bet he can make her better.”

  Two tears trailed down Becky’s cheeks, and Aubrey reached out to wipe them away. “I will, Becky. I’ll tell her.” He gulped and shut up before he could make a fool of himself.

  George, Alta, and Becky left the hospital’s lobby. Aubrey walked to the door and waved to his daughter until she disappeared from his sight. When he turned, he saw Florence watching him. He inspected her face, trying to decipher the expression.

  Did she hold him responsible for Callie’s accident? He was. He blamed himself. If he hadn’t been so damned huffy with her, if he hadn’t said such accusatory things to her, if he hadn’t vilified her so viciously, she wouldn’t have run away. She’d still be in his home, tucked away safely.

  God, he loved her. For a moment, Aubrey covered his face with his hands, wishing with alt his heart that he’d had the openheartedness to have told her so instead of condemning her.

  But, no. He’d become so entangled with his grief over Anne that he hadn’t even recognized when the grief had eased and the habit of grief had taken over. And he’d blamed Callie for curing him! What an ass he was.

  “I’m sure Callie won’t blame you for the accident, Mr. Lockhart.”

  Florence’s voice, soft and oddly like Callie’s, only less vibrant, filtered through his misery slowly. When he understood what she’d said, he lowered his hands and gazed at her. “I—I think it’s my fault she was on that foggy road this morning, Mrs. Blanchard. 1—we had an argument.”

  “I figured it was something like that.” Florence gave him a quavery smile
. “She loves you, you know.”

  “Oh, God.” Aubrey shut his eyes and stood there, unable to move, wishing he could trade places with Callie. He deserved to hurt; she didn’t.

  Florence patted the sofa cushion next to her. “Come and sit by me, Mr. Lockhart. I think you ought to know what Callie thinks of you and Becky.”

  He knew what she thought of them. She loved them both. With a sigh, Aubrey moved to the sofa and sat. At least Becky deserved Callie’s love. He sure didn’t.

  “You know, Callie used to write to Becky before she went to live with you. She told us about it, although she swore us to secrecy. Poor Becky used to write letters to her mother in heaven and Callie answered them because she couldn’t stand thinking that the poor little girl’s letters would otherwise go unanswered.”

  “She told me.” Aubrey’s heart felt heavier than it had since the day of Anne’s funeral. If it got much heavier, it would weigh him down forever.

  “Yes.” Florence sighed. “Callie’s a funny girl.” She laughed softly. “Well, of course, she’s not a girl any longer. But I think of her as one because she’s the youngest.”

  Aubrey nodded. He wasn’t in the mood to talk.

  “She’s had several offers of marriage, you know, but she didn’t accept any of them. Said she didn’t want to marry anyone she didn’t love. Since she moved to your house she’s been telling me that she guesses she isn’t the sort of woman a man could cherish. I don’t know where she came up with that one, because she’s the loveliest girl, and has the kindest heart in the world.”

  Aubrey knew where she’d come up with it. Guilt smacked him in the conscience, making him cringe.

  “Bobby Collins wanted to marry her just this last year,” Florence went on, sounding reminiscent. “Callie laughed and told him he’d get over it. He said his heart was broken, but Callie didn’t believe him. I guess she was right, because he proposed to the Zellweiger girl just this past week, and they’re planning a wedding in the spring.”

  Aubrey didn’t care. His fear for Callie was gnawing at his innards. Between fear and guilt, he wasn’t sure he’d survive until the doctor came out of Callie’s room. He wanted to barge in and demand to know what the prognosis was.

  Florence rambled on. Her gentle voice had a calming effect, which was a good thing, since it kept him from rampaging through the hospital and tearing his hair out. “She is the youngest, you know, and she was hit hardest when our mother died. She’s very sensitive.”

  Oh, God. And he’d all but flayed her alive last night. He buried his head in his hands and was startled when he felt Florence’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Please don’t despair, Mr. Lockhart. She’s a strong girl. If anyone can survive such a blow, it’s Callie.”

  Aubrey only stared at her, wishing he could do as she’d suggested. But the thought of losing the second woman he’d ever loved was too difficult to bear, and he despaired in spite of Florence.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Ohh.” Callie tried to lift her hand to her aching head, but it wouldn’t cooperate. She felt as if her body had been pumped full of something very heavy. Lead, perhaps. She heard what sounded like a rustle of skirts and opened her eyes. Her eyelids felt heavy, too.

  “Miss Prophet,” a soft, sweet voice said, sounding tentative.

  Callie tried to agree, but didn’t have any luck. She tried again and managed to croak, “Yes.” She wanted to ask where she was and why she hurt so badly, but such a complicated communication was beyond her at the moment.

  “Do you hurt?”

  Stupid question. Because her head hurt so much and she feared she’d only make it hurt worse if she nodded, Callie whispered, “Yes.”

  “Doctor gave me instructions to give you another dose of morphine if you were in pain if you woke up, so I’ll be right back with it. Then I’ll run to get Doctor, because he’s been very worried about you.” The rustle of skirts came again, retreating this time.

  Who in the name of mercy was “Doctor”? Callie wondered. Dr. Marshall? Why did this person call him “Doctor”?

  And what was this if she woke up nonsense? And why was this woman giving her doses of morphine? Morphine was pretty strong medication for a headache.

  When she thought, her head throbbed, so Callie decided to save all of her questions until later. She did wish she knew where she was and why she hurt so terribly.

  “Here we go,” came the voice.

  Maybe it belonged to a nurse? But why would she be attended by a nurse? And, if she was being attended by a nurse, who was paying for it? She didn’t remember much about anything, but she seemed to recall she’d done something bad to Aubrey. Her heart joined her head in throbbing, and she wished she hadn’t thought about Aubrey.

  Thoughts fled when the woman lifted Callie’s head, precipitating a flood of anguish throughout her entire body, and especially her head. She felt stupid when tears leaked from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Callie Prophet didn’t cry for no reason, but she was crying now, from pain, and she felt silly about it. She’d always been strong. Something very bad must have happened.

  The nurse lowered her carefully to the pillow once more, and Callie could do nothing but suffer for several minutes. She was vaguely aware of the skirts rustling away from her bed.

  Everything went black for a period of time, and when Callie opened her eyes again Dr. Marshall was looming over her. Seeing him surprised her. “H’Io, Doc.”

  Was that her voice? It sounded odd.

  She was reassured slightly when Dr. Marshall grinned at her. “Howdy-do, Miss Callida Prophet. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ve opened your eyes at last.”

  “At last?” Whatever did that mean?

  The doctor nodded, so Callie guessed his phrasing hadn’t been a mistake. “You’ve been out cold for a week now.”

  A week! Good heavens! “What happened?”

  “You, dear lady, had a confrontation with Billy Simpson’s Clydesdale. You lost.”

  “B-Billy Simpson? But . .” Billy Simpson drove the milk wagon. How could Callie have annoyed Pete, Billy’s huge horse, so badly that Pete had clobbered her?

  Dr. Marshall patted her shoulder and turned away, presumably to do something of a doctorly nature. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault, Callie. It was too foggy to see anything that morning.”

  That was minutely reassuring, Callie guessed, although why she should have been out in the morning fog was still a puzzle. Evidently, she was still in a fog. She decided that was an amusing thing to say, so she did. “I think I’m still in a fog, Doctor.”

  He chuckled, which made the pain of speaking almost worthwhile. “You’re getting your spirit back. That’s good, Callie. We’ve all been very worried about you.”

  If whatever had happened had occasioned this much pain, Callie guessed she’d have worried about herself, too, had she been in any shape to do so. “What happened?” Had she already asked that?

  Oh, yes. She had. But Dr. Marshall hadn’t given her a satisfactory answer.

  “Billy’s horse and you ran into each other on the road to town, and you scared the horse as much as he scared you, I guess. Unfortunately, he’s bigger than you are, and has iron-shod hooves. According to Billy, the horse reared up and hit you with a hoof when it came down again.”

  Ow. No wonder her head hurt so much. Callie pondered Dr. Marshall’s explanation for several seconds. The longer she pondered, the more amazed she was. “I’m lucky to be alive, I guess. That’s one big horse.”

  Dr. Marshall’s grin was broader when he turned and loomed over her again. “You’re very lucky to be alive. And your family and Mr. Lockhart and Becky have been camped in here and in the hallway for days now, worried about you.”

  Callie seized upon the name that struck her with the greatest force. “Mr. Lockhart?”

  “Mr. Lockhart. He’s been practically living in your room, Callie. He’s paying for everything. Even called in a trauma expert from San Francisco.�
�� Dr. Marshall’s grin took on an ironic twist. “And I didn’t even resent it. I know how worried he’s been.”

  Callie blinked up at him. “The trauma expert?”

  “No, you goose. Mr. Lockhart.”

  “Oh.”

  “He left you a letter for when you’re well enough to read it.”

  “A letter?”

  Wait a minute. Wasn’t it letters that had got her into trouble with Aubrey in the first place?

  Oh, Lord, yes it was. Callie shut her eyes and tried to think, but couldn’t. All she knew for sure was that she’d read Aubrey’s letters to his dead wife, they’d been so beautiful that Callie had fallen in love with Aubrey, and she knew full well no man would ever love her as Aubrey had loved his Anne. His “Darling Annie.”

  What was worse was that Callie didn’t blame Aubrey. Not a bit. She’d be furious with anyone who read her private letters, too. Bits and pieces of her last day and night at the Lockhart mansion began finding each other and adhering into a coherent picture in her brain. Ah, yes. She’d made a fool of herself, Aubrey had been justifiably angry, and Callie had run away.

  That must have been when she’d encountered Billy’s horse. She had a vague recollection of fog. And unhappiness. And loss.

  And if that wasn’t a dismal thought, she didn’t know what was.

  “Why did Aubrey come here?” she asked, curious. If he hated her, he wouldn’t have chased after her, would he? Callie could more easily understand him paying for her care, because he was a kind man, even if he didn’t like her any more.

  “You’ll have to ask him, Callie.”

  As Callie had been thinking, Dr. Marshall had been checking her pulse, examining her head—which required a good deal of pressing at a tremendously sore spot above her right eye—and pressing his ice-cold stethoscope against various regions of her chest. She probably should have been embarrassed, but she was too weak.

  Dr. Marshall straightened, and held out a hand so that Callie was staring straight up at it. “How many fingers am I holding up, Callie?”

  “Five, but three are bent. There are only two straight out.” She wondered if he wanted her to be so literal.