Another Dawn

by Sandra Brown

  A heat wave rolled through her that had nothing to do with her fever. If she made such a brazen move to lie down beside him, would he deter her this time?

  But even as she thought about it, a rush of scalding, sour bile surged to the back of her throat. Shakily she set her cup down on the stone hearth. The last thing she wanted to do was disgrace herself by throwing up in front of Jake. That would be too humiliating.

  "I was already sleepy and the whiskey only made me more so. I think I'll go to bed, Jake."

  He raised himself to a sitting position. His expression was a mixture of bewilderment and hurt. "Sure, Banner. Good night."

  Somehow she managed to pull herself to her feet and make it to the door of her bedroom without giving away how weak and woozy she was. At the door she aimed back to him. He was pouring another portion of whiskey into his cup, without tea this time. By the stern set of his jaw, she could tell he was angry or disappointed or both, but no more so than she.

  "Thank you, Jake, for everything."

  He lifted his eyes to her and nodded brusquely, but said nothing. He finished his drink in one swallow and reached again for the bottle. Sighing with regret, Banner went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

  The room was damp, the sheets clammy, but she crawled between mem and huddled under the covers until she began to warm and her teeth stopped clicking together. But she couldn't straighten out her legs. She kept her stomach protectively cradled between her knees and her chest. Her muddled brain decided she must have a fever. Maybe she had influenza. She thought she was going to vomit, but again she forced it down.

  She drifted in and out of consciousness. She slept, but was continually aware of the nagging overall discomfort and the frequent spasms of pain in her abdomen. Each time she awoke from a bad, painful dream and discovered it was real, she groaned into her pillow, praying for oblivion.

  The rain continued to fall. The long hours of the night stretched out into the wee hours of the morning, then into the pale, ghostly predawn when the outdoors became only a slightly lighter shade of gray.

  In her sleep, Banner clutched her middle and uttered a sharp cry. She came awake, knowing that this wasn't some ailment she would sleep off. Panting with the effort, she raised herself and hung her head over the side of the bed. Her body was bathed with a film of sweat, but she was shivering with cold. Her ears seemed on fire. They pounded with each beat of her heart.

  "Banner?"

  The door to her bedroom, was flung open when she didn't answer. Jake stood there dressed only in his pants, as though he'd just pulled them on. "Banner!" He saw the greenish tint to her face and the hollow, sunken dullness of her eyes.

  He ran into the room, ducked down beside her bed and cradled her head in his hands. "What's wrong? Are you sick?"

  "Go away," she said miserably. "I'm going to... to..."

  He dragged the procelain chamberpot from beneath her bed just in time. She vomited into it with spasms that wrenched her body as though she were a rag being wrung between giant fists. Jake had seen cowboys puke up three nights' worth of debauchery, but he had never seen anyone as wretchedly ill as Banner. Nor had he ever seen anything as vile as what her stomach voided.

  When she was done, she collapsed, exhausted, on the pillows. Jake covered the pot with its lid and sat down on the edge of the bed. He clasped her hands. They were cold and moist and lifeless. Her face was as pale as the sheet she lay on.

  He smoothed her hair back from her damp, pallid cheeks. "That pissing whiskey." He cursed, hating himself for giving it to her. He should have known she couldn't tolerate even a thimbleful.

  She opened her eyes and focused on him. She tried to shake her head. "No. I was feeling bad before that."

  Panic stabbed through him like an icepick. "Since when, Banner? When did you start feeling sick?"

  "Just after..." She stopped to allow an agonizing pain in her abdomen to subside. "Just after we got to town," she finished on a wheezing bream.

  "Why didn't you say something? You've been like this all night? Why didn't you call me? Never mind, don't talk. What can I do? Do you want something?" Desperately he pressed her hands, trying to knead life back into them.

  "Stay with me." She tried to squeeze his hand, but lacked the strength to do it. She was afraid she would die and no one would be there with her. In a rational corner of her mind, she knew she must be delirious, but she couldn't curb the panic that seized her at the thought of dying alone.

  "I will, sweetheart, I will. Wild horses couldn't drag me out of here."

  For hours he tended to her, holding her head as she retched into the chamberpot he had to empty after each bout of nausea, bathing her sweat-beaded face with a cool cloth, talking to her in loving, soothing tones.

  He cursed his ineptitude, the weather, everything and anything. He cursed himself for giving the hands the day off because of the rain. It was coming down as fast and furious as ever. No one would venture across the river today.

  He had never felt so useless in his life. All he could do was watch Banner writhe in agony while he stood by, impotent to do anything to relieve her suffering.

  As the hours dragged by, one thing became clear. He was unqualified to take care of her. This illness was life-threatening. He had to go for help.

  "Banner." Once his mind was made up, he knelt beside the bed and took her hand. When her eyes struggled open, he said, "Sweetheart, I've got to go get help."

  Her watery eyes instantly cleared as panic shot through them. "No!" She clutched at his shirtfront. "Don't leave me here to die."

  "You aren't going to die," he stated firmly, and wished to God he could convince himself of that. "I've got to find a doctor and bring him back."

  "Don't leave me, Jake. Jake! You promised. Don't go."

  Steeling his emotions, he pried her ringers from the material of his shirt and left her. Tears flooded his eyes and her pleading cries filled his ears as he ran to the barn to saddle Stormy. He argued with himself to go back, to stay with her, but he knew he couldn't. She wouldn't be alone long. He would ride to River Bend and notify her folks of her condition. Someone would come stay with her while he went to Larsen and brought back the doctor.

  Despite the slippery roads that were barely distinguishable in the downpour, he made it to the river in record time.

  "Sonofabitch!"

  He sent the scathing curse hurling toward heaven, not even caring if God heard it. Where the bridge used to be was only a rushing current of muddy water. All that was left of the bridge were fragments of its supports on each bank. The lumber was torn. Water swirled around the jagged edges of wood. The rickety bridge had been ripped apart by the force of the flood.

  He deliberated and weighed his options in the time it took to turn Stormy around and head toward town. He could search for hours along the banks of that flooding river and still never find a place he could cross. The folks at River Bend would have to remain ignorant of Banner's condition for the time being. Paramount now was locating the doctor and bringing him back.

  The town was battened down against the weather. More businesses were closed than were open. The streets looked like lakes. The postmaster had run up the national and state flags, but they clung sodden to the flagpoles. It was at the post office that Jake dismounted and went in to inquire about the doctor.

  The postmaster, involved in a novel about a Pinkerton detective on the trail of train robbers, glanced up querulously when Jake came in.

  "I need a doctor in a hurry."

  "You don't look sick."

  "Not for me. For my... wife."

  "Well, which one do you want?"

  "How many have you got?"

  "Two. Ol' Doc Hewitt and a younger one named Angleton."

  "Angleton."

  "He ain't here. Out of town for a week. Went to see his wife's folks in Arkansas."

  "Where does the other one live?" Jake asked tightly, wondering how long he could control his temper without exploding.
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  The postmaster gave Jake directions to the doctor's house. As soon as Jake left, the postmaster frowned at his rain-splattered floor and went back to reading his novel.

  The doctor's house had a white picket fence around it and organdy curtains at the windows. Jake looped Stormy's reins over the hitching post and ran up to the door.

  He whipped his hat off and shook water from it after he knocked. He had on a slicker, so he wasn't as wet as he might have been. The door was answered by a plump matron with iron-gray hair and pillow-sized bosoms.

  "Is Dr. Hewitt at home?"

  The woman eyed him suspiciously. "I'm Mrs. Hewitt. May I help you?"

  "I need to see the doctor," Jake said with diminishing patience.

  "He's eating lunch. His clinic will reopen at three o'clock."

  "This is an emergency."

  She rolled her mouth and nose around once, showing her aggravation over his interruption of their meal. Jake speared her with intimidating blue eyes and she thought better of arguing with him further. "Just a minute."

  She closed the door in his face. When it opened again, a man, who matched his wife in girth, was wiping his mouth with a checked napkin. He frowned at Jake, assessing him immediately as an outlaw who had come to seek help in removing a bullet from a wounded partner. At least that had been the description his wife had given him of their caller and Dr. Hewitt thought that, as usual, her first impression was correct.

  "Mrs. Hewitt said you have an emergency."

  "A young woman vomiting the worst-looking and smelling stuff I've ever seen, complaining of cramps in her belly and nausea in her stomach. She's sick. She needs you."

  "I'l see her this afternoon whenever it's convenient for you to bring her in."

  When he tried to close the door Jake's hand was splayed wide over the whitewashed surface, forestalling him. "I didn't say she needed you this afternoon. She needs you now."

  "I'm in the middle of my lunch."

  "I don't give a good goddamn what you're in me middle of!" Jake shouted. "You're coming with me now."

  "Look here, you just can't come in here demanding—"

  "Do you know the Colemans?"

  The doctor's lips wobbled uselessly for a moment. "The Ross Colemans? Yes, of course."

  "This is their daughter, Banner. Now, unless you want to face not only my gun should anything happen to Banner, but her father's as well, I suggest you get your little black bag or whatever the hell you need and come with me." For good measure, Jake drew his gun. "Now."

  Mrs. Hewitt had come into the hall when she heard the shouting. Now she cowered against the wall, her hand fluttering at her throat. "Well, I never," she said over and over.

  "It's all right, dear," Dr. Hewitt assured her with a calmness he didn't feel, as he dropped the napkin and began pulling on his coat and hat. "This, uh, gentleman, is a friend of the Colemans. He's distraught, though I plan to discuss bis rude behavior with Mr. Coleman the first chance I get."

  He glared at Jake, who was indifferent to what they thought of his manners. All he could see was Banner's deathly pale face and all he could hear was her begging him not to leave her to die alone.

  "Do you have a horse?"

  "A buggy. In the barn in back."

  "Let's go."

  Jake sheathed his pistol and stepped back into the downpour only after the doctor went before him. He followed him to the barn, helped him harness the horse, and then led the buggy through the streets of town. The doctor's caution on the muddy roads was commendable, but Jake's insides were screaming with impatience. Every minute that ticked by was another minute of agony for Banner.

  It seemed that centuries had gone by before he led Stormy into the shelter of the barn and rushed to drag the reluctant doctor into the house.

  It was quiet. Too quiet. Jake dashed into the bedroom, dreading what he might find. Banner lay unconscious beneath the quilts, but he saw the discernible rise and fall of her chest and almost sobbed with relief. He shoved the doctor forward.

  With maddening slowness, Dr. Hewitt took off his coat and carefully folded it over a chair. He balanced a pair of spectacles on his nose and began to peel back the covers. When Jake leaned in closer, the physician looked over his shoulder censoriously.

  "I can't examine the young lady with you in the room."

  If he hadn't needed the doctor, Jake would have rubbed the pious expression off the man's face with his fist. As it was, he gave the doctor one telling look and left the room.

  He paced, praying and cursing with each step. For lack of anything else to do, he laid a fire in the stove in the kitchen and lit it. Maybe she would want more tea, maybe... maybe... maybe...

  The possibilities paraded through his mind, each one more grisly than the last.

  Finally the doctor came out of the room polishing his eyeglasses with a large white handkerchief. He was shaking his head sadly and staring at his shoes.

  "What is it? What's wrong with her?" Jake demanded impatiently when the doctor's concentration seemed to be solely on his eyeglasses.

  "Perityphlitis. Stomach fever to you."

  Jake let out a long gust of breath, his eyes lifting to the ceiling. "Her appendix, I thought so."

  "I'm sorry, young man," the doctor said, laying a conciliatory hand on Jake's sleeve, "for you, for Banner, and for her folks. But there's simply nothing I can do but make her comfortable until... until it's over."

  NINETEEN

  Unblinkingly Jake stared back at the man. "What do you mean there's nothing you can do?"

  "Exactly what I said. I'll make her as comfortable as possible, of course, but—"

  "What are you babbling about?"

  "I'm trying to expla—"

  "You'll cut it out, you fool."

  "Now see here, young man. I won't permit you to address me in that tone of voice!" Even huffily pulling himself up to his full height, the doctor was still dwarfed by Jake. "I don't think you appreciate the complications involved in an operation of this sort."

  "Explain them to me."

  "No use in that. I won't do the surgery," he pronounced firmly.

  "Why not?"

  The doctor told him. The skin across Jake's cheekbones became taut.

  "You smug, sanctimonious bastard. I brought you out here to do whatever was necessary to save her life and that's what you're going to do."

  "I'm of the school of thought which believes that some parts of the body should remain inviolate, namely the chest, the brain and the abdomen."

  Jake wasn't impressed by his pedantic lecturing. He grabbed the doctor by the lapels and jerked him forward and up until his feet dangled an inch off the floor and his face was on a level with Jake's. "Where'd they dig you up? Relics like you were laughed out of existence long ago."

  He shoved the doctor against the wall, drew his pistol and rested it against the end of Hewitt's nose. He pulled back the hammer with a slow confidence that coaxed sweat from the doctor's brow. "Now you're going in there and you're going to open up Banner Coleman, you're going to take out her appendix... or you're going to die. Got it?"

  "You'll answer to Mr. Coleman for this," the doctor sputtered.

  "If Ross were here, he'd do the same thing. Now, am I going to have to blast your brains against this wall, or not?"

  "All right, I'll do it."

  Jake released his hold on him and backed away so abruptly, he knocked Dr. Hewitt's eyeglasses askew. They rolled down his face and chest. He caught them at his knees.

  He had never been so unhinged. He set his eyeglasses back on his nose and tugged at the bottom of his vest nervously. "I don't even know if I have ether with me. Putrefaction is our worst enemy. We will need to place an antiseptic barrier between the wound and the germ-containing atmosphere. Carbolic acid is in my bag, some bandages too. Get that out, please," the doctor said hurriedly. He wanted to appease this barbarian. His eyes were sharper than any lancing implement the doctor owned. As Jake disappeared into the other room, the doc
tor deliberated running from the house and getting in his buggy. But he knew he could never outrun a man on horseback and be feared Jake's wrath should he catch him trying to flee.

  He almost feared the surgery more. He hadn't kept up with modern medicine and the strides being taken in surgical procedures. He was content to pat the hand of a woman delivering a baby, to suture cut fingers, and dispense pills for dyspepsia.

  George Hewitt couldn't be bothered with keeping up with innovations like those in asepsis. This was a wild land he lived in, alien from the hallowed halls of medical research. He could dig out bullets in record time if they didn't threaten a vital organ. He could amputate limbs almost as quickly. But the interior of the human body mystified and terrified him.

  When all was ready, he gazed down at Banner Coleman's flawless white skin and a cold sweat broke out over his face. He looked up at the man who had insisted on being present. Hewitt had consented. He would need someone to drip the ether onto the cloth covering her nose should she begin to come around.

  "I won't be held responsible for what happens as a result of this," he said with much more bravado than he felt. "If the appendix has already ruptured, she'll likely die no matter what I do. I want you to understand that."

  Jake didn't flinch. He only stared back at the doctor with glacial blue eyes. "And I want you to understand this. If she dies, so do you, doc. If I were you, I'd make damn sure she doesn't."

  The man was a ruffian and a heathen, of that Hewitt was certain. He was also certain the cowboy meant what he said. He drew upon what little professional skill he had and lowered the razor-sharp scalpel to the expanse of smooth flesh covered by a carbolic-soaked cloth on the right side of Banner's navel.

  Jake's heart all but stopped beating as he watched the knife go through the fabric to etch an oozing red line on Banner's body. Was he doing the right thing? Yes! What choice did he have? She was going to die without the surgery. The chances of her dying in spite of it were awesome, but he had to try to save her.

  She couldn't die. She couldn't. He wouldn't let her. God wouldn't let her.

  As Dr. Hewitt's clumsy fingers pried apart the incision in her abdomen, Jake prayed earnestly for the first time in years.