by Warner, Kaki
Money this man’s death would provide.
She rested her palm against his bare shoulder, needing to feel his skin against her own, as if that might ease the guilt that clawed like a beast in her stomach.
He fought hard. She felt it in the tremors of his sturdy body, saw it in the strain of muscles in his neck as he struggled to inhale against the restrictive bandages. His quick, gasping breaths seemed loud in the small room, and hearing them made her throat ache in sympathy. Feeling an unaccountable sadness at the waste of another life, she bent down to whisper into his ear. “Forgive me. There’s no other way.”
“What are you doing in here?” said a voice from the other side of the room.
Startled, she jerked upright.
Dr. Murray scowled at her from the doorway as he dried his hands on a piece of toweling. Gaunt and middle-aged, he wore a black leather patch over his right eye and had less hair on his head than on his chin, which was mostly gray stubble. He looked irritated. “What do you want?” he demanded, the words slightly slurred, as if he’d been drinking spirits or had just awakened from a deep sleep.
“Do you know . . .” She made a vague gesture toward the patient. “I couldn’t tell . . . he’s so . . . there’s so much swelling. Do you know his name?”
The doctor tossed the cloth into the basket of soiled towels beneath the washstand then with careful deliberation rolled down his sleeves as he walked toward her. His wrists were slim, his hands narrow and long-fingered with short, trimmed nails. An artist’s hands, but cleaner. “Harkness called him Wilkins,” he said, stopping beside her. “Hank. Or maybe Henry. I don’t remember.”
She was relieved Dr. Murray didn’t smell of whiskey, but was concerned about his slow movements and slurred speech. Was he ill?
“I remember you from the church,” he said, studying her. “You helped.”
Molly nodded.
Frowning, he looked around. “Don’t you have kids? I don’t want any kids running through here, messing with my things.”
“They’re with Effie—Reverend Beckworth’s wife—at the church.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Go back to them. There’s nothing to do here.” Leaning over the patient, he pushed up one lid then the other.
Molly noted the dark brown pupil of the patient’s left eye was marginally larger than that of the right. Was he bleeding in his brain?
“Is it true?” she asked. “He’s dying?”
The doctor nodded, a single dip of his head as though he had little energy to waste on extravagant motion. Pulling a stethoscope from his apron pocket, he fitted the earpieces into his ears and held the diaphragm against the patient’s chest. “If the head wound doesn’t kill him, gangrene in his arm probably will.” Motioning her to silence, he tilted his head and listened. After a moment, he removed the earpieces and returned the stethoscope to his pocket.
“You’re sure of it?” Molly persisted.
With a huff of impatience, he swung toward her, moving his entire body a quarter circle so he could glare at her with his one eye. It was a sad eye, more gray than blue, with a downward slant that hinted at more than mere weariness. “The man was almost crushed. He shouldn’t even be alive. Goddamned railroads.” His good eye narrowed in speculation. “What’s it to you? Who are you?”
Molly hesitated, knowing the lie she was about to tell would damn her forever.
Could she do it? Should she? Would it even be legal?
Doubt swirled through her mind. Her stomach knotted and acid burned hot in her throat. She took a step back, then thought of the children and stopped.
She had no choice. She had to have that money.
God forgive me, she prayed silently. Then hiking her chin, she looked Murray in the eye. “I’m Molly McFarlane,” she said. “Henry and I were to be married.”
Two
“IT’S NOT RIGHT,” EFFIE ANNOUNCED. “YOU MUST DO something.”
Reverend Thaddeus Beckworth set aside his worn Bible, removed his spectacles, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Ever since his wife had settled into her rocker across from his, he had been aware of her growing agitation. She had made certain he was aware. A few sighs, then energetic rocking that grew steadily more vigorous until her heels bounced off the floor with enough force to send her prized collection of Chinese porcelain song-birds dancing atop the fireplace mantle.
It was a game they played—how long could she maneuver for his attention without actually asking for it, versus how long could he hold out before putting aside whatever he was doing and capitulating. It was a game without malice, founded on his desire to avoid conflict and her need to seek it. If there was one thing Effie Beckworth thrived on, it was a good, rousing crisis.
And today had been rife with crises. Injured passengers milling about, children to mother, mouths to feed. Now all the stranded travelers had been moved from the church into rooms at the hotel, the children were back with their mother, and Effie had nothing to do but bedevil him. Bless her heart.
Smiling fondly at the woman who had been his helpmate for thirty-two years and who, despite her meddling ways, had a kind and giving heart, Thaddeus said, “Certainly, my dear. Do what about what?”
“About Molly McFarlane and those poor little tykes.” Her heels thumped on the floor as the rocker came to a stop. “You must talk to the railroad people, Mr. Beckworth. To that solicitor, Mr. Harkness, before it’s too late.”
Ah. Yet another crisis. “And what shall I talk to him about, my dear?”
“The man in the infirmary.” Leaning forward, his wife lowered her voice to gossip level. “He’s dying. And I think the railroad should pay him, don’t you?”
“For dying?”
“Exactly.” She sat back, looking pleased that he understood. “If they pay the other dead men, they should pay him too. Don’t you agree?”
“But he’s not yet dead, Effie.”
“He soon will be. Harkness said so himself. And what will happen to those babies then?” She paused to dab at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief she’d pulled from who-knows-where. Then thrusting sentiment aside, she hiked her chins and puffed out her nicely rounded chest. “You must talk to them, Mr. Beckworth. Show them the error of their ways. It’s the Christian thing to do.”
Preaching to the preacher. With a sigh, Thaddeus replaced his spectacles and opened the Bible. “Of course, dear. I shall speak to Mr. Harkness tomorrow.”
“Or I could, I suppose,” she offered thoughtfully. “I am more familiar with the particulars, after all. Perhaps he’s still at the hotel directing passengers.”
“Yes, well . . . perhaps . . .”
Her smile was grace itself. “As always, Mr. Beckworth, you know best.”
“Do I? I’m never sure.” And he still had no idea what she was talking about.
ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE EMPIRE HOTEL IN THE TWO-room suite the railroad had assigned to them, Molly stared out at the moonlit face of El Capitan, the tallest peak in the Guadalupe Range north of El Paso. It was an uninspired view, notable only in that it was best viewed at night, if at all, and it was so different from the country she had left behind. No long-limbed oaks or fragrant magnolias here, only scrub and cactus with a few cottonwoods along a creek. This wasn’t a sheltering country. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t be here long. By this time tomorrow, she would either be moving west with the children or behind bars.
Nothing was going right. Harkness was dragging his heels on her claim, she was almost out of money, and Charlie’s nightmares were getting worse. Maybe she should have told Effie Beckworth the truth instead of lying about a fiancé. Or left the children in her care and tried to draw the follower off their trail. She could run faster alone.
But run where? And just what was so important to Fletcher that he would send trackers after them? If she knew what he wanted, she would wrap it in a bow and hand it to him. This endless flight was taking its toll on all of them.
Motion dr
ew her gaze. Across from the hotel, a man in a wide-brimmed hat and dark coat came out of the saloon doorway. He stood for a moment, glancing down the street in one direction then the other, as if looking for someone. Then hitching his trousers, he stepped off the boardwalk and started toward the hotel.
Molly drew back then realized that with the room dark, he couldn’t see her.
Halfway across, he stopped and removed his hat. Light from the hotel windows revealed that he wasn’t old, nor did he appear to be disfigured, so he wasn’t the man Penny had seen in Omaha and later in Utah. Maybe he was someone new. Fletcher had enough money to send a hundred trackers after her and the children.
A woman came into view. She spoke to the man, then he took her elbow and escorted her back across the street, where they disappeared into Mrs. Haversham’s Restaurant and Tea Room. When they didn’t emerge after several minutes, Molly allowed herself to relax, although she kept watch at the window, just in case.
Always on guard, never at rest. How much longer could she keep this up? She couldn’t run forever. But she could never go back home either.
Had he put flowers on Sister’s grave? Did he suspect why Molly had spirited his stepchildren away in the middle of the night? He must. Daniel Fletcher wasn’t a stupid man. That she had eluded him this long was a miracle in itself. And now their very lives rested on a stranger’s death. The thought sickened her.
“What’s wrong?”
Startled, she turned to see Charlie in the doorway that led into the bedroom. As always, she felt a jolt that seemed to compress her lungs. It was like looking into her sister’s face—those same auburn curls and wide green eyes, that same frightened, anxious expression that always cut so deeply into her heart. It was like a reproach from the grave.
I’m trying, Nellie. But I don’t know what to do.
She was out of ideas. Out of strength. Out of money. If the railroad didn’t reimburse her for the cost of this room and their meals while the tracks were being repaired, they would be out on the street. Where was she to find words of hope for this lost child when she was so weary and frightened herself?
She forced a smile. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why are you crying?”
Lifting a hand to her cheek, Molly was surprised to feel dampness. She thought she had lost the capacity for tears long ago.
“Is it the monster?” Charlie blurted out. “Has he found us?”
“There is no monster, Charlie.”
“There is too! I saw him!” His eyes darted around the room.
“You can’t stop him. No one can. He’ll kill us just like—” His words stopped abruptly.
“Who, Charlie?” she pressed. “Who is this monster and whom did he kill?”
Before Charlie could answer, six-year-old Penny appeared at his shoulder, her blond hair a tousled mop, her brown eyes bleary with sleep. “Don’t shout, Charlie. You know Mama doesn’t like it when you shout.”
Her brother rounded on her, his face twisted in anguish. “Mama’s dead, you big baby. So is Grandpa. And I can shout if I want!” With a sob, he ran back into the bedroom.
“I’m not a baby,” Penny yelled after him. “You are!” When she got no response, she turned to Molly. “I’m gonna tell. He’ll get a spanking for sure.” Looking pleased at that prospect, she stuck her thumb into her mouth and stared solemnly at Molly as if waiting for . . . what?
Trapped in despair, Molly stared back, wishing she had someone to tattle to, someone who would soothe all her worries and make everything right again.
“THAT WRETCHED MAN! HE WON’T DO IT.”
Thaddeus looked up from his half-finished sermon, surprised to see it was dark already. Effie stood in the doorway of his study, feet braced, fists on hips, ready to do battle. Hopefully, not with him. “Who won’t do what, my dear?”
“Mr. Harkness. I just talked to him at the hotel. The scoundrel won’t pay her.”
Molly McFarlane—the woman with the children. Thaddeus set aside his pen, relieved he wasn’t the cause of his wife’s ire. It was regrettable they had never had children of their own—it would have provided additional targets for Effie’s energetic attention.
She swept in, a calico whirlwind of maternal purpose, and flung herself into one of the doily-laden chairs fronting his desk. “It defies belief, Mr. Beckworth. Simply because they’re not yet married, Mr. Harkness says the railroad isn’t obliged to pay her a widow’s portion. The very idea.”
Thaddeus marveled at her reasoning. “They may have a point, my dear, insomuch as she’s neither wife nor widow and the man in question isn’t dead.”
“He soon will be, and then what will become of her and the children?” She pressed her hanky to the heaving bosom he so admired. “We must act now. If we wait until he dies, it will be too late. No, no. You know what you must do.”
“I do?”
“Of course you do.” Lifting her topmost chin, she gave him a smile that would make any God-fearing man sweat. “You must marry them as soon as possible. Tonight. Then when he dies, the railroad will have to pay her the settlement.”
Thaddeus regarded his wife with a growing sense of alarm.
“Don’t give me that look, sir. It’s the only sensible solution.”
“But Effie, the man couldn’t participate in his own vows. I don’t think it would even be legal.”
“No matter,” she said, waving aside ethics as easily as shooing a fly. “Who’s to question it? The railroad?” That smile again. “And risk being accused of cheating a widow and her fatherless children out of their fair portion? I think not.”
Frightening, that’s what she was. It occurred to Thaddeus that if his wife had been allowed command, the War of the Rebellion wouldn’t have lasted a month.
“We must do this, Mr. Beckworth. For the children.”
“The children?”
“Those poor dears. It quite breaks my heart.”
Thaddeus sighed, accepting the inevitable.
Reading that as assent, she shot to her feet. “I shall fetch them now.”
“Now?”
“He’s quite ill. We haven’t much time. Hurry along.”
AN HOUR LATER, IN THE INFIRMARY IN THE BACK OF DR. Murray’s house, Thaddeus reluctantly presided over the quiet ceremony that united Molly McFarlane and Henry Wilkins in holy matrimony.
The bride wore a faded brown dress, a blue shawl loaned to her by Effie, and a stricken expression. The groom wore fresh bandages and a rumpled, too-small infirmary nightshirt. Thankfully the children were not witness to this charade, and remained asleep at the hotel in the care of the church’s choir director. Effie and Dr. Murray stood solemn witness at the foot of the bed.
The exchange of vows took less than five minutes.
Not exactly an exchange insomuch as the groom was in a stupor and unable to speak, but the ritual seemed to please Effie, and for that, Thaddeus was grateful. He’d learned long ago his happiness was heavily dependent upon hers.
Dr. Murray showed little interest in the proceedings. The glazed look in his eye gave rise to the suspicion that the good doctor might be sampling his own medications, but Thaddeus made no comment. The man was a tangle of troubled emotions the reverend had long struggled to unravel. Maybe after this railroad mess was over, he’d try again, but for now he let it go.
Train wrecks and hasty marriages. What a troubling day.
OVERNIGHT THE WEATHER TURNED FROM MILD TO BITTERLY cold, and by the time Molly got the children up, dressed, and over to the Beckworths’, they were shivering too much to complain about being left there while Molly went to the infirmary.
“A blue norther,” Effie told them, as if that explained the forty-degree drop in temperature overnight with no sign of a storm and barely a cloud in the sky. “But don’t fret,” she added with a jiggling laugh. “By the end of week we’ll be sweating like pigs in a slaughter line and complaining of the heat.”
Molly couldn’t wait.
Leaving the c
hildren happily spooning up oatmeal with molasses in Effie’s warm kitchen, Molly braved bone-chilling gusts and icy footing to make her way to the infirmary. When she finally reached the doctor’s house, she was so numb with cold she couldn’t tell if her nose was running or not. She wiped it anyway. After hanging her coat on a peg by the door, she moved quickly down the hall to the sickroom in the back.
Was he dead? Alive? Alive, awake, and anxious to meet his bride?
Faintly queasy at the thought of what she might find, she paused outside the door to prepare herself, then stepped inside.
Henry lay as she had left him, the rasp of his breathing telling her he was alive. Relief surged through her, loosening that tight knot of guilt that had kept her awake most of the night. Then she noted how cold the room was and how violently he shuddered beneath the single thin blanket. Alarmed, she yanked the covers off the empty cot and threw them over his shivering body. What was Dr. Murray thinking to leave Henry so exposed to the chill? Growing more furious by the moment, Molly tended to nursing chores Dr. Murray should have taken care of hours ago. Had he just left the patient to die?
The patient. Henry Wilkins. Her husband. God help her.
Ignoring a flutter of . . . something . . . guilt, anger, maybe hunger . . . she changed Henry’s bandages, listened to his heart and lungs with Papa’s old stethoscope, and forced water into him with an eye-dropper, all the while trying to mask her growing concern beneath a cheery monologue.
When she was thirteen, those first one-sided conversations had been awkward. They still were, although admittedly, she found it easier to talk to an unconscious man than an attentive one. But since Papa believed comatose patients maintained some level of awareness, she had put aside her shyness and forced herself to become as chatty as a Calvinist before a class full of converts, hoping the patients could hear her and know they were not alone. It was vital that Henry suffer as little as possible—for her sake, as well as his. Bad enough that she hoped to benefit from his death; she wouldn’t burden herself with the added guilt of having anything she did or didn’t do hasten it.
