by Keli Gwyn
One dark-eyed boy grabbed her attention, not through anything he said, but because he was so somber and quiet in the midst of this boisterous crowd. He cupped his coffee mug, staring into space and not touching his food.
“Is there anything I can get you, sir? Can I warm up your coffee?”
He blinked, as if just returning from a faraway land. “Pardon?”
“Would you like more coffee?”
“Um, sure.” He held out his cup.
“Where are you from?”
“Monterey.”
She did a quick gallop around her knowledge of California geography. “That’s on the coast, right?”
“Yep. Grew up within sight of the sea. My whole family is there.” His voice vibrated with homesickness, and her throat constricted.
“I bet they miss you already, and they’re looking forward to the day when you come home. Do you have a big family?”
He dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out a photograph. “I’m the oldest of ten kids.”
“That is a big family.” She admired the somber faces, picking him out and scanning the family all the way from the father down to the baby on the mother’s lap. “I only have one sibling, a brother who is already over there.”
“I’ve never been away from home before. I don’t know how they’re going to manage without me. Pa has a bad back and can’t work too much, so I’ve been running the store.”
Meghan studied the picture a moment longer before returning it to him. “I imagine your younger brothers will help out, and you can send pay home, right?”
“Miss Thorson, you are neglecting your duties.” Mrs. Gregory’s hand gripped Meghan’s shoulder, slowly turning her around and guiding her toward waiting customers. Though she wanted to shrug off that commanding clamp, Meghan allowed herself to be drawn away. She glanced back at the homesick soldier and gave what she hoped would be an encouraging smile.
Meghan poured enough coffee to float a transport ship, smiling and chatting briefly with each man but ever aware of Mrs. Gregory’s stern gaze following her around the horseshoe-shaped counter.
In what seemed an incredibly short amount of time, the room cleared and the noise died down. With barely a pause to draw a deep breath, the Harvey Girls went about the task of cleaning their stations in preparation for the next train. Meghan leaned against the counter and wiped her brow, eyeing her station.
“You’re standing idle again, Miss Thorson. Start wiping down the counters and chairs. And Miss Thorson.” Mrs. Gregory’s skin stretched over her cheekbones as she pursed her lips into the now-familiar pucker. “While we do endeavor to be friendly and cheerful with the customers, chatting up young men while you are supposed to be working will not be tolerated. Your job is to present a friendly face and superb service, not a shoulder to cry on, an ear to gossip into, or a flirtatious manner to titillate or lead on.”
“But Mrs. Gregory, I wasn’t—”
“And you are never to argue with the head waitress. Is that understood?”
Meghan’s cheeks burned. Though none of the workers around her had so much as paused, she knew every ear in the room had heard the dressing-down.
“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
“Good, now get to work. The next customers will be arriving soon.”
Caleb made his way through the maze of greenish-brown woolen uniforms filing into the lunchroom at midday. Why had he come? Sure, he had an appointment in town this afternoon, but he could’ve steered clear of the El Garces. He hadn’t needed to come in early, and he certainly didn’t need to have his lunch at the hotel.
And yet, here he was.
It was that girl. The redhead he’d rescued yesterday. All night she had haunted his dreams, her brilliant green eyes, her saucy walk, and most of all the beautiful sound of her voice as she called him brave. Over and over in his dreams he’d rescued her at the last moment, savoring the sense of accomplishment, her gratitude, and the feel of her in his arms.
Shaking his head, he chided himself for the millionth time. Most likely she didn’t even remember him, or worse, she’d talked to someone and gotten the whole story. By now she knew this town wouldn’t wipe their muddy feet on him.
And yet, here he was.
He’d just peek into the dining room and see if she was there. Glancing down, he checked that his clothes were presentable. White shirt, cloth vest, dark brown pants. His boots were worn, but he’d polished them the best he could. No dust or dirt. He’d even scrubbed under his fingernails, all the while telling himself he was sprucing up for his appointment, not on the off chance that he might run into a certain Harvey Girl.
Mr. Stock, immaculate in his dark suit, stood in the dining room doorway, smiling at the customers filing inside. The manager stiffened for a moment, his smile slipping when he caught sight of Caleb, but he quickly recovered, returning to the consummate hospitality professional. “Will you be dining with us today, Mr. McBride?”
“I thought I might.”
“Dining room or lunchroom?”
Caleb looked into the paneled dining room with its snowy tablecloths and quiet austerity. Men dressed in business suits, ladies in traveling attire. In contrast, across the lobby, the soldiers filing into the lunchroom jostled and joked, talking loudly. He’d be more comfortable in the dining room away from all the military men, but where was the girl? The blond woman who had been with Meghan yesterday crossed the dining room, weaving between the tables with a tray of china cups. Caleb stood awkwardly, undecided.
At that moment, someone behind him laughed loudly, and he turned toward the sound. He glimpsed Meghan’s face through the throng in the lunchroom doorway, and a strange jerky feeling landed in his chest. “Lunchroom.”
“An excellent choice.”
Caleb joined the line filing into the lunchroom and, once inside, scanned the room to locate Meghan before choosing a spot at her counter. Soldiers filled most of the chairs. Half a dozen girls in black dresses and white aprons bustled, conversations buzzed, and the sounds of cutlery and glassware chimed.
Meghan carried two silver coffeepots. She went to one of the tall urns near the wall and filled them. His eye was drawn to the perfect white bow nestled in the small of her back and the way her hair lay in smooth waves under a white, lacy headband. Nothing like the disheveled creature he’d held in his arms only the day before.
Then she turned around, the vivid green of her eyes evident, even at ten paces. He hadn’t over-imagined the color. If anything, they were more emerald than he remembered.
“What can I get you to drink?”
He dragged his gaze away from Meghan and noticed the short waitress in front of him for the first time.
“Coffee.” The word came out before he realized it, and he almost took it back. He loathed the taste of coffee.
She turned his cup over and placed it in the saucer. “Cream and sugar are right here. Would you like a menu, or would you prefer me to tell you what the chef’s prepared today?”
“Um, a menu, please.”
He pretended to peruse the stiff card. Meghan started at the far end of the counter pouring coffee and smiling and chatting with the soldiers. Their faces lit up, and they joked and teased. A pretty flush crept up her cheeks at the joshing of one fellow, and a whole new feeling hit Caleb’s gut, something so foreign and unexpected, he couldn’t identify it at first.
Before he could make sense of that bit of absurdity, she stood before him.
“Hello. If it isn’t my rescuer. I was hoping I’d see you again soon.” She poured the fragrant brew into his cup. He never minded the smell of coffee, it was the taste he couldn’t stand.
“I wanted to thank you properly for saving me from harm yesterday.”
Her eyes shone, and color filled in the space between her freckles.
“You thanked me at the time.” Clearly no one had gotten to her yet with their low opinion of him, or she wouldn’t be greeting him with a smile. He didn’t know whether to be reliev
ed or uncomfortable. If she didn’t know now, it was only a matter of time until she did. Would she hop on the town’s bandwagon, or would she decide for herself what kind of man he was? How quickly would she take back the notion that she thought him brave?
“Actually”—she poured another cup of coffee for the next customer—“I can’t thank you properly until I know your name. I’m Meghan Thorson. And you are?”
“Caleb McBride.”
“Caleb. That’s a good strong name. It means bold, right?”
He sipped the hot coffee, trying not to screw up his face at the taste. How foolish could a man get? Ordering a drink he didn’t even like, just because a pretty girl was pouring it. He must have holes in his head. He reached for the sugar bowl.
“That’s right.”
“And are you? Bold, I mean?”
“Miss Thorson, there are customers waiting.” Mrs. Gregory spoke over Caleb’s shoulder. “We’ve already discussed this once. I shouldn’t have to tell you again.”
“Yes, Mrs. Gregory.” Meghan glanced one last time Caleb’s way and continued up the counter.
“Mr. McBride, I would prefer if you didn’t detain my girls. They have work to do.”
Frost feathered the back of his neck at her icy tone.
“Gentlemen,” she addressed the men in uniform on either side of him, “if there is anything we can do for you, please, let us know. Nothing is too big or too small for our men in uniform. Just ask. The Harvey Company is behind American soldiers one hundred percent.” Leveling a flat stare at Caleb and treading heavily on the word soldiers, she made it clear she didn’t include him in the admiration of The Harvey Company. She swept on to the next group of recruits, and he forced his jaw to relax.
The man on Caleb’s right elbowed him. “You signed up yet?” His voice carried painfully far, and several men swiveled their heads his way.
He should’ve eaten in the dining room. Scratch that, he shouldn’t have come to the hotel at all.
“No.” Caleb kept his eyes on the menu.
“You’re a likely looking lad. Why aren’t you in uniform? You ain’t a German sympathizer now, are you?” Though he said it in jest, his loud tone drew even more attention. Men lowered their coffee cups, knives, and forks, staring.
The muscles in Caleb’s upper back and neck tightened, and his mouth went dry. Meghan’s eyebrows rose, and her lips parted. Of all the eyes in the room, he was especially aware of hers.
“No. I’m no friend of the Kaiser’s.”
“Well, why ain’t you upped yet?”
“That’s my business.” He dug in his pocket for a coin, laid it with a snap on the counter, and stood. His appetite had fled.
Doctor Malcolm Bates pushed his spectacles up onto his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. This latest missive from his younger brother had him worried. A military surgeon stationed at Fort Riley, Captain Paul Bates wasn’t one to cry wolf. Nor was Doc one to run around yelling that the sky was falling. But there was a definite thread of worry in the missive, a faint bell clanging in the background that didn’t bode well. He picked up the letter and resumed reading.
Mac, I’ve never seen anything like it. A small group of men showed up at the infirmary complaining of fever, sore throat, and headache. At first I assumed it was a mild illness traveling through the camp. But I soon came to the conclusion—or rather had it forced upon me—that I’m dealing with something altogether different. Soldiers are succumbing to this sickness in shocking numbers. Strong young men in the morning, and by nightfall, they’re dead. I can only pray it runs its course quickly.
Many strange things are at work here. The contagion passes swiftly from one man to the next. Having the soldiers crammed into the barracks as they are contributes to the communication of the sickness, but this particular malady seems more virulent than anything I’ve met up with. Worse than a cold or the measles or standard influenza. On top of that, the men who should be best suited to fight off a bout of sickness are the first to fall prey. Strong, healthy, young. This thing shouldn’t be attacking with such vigor.
The speed with which the sickness strikes is astounding. And the violence. These men are literally drowning. Fluid builds up in the lungs so fast the body can’t siphon it away. The feet and hands start to go black as circulation diminishes, the fever rages, pain in the joints and muscles, and a cough that tears apart the pulmonary tissue. The patients who reach the stage of expectorating blood have, without exception, died.
Lest you think I am exaggerating, I went from eighteen cases the first morning to more than one hundred by that same evening. And more are crowding in every hour.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to go on like this, but I will admit, this sickness is disturbing. We saw some cases of influenza last year that were particularly strong, but this strain defies description. It feels good to be able to talk things over with you, to voice my fears. You have always been a good friend to me, despite the twenty years separating us. You’ve mentored my medical career every step of the way, and I find myself longing for your counsel.
Your little practice out there in the desert is looking more and more appealing. After this war is over, I hope to join you there.
Until that day, I remain faithfully yours,
Paul
Doc folded the letter, glancing at the photograph on his desk. He and Paul smiling into the camera on Paul’s graduation day. And how proud he’d been when Paul had chosen to follow in his big brother’s footsteps and pursue a medical career. Paul was the only person on this planet who called him Mac, short for Malcolm. He’d just been plain old Doc for so long to the people of Needles, he’d taken to thinking of himself by that name.
Shrugging into his white coat, he stuffed the letter into a pocket and scanned his appointments for the afternoon. Or should he say appointment, since he had only one penciled in.
Caleb McBride. 2 p.m.
One of his favorite patients. And one of his most stubborn.
The bell on the front door chimed.
One of his most prompt, as well.
He stepped into the hallway. The first floor of his home housed his office, his examination room, his sick ward, and his waiting room with the kitchen out back. His private apartments took up the second floor. Nothing like living close to one’s work.
Caleb removed his hat and hung it on the rack beside the door.
“Afternoon, Doc.”
“Come on in.”
As was his habit, he allowed the patient to enter the examination room ahead of him to give himself some time to look things over.
Caleb didn’t perch on the examination table. Instead, he chose one of the chairs along the wall that Doc used for anxious parents who brought in a sick child. Caleb spun the chair around, straddled it, and crossed his arms along the back. Resting his chin on his arms, he looked Doc over.
“Haven’t seen you out at the river lately.”
“I’ve had to forgo my fishing pleasure lately. A touch of tonsillitis made its way through the elementary school. Not to mention the chicken pox which landed on quite a few of the youngsters. A common spring malady, though this was later than usual, but now they’re all on the mend.” He settled into his customary chair and tipped it back against the wall, hooking his heels on the rungs. “Things should settle down this summer, and you’ll find me on your riverbank in the mornings again.”
They talked of the fish they’d pulled out of the muddy waters of the Colorado River, the ones that got away, and the ones they were sure still lurked under the ripples.
“That record-breaking pikeminnow is only a single cast away.” Doc rubbed his chin.
“You’re a true addict.” Caleb grinned and straightened, wrapping his fingers around the curved back of the chair. “One thing I always appreciate about you, Doc, is that you never seem to be in a hurry, always have time to chew the fat before talking anything medical.”
He shrugged. “That’s because I’d like to think we were more
than just doctor and patient. I’d like to think we were friends who had more in common than just medical diagnoses and treatments, needs, and services.”
And also because treating the patient was about more than prescribing medicine or sewing up wounds. He gleaned more from these little chats than most of his patients realized, the astute Caleb McBride included.
“Truth is, you’re about the only friend I’ve got in this town. Nice to see a friendly face every once in a while. Might as well get to the medical part though. I can’t take up your whole afternoon.” The young man pushed himself off the chair and replaced it along the wall.
“This just a regular check-up? Or is something else bothering you.”
“Nothing serious; I just need a new pair of boots.” He steadied himself with one hand against the exam table and stuck his foot out. A gap had opened along the inside of the left toe as the upper came apart from the sole, and the sole itself had worn paper thin. The right wasn’t in much better shape. “They don’t fit as well as they used to either, so I figured I was better off getting a new pair than trying to fix these.”
“Those look fairly hard used for a man who is supposed to limit his physical activities.” Doc raised his eyebrow.
Caleb shrugged. “Work won’t do itself.”
“Peel them off and we’ll have a look.”
Doc fussed with some papers on the small desk in the corner. Caleb sat on the exam table and pulled off his left boot—with considerable effort and a grimace—and rolled up his pant leg.
“How’s the pain these days?” More sorting of papers, pretending he didn’t know how difficult it was for Caleb to be open about what he considered a shameful flaw.
Another shrug as he stripped off his sock. “You want them both bare?”
“Please.”
He slid his other boot off easily, took off the sock, and stuck it into the boot top.
Doc kept his face neutral, though the sight always jarred him. Caleb’s right leg was strong, muscular, and robust, everything a young man’s leg should be. The left was enough to make one want to wince and look away—though he would never do that to any patient, especially Caleb.
