The breath caught in Abby’s throat. “Dr. Larkspur—you mean Gerald? He’s here?”
“Yes, we drove all night—”
“I’m sorry—I’ve got to go.” Abby grabbed up her skirts and raced back through the meadow toward the house, her braid bouncing against her back. Halfway across the field she realized her rudeness at leaving their guest in the orchard, but she pushed onward. Manners could wait.
Spotting an automobile in front of the house, surprise slowed her steps. Automobiles belonged to rich men. She’d never thought of her mother’s cousin in those terms.
With a fresh burst of speed, Abby pounded up the stairs onto the back porch, finishing her prayer in a rush. “God, I’ll do anything. I’ll be anything. Whatever You want—name it. Just make her better.”
As she grasped the doorknob, Abby paused to catch her breath. “And You’d better be listening God, because I’m going to make one last promise. If You dare take her away . . . ”
She pulled the door open, casting one last glance toward the stranger in the orchard.
“ . . . I’ll never speak to You again.”
2
Robert took a deep breath, the earthy smell of the country air delighting his senses after so many months in San Francisco. He crossed his arms and leaned against the gnarled trunk of the cherry tree, chuckling as the lady scampered across the field like a rabbit. When Gerald had spoken of his cousin Clara’s two daughters, Robert pictured them being much younger. Miss Abby Fischer was clearly an adult, probably only a few years younger than Robert, even though her undisciplined behavior suggested otherwise.
And the shreds of leaves tangled in her hair only made her more intriguing.
He shook himself out of his thoughts. Gerald had probably examined the patient by now. Robert had wanted to give his friend privacy for the exam, but now impatience drew him forward.
Since he’d heard about this case, anticipation burned like a fire in his blood. Cecelia Fischer sounded like the ideal candidate for their research project. And, if they succeeded, not only would they make medical history, but Robert would have his pick of positions and research grants. On impulse, Robert had suggested they drive Gerald’s new automobile instead of hiring a horse and buggy for the trip.
His friend’s brows had furrowed. “Is it wise? Are the roads good enough?”
“I think it’s worth the gamble.”
Now Robert pressed his hands against his aching back. Bouncing down the rutted road all night had left him stiff and sore, not to mention the two times he’d repaired flat tires by lantern light.
Gerald showed an amazing lack of sympathy. “Your idea, remember?” A wry smile lit up his features.
Remarkably, they made it in one piece.
Apparently, his mentor was willing to take chances—as long as he had an assistant to deal with the consequences.
Convincing him to take a risky gamble with his cousin’s health might be an altogether different matter.
Abby hurried down the hallway, thankful for the thick carpet runner muffling her footsteps. Mingled scents of roses and pipe tobacco perfumed the air. She paused in the shadows outside the half-closed door, pulling off her apron and running a hand over her skirt to remove any evidence of her afternoon activities. I should go change my clothes and fix my hair before I greet everyone.
Gerald’s voice carried out into the hallway. “It’s a difficult case.”
Abby held her breath.
Her father had spent years ridding himself of his German accent, but in this moment, he sounded as if he had stumbled back in time. “Bitte. . . . There must be something you can do.”
“Herman, Clara—you know I care for Cecelia as if she were my own sister, but in cases like this—”
The familiar weight crushed against Abby’s chest. As she swung open the door, silence dropped over the room like a velvet theater curtain. Gerald sat beside the fireplace, his somber expression making him appear much older than his twenty-eight years. Her mother sat in the upholstered chair opposite him, while Abby’s father leaned on the mantel.
Their sudden silence grated at her heart. Abby folded both arms across her midsection hiding trembling hands under her elbows. “Don’t let me stop you. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’ Isn’t that what you were planning to say?”
Mama frowned, her dark green gown casting a sallow hue on her downturned face.
Gerald smoothed his vest. “Abby, as I was telling your parents, Cecelia is in a terrible state.”
“It’s not exactly news to us.”
“Abigail, show some respect.” Mama lifted her head, her pale hair tied back in a tight knot, so unlike the soft pompadour she generally wore.
Abby bit her tongue and walked to her mother’s side, resting her hand on the back of the chair. “I’m sorry, but Gerald didn’t drive all night just to give us bad news. He must have found something.”
Gerald studied the floor as if weighing his words.
Abby forced herself to remain still even though the unremitting tick of the mantel clock jarred at her nerves. Every passing second brought Cecelia’s fate a step closer.
Her father stepped away from the fireplace and stood over Gerald, his massive height throwing a large shadow over the younger man. “Abigail is right, ja? What is it? You have found something we can do?”
Gerald leaned back in his chair, lines creasing his forehead. “Perhaps, but now I’ve had a chance to examine her . . .” He lifted his hands and dropped them back onto his knees, eyes lowered.
“No. I don’t accept that.” Abby rushed forward. “I won’t let you give up on her like every other doctor we’ve seen. Just tell us what we have to do.”
“You don’t understand.” Gerald ran a hand through his hair. “We’d have to transport her to a hospital in San Francisco. Even if she survived the journey, the treatment is difficult. If I’d known earlier, maybe we could have attempted it. But she’s far too weak.” He reached out and touched her father’s arm. “This would be torture to you and your family, and in the end it would likely accomplish nothing.”
Abby’s throat constricted. “Nothing? Are you saying my sister’s life is worth nothing?”
A shadow crossed her cousin’s face. “Abby—”
“No!” She threw up her hand to stop his words. “You said likely. Then there is a chance. And any chance she will survive is worth attempting.”
A strangled sob cut through the air from the direction of her mother’s chair.
Abby pressed onward. “Tell us, Gerald—what are your colleagues in San Francisco doing our doctor can’t?”
“My assistant and I have been offered a small research project at Lane Hospital—part of the medical college.” He stood and paced to the far side of the room, near the door. “But I fear you’d be pinning your hopes on a risky experimental treatment—one Cecelia doesn’t have the strength to survive.”
Abby moved to follow, ready to grab Gerald’s jacket and shake some sense into him.
Her father dropped his large hands onto her shoulders and squeezed. “Answer the question, Gerald. What exactly is this new treatment? Could it save meine . . . my daughter?”
Footsteps in the hall drew their attention. Abby held her breath as the young man from the orchard stepped into the room.
His dark eyes gleamed under the parlor’s electric lights as he spoke a single word.
“X-rays.”
3
The force of Miss Fischer’s intense gaze sent a charge rushing through Robert’s body, reminding him of the time he had accidentally brushed a fingertip across a live wire while helping his father string electrical line.
She took a step closer to him. “What are X-rays?”
Gerald clamped a hand onto Robert’s shoulder. “Herman, Clara—I don’t believe you have met my new assistant. Dr. King, may I present my family—” his grip tightened as he spoke. “My cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Herman Fischer and their daughter, Miss Abigail Fischer.”
&
nbsp; As the man released his hold, Robert fought the urge to rub his shoulder. He nodded to the family. “Please, accept my apology for interrupting your conversation. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.”
Mr. Fischer shook Robert’s hand, the farmer’s rough skin showing evidence of hard work. “What are these X-rays?”
Gerald cut in. “X-ray treatment is very new. We have no guarantees it would help Cecelia at all. Frankly, I’m not certain it would be a wise choice in your daughter’s case.”
Robert set his jaw. Caution wasn’t going to save any lives. Some treatment must be better than no treatment.
Twisting a handkerchief in her lap, the mother frowned. “Isn’t there some type of medicine you can give her here?”
Shaking his head, Gerald ran a hand across his chin. “Nothing beyond what your own physician has already recommended. Arsenic is the standard treatment for leukemia. And morphine for the pain.”
The young Miss Fischer stood behind her mother’s chair, her lips pressed into a thin line. “But you already said the medicines won’t help her.”
“They will make it easier,” he said.
Scowling at her cousin, Miss Fischer dug fingers into the finely upholstered chair. “Easier for her to die?” She fixed her gaze on Robert. “What about these X-rays?”
The strength of her hope crossed the space between them like ripples in a pond. Explanations hovered on the tip of his tongue, but a brief glance at his mentor’s face warned him to remain silent. He set his jaw and kept the words to himself.
The father folded his arms across his broad chest. “We will send Cecelia to San Francisco. If this treatment has even a slim chance of working, we must try.” Bushy whiskers did little to obscure the lines of resolution around his mouth.
Rising to stand beside her husband, Mrs. Fischer placed her small hand in his. Shadows hovered around her eyes, but she lifted her chin in a mirror of her husband’s strength.
A wave of excitement built in Robert’s chest. Gerald’s opposition was losing steam as the desperate family drew together.
Gerald pushed a hand against his brow. “Herman . . .”
The young woman stepped out from behind the chair, coming to stand beside her mother and turning her attention back to Robert. “Dr. King, do you believe the treatment could work?”
The yearning in her coffee-colored eyes captivated Robert, blurring his thoughts until his mentor’s disapproval scattered to the edges of his consciousness. Whatever this chestnut-haired beauty desired, he wanted to give it to her, no matter the consequences.
“It’s her only chance.”
Abby forced her lips into a straight line, squashing the smile threatening to spread across her face. Finally. Her toe tapped under her long skirt, but she folded her hands around her elbows, locking them to her sides. It wouldn’t do to start dancing around the room.
Gerald tugged at his collar, as if the garment were snug about his throat. “We need to move her to San Francisco immediately if there is to be any chance for success. Dr. King and I will take her in the automobile. One of you should come, also.”
Papa nodded. “Clara will go. The rest of the family will follow as soon as we are able.”
“I’ll pack a bag for Cecelia.” Abby glanced over at her cousin’s assistant, his dark-eyed gaze quickening her pulse as she hurried from the room.
The murmured conversation faded into the background as she climbed the stairs, attempting to shift her focus from the intriguing Dr. King to which items Cecelia might need for a hospital stay in San Francisco.
A man with all the answers drops into my life as I am praying? Maybe God is listening after all.
“Miss Fischer—”
The deep voice broke through the chaos of her thoughts. Abby clutched at the banister and peered down at Dr. King, waiting on the landing. All sensible words fled her mind, perspiration gathering on the back of her neck. Abby retraced her path until she stood facing him.
The young doctor examined her with deep-set eyes. “I hope Dr. Larkspur will forgive me. I’m afraid I overstepped myself back there.”
She ran her hand along the stair rail. “I’m glad you did.” She lowered her arm, clamping her fingers together to keep them still. “Besides, Gerald would have told us eventually. He never could stand up against Papa.”
Dr. King leaned against the post. “Your father strikes me as a formidable man. Have they clashed before?”
The men’s voices wafted into the hall, Gerald’s mellow tones obscured by the staccato consonants of her father’s accent.
“Many times.” A smile pulled at her lips. Standing on the bottom step, she stood at perfect eye-level with the doctor. The glimmer of hope he represented—for Cecelia—spread through her, like the dawn’s warmth touching frozen ground. Abby lowered her eyes, focusing instead on his hand curled around one of the carved balusters.
“Dr. King . . .” She took a deep breath, trying to slow the hammering in her chest. Cecelia was much better at this. “I want to thank you.”
“Thank me? For what?”
Abby risked meeting his eyes. For being an answer to prayer. “For allowing us to hope.” A tremor raced through her. Why was it so difficult to speak to a man?
“You might not thank me in a few days.” His brows pinched together. “Even with the treatment, it’s still unlikely she will recover.”
Leave it to a doctor to light a spark of optimism, then turn around and pour cold water all over it. She smoothed her hands across the fabric of her skirt. “It will work. I know it will.”
“You should be prepared. If your cousin is correct, there is a strong possibility your sister won’t survive the trip to the city, much less the treatment.”
Abby pushed her chin forward. “My sister is stronger than she looks.”
Dr. King waved his hand, dismissing her comment. “You don’t know this condition. Leukemia steals every ounce of strength a person has. It consumes from the inside out.”
Abby’s chest tightened. “I’m quite familiar with this disease. I’ve watched its evil spread through my sister’s body, like a fungus invades the roots of a tree and causes them to rot out from below.” She clenched her fists, hiding them behind her back.
Dr. King’s mouth snapped shut. He glanced down for a moment before meeting her gaze. “I—I’m sorry. I misspoke.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Again.”
Abby nodded. She understood the challenge of controlling one’s tongue. She hunted for a new topic of conversation. “Can you explain to me how these X-rays help? No one has mentioned this treatment to us before.”
“It’s all still very experimental. When X-rays were first discovered, it was immediately obvious how they could be used to identify fractures and dislocations of the bones and joints. A few years ago, a researcher in Chicago discovered one of his cancer patients improved when he irradiated the tumors. Apparently, the radiation not only penetrates the body, it appears to target and kill cancerous cells specifically. Gerald and I have been invited to participate in a study at Lane Hospital, in connection with Cooper Medical College. In fact, we’d already been screening patients before we received the news from your family.”
Abby’s heart beat faster. “Could it actually cure her?”
Robert shook his head. “We’re not certain. But it could help her regain some vitality and provide more time. If she survives long enough for the treatment to work.”
“She will.” Abby squeezed her fingers into a fist. She has to.
Abby hovered in the doorway as Mama explained the situation to Cecelia.
Her sister’s eyes widened. “San Francisco? Today?”
“It’s for the best, sweetheart.” Her mother perched on the edge of the bed and caressed Cecelia’s arm.
Cecelia brushed her hand away. “No. I don’t want to.”
Abby marched in. “Don’t be ridiculous. Gerald is going to drive you to the city in his automobile—won’t it be exciting?”
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�I can’t even . . .” her sister paused for breath, “walk down the stairs.”
“Dr. King is waiting to help you.” Abby wrapped her fingers around the bedpost.
Cecelia’s gaze fixed on Abby’s face and lingered there. “Dr. King?”
“Gerald’s assistant.” His handsome new assistant. Heat crept up Abby’s hairline, but she kept her face firm.
“We must get you ready.” Mama gathered an extra quilt from the end of the bed.
Cecelia sighed and looked down at herself. “Not like this.”
The tension in Abby’s chest eased. Cecelia hadn’t thought about her appearance in days. Nothing like having a man nearby to make her take notice.
“Nonsense.” Mama took charge. “I’ve brought you my best dressing gown and we’ll wrap you in quilts to keep you from getting chilled. Who will see you?”
Cecelia glanced toward the window, blinking in the strong light. With a sigh, she nodded.
Abby clutched the dressing gown to her chest while Mama helped Cecelia to her feet. Cecelia lifted her arms, wincing as the fabric settled over her bony frame. Her complexion faded to the color of damp fireplace ashes and she swayed against Mama’s arm.
Mama touched her hair. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You can rest soon.”
“My locket.” Cecelia reached a shaking hand toward the nightstand.
Abby scurried over and retrieved the gold necklace. She ran a finger over the design of a flower etched on the front. It contained no portrait. Always the romantic, Cecelia reserved it for a future sweetheart.
Even though Cecelia had worn it faithfully for years, the weight had become an irritation in her weakened state. Abby wrapped the necklace in a handkerchief and tucked it into the pocket of Cecelia’s silk gown.
Stepping into the hall, Abby’s breath caught in her chest when she spotted Dr. King waiting. “Are you leaving already?”
He gestured to the stairway. “There’s no time to waste. If the treatment has any likelihood of working, we should begin immediately. Dr. Larkspur and your father went to prepare the car. Is she ready?”
Out of the Ruins Page 2
