"I wouldn't worry much about that. Chances are, you got sick from them. I seem to catch everything Mitch and Kurt come down with:' He glanced at the bedside table where her empty teacup sat, beside her Bible. "Have you had anything to eat or drink today?"
"I've had some water:"
"I'll haul some in fresh from the stream. Are you hungry?"
She teared up, but the mere thought of crying made her throat hurt even worse. She didn't know why, but she was embarrassed to admit her need to him. Especially when her cupboards were so bare. "Yes;' she said, looking away. "I am. But I'm sorry to put you to such-"
His hand, gentle against her mouth, silenced her protest. He drew her face back to him. "Don't you dare say that to me, Molly Whitcomb:" Smiling, he touched the side of her cheek. "This is what friends do. They take care of each other."
She looked up at him, her throat aching with emotion. "And that's what we are ... aren't we, James?"
He cradled her face. "You bet we are." The blue of his eyes deepened. "Now, I'll be right back with some fresh water and something to eat. Don't you go fighting any battles while I'm gone:"
Smiling, Molly curled onto her side. Covers pulled close beneath her chin, she imagined the cool water on her throat and thanked God James had stopped by.
When James returned, she stirred, not realizing she'd drifted off. He laid something bundled in a checkered cloth on the bed and let her drink her fill of cold water until her thirst was satisfied.
He set the glass on the table and grabbed the straight-back chair from the corner. He pulled it close. "Have I got a treat for you:" He unwrapped the checkered cloth. "It might not be chicken soup, but I guarantee you're gonna love it:"
She couldn't see what it was until he brought the fork to her mouth. She moved to slip her hand from beneath the covers to take the fork, but he shook his head.
"No, ma'am. That's against the rules:" He winked.
Every inch of her body hurt, yet she felt better just being in his company.
She took the bite and chewed, her hunger winning out over the dread of swallowing. She couldn't taste anything at first, then she sniffed and swallowed again and caught the sweetness of apples and cinnamon and pastry. Oh, it was heaven. He doled the apple pie out in small bites, and when it was gone, her appetite was sated, though she still craved the taste.
"Where did you get that?" she whispered, raising her head for the glass he held to her lips.
"I got it this morning from LuEllen Spivey-Amanda's mother. LuEllen's famous for her apple pie. A deputy and I were out there and she insisted I take some. A piece for me, and a piece to share with `a friend. "
Such sincerity and kindness in his face. Molly couldn't help but think of the woman she was, versus the woman he thought he knew. "Thank you for sharing it with me, James."
"You're welcome ... Molly." He rose. "I'll get you a cool cloth, and then I'll ride for Dr. Brookston."
She offered no protest about the doctor this time, hoping Dr. Brookston would be able to give her something for the achiness and chills. She told James where to find the linens, and he returned to lay a cool, damp towel on her forehead, which only made her shiver more.
Teeth chattering, she looked up. "Are you trying to make me worse?"
"I'm trying to keep your fever down."
She shuddered. "I think you missed your calling, Dr. McPherson"
He stilled. A look moved across his face that she couldn't decipher, but she felt as if she'd misspoken.
"I'm sorry, did I say-"
He shrugged. "It's nothing. My father was a physician, and ... it's just been a long time since I've heard his-" He looked away. "Since I've heard someone say that."
Molly felt something from him she'd never felt before. An evasiveness. He wouldn't meet her eyes, and she quickly decided that the quality didn't suit him well.
He reached for his hat. "If you think you'll be all right for a few minutes, I'll head out"
She nodded. "Thank you."
"Is there anything you need before I go?"
She started to respond, then hesitated. She thought of two things-a chamber pot and a bed warmer. No manner of coercion could bring her to admit the first. She would ask the doctor for that. "Would you mind stopping by the store and seeing if Ben and Lyda Mullins have a bed warmer?" She frowned. "I just can't seem to get rid of these chills."
He smiled again. "I can do that" He felt her cheeks and forehead again. "But you sure feel warm enough. I'll be back with Brookston soon.
Hearing the pound of Winsome's hooves, Molly removed the cloth, laying it aside, and rose on one elbow to peer through the window at James riding toward town. Whoever ended up winning that man's heart would be a queen. She'd have to be, to deserve him. She sank back into the mattress.
What a difference between James McPherson and Jeremy Fowler. She hadn't felt a moment's unease with James McPherson in her bedroom, but he would never act unseemly. Much less coerce or pressure a woman to do something she had misgivings about. She closed her eyes and was back in Jeremy Fowler's kitchen that night nearly four months ago.
"Here's what you need for the coffee;" Jeremy had said, reaching for the tin. His arm brushed against her breast and he paused. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" He looked at her, leaned over, and gave her a chaste kiss on the mouth. Then went on about his task.
Cheeks burning, Molly set aside her discomfort. He hadn't meant to do it. It had been an accident. Yet she couldn't deny a flush of excitement.
After the coffee was made, they retired to a sitting room down the hallway and sat for a long while drinking coffee and talking university politics. She felt an ease with him and the camaraderie of common goals within academia.
She noticed how late it was getting. "Would you still like for me to review that grant proposal before I go?"
Jeremy took her china cup and set it aside. "You know, it's so late now, and it's nice to just sit here and talk. Why don't we wait on that until tomorrow?" He eased closer to her on the couch and put his arm around her shoulders. "Have you thought any more about what we discussed last week?"
He said it so matter-of-factly. But he'd never been one to show his emotions. "Yes, I've ... thought about it." Only every other moment.
"And?" He trailed a finger down her arm.
"And, I think ... it's a very promising idea."
He turned her to face him. "We will make the most wonderful couple at Franklin College, Molly Whitcomb" He kissed her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. "I'll make you happy, Molly. I give you my word. I'll work to be everything you desire in a husband:"
He kissed her and the rest of the world had faded. For a while. Then she grew uncomfortable.
"Jeremy-" Her breath came heavy. She put a firm hand to his chest.
He did as she silently asked but didn't move from where he lay beside her on the sofa. "Do you know that it's been three years since we first met? I still remember you walking into that curriculum committee meeting for the very first time. You look scared to death:"
"I was scared to death:' Despite her father being an esteemed professor emeritus at Franklin College-perhaps even more so because of it-she'd been so nervous. So eager to prove herself and gain acceptance among her father's peers. "Until you came over and asked me to sit with you"
"We managed to get every piece of new curriculum pushed through that semester:" He brushed the tip of her nose. "We make a good team:" He kissed her again. "Let me love you, Molly. Let me show you how I can love you as your husband:"
His attention, his desire, his words-they all rushed in to fill a void inside her that had been empty for so long. Her closest friends had long ago married. They'd been busy having babies while she'd been busy gaining degrees. She felt elevated in Jeremy's eyes. He made her see what she could be, especially with him by her side.
Realizing how far they'd gone, Molly drew back. "No, Jeremy, we shouldn't. I-"
"We're going to be married, Molly. I love you, and you love
me:" He pressed closer, his kisses convincing.
And in the end, she'd relinquished, and had reluctantly given herself to a man, even while not fully wanting to.
Molly hiccupped a sob and turned over in the bed. She stared out the cabin window, shaking uncontrollably. She'd been so innocent, so trusting. So foolish.
The back of her throat was raw. She tried to sit up to reach the glass of water James had left, but the pain in her head prevented it. She eased back down and closed her eyes, and moved her hand over her belly, praying her baby was all right. It wasn't the child's fault ... how it came into the world. Oh, God, please ... let him, or her, be all right. Please, let them be ...
She drifted on a wave, only to awaken sometime later, a voice calling to her from far, far away.
21
r. Whitcomb ... with you now. Can you-" I
Molly blinked. The voice, broken and fragmented, floated toward her in a fog. She tried to keep her eyes open and couldn't. Fire had replaced the ice in her veins and something mercifully cool touched her forehead.
"It's Dr. Brookston, and I need you to ... if you can ... to respond:"
The thud of her heartbeat pulsed hot in the tips of her fingers and in the bottoms of her feet. "Yes;' she finally managed. "I ... hear you:' But why did he sound so far away?
A cool rush of air swept over her body. She sat up, but not of her own volition. She felt herself being lifted, then carried. Her head bounced with each step, growing heavy. When she couldn't hold it up any longer, she let her chin slump forward on her chest. If only he would let her sleep. She was so tired. She just needed to sleep.
"Dr. Whitcomb, this is not going to be pleasant. But, I assure you, it's necessary."
He was carrying her. But to where?
Her answer came when icy cold water hit her body. She sucked in a breath. Her eyes flew open. Dr. Brookston still held her, but they were standing in the middle of the stream! What was the man think-
The water suddenly rose to chin level, and she tightened her hold around his neck as a million tiny pins pierced her all at once. She shivered, her teeth chattering.
"Your fever spiked, Dr. Whitcomb:" He rose to his full height, taking her with him, and she felt the muscles in his arms tightening. "I checked your temperature one minute ... it was fine. The next, you were burning up. Now, hold still:'
He went down a second time, and again the pins stuck everywhere the water hit. She opened her mouth to say something and water splashed in. But she welcomed the cold against her throat.
She lost count of how many times Dr. Brookston repeated the dunking. She knew how to swim, but if he had let go of her, she would drown. Her arms and legs felt as if they were tethered to weights that would drag her under. She wasn't certain she could even stand.
Finally, he started toward the shore, and as the waters receded, Molly became conscious of her wet gown. As a physician, the man was no doubt accustomed to seeing ... certain things. But doctor or no doctor, she still laid an arm across her chest and was glad when the cabin came into view.
"Thank you ... I think, Dr. Brookston;' she whispered, shivering again.
"You're welcome, Dr. Whitcomb:" A smile warmed his voice. "The sheriff tracked me down, and I came right away. He had an emergency in town but said he'd be here as soon as possible:" He opened the door and carried her inside. "You were sleeping when I arrived. You still had a fever, but it wasn't high. I went to get fresh water for compresses, and when I came back, you were having a seizure:" He set her down by the side of the bed. "It was a febrile seizure, one relatively common with high fevers. But still ... you gave me a good scare:"
"Then I'd call us even" She returned his smile and glanced down at her gown.
"Where do you keep your nightclothes, ma'am?"
She gestured. "In the third drawer there."
He withdrew her a gown and laid it on the bed. "Can you manage this on your own?"
Molly nodded, uncertain whether she could or not but determined to die trying.
"I'll be outside. Call me when you're ready for me to come back in"
As soon as the door closed, she unbuttoned the first few buttons and pulled the wet gown over her head. It landed in a puddle on the floor. Her skin was like gooseflesh, all prickly and raised. She reached for a blanket crumpled at the foot of the bed and rubbed it over her arms and legs, then squeezed the excess moisture from her hair.
Looking down at her body, she paused.
The slight mound in her belly was noticeable, but only at this stage of undress. It fit perfectly beneath the palm of her hand, and if she didn't know better, she would have thought she'd simply gained a little weight. She would be able to conceal her condition for a few more weeks. But the dress she'd borrowed from Rachel was plenty snug, as was her own black gown. She would need to address that issue soon enough.
Along with others ...
She slipped the fresh gown over her head and began buttoning the front. Dr. Brookston would be able to answer many, if not all, of her questions about the coming months-the progression of the baby's growth, the changes in her own body, what to expect as the time of birth drew near. But could she trust him to keep a confidence? She needed to tell the town council, and she would. In time. First, she had to prove her worth as a teacher. And heaven knew, the past week hadn't been testament to that.
No, now wasn't the time to tell anyone yet. If she started having problems, such as bleeding or discomfort, she would confide in the doctor. But not yet.
A knock sounded on the door. "Are you all right, Dr. Whitcomb?"
"Yes. I'm nearly done." Shivering, she slipped the final button through its paired hole and crawled back in bed, welcoming the chance to lie down again. "Come in:"
Dr. Brookston entered with his black bag and claimed the same chair James had sat in earlier. The doctor had a decidedly different manner about him than James. It wasn't anything she could put into words, but if she'd seen photographs of each man sitting in that chair, even not having met them and even if they'd been identically dressed, she would've known which was the doctor and which was the sheriff.
Rand Brookston was about James's age, and hers, she guessed-and handsome. Dark-haired with chiseled, almost aristocratic features, he was considerably younger than any physician who had tended her. His youth wasn't a cause for discomfort, however. He exuded a confidence coupled with an approachability that made a person almost instantly at ease in his presence. His bedside manner resembled that of a dear family friend more than a studied medical professional.
Brookston felt her forehead, then her cheeks. "Considerably cooler" He nodded. "Very good. How are you feeling?" He reached for his bag and withdrew a stethoscope.
"Weak and tired, but better than before:" Simply being in bed again encouraged her eyes to close, but her feet ... Her feet were freezing again.
Dr. Brookston leaned close. "I'd like to ascertain the strength of your heart and lungs:"
She nodded, and he unbuttoned the first few buttons on her gown.
Only then did Molly notice the scar on the lower left side of his neck. Long healed, the gash appeared to have been deep, telling from the pucker of gathered skin, which disappeared behind his collar.
"Have you ever taken laudanum, Dr. Whitcomb?"
"Yes, sir. When I was younger I took it for headaches:"
"Headaches?"
"I read a great deal as a child. Our doctor said the headaches were due to"-she remembered the physician's explanation verbatim-"the overexertion of my eyes, and the strain to my delicate female acumen due to excessive inculcation:'
Dr. Brookston laughed. "Sounds like one of my old medical school professors. He was forever referring to the female gender as the weaker sex. And unfortunately, he meant it in every way." He moved the stethoscope to various places on her chest, listening. "When, in my experience;' he said, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit, "I've found quite the opposite to be true:"
"Where did you attend school, Doctor?"<
br />
"The College of Physicians in Philadelphia."
She raised a brow. "Impressive:" Anyone in her circle who attended school in the North was either from a wealthy family-wealthy before the war, anyway-or was a person of considerable intelligence. Or both. Looking at Rand Brookston, she guessed he was both.
His suit was tailor-made, expensive-looking, but his frayed collar and the worn seams of his dark trousers revealed another chapter in his story. If he had been born into a life of privilege, that wealth had parted ways with him some time ago.
"Impressive hardly describes me, ma'am. However, you, Dr. Molly Whitcomb"-he said it with a dash of Southern formality that made her smile-"are most impressive. Both on paper and in person. Or perhaps I should say `in the paper. " He pulled down the bottom lid of each of her eyes and peered close. "Mrs. Elizabeth Ranslett included a very nice article about you before you arrived."
"Yes, I've heard about that, but I have yet to see it:" Rachel said James had saved it for her. She would remember to ask him. A wave of fatigue hit her, and she looked forward to going back to sleep.
Dr. Brookston laid aside his stethoscope and gently probed her throat, then moved to the sides of her neck. "Have you experienced any vomiting?"
"No. It all started with a tickle in my throat earlier this week. I had a headache, then the sneezing started, and the sore throat and fever:"
"And I assume you pushed on through, hoping it would go away?"
She heard the gentle reprimand in his voice and nodded.
"Have you been drinking plenty of fluids?"
"Hot tea earlier in the week, then mostly water:"
"And your appetite?"
"I've been hungry but ... I haven't felt well enough to get out of bed to fix anything. Sheriff McPherson brought me a piece of apple pie earlier, and I ate that."
"From Mrs. Spivey?"
She smiled. No matter this town's growth, Timber Ridge was still a small community. "Yes, and it was delicious:"
"Best I've ever had:" He gave a playful wince and glanced upward. "Let's just hope my dear mother's not listening, God rest her soul:"
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 02] Page 20
