Molly laughed, liking the man more and more.
He finished his examination and eased back into the chair beside the bed. "So, Dr. Whitcomb ... are there any medical conditions you need to tell me about, ma'am?"
Thinking she detected a certain tone in his voice, Molly searched his face but found nothing revealing in his expression. She smoothed a hand over the top of the blanket and vowed not to lie. "Let's see ... I'm thirty-one years old. I broke my arm when I was twelve, climbing a tree, trying to keep up with the boys in my neighborhood. But other than that, I've been quite healthy all my life. And I haven't ever had this bad of a cold before:'
Dr. Brookston's gaze remained steady, compassionate. He leaned forward. "This is more than simply a cold, Dr. Whitcomb. It's a strain of virus, similar to influenza but, thankfully, without the intestinal ravages on the body. Healing is usually much quicker." He looked down at his hands. "Unfortunately, there can be ... consequences to a fever as high as yours was.
It felt as if the world began to spin a little slower.
Molly knew she wasn't imagining the tone in his voice this time. Nor the concern in his gaze. "W-what kind of consequences are we speaking about?"
He covered her hand on the blanket. She knew he intended it to be a comforting gesture, but it had the exact opposite effect on her. And a split second before he spoke, she read the truth in his eyes.
"What concerns me most, Dr. Whitcomb ... is the child you're carrying. And how this fever may have affected him or her."
22
oily stared up at Dr. Brookston, a hundred questions blurring her mind. How did he know? Would he keep her secret? Would he feel compelled to tell the town council? But only one question was of utmost concern at the moment. "How might this fever have affected my baby?"
He kept his hand atop hers on the blanket. "First of all, let me reiterate that I said may have affected your baby, Dr. Whitcomb. Remember, just because a fever can cause problems doesn't mean that it will:" His sigh hinted at frustration. "Unfortunately, there's still much we don't know about the development of a child inside a mother's womb. What we do know is that there is a direct correlation between the mother's health and the child's:"
"Meaning that my baby suffered the same high temperature that I did?"
He shook his head. "Not as direct as that, necessarily. God's design in a woman giving birth to a child is nothing short of a miracle:" Subtle awe swept his face. "Studies have proven that there seem to be ... safeguards in place. A mother will suffer the effects of say ... a certain medicine or even poison, and yet the child within her remains unharmed. Then there are other instances when a mother carries her child for the full term with no complications whatsoever-no illnesses, no fevers-and yet the child is born with certain ... challenges."
"What kind of challenges?"
"They're developmental in nature. The child still walks and talks and is able to perform many of the same tasks as a child born without these difficulties, but the progress is delayed. Learning those skills comes more slowly for those children:'
A knock sounded at the front door. Dr. Brookston looked in that direction.
Molly rose up on one elbow and reached for his arm. "Please, Dr. Brookston;' she whispered. "I know I should have told the town council about this child, but-"
"Dr. Whitcomb:" His stare was direct, yet kind. "I am first and foremost a physician. Your physician, if you'll trust me to serve in that capacity on your behalf, and on that of your child:'
When he didn't continue, she nodded.
"Everything you share with me, ma'am, will remain confidential. I will always offer my medical opinion when it concerns your health, or that of your unborn child, without reservation. But, unless requested, I will refrain from offering opinion of any other nature. Unless asked:"
A second knock sounded. "Brookston? Molly?"
She recognized James's voice.
Dr. Brookston stood. "Unless, of course, you're planning on holding up the morning stage:" He angled his head. "Then I might have to speak with the sheriff on that count:"
Molly was too relieved and exhausted to laugh. "Thank you, Dr. Brookston. And I promise, I will tell the town council;' she whispered. "When the time is right:"
He nodded. `And I promise that, in time"-warning laced his smile"they're going to know, whether you tell them or not:"
"This should warm things up some:" With care, James slid the bed warmer between the fresh sheets, tossing Molly a grin.
She sat in the chair beside the chifforobe, rubbing her arms and gazing at the bed as if she hadn't slept in a month of Sundays. He'd told Brookston he'd stay with her for the afternoon, in case the fever returned, until Brookston could make it back to check on her that evening. Brookston agreed. Both of them had already been exposed to whatever she had, so it made sense. James was just contented to have Molly all to himself, sick or not.
But he was glad that the schoolteacher's house wasn't located right smack in the middle of town. That would've made visiting her like this a little harder. Being mindful of appearances, especially as sheriff, he knew how quickly rumors could start and spread. And while he looked forward to time spent with this woman, he also meant to guard her reputation.
He carefully maneuvered the bed warmer around on the mattress, then slid it to the other side. Molly crawled back into bed, sighing as she snuggled deeper.
Her eyes fluttered closed. "This is heaven on earth, thank you:"
He claimed the chair. "Hey, no going to sleep yet. You promised me another round of checkers. You can't expect to win an entire bagful of penny candy and then not give a fellow the chance to redeem himself."
She giggled. "You make it sound like we were gambling."
"No, we were just playing checkers with candy as the stakes. But it wasn't gambling." He smirked. "Not for you anyway, because you won it all:" Having seen his nephews pout often enough, he tried mimicking their expressions, which earned him a grin.
"Now you look like Kurt" She peered at him over the covers, her smile softening. "Thank you, James:"
He didn't have to ask what she was thanking him for-he knew. "If I were to tell you that this was all my pleasure, that wouldn't even begin to come close:"
The warmth moving in behind her eyes made him intensely aware of how alone they were, and of how desirable she was, even with her feeling poorly. She was a beautiful woman, and not only on the outside.
Just today, four parents had stopped him in town to tell him they'd received a kind note from the new teacher, describing the "favorite day" their child had chosen to share with the class the first morning of school. His throat tightened when he thought of the letter-not note-Molly had written to Rachel, and how she'd gone into detail about what the boys had said. Rachel had shared it with him, and he'd been glad he'd read it in private.
Taking the boys on those overnight sojourns had been special for him, a way to honor Thomas's memory, and Rachel's abiding love for him. But it meant even more now, knowing how much it had meant to his nephews. And he had Molly to thank for that.
"What if"-she raised up slightly and tucked the corner of the pillow under her head-"I promise to buy you an entire bag of penny candy if we could just talk for a while?"
James stretched out his legs, more than satisfied. "Sounds good to me." He noticed her nearly empty glass. "You want more of Lyda's tea? Or soup? She made it special for you:"
She shook her head, yawning. "I'm fine. I just enjoy your being here:" She shrugged softly. "Sitting with me:"
He stared at her, more convinced than ever that being friends with this woman was going to prove near impossible. But still, he aimed to try. For both their sakes.
She'd surprised him earlier by calling him Dr. McPherson. It had been years since he'd heard that name spoken aloud. And it suited him just fine if that same amount of time passed without his hearing it again.
"Do you miss the South?" he asked, determined to turn his thoughts from their present course.
She weighed her answer before giving it. "No. And yes:"
Silence had never bothered him, so he didn't seek to fill it. He liked how the tumble of the stream could be heard through her open bedroom window. That sound always aided his sleeping at night.
"I don't miss it the way I thought I would:'
"But there are things you do miss:"
She smoothed the hair back from her face. "I miss waking up to mornings wrapped in fog and mist. With everything cloaked in feathery white. The trees, the houses, the-"
"The barns, the rolling hills;' he continued. "Everything's draped in it:"
She nodded. "We have fog here, but it's not the same:"
He liked how she used the word "we:" "That's because it doesn't cling to things here the same way it does back home:"
She laughed, her eyes widening briefly. "I hadn't thought of it that way, but that's exactly what it is:'
He motioned to the picture on the wall beside her bed. "That turned out well:"
She trailed his focus. "Yes, it did. Elizabeth Ranslett made copies for every family in the school. It was so generous of her."
"She's a very generous person. So is her husband, Daniel. Have you met him yet?"
She shook her head, fighting a yawn. "But Elizabeth told me-the day she was at school-that you and her husband have been friends since childhood:"
"We sure have:"
A sneaky sparkle lit her eyes. "So I would assume, then, that Daniel Ranslett would be the one to speak with if a person wanted to know anything about you. Besides Rachel, of course:"
He leaned forward. "If there's anything you want to know about me, Molly Whitcomb, all you have to do is ask:" He'd guessed the statement might catch her by surprise, maybe even encourage a giggle. But he'd guessed wrong.
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
He was tempted to offer an apology, but something within him held back the words. Watching her, he sensed a hurt he wished he could do something about. Heal, in some way. Or at least help shoulder. If she'd only trust him enough to tell him what it was.
She laughed softly and sniffed. `Always so direct:'
"Not always;' he whispered, wishing she would offer him the same invitation he'd given her-to ask her anything he wanted. He would ask about her husband, how he'd died, when they'd gotten married, what kind of life they'd had together, and if the pain he sensed from her now was from a past hurt, or a present one.
But the main question he would ask, and that he so wanted the answer to, was how-after being widowed only four months ago-she could look at him the way she was looking at him now.
Struck by an uncharacteristic measure of spontaneity, he struggled against the desire to go to her and take her in his arms. His mouth went dry at the thoughts filling his head. Thoughts that were certainly warm, but that weren't all that "friendly;" not in the sense he and Molly had agreed to be friends.
A knock on the front door jerked his thoughts back, as did Brookston's greeting as he entered. James didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Molly definitely looked relieved.
Brookston entered the bedroom, medical bag in hand. "How's my newest patient, Sheriff?"
James stood, still holding Molly's gaze. "I think she's on the mend, Doc:'
"No more fever, then? That's good news" Brookston retrieved his stethoscope. "I've just left the Tucker family. There's no need to be alarmed, Dr. Whitcomb, but two of their children-Ansley and Zacharyare ill with something similar to what you have:"
Molly frowned. "Are they going to be all right?"
"Without a doubt. Neither had the high fever you did, and children always seem to bounce back from these things faster than adults. I hope you won't take me to task for this, but I've exercised the liberty of recessing classes for next week, in order to give you time to gain your strength, for your body to fully heal, and to lessen the chance of this spreading to others. I told the Tuckers as much, while I was there, since they live the farthest from town:"
James half expected Molly to protest, but she didn't.
Standing by the bedside, Brookston fingered the stethoscope in his hand, and James gathered he was waiting to examine his newest patient.
He reached for his hat, throwing Molly a discreet wink. "I'll stop by tomorrow after church with some more food. Several of the parents are planning on bringing meals throughout the week, too:"
Molly's expression revealed gratitude-and question. "And I'm wondering, Sheriff, just how does everyone in town already know that I'm sick?"
James kept his smile as innocent as possible. "Beats me. I'm guessing the doc here just can't keep things to himself. So much for that oath he took:" Seeing Brookston's grin, James slipped his hat on, having waited for this moment. He hadn't been reading a dictionary for the last few nights for nothing. "Perhaps later this week, ma'am, once you're better, you'll feel like ... ambulating with me around town."
Seeing Molly's slow smile, James quickly took his leave before she could respond.
By Monday afternoon, Molly felt well enough to get out of bed. By Wednesday, Dr. Brookston told her she could be around others again without fear of being contagious. But her full strength still hadn't returned, and since she had more food than she knew what to do with, there was no reason for her to leave the cabin, which suited her fine. She wasn't in any frame of mind for company.
She spent the morning curled on the sofa by the fireplace reading past issues of the Timber Ridge Reporter that James had brought by, including the one with her article in it. Elizabeth Ranslett had certainly painted a glowing picture of her and her academic accomplishments. Molly cringed reading the newspaper headline- Woman Professor Comes West To Teach Children-just as Brandon Tolliver had quoted it to her that day on the stagecoach.
At one time in her life, she'd sought such public affirmation, such praise for her accomplishments. She'd needed it. Perhaps it was due to being a woman in what was still-despite the strides being made-a man's world. And having her work acknowledged in public arenas had served as confirmation of her abilities in the face of what had been, on many occasions, heated opposition.
A bittersweet realization moved through her, for which she knew the cause. She no longer required that public recognition. Nor did she desire it. Quite the contrary, and for good reason.
Not only were her efforts as a teacher presently failing, but her accomplishments in recent months didn't exactly merit accolades. Nor did she deserve the acceptance that the people of Timber Ridge had offered. Or her friendship with James.
James...
He'd been so kind, so thoughtful. Their friendship was one of the best parts of her life right now. Only it wasn't best for him. He simply didn't know it yet.
She'd wanted so badly to ask him about his father, Dr. McPherson, after his reaction to hearing the name. But curious as she was, she hadn't felt at liberty to, even with his invitation to ask him anything. How could she ask him personal questions like that when she wasn't willing towhen she couldn't-entertain them from him?
She laid aside the newspaper and picked up the stack of envelopesnotes of thanks she'd penned to those who had brought meals and desserts during the week. Pencil drawings from students adorned her walls. James had tacked them up for her, and she appreciated each one.
She'd been asleep when he'd stopped by on Sunday, but seeing him ride up the path yesterday, she had been ready. "Are you here to ... ambulate with me, James? Because if so, I'm not sure I'm quite up for a stroll around town yet:'
His smile was telling. "So did you have to look it up, or did you know already?"
She formed a playful pout. "I grew up reading a dictionary for fun. So I fear. . " She chose her most formal tone. "It is going to be difficult to find a word for which I do not already know the definition."
He shook his head, the gleam in his eyes never dimming. "That's all right. I like a good challenge, ma'am."
Molly smiled, remembering the conversation.
She moved to
the window and stared up at the mountains soaring high above the cabin, feeling so small and insignificant in comparison, and so unworthy. You've given me so much, Lord, and I've given so little in return. "And just like this town, and James, you havent treated me as I've deserved either." She pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, not a trace of doubt within her that God was listening.
Even though she'd told herself her mistake with Jeremy was her own fault-deep down, in a dark hidden-away corner of her heart, one she preferred not to acknowledge-she'd assigned a portion of the blame to God for what she'd done. When she'd first discovered she was with child, she'd made excuses for her behavior, and they resurfaced again.
Except now, she saw them for what they were-lies.
God could have spared her father's life and therefore she wouldn't have been so lonely, and she wouldn't have sought Jeremy's comfort. So God was also to blame. How often had her friends confided in her about how long it had taken them to become with child? And her very first time, she'd conceived. God could have prevented that if He'd wanted to. So He was also to blame. God could have worked in Jeremy's heart to coerce him to stand by his promise to marry her. He could have prevented Jeremy from catching the attention of the daughter of the college's wealthiest donor. But He didn't.
And so today, in Athens, Georgia, Jeremy Fowler would wed Maria Elena Patterson, guaranteeing him not only a place among the social elite, but also a secure future with the college. And, one day, very likely, his own college presidency. None of which, Molly knew, he would have gained by marrying her.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. After all, she was only carrying his-
A pounding on the door sent her heart to her throat.
Hand to her chest, she worked to catch her breath and smoothed the front of her robe. Once composed, she opened the door. "Mrs. Spivey, how nice to see you:" She glanced past Amanda Spivey's mother to see the horse and buggy in the yard. "How are you?"
"How are you is more the question, Mrs. Whitcomb:" The woman absolutely beamed. "I saw the doctor in town yesterday, and he said you might be up for visitors now. So ..." Scrunching her shoulders tight, LuEllen Spivey held out a covered dish. "I thought you could use one of my famous apple pies!" She removed the checkered cloth. "And it's still warm!"
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 02] Page 21
