by Radclyffe
She opened her travel trunk, the one she had packed with such optimism less than a year before. She passed a trembling hand over her forehead, wiping with a handkerchief at the icy sweat that had broken out there. She felt suddenly cold. Shivering, she reached for a shawl. She finished filling the suitcase, adding to the top her slim book of sonnets. She remembered sitting by Jessie's bedside reading them, and the thought of Jessie warmed her even as her body grew more chilled. She dragged the heavy valise toward her closet, suddenly lightheaded. She grasped the dresser for support, dizzy. She had had no breakfast, being much too nervous to eat. She could not recall if she had eaten dinner the night before. It was becoming more difficult by the moment for her to think clearly.
"I must get something to drink," she murmured, frightened by the trembling in her limbs. She descended the staircase unsteadily and made her way carefully to the kitchen, one hand trailing along the wall, struggling to stay upright. She found a pitcher of tea her mother had left in the heavy icebox and carried it with shaking hands to the table.
"A bit of bread and honey is all I need," she murmured, her vision wavering slightly. She laid the shawl aside, much too warm now.
As she reached for a glass, her head spun and a wave of nausea overtook her. She clutched the counter, her knees buckling, the room swirling about her. A curtain of gray obscured her vision, and she was dimly aware of the cool kitchen floor under her cheek. Barely conscious, too weak to rise, she called Jessie's name. She lost all sense of time. At some point she was aware of being moved, and voices rising and falling somewhere far away. She struggled weakly, protesting incoherently, as someone removed her clothing. She tried desperately to focus, knowing there was something she must do. Somewhere she must go. Eventually her body surrendered to the fever and she slipped into total unconsciousness, Jessie's name, unspoken, on her lips.
* * *
Jessie paced the length of the porch, watching the dusk give way to darkness. A tarp-covered wagon stood waiting behind the house, packed with all they would need for their trip over the Rockies. Star and Rory were fed and bridled, ready for the journey as well. She stood at the rail, one arm braced along the porch post, staring toward the cookhouse. There were lights in the windows and the smell of stew in the air. Jed would be there, with the men. God, it was hard, saying goodbye.
Jed had said little when she told him she was leaving. He had stood quietly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of hay, as Jessie explained that she would send legal papers giving him the authority to handle all the business affairs of the ranch. She thought at one point her voice would give out, but she held steady and looked him in the eye while she talked.
When she finished and fell silent, Jed had looked past her toward the mountains, as if gauging the climb. "You'll need to hurry if you're going to beat the snows," he said finally.
"Yes," she replied, waiting.
He had taken off his hat and brushed it lightly against his thigh. They leaned against the corral fence, the two of them, hunched in their heavy jackets, eyes tearing faintly in the cold wind. "I know you ain't running from the law," he said at length.
"No."
"There are only two things I know that will make a man leave his home," Jed remarked quietly, his eyes still fixed on the distant hills. "The law, or a woman."
She stiffened slightly, pushed her hands a little deeper in the pockets of her jacket. "Yes."
He looked at her, and all he saw was the same clear gaze and steady strength he had always seen. "Ain't nothing you can do but leave?"
Her eyes grew dark with pain, the anger gone now. "No."
"Well," he said after another long pause. "When you feel you can come back, it will all still be here waitin'. I can assure you that."
They had remained a while longer, their shoulders barely touching, watching the sky cloud over and the wind blow bare branches around the yard. She was glad for his company because it kept the sadness away.
That had been hours ago, and Kate should have arrived before sundown. Jessie looked up the road in the descending gloom for the hundredth time, even though she knew in her heart that Kate would have come by now if she were coming at all. Something must have happened. Perhaps she had been discovered. A faint voice in the back of her mind kept whispering that perhaps Kate had changed her mind, that Kate would have come had she wanted to. Perhaps when the moment had come, Kate could not say goodbye. Too much risk, too much loss. Jessie could almost understand if that's what had happened. It would be harder for Kate than for her, leaving everything behind. Maybe what they shared wasn't enough, maybe - maybe --
"No," she growled under her breath, beginning to pace again. She couldn't believe it. She couldn't! She remembered Kate's eyes when Kate had declared that she loved her. She remembered Kate's touch, and her smile, and her soft sighs as they lay quietly wrapped in one another after loving. Of course Kate would come. She had said that she would! But the night said otherwise.
When total darkness finally surrounded her, Jessie sat on the steps, weary from the hours of anxious waiting, elbows propped on her knees, her head down. She stared bleakly at nothing, her mind a blank. The star-filled sky revolved slowly overhead and the night air drew down around her, but she remained motionless, impervious to the cold that slowly chilled her to the bone. When all the lights were out in the bunkhouses, and even the night seemed to sleep, she roused herself. Star and Rory still waited patiently, tied to the wagon, and she could not leave them unsheltered in the brutal wind. Mechanically, she walked them down to the barn, removed their bridles, and led them into stalls. Then she made her way back up to the house, pausing on the porch to search the dark with desperate eyes, hoping to see salvation emerge from the shadows. She swayed slightly, grasping the banister to steady herself, running a hand over her face, surprised at the moisture on her cheeks. She couldn't feel anything. Then, very slowly, she turned her back to the road, walked into the house, and shut the door behind her.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
FOR FOUR DAYS the illness had raged through New Hope, and a growing panic seized the townspeople. Almost half the families in town had been struck by the fast-moving influenza, and everyone knew someone sick with the high fevers, wracking coughs, and suffocating bloody fluids in the lungs. In some homes there had been deaths, mostly among the very young or the very old, the ones with little strength to fight the rampaging infection. But here and there it was a young man or woman, struck down suddenly, and taken within hours. Those who had escaped the disease were afraid to go out and the streets lay eerily deserted. The few who were too restless or too stubborn to stay inside congregated at the saloon.
Frank had come down sick the previous day, and Mae and those of her girls who were still well were looking after the customers in the bar. Conversation was slight, most men lingering remorsefully over half-finished drinks, not wanting to talk of news that seemed all bad. Mae tried to keep up appearances, chatting briefly with each newcomer, forcing a smile. She stared in surprise at the newest face in the long row of unshaven men leaning against the bar. Thaddeus Schroeder nodded hello, his face drawn and pale.
"Thaddeus!" Mae said warmly, "Never expected to see you in here during daylight hours. Wish it was under better circumstances. What can I get you?"
Thaddeus smiled wanly. "A good strong whiskey, Mae. Things are getting terrible, just terrible."
Mae looked at him pityingly and poured him a drink. "How are your people, Thaddeus?" she asked gently.
He looked at her with sorrowful eyes. "My John Emory's ailing with it, but the Doc said last night that the boy had passed the crisis, thank the good Lord. He wasn't sick at all just three days ago, and then --" His voice broke and he looked away. "So fast. It comes so fast." He cleared his throat and reached for the glass that Mae had filled for him. "The Doc says we're probably lucky to have lived through that terrible spell in '52. Makes us stronger now, he says."
She patted his hand. "That's fine, Thaddeus, just fine."
&
nbsp; She had missed the terrible epidemic that swept over the western plains and beyond over a decade before, decimating the Indian populations and new settlers as well, but she had seen the effects of the devastating infection in the crowded tenements of New York City, and death looked the same everywhere. She prayed that this outbreak would be over quickly, and the losses few. Lord, life was hard enough without this, too.
But Thaddeus was beyond consoling. He had come to the saloon because he needed to talk, and he couldn't burden his wife, who was so busy herself looking after the boy and helping the neighbors, too. He continued to ramble, almost to himself. "There are so many, Mae. So many others sick with it." He sighed. "More will die, God help us."
"Thaddeus," Mae said kindly, touching his hand. "These people are strong, pioneer stock. They'll survive. Don't you be giving up hope now."
He raised remorseful eyes to hers. "It's Martin and Martha Beecher I feel so bad about. They're not like the rest of us, not used to such hardships. I feel like it's my fault for bringing them out here. That girl is going to be on my conscience, Mae!" Tears brimmed in his eyes and he reached quickly for his pocket handkerchief.
Mae stared at him, an awful fear crowding out her breath. "Thaddeus, what are you talking about?"
"It's their daughter, Kate," he replied when he managed to contain himself. "She came down with the illness yesterday and Doc says she's very bad. Might not even make it til tomorrow." He finished his drink. "My fault. All my fault."
Mae wanted to scream at him to hush so she could think. Kate dying? That couldn't be, could it? Not young, beautiful, vibrant Kate. But of course it could. There was no rhyme or reason to these things, and very little one could do to change fate. Not a thing, really.
She turned away from the lonely man, unable to summon any words of solace. She moved sadly down the bar, pouring shots of inadequate comfort for the mourners.
* * *
The house had a dark, deserted look about it. The windows were dead eyes looking back at her, and no smoke curled from the chimney. For an instant her heart seized with terror. What if death had visited here already? Would anyone have thought to tell her? Wouldn't she have known somehow if she were gone? Controlling her panic, Mae knocked on the wide front door. When there was no answer, she pushed open the door and hesitantly stepped inside. It was cold, as if all life had departed days before.
"Who is it?" a low, quiet voice said out of the darkness.
Mae cried out sharply, her eyes searching the hallway, trying to peer into the room from which the voice had emanated. "Jess? For God's sake, Jess, is that you?"
Suddenly a match flared, flickered, and then caught. A moment later lamplight illuminated the library in a faint yellow glow. Jessie stood wraith-like by the fireplace, pale and hollow-eyed. She placed the lamp on the mantle and turned slowly toward Mae, her normally straight back slumped, her gaze dazed and listless.
"What is it, Mae?" she asked slowly. She gripped the edge of the stone ledge tightly, a little unsteady on her feet. She hadn't had much to eat. Couldn't remember her last meal actually. The fireplace was empty; she hadn't cooked. She dimly recalled Jed coming up to the house that morning, or maybe it was the night before, asking after her. Saying he had seen the wagon still out back, warning that the snows were coming any day. She had sent him away, telling him she would not be needing the wagon after all. He had wanted to say more, she could see the worry in his face, but she shut the door. There was nothing to say.
Jessie looked up from the cold hearth, surprised to see Mae standing there, staring at her. She cleared her throat. "What is it?" she asked again.
Mae came forward slowly, wondering if Jessie was sick with what everyone else had. She looked so drained, so empty. Mae had never seen her look like that, not even right after her father had been killed. "Jess," she said quietly. "Jess, are you sick?"
'No, Mae," Jessie said with a shake of her head, confused. She didn't feel anything. That strange numbness was still there, everywhere.
"Then what are you doing in here in the dark?" Mae was so worried and so scared she was beginning to lose her temper. "It's freezing in here, too! Are you trying to get sick?"
The hard edge in Mae's voice penetrated Jessie's muddled consciousness. "I'm not sick, Mae," she said, a little of the life returning to her voice. "What are you talking about? Why are you here?"
Mae gasped. "Lord, you don't know, do you?"
"Know what?" Jessie asked, an ominous dread stirring in her chest. "What's happening?"
"The grippe," Mae said bitterly. "It hit town a bit ago, and the last two days have seen some sorrow."
Jessie's face slowly lost its last trace of color. "Kate," she whispered. God, she was a fool! Why hadn't she gone into town and looked for her? Why had she let her doubts keep her away? She grabbed Mae's shoulders, leaning down to look into her face. Her eyes were wide and wild. "Kate! Is she sick?"
Mae paused, not sure until just that moment what she had come to say. The torment and terror in Jessie's face convinced her. She nodded, then said very quietly, "She's bad, Jess. The Doc says she doesn't have long."
Jessie's head snapped back as if she had been struck. For a moment she was completely still, the only movement a faint pulse beating in her neck. Then a horrible glint flashed in her eyes and a sound more like a snarl that a word tore from her throat. "No!"
Mae reached for her as Jessie snatched her gun belt from the table and strapped it on. "Jess," she said hesitantly, afraid of what Jessie might do in her state of mind. "Her family -"
The look Jessie gave her stopped Mae cold.
"There's not a man alive can keep me away from her, Mae," Jessie answered stonily, heading for the door. "I can't let her die without me there."
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
A COMMOTION AT THE front door roused Martha from an uneasy slumber. She had been restlessly napping in the small sitting room adjoining Kate's bedroom while Hannah kept watch. Martin had retired to his library hours before, too distraught to sit vigil at his daughter's bedside. Hannah came into the room just as Martha was rising.
"Whoever is at the door?" Martha asked impatiently. "They'll disturb Kate!"
Hannah regarded Martha sympathetically, not mentioning that Kate had not been aware of anything for some time. Martha's hair was falling from its pins, her eyes were hollow, and her face gaunt. Poor woman, Hannah thought, and whispered a quick prayer of thanks that her own son was on the mend. "It's Jessie Forbes. Martin is talking with her now."
Martha stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, her confused expression quickly turning to alarm. "Here? She's here?"
Hannah nodded. She and Martha had had little chance to talk about any of the events of the last few days. She had only just that evening been able to leave John Emory and had come straight to the Beecher house, knowing that Martha would need help looking after Kate. As soon as she arrived, she sent Martha off for some much needed rest. She had been sitting by Kate's bedside, sponging the fever sweat from her face and neck when she first heard the pounding on the front door. She went to the top of the landing to see who was there, afraid that it might have been Thaddeus come to say that John Emory had taken poorly again. Instead it was Jessie Forbes standing in the doorway, and Martin Beecher blocking her way. Hannah thought from Jessie's expression that she might shoot him.
"Why has she come?" Martha repeated distractedly, hastily dressing.
"I suspect that she wants to see Kate."
"Impossible," Martha said firmly.
"I don't think she's going to go away, Martha," Hannah said softly.
"No, I suppose not," Martha said in a strange voice. She slipped her hand into the pocket of the apron she wore and handed it to Hannah. "I found this on Kate's bedside table yesterday."
Hannah carefully unfolded the much-read note and studied the message written there. Oh Lord, she thought, as she read. Poor Kate. When she finished, she slowly handed it back to Martha. She wasn't sure what to say, so she wai
ted for Martha to speak.
"Kate was going to run away," Martha said, clearly shocked by the idea. She looked at Hannah with a weary pain in her eyes. "Can you imagine? She was simply going to disappear somewhere with that young woman."
"Seems they care for one another," Hannah said carefully.
Martha looked at her in surprise. "But to leave us like that! Kate must have been ill, not thinking clearly." But she didn't sound convinced.
"Kate has a sound head on her, Martha. She left that note because she loves you and Martin. She didn't want you to worry too much."
"You're not saying that you approve?" Martha asked in astonishment.
Hannah shrugged. "It's not for me to approve or disapprove. I just think that Kate knows her mind."
"So you think that we should encourage this madness? That I should allow that young woman to see Kate?" Martha queried defensively. Oh, if only they had never left Boston!
"Martha," Hannah said quietly, "I lost my three youngest in the epidemic of '52. It's a sorrow you never get over, burying a child." She saw the expression of pain and fright in Martha's face, and regretted causing it, but she continued on, fearing Kate's loss more than Martha's anger. "Love has strange power. If Jessie Forbes can keep Kate with you, I'd surely say pride had no place in the matter."
Martha stared at her wordlessly. Kate had barely been conscious the last twelve hours, and when she had managed any words at all, she had whispered Jessie's name. Hannah was right. If there was any chance under heaven that this young woman could make a difference - well, she'd worry about the rest of it later. She turned determinedly toward the stairs. "Thank you, Hannah," she murmured as she hurried past.
* * *
Jessie faced Martin in the doorway, very close to losing all control. "I must see Kate!" she repeated, her voice dangerously low.
Martin continued to stand in her way, his grief overpowering all reason. He couldn't think of anything except that Kate had planned to leave them, and now she might. "Kate is going to die in peace," he shouted, his anger at the monstrous injustice seeking any object upon which to vent his rage.
