That Certain Spark

by Cathy Marie Hake

  “Neither of us said so. Sometimes it is better for a man to hold his opinion to himself.”

  “The only thing I want to hold is a fork!”

  A heaping tray of excellent food, but Karl scarcely dredged up enough of an appetite to eat half a plateful. Every time he moved his left leg, pain shot through him. I’m tired is all. Pushing away from the table, he grunted. “I’m going to bed.”

  “You should eat more first. ‘Feed a fever, starve a cold.’ ”

  “No. It’s ‘Starve a fever, feed a cold.’ ” Karl tried to keep his voice strong and steady as he stood. If he let on how it pained him, Piet would start kicking up a ruckus all over again.

  “That lady doctor would know.” Piet’s eyes narrowed. “She would know, too, how better to make your leg feel. I should have taken you to a doctor earlier.”

  “I’m still on my feet. That proves I didn’t need a doctor.” Knowing he’d pushed himself as far as he dared, Karl headed for bed. Stripping off his suspenders and shirt was easy enough. He couldn’t get out of his jeans unless he pulled off his boots—but the movements necessary for unlacing them were nothing short of agonizing. What does it matter? Karl rolled onto his back on the bed and left his feet hanging over the end.

  He grew hotter, then freezing, then hotter still. Disjointed, impossible dreams jumbled together. Piet shook his shoulder and said something to him. Sure it was a dream, Karl closed his eyes.

  “Uit bed met u!” Piet shouted, tugging on his arm as if to help with his command to get out of bed.

  Falling back onto his pillow, Karl shook his head.

  Piet robbed him of his boots. “Kom met me.” The room whirled, then righted, but only for a few moments. The loud clomps of Piet’s boots on the stairs made the only sound in the cabin. Come with me? How could his brother ask him to come along and leave him behind? A second later, cold air and cold metal hit him all at once as Piet dumped him into something. Karl let out a roar.

  “Mmmm.” Enoch smiled. “This pie is good.” They’d come back and steadily unpacked for the past four hours.

  Taylor searched for a place to put a pair of silver candlesticks. “I still can’t believe you suddenly grew so sentimental over everything.”

  “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t keep the wedding gown—just in case God surprises you.”

  “Surprise? It would be a shock, and a dreadful one.” She gave up and set the candlesticks on the table. “I don’t know of any woman who’s successfully juggled being a wife and physician. When I took the Hippocratic Oath, it was tantamount to wedding vows. I’m married to my profession. I only agreed to bring the gown because it would be lovely if your bride wanted to wear it.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like that. But you need to have the china and candlesticks.”

  Taylor let out an exasperated laugh. “It’s hardly fair to scrape my burnt offerings onto the same china upon which our great-great-great-grandmother—”

  He chimed in, “—served the queen.” Waggling his forefinger at her, he said, “That’s why the dishes had to come. Someday we’ll be eating a meal, and you’ll tell your nieces and nephews about that story.”

  “What do you want to bet they ask how the queen tasted?” Taylor quirked a brow. “Any child of yours will undoubtedly have a sassy mouth.”

  “I distinctly recall we asked the question in unison.”

  Hitching her shoulder, Taylor dismissed the accusation. “Mr. Burke drilled the evils of that type of sentence construction into us only hours before. It was inevitable.”

  “For as long as I live, I’ll never forget how Mother laughed as Father tried to calm down Grandmother. Leaving behind the china would have been abandoning all of that.”

  “And these candlesticks?” Holding up her hand, Taylor gave him an exasperated look. “Let me guess. They’re to remind me of the years of early morning piano practices.”

  “Not at all. They’re practical devices that can perform any number of tasks. Hold up slippery windows. Cosh robbers on the head . . .”

  Her dimples deepened as laughter spilled out of her. “Enoch, if you ever tire of doctoring animals, you ought to think about writing. Your imagination works overtime.”

  He shook his head. “Never. I’ve heard about starving artists.” He set aside the empty plate. Having nested several boxes and crates inside of one another, Enoch put them out the back door.

  Finally Taylor allowed herself the freedom to go on into her surgery. Ascertaining that much of what she’d brought duplicated the stock of this amazingly well-stocked surgery, Taylor had already sent some boxes and crates up to the attic that afternoon. Velma had unpacked the patient gowns, surgical drapes, and other clothware, as well as the laboratory equipment. Now—now Taylor could familiarize herself with where everything else was, change things around to suit herself, and indulge in hours of perfecting details.

  Enoch returned with yet something more to eat. Leaning against the doorframe of her surgery, he moaned. “Superb.”

  Taylor slid the jar of tincture of iodine onto the shelf and turned around. “Save me a bite.”

  “Absolutely not.” Enoch scooped up another huge forkful.

  “Oh well. If that’s how you feel, I’ll bow out gracefully.” Taylor lined up a few other jars, lifted her skirt, and made a quarter turn toward the pharmaceutical shelves. She could see Enoch’s reflection in the just-cleaned glass panes. “Never let it be said I stood in the way of your holding up your end of the bargain.”

  Snatching up the last bite with his fingers, he gave her a baffled look. “Huh?”

  “Oh, don’t give me that astonished look, Enoch. You know it’s your responsibility to hire our housekeeper this time.”

  Looking as if he’d been given a terminal diagnosis, he groaned. “The men mentioned a girl—Linda?”

  “Linette already works at the boardinghouse. But with the dearth of marriageable women, I think you’d better think about a matronly woman of later years.”

  Taylor unpacked a physician’s treatment ledger and continued. “Too bad Velma’s already taken. She can cook and clean, handle rowdy men, and deliver babies. Add to that, she’s nimble enough even at her size and age to climb onto her mare and ride out of town.”

  “You should have put a bow around her neck.”

  Taylor shot her brother a wry look. “Velma’s, or the mare’s?”

  “Velma’s. She sounds like God’s gift to Gooding. I don’t suppose she has any sisters?”

  Enoch’s face fell when she shook her head. A rapping on the door brought him to his feet.

  My first patient here. Spying the plate with cake crumbs, Taylor grabbed a small towel and used it as a drape.

  “Don’t want anyone to think you’re Marie Antoinette, eating your cake?” he teased as he strode through the surgery for the front door.

  She stepped into the entryway behind him. “You ate it. If anyone gets beheaded, it ought to be you.”

  “You’d sew my head back on.”

  “Of course I would.” She smiled. “Backwards.” Having gotten in the last word of their banter, Taylor nodded to her brother to open the door to her patient.

  “Yes?” Enoch sounded slightly puzzled as he opened the door.

  “We saw your light on, so we came on over.” Millicent and Daniel Clark entered, each holding a covered dish.

  “We won’t bother you by lingering,” Daniel added, “but if you need help moving anything, I’m happy to stay and help.”

  Millie smiled back up at her husband. “Goodness knows how long you’ll all stay up—Daniel worked the night away when we first arrived here. I thought you could use a little something to nibble on.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you.” Enoch shut the door and practically grabbed the food from them. “The boxes and trunks were placed in the correct rooms this afternoon—an enormous help, to be sure.”

  “The ladies worked with astonishing speed, as well. All of our dishes, my clothing, an
d some of my medical goods were unpacked before we went to eat.”

  “Daniel, she had every box labeled with what was inside.” Millie smiled up at her husband, but her smile turned into a poorly concealed yawn. Color suffused her face.

  Daniel slid his arm around Millicent’s tiny waist. “Dear, we need to go.”

  As Enoch opened the door, he scanned the street. “Those gas lamps do an excellent job of lighting the street.”

  “The mayor’s house has gas piped into it, too. Since the town doesn’t pay all that much, it was something extra they threw in. I feel obligated to confess that our mercantile had a grand-opening drawing and the prize was a velocipede. The widow next door to you won it and is . . .” His voice died out, leaving no doubt as to the reason for his warning.

  “Widow O’Toole’s dangerous riding swept me into Daniel’s arms for the first time, so I don’t complain,” Millicent said, leaning into her husband.

  With that slight move, Taylor saw something. She stepped out onto the porch in time to see someone in a wheelbarrow being pushed by a frantic-looking man. Yanking up her skirts and running down the steps, she called back, “Enoch, I’m going to need your help here.”

  “My brother, his leg—the iron went into it.” The man stopped pushing his burden at the edge of the boardwalk, directly in front of her surgery.

  “Where?” Taylor had already taken in the patient’s rapid, shallow breaths and sizzling flesh and concluded the accident must have happened a day or two ago.

  “Linker.”

  Linker. It was close to German’s linken. She immediately looked at the left leg. Confined by jeans, the swelling was still noticeable. Taylor’s heart plummeted. Had the wound been near the knee or below, she could have amputated. This high up on the leg, so close to the lymphatic system and arteries, the outlook was grave.

  It took Enoch, Daniel, and the patient’s brother to carry the slack man into her surgery. Millicent squeezed Taylor’s hand. “We’ll be praying for Karl and for you. I put water on to boil. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You did the right thing. Thank you.” Taylor slipped a heavy white apron over her head and tied it about herself, knowing while she did so Enoch would slice off the patient’s jeans. Though her hands looked clean, she washed them anyway.

  A strangled groan sounded.

  “Off cut it!” The brother grew emotional and loud. “The leg—off cut it! Karl is the only brother I have. This is what you must do to save him.”

  Piet’s anguished shouts pulled Karl from the heated darkness. Pain enveloped him, yet he still heard Piet’s plea, “The leg—off cut it!”

  “We’ll do what must be done,” a deep voice pledged.

  Regardless of his fever, Karl’s blood ran cold. Opa’s leg had been amputated. He’d suffered horrendous pain, never found a false leg that worked right, and cursed the day he’d agreed to the operation. To be like that was not to live.

  “I have the instruments set out.” The woman’s voice sounded calm and kind. “Mr. Clark, please—”

  “Come on, Piet.”

  Waves of pain and scorching heat engulfed Karl. The strange man said something about getting leather straps and a saw. Karl refused to give in to the fever’s pull. Eyes open the merest slit, he didn’t recognize where he was. Cool, sure hands tested his forehead, then fingers pressed against the pulse in his wrist. Seizing at this one chance, Karl grabbed the woman’s sleeve.

  For a heartbeat, she stilled, then she said in a steady voice, “You’re in the surgery. Your leg is wounded.”

  “No amputation.” Despite his lack of strength, his voice came out in a harsh imperative. “Don’t let him.” Something wavered in her eyes. Sympathy? Help?

  “Your life is more important than your limb.”

  “No!” The denial tore from him. He had to bolt or they’d cut. Karl rolled and shoved himself at the same time, forcing himself off the table and onto his feet—or foot. The moment his injured leg moved, pain froze the air in his lungs. Still, he refused to show any outward sign of difficulty. He had to convince this woman to help him.

  Bracing his shoulders, she ordered, “Ease back to sit on the table and tell me why you’re so opposed to surgery.”

  “Opa. Lost. Leg.” Every word was an effort. He wouldn’t sit back. The doctor would return any minute. If only he could concoct a way to get out of there! A horse. I can’t walk, but if she brought me a horse . . . Satisfied with that plan, Karl tried to wipe the sweat from his brow and almost fell over.

  “Here.” The woman saw to it. “Let me help you.”

  She was an angel. Compassion and mercy radiated from her. “Promise you’ll help?”

  “I promise.” Her green eyes only reached his chin, but the directness of her gaze showed plenty of spunk.

  Deciding he’d trust her, Karl squinted over the woman’s shoulder. The way the room rippled reminded him to hurry. “Have a plan.”

  “Whatever it is, you’ll have to lie down under that sheet first.”

  “No. Get m’horse.”

  Her head dropped back until she stared up at the ceiling. “Balbriggans aren’t decent. You need—”

  “Awww.” He nudged and tugged to turn her away, so why did he feel off balance? After embarrassing her half out of her skin, he wished he could oblige and crawl back under the cover for a few minutes until they concocted a way to get him some jeans—only he didn’t have time. “Sorry, angel.”

  Lips pulled back in a grimace, Karl inhaled slowly, then curled his lower lip between his teeth and let out an ear-splitting whistle.

  Four

  At the piercing sound, the double doors to Taylor’s surgery flew open and her patient’s brother ran in. “Why have you done this?”

  A “I didn’t do anything yet.” She struggled to keep the injured man from crumpling to the floor. “Help me, please.”

  Daniel wedged past Piet. “I’ll take care of Karl. You’d better take care of matters before they get out of hand.”

  Taylor guided Karl’s shoulders while Daniel hefted the rest of him onto the surgical table. Enoch showed up in the doorway and shoved something into Piet’s hands. “I found the leather straps, but I still need another saw blade.”

  Her patient grimaced—and understandably so—until Taylor noticed his lower lip curled inward over his teeth. Oh no. “Don’t wh—” Clapping her hand over his mouth, she stopped the sound before it built to full volume. Unadulterated fury flashed in her patient’s ice-blue eyes. He’d already demonstrated far more fight than imaginable, but he couldn’t afford to waste a scrap of energy. If she could keep him calm until anesthesia put him out . . . “Shh.” She withdrew her hand and leaned close.

  He glowered. “M’plan.”

  “Our plan. Remember? I promised to help.”

  The merest nod and a small grunt, and he lost consciousness. Piet blanched and dragged in a harsh breath. “He didn’t— He isn’t—”

  “Unconscious.”

  Enoch gave her an apologetic look for riling her patient and his family and went back to find a saw. A moment later a loud noise on the porch had him calling out, “I’ve got it!”

  Regardless of whatever case had just presented at their door, Taylor couldn’t divide her attention. Enoch would have to see to it. This surgery couldn’t wait. If she had to administer the anesthesia herself, she’d need to use a sponge instead of having Enoch drip chloroform onto the cone she’d set out. Until she determined that for certain, a judicious splash on a piece of gauze . . .

  But the commotion outside intruded, finally forcing Taylor to look up. Disbelief washed over her. “Enoch, get that horse out of here!”

  “I’d . . . love . . . to.” Both heels dug into the floor and hands full of mane, Enoch couldn’t keep the beast from ducking her head beneath the lintel and plowing from the entryway into the surgery. “Sis,” Enoch said in his excessively low, keep-calm tone, “get out of the way.”

  Piet and Daniel struggled in vai
n to keep back the biggest horse she’d ever seen. Without a halter or lead, they had nothing to hold.

  “My brother—he whistled.” Piet planted himself directly in front of the horse. Iron horseshoes gained little traction on the wooden floor, but the beast’s sheer weight gave her an unmistakable advantage.

  “Sis, out. She’s twitchy.”

  Careful to match her brother’s tone to keep the horse from panicking, she ordered, “Stop worrying about me.” Taylor eased around the perimeter and whisked off the cloth napkin she’d draped over the cake plate just minutes before. “Sugar. Sugar, girl!” She imitated the sound Enoch made when he was enticing a horse to take a treat.

  The behemoth paused, looked over her shoulder, and executed a turn worthy of a ballerina.

  Enoch nodded at her. “Now back out into the entryway, Sis.”

  “I’m not leaving my patient. Daniel?”

  Daniel took the plate and lured the horse out. Once the tail cleared the doorway, Taylor sprang into action. Shutting the doors, she surveyed the damage. She’d never given much consideration to precisely how much dirt and dust a horse’s coat held . . . until now. The evidence covered the floor, the trays of now-contaminated instruments, even her patient and herself.

  After all her hard work, Velma would have apoplexy.

  It took several of Taylor’s spare sterile sheets to drape everything—the floor included. A new surgical apron, scrubbed hands, fresh instruments, and she was ready. Enoch reappeared. “Piet’s taking the Trakenhner back to the livery.”

  “Did you call her a train? She was big as one.”

  Enoch chuckled as he started to scrub his hands. “I knew you’d find humor in the situation. Good thinking about the sugar—Daniel and Piet are impressed.”

  She shook her head. “These people are crazy as foxes, and I think we’re the ones who’ve gotten hoodwinked. We’re stuck here for four years!”

  “Take heart. We’ll either grow accustomed to it or starve long before then.”

  For all of the surgeries Taylor had ever performed, Mr. Van der Vort’s rated as the most challenging. Even with Enoch’s help, she still could have used two more pairs of experienced hands. Imbedded deep in his thick thigh muscles were not one or two fragments of iron, but three. Two were dangerously close to nerves that could partially paralyze the use of his limb, and the third was nestled beside an artery. All three sites had grown infected. In truth, the blacksmith had come very close to being buried in the cold ground.