So far, Powell Springs had lost three hundred people to influenza. In some cities, that many people were dying per day. But this area’s wartime population was only about four thousand. And the epidemic showed no signs of peaking yet.
Her hand shook just a bit as she wrote Deceased on Helen Cookson’s record. Would the day ever come that she delivered the occasional baby into a happy, new mother’s arms, or perhaps even discovered a treatment to ease this kind of suffering? Her nightmares of New York’s tenements were now interspersed with faces turned nearly black from lack of oxygen and coughing.
Always the coughing.
She had managed to catch another five hours of sleep by taking the empty cot next to Amy’s. Even asleep, though, Jess listened for the sound of her cough. As she scratched her pen across the paper she wondered yet again if Frederick Pearson would ever arrive.
They’d had a telegram from him earlier in the week, followed by a letter, saying that he’d gotten stuck in Omaha, where he’d been literally commandeered off the train to help with their epidemic. A public health inspector had boarded during a stop and asked if any doctors were among the passengers. The man whom Pearson had been sitting next to since Chicago had volunteered his identity. He wasn’t certain when he’d arrive in Powell Springs—he was in much the same situation as Jessica. Seattle wired her at least once a week, asking when she would be coming. She could not give them a date.
But even if Pearson walked through the door right now, she wouldn’t be able to leave. There was too much work for one physician to manage and still do a good job. As it was, she was scraping by with a minimum of sleep and depending on her volunteers to fill in the gaps. Patients had to be fed, washed, dressed, and tended. The laundry problem alone was monumental.
Worse, though she tried not to think about it, the fear of falling sick herself always nibbled at the edges of her thoughts. If that happened—well, it just couldn’t.
Just as she jotted a patient’s temperature in a file, a shadow fell across her desk. Expecting to see Nettie Stark, Granny Mae, Iris Delaney, or one of her other nurse-volunteers, she was dismayed to find Adam Jacobsen standing there. Their paths hadn’t crossed since the night before, when Cole had escorted her out of the building.
And overnight, things between all of them had changed.
His dress was especially crisp and somber. Every hair was in place, as though it dared not defy his comb, and his expression was more serious than usual. “Adam—have you conducted another funeral service today?”
“No, but I have one late this afternoon.” He fixed her with a meaningful look over the upper edge of his gauze mask. “How is Amy?” He lifted his chin and gazed toward Amy’s cubicle, which was filled with flowers and notes from concerned well-wishers who were able to deliver them. In fact, she’d received more gifts than any other living person in the infirmary.
“She’s not really better, but she’s not worse, either.” Jess put down her pen and folded her hands together in a tight knot. “I’m hopeful that she’ll recover. She’s doing better than I thought she would.”
“That’s good news. And how are you?”
“I guess I’m as fine as I can be. All things considered.”
“Yes, well, I’d like to talk to you about that. Can you spare a moment?”
Jess didn’t like the sound of that. “Of course, Adam. Sit down.” She nodded toward the chair next to her desk.
He glanced around at the large, busy room. “If you don’t mind, could we step outside?”
“Um, this really isn’t a good—you can see I’m swimming in paperwork and…” She gestured at the beds with a wide sweep of her hand.
“Please. I won’t take much of your time, and I think this is important.” His tone was stern and imploring at the same time.
Jess didn’t want to give in, but she couldn’t think of another reasonably polite excuse. The one she’d tried hadn’t worked. “All right.”
She backed her chair away from the desk and stood. As they walked toward the portico, she swore she could feel the heat of his hand on her waist, even though he wasn’t actually touching her.
He opened the door for her and removed his mask. They stood at the top of the steps, where the late October air was scented with fallen leaves and woodsmoke. She pulled down her own mask and waited for him to speak.
Adam took one of her hands in his, and she fought the urge to snatch it away from him. “I want to apologize to you for last night.”
A crow, black and ominous, lighted on a nearby tree branch and cawed at them. For an instant, she thought that the bird and Adam resembled each other—darkly dressed, forbidding.
She frowned slightly. “For what?”
“I never should have let Cole Braddock take you home. After all, it was so improper, what with Amy sick and the betrothals and all.”
Jessica considered him with slightly narrowed eyes, and everything she had always disliked about him came surging back to her mind. “There was nothing improper about it. I was tired and worried, he made the offer, and I accepted it. What betrothals are you talking about?”
“Theirs. And I have asked you to be my wife. You can’t be seen riding around in Braddock’s truck unchaperoned. You should have let me take you home.”
Now she did pull her hand away. His proprietary gall and parochial, small-town mind astounded her. “I didn’t accept your proposal, Adam.”
“But we are as good as engaged.”
She took two steps backward. “No, we are not! As thoughtful as the gifts were, a handful of flowers and a box of candy does not constitute an engagement. At least not in this country.”
His neck turned as red as a rooster’s comb. “Ah. Naturally, you’ll want a ring.”
Annoyed at his misinterpretation, she snapped, “I do not want a ring. I don’t want anything from you.”
He flinched, as if she had called him a filthy name. “I can make life easier for you, Jessica.” Drawing himself to his full height, he added, “And more difficult for others. I have powerful connections.”
She lifted her brows and made an effort not to laugh. “Are you going to ask God to rain toads on me or strike me down with a thunderbolt if I don’t agree to this? Really, Adam—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what do you mean?
“Cole Braddock has drawn some, shall we say, unflattering attention to himself lately. Attention that people with authority might be interested in.”
Jessica’s stomach felt as heavy as an anvil. Would Adam actually stoop so low as to bring down the wrath of the American Protective League on Cole? And for what? Her tone cooled to nearly frigid. “Is that some kind of threat, Reverend Jacobsen? Because if it is, I do not appreciate it. Would you punish Susannah and Cole and Shaw for business between you and me? And what about Amy? Are you forgetting about her?”
He looked deflated for a moment, as if impaled on the horns of a dilemma. “No…no, of course not.”
Fear and anger made her blood sizzle through her veins. “I have work to do. Your ‘moment’ is up, Adam.” She turned and yanked open the door.
“Jessica, wait.” He grasped her arm.
Pointedly, she looked at his hand, wanting nothing more than to get away from him.
He released her.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry. Don’t—don’t leave it like this.”
She held her grip on the door handle. “Like what? We have nothing else to discuss.”
A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his forehead. “Jessica, please. I have made you an honorable and genuine proposal of marriage. I know the timing isn’t the best, but couldn’t you give me an answer?”
She closed the door again and crossed her arms over her chest. “Adam, why do you want to marry me? I’m nothing like the kind of woman you ought to consider for a wife. Can you really envision me arranging bake sales or a ladies’ aid committee? I can barely boil water. And when it comes down t
o it, even though we’ve been acquainted for a long time, you and I really don’t even know each other.” She refrained from adding that what she did know about him, she didn’t like.
Adam looked at the irritated, harried woman on whom he’d pinned his future. Why did he want to marry her? He had two reasons, he realized, neither of which were particularly ethical or romantic. But he dared not reveal those. She would certainly walk away from him for good. So he chose another, one that all women wanted to hear. In its broadest sense, it wasn’t a lie.
He swallowed and took a breath. “I want you for my wife because I love you.”
Cole stumbled out of the telegraph office with the rumpled message that Jessica had given him gripped in his fist. In his pants pocket was a wadded note written by Leroy Fenton, attesting that what he’d just told Cole was the truth. Leroy called after him, but he wasn’t sure what he was saying. Maybe asking Cole if he was all right.
No, he was not all right.
The afternoon sun, low and blade-sharp, was blinding, but his field of vision seemed to have shrunk to the width of a tunnel. He walked back down the middle of the street to the blacksmith shop, nauseated and light-headed, slogging through puddles left over from the last rain. By the time he reached the big, weathered double doors, his jeans were soaked to the knees and his stomach was churning. With one hand braced on the doorframe, he heaved his lunch into the mud.
Shaking and bathed in cold sweat, he dropped to an old stool just inside, as stunned and winded as if he’d been thrown from a bucking horse. Sitting there, his back against a post and his legs stretched straight out, he reviewed the truth that he’d just learned from Leroy Fenton, and what he’d already known deep inside without proof.
He realized now, with the perfect clarity of hindsight, that sending the forged telegram to Jessica had merely been the last step in what had been a systematic effort to drive a wedge between them. It had worked, too. They had just been unwitting pawns in the scheme.
One thing was certain. Jessica would have to be told, and it wasn’t a job he wanted. But it would have to be done. Not now, though. It wouldn’t be today.
Not today.
He drew a deep breath and waited for the rubbery feeling in his legs to go away. Then he stood up and walked out to the truck.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jessica leaned over Amy’s cot and put her stethoscope to her sister’s chest. Her lungs crackled with rales. But somehow, miraculously, her high fever had begun to drop and was staying down. She was still febrile, to be sure, but after more than a week of illness her temperature now hovered at around 100 degrees. Jess saw this as a first promising step. Amy’s recovery would probably be long—she’d read in some health dispatches that those who lived often took as much as a month to begin regaining their strength. Some, even longer. Others were reported to linger in a state of semi-invalidism thus far.
Yet, Amy had never acquired that dreaded, dusky cast of cyanosis. No bluish tinge had marked her as it had others. Remarkably, she seemed to have endured a milder form of this disease. If prayers and good wishes truly had power, they might have worked for her sister. In fact, Jessica had been forced to order that most of the flowers and gifts be moved out of her cubicle. They took up so much room, the nurses had trouble moving around within its tiny confines.
Amy’s eyes fluttered open, and she turned her head on the pillow to look up at her. Her hair was a stringy, tangled mess, even though the nurses did their best to brush it out every day. “Jessica.” Her voice was soft and weak.
“Amy! How are you feeling, dear?” she murmured, smiling.
“Oh…my arms and legs are so heavy. And my eyes ache.” With a sluggish arm, she reached up and patted her chest. “I don’t feel like I can get a whole breath.”
“No, probably not yet.” Cautious optimism seeped into Jessica. These were the first lucid, cognizant words Amy had spoken since Cole brought her in. “But you’re doing so much better.”
Amy looked around her little cubbyhole, barely moving her head. “I am? How long have I been here?”
Jessica was so grateful for her sister’s obvious improvement, their last harsh words were a distant and unimportant memory. “Eight days. You’ve been very sick.”
“Cole?”
Jess sat down on the stool beside her cot, slight unease elbowing her. She hadn’t forgotten the feel of his lips on hers again, the rasp of his beard on her cheek. Or his astounding declaration of innocence over that telegram. She forced another smile. “He’s been here almost every day.”
“He has?” Puzzled confusion crossed her face. “He…I don’t remember.”
The truth was that “almost every day” had only amounted to Amy’s first three sick days. Jessica hadn’t seen him since that night. He had visited another couple of times, she’d been told, but only when she wasn’t around, and just for a moment or two. Though she sometimes heard him working in the shop when she was in her apartment, she never caught so much as a glimpse of him.
“Now that you’re better, I’m sure you’ll remember his next visit.”
“When…when is he coming again?”
“Sometime soon.” She wanted to avoid the subject altogether. She patted Amy’s hand.
Just then, Granny Mae came by with her cart that carried her soup kettle and bowls. “Well, look who’s back with us!” the woman said, her broad smile revealing teeth as yellow as those of an old horse. “Feeling up to some broth, Amy?”
“Broth,” Amy parroted.
Jess nodded and motioned to Mae to give her some soup. Mae ladled a small amount into a heavy white ceramic bowl from her restaurant and handed it to Jessica with a spoon. Jess personally dribbled the soup into her sister’s mouth, dabbing her lips and chin with a towel. It made her think of feeding a baby bird.
After a several good sips, Jess stood and set the bowl on the upended fruit crate that served as a night table next to each cot. “I think that’s enough for now. You still need your rest. Talking can be very tiring for a recovering patient.”
“Tired. Yes, I am.” Amy’s words had a slow, drowsy sound and her eyelids drifted closed again.
Jessica stopped at another couple of sickbeds, then happened to look out the window. Dusk was gathering, and things here seemed to be under control. She could slip away for a few hours to take a bath and sleep, too.
As she tidied her stacks of papers, she was glad that Adam wasn’t here tonight, waiting to walk her home. He had done so every night since his awkward declaration. He knew that he’d made her mad, and telling her that he loved her hadn’t improved things at all. It rang a false note with her, but she still couldn’t imagine why he’d lie about such a thing. Some men would, to take advantage of a woman and gain favors she ought not to give. That hardly seemed to be the case with Adam. During the day when he came to visit patients, he maintained a professional, caring attitude toward everyone, including Jess. He’d made no more mention of his proposal, but apparently was trying to win her over with his attention and thoughtfulness.
His persistence had only become annoying.
For the life of her, though, she couldn’t think of a good way to get rid of him without being downright rude. Telling him to take a flying leap would not have bothered her at this point. In fact, she would have enjoyed it; she was tired, overworked, and worried. But his earlier implied threat to report Cole to the American Protective League always put a clamp on that urge. Instead, she’d told him his escort wasn’t necessary. He’d insisted that in these uncertain times a woman shouldn’t walk alone at night.
She plucked her gray wool coat from the hall tree next to the entrance and pushed her arms into the sleeves. He’d been here earlier and then left to conduct a funeral. Maybe she could slip out and race home before he came back.
Sidling toward the door with her black bag in hand, she peered out through the glass into the fading light, trying to see if Adam was around. Without warning, the door flew open and she saw him standing ther
e.
She leaped back and let out a startled yelp. “Adam! You took a year off my life, jumping in here like that!”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t want you to think I hadn’t come to walk you home.”
Heaven forbid that she should think that, she thought sourly. She considering lying to him, telling him that she was just going out for a breath of air, but she was carrying her bag. Even if she hadn’t been, the excuse would have been pointless. He was like an irritating gnat, one that she couldn’t shoo away. She wished with all the energy left in her tired soul that she had never accepted what she’d believed to be his innocent gifts and attention. Coolly, she replied, “Really, I wasn’t worried about it.” Her lack of enthusiasm didn’t deter him a bit.
He grinned broadly, his arrow-shaped nose pointing at the smile. “That’s good. I look forward to our little walks. I like to talk with someone who understands what this battle is all about.”
He guided her down the stairs. “Which battle do you mean?”
“The influenza, of course.” They passed house after house with darkened windows where people would ordinarily be eating dinner about now, their kitchens lit with warmth that spread throughout the homes. Tonight, only random windows glowed dimly, as if from sickroom lamps. Some houses were completely dark.
“What do you think it’s about?” she asked, curious to see what he’d say.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought since this started. I admit I was scared at first, like I told you then. But now I believe it’s God’s reckoning. Certainly, he’s called some of the righteous home. But mainly he’s been winnowing out the wicked. That’s what the Book of Revelation tells us.”
Jessica stopped in her tracks, appalled. “And you think I share your opinion?”
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