“Was it a feud?”
Grandpa turned to her, weary shoulders bent. “No. Worse. I just returned from visiting Mr. Donaldson.”
Jess’ chest tightened at the warning in his voice.
“He’s... he’s down with a severe fever. Delirious. Bloody sputum, bluish pallor.”
Her brain refused to acknowledge the growing awareness those symptoms created. “What is it?”
“Our first victims of the Spanish Influenza.” His turbulent gray eyes found hers. “We must prepare for the worst.”
A chill crept up from her chest into her throat, clawing through her lungs with icy fingers. Rumors like ghost stories traveled the railways, whispering of the dreaded disease. A virulent strain of influenza, quick and deadly. Of course, Mr. Donaldson would be one of the first infected. Even though he was a retired station master, he kept time at the depot, helping as his health allowed. Anything coming from those rails met him first. “I’ll go home and prepare Granny and the children. Should I find Cliff too?”
He nodded, the worry lines firming with purpose. “Amy, I need you to take a letter to Dr. Dorland and the school. He needs to prepare his students.”
She stood to the ready with a nod. “What else can we do? How can we prepare?”
Grandfather looked back at her, his shoulders stiffening to take the brunt of whatever the future brought. “We cannot prepare for this, Amy. All we can do is pray... and wait.”
Jess pressed her fist into her stomach, a nauseous roil nearly overcoming her. She’d kept up with the news in the papers. Only a few days ago, the Surgeon General dispatched advice on how to recognize the symptoms of the flu, followed by a short list of treatments, but the accounts spreading from town to town contradicted the mild response of the government’s reaction.
News correspondent Jack Sterling’s description from his stay in a camp hospital gave the most vivid and vile first-hand witness, inflaming Jess’ concern. Ten men in the camp went from healthy breath to violent death in twelve hours or less. The recent news from Boston, DC, and Philadelphia? The same. Devastating.
And Grandpa had been exposed. She slowed her pace. So had she.
She drew her handkerchief from her pocket and continued her walk, topping the street to where only a month before, barbed wire and wood fencing shrouded the Mountain Park Hotel and grounds. As the internees left, the boarding houses emptied of their associated wives and children, except for Anna Fischer Carter. Jess almost allowed a smile, but her thoughts darkened as she surveyed the drowsy Main Street.
Hot Springs had returned to its quiet, five hundred number population, and sat as ill-prepared for this Influenza epidemic as it had been for its German invasion. Less prepared, actually. The Germans never attacked the Appalachian natives. This Spanish Influenza wouldn’t be so kind.
***
Nurse Riley, August’s connection to the lower two floors of the hospital, ushered him forward with a terse gesture. He stifled a yawn. The day brought three more deaths of his comrades and five for the American soldiers. A new threat hung in the air like a dense fog. August overheard the doctors and nurses discuss it in whispered fear. As he’d helped load the coffins of his comrades onto the horse cart, the undertaker and orderly voiced the word with trepidation. Influenza.
An illness that killed with speed, impartiality, and violence. Often.
Already, the doctors reported fifteen cases. He worked the entire morning, directly off of an evening shift. His body ached for a few hours’ rest, but two doctors and three nurses lay ill and three more medical personnel worked through exhaustion, just like him.
“I wouldn’t ask for your help if it wasn’t necessary, but I just don’t have a choice,” she said, leading him to the first floor. Her gaze shifted from his, and her voice trembled. “Dr. Lippard died a few moments ago and Tom is assisting with emergencies on the second floor. I need help getting his body to the front.”
August had little memory of Dr. Lippard... tall, young, with a severe expression.
Her hand paused on the door handle. “There are twelve beds in this room for some of our most severe cases. It is not an easy sight, Mr. Reinhold. Prepare yourself.”
A sickening odor hit him first. The air was thick with a sticky stench, hot and heavy with a blend of blood, bile, and death. August closed his eyes and swallowed, stepping over the threshold into the room. The first shocking revelation came with the color of the patients’ skin. Faces of various hues of blue, gray, and even ash, contrasted with the stark white sheets. One nurse bent over a young man, holding a cloth to his bloody nose. Another adjusted the pillows for a woman who scratched at the blanket, her breath a rattling squeeze for air.
“Here.”
August pulled his gaze from the excruciating scene to the bed before him. A white cloth covered the body, giving blessed relief from the terrifying views on all sides.
“Help me lift him to the stretcher and carry him downstairs.”
August looked from her small frame and back to the man’s shape on the bed. “Do you have an orderly to assist?”
She tilted her chin up, her bottom lip offering the slightest tremble. “There are no others, Mr. Reinhold.”
He scanned the room again, taking closer inventory of the faces and counting the medical staff one-by-one. With a deep breath, he faced her. “What do you need me to do?”
***
August spent the day helping tend tens of men with this ‘Blue Death,’ along with preparing three bodies for burial, until he had no strength of heart or body to continue. The narrow back steps led the way to his small room, and he dragged his legs up each one to the third floor. Another letter from Jessica had arrived in the afternoon, but his gloomy occupation kept him too busy to read it, and his current exhaustion nearly stripped him of curiosity.
He pushed open the door to the third floor and entered the hallway, dimly lit by a few electric lights. His room door loomed at the end of the hall, promising a few precious moments of sleep. He frowned. From the visions in his head of the day’s events, he doubted the dreams would be sweet.
Suddenly, out of his periphery, two men approached. Young and fit... soldiers. He turned to greet them when the first rallied a severe punch into his stomach. August buckled from the impact, pain blinding his vision.
“You and your bloody kin brought the Grippe, didn’t you?”
A fist rammed into his face, sending him backwards. “We read in the papers, your kind released the epidemic here. Haven’t you done enough?”
August caught the next fist and shoved the boy backwards until he hit the wall on the other side of hallway. “I had nothing to do with the sickness.”
August dodged another fist, but felt the full impact of a second against the side of his head. His vision blurred and he crumbled to his knees.
“Get out of here or I’m calling Dr. Stephens.” Thomas rushed through the blur as August struggled back to his feet.
“Don’t protect him, Thomas.” August tried to blink the angry man into view. “His kind need to learn their place.”
“You heard what Dr. Stephens said as well I. The sickness comes from the trenches in France, not from Germans.” Thomas kept his position as barrier between August, his palms out as an added shield. “For all I know, you could’ve brought it back with you.”
The men exchanged glances and then rushed away. August bent forward, giving way to the moan of pain roaring from his chest.
“I’ll fetch some gauze and icings.” Thomas ducked beneath August’s arm and provided extra support to the room.
August stumbled to the cot. “Thank you, Thomas.”
Thomas patted the doorframe on his way out. “And August, if there’s a way to keep everyone from knowing you’re German, just until this flu passes, I think you’d be smart to make it work. People are scared, and fear makes them dangerous. Be careful.”
***
Thirty cases reported in one week and three deaths. Jess walked from one cot to the
other in the clinic, ten poor souls packed within the three small rooms. Kimp struggled for breath in the back room, his wife at his side, their futures in the balance. Mr. Donaldson recovered and even helped bring Miss Jessup to the clinic when the symptoms started.
Jess stretched out her back and then adjusted the mask across her face. Its flimsy cloth felt much too thin to combat the severity of this illness. The simplest symptoms of a headache or sore throat quickly erupted into a deathly fever and suffocating cough. The worst cases died within hours.
Grandfather and Dr. Peck spent their mornings visiting homes to check for more victims and the small town, far from the greater populations of Asheville or even Winston, quietly succumbed to this unseen enemy. A person appeared perfectly healthy one moment and within an hour, lay at death’s door.
There was a bone-weariness to the treatment, to the unpredictability.
With a heavy heart, Jess sent Jude and Faith to stay with Cliff and Anna, away from the illness she carried on her clothes every day. She missed them, ached for her children, but the very thought of seeing them suffer as these people did, striving for the next breath, secured her decision. She prayed as she’d never prayed for those struggling, for those dying, and for the survivors left to grieve the sudden loss.
“When do you think I can go home, Nurse Ross?”
Jess stopped by Sarah Ruth’s cot, the new widow’s pale face gaining more color with each passing hour. “From my limited experience with the illness so far, you should be free to leave by the morning.”
She nodded and turned her head away. “I need to take care of Joe’s body.”
Jessica’s shoulders caved forward, her heart gouged by the mere imaginings of such a loss. She remembered Cliff’s grief, the daunting and long shadows lost love left behind. Jess took the woman’s hand and bent low. “Sarah, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The hard edge in the woman’s eyes dissipated into watery pools. “He was a good man.”
Jess smiled and nodded, remembering the gentle factory worker. “Yes, he was. Always a kind word.”
Her hand moved to her swollen abdomen. “My young’un is going to know about him. You just wait and see. I’ll make sure he knows what a good man his daddy was.”
Sarah had gotten sick first. Jess would never forget the look of pure grief on Joe Ruth’s face when he carried his young bride through the door of the clinic and begged them to save her. He’d sat by her bed for two hours, praying, stroking her hair, begging for God’s healing. Finally, Grandpa found him collapsed across her bed, already in the severe stages of the disease. He died within the hour.
To fall asleep ill one moment and wake up a widow the next? Oh, how Sarah must grieve! The room grew suddenly small, death closing in. The coughs and the rattled breaths pressed in from all sides, and she rushed to the door to breathe in fresh air and sunshine.
Oh God, please help us.
The flaming leaves of fall rose above the quiet town, framing Hot Springs with the colors and vitality the streets lacked in the wake of such a devastating blow. The mountains called to her, rebellious sirens urging her to flee the monochrome devastation of the hospital for the freedom of fresh air and heavenly vistas. Her throat tightened with the need to cry.
A lone figure walked forward, her worn, straw hat at a careless tilt on her caramel hair. Amy. She carried a package, one delivered yesterday, but they’d been too busy to retrieve it from the post office. Jess and her grandfather couldn’t have managed the influx of needs without the fifteen-year-old spitfire. Her quick wit, energy, and her own self-initiation pushed her to stretch her own abilities. Jess offered the girl a wave but paused, her hand in mid-air.
Something was wrong with her gait. It was slow... stumbling. The chill of realization crawled up Jess’ spine just as Amy’s glossy gaze met hers and the young girl collapsed to the dusty ground. No!
Chapter Twenty-Seven
August blinked to clear his vision, but the image didn’t change. He swiped at his eyes, refusing to believe them, but there she stood, waiting in the lobby of the illustrious inn-turned-hospital. Morning light from the windows framed her, the white mask doing little to hide her astonishing beauty.
Her cream-colored hat, decorated with a lone russet ribbon, shadowed her gaze but couldn’t hide the smile of welcome on her face. His chest constricted with gratitude and the backs of his tired eyes stung.
Jessica.
Her presence breathed spring across the barren gloom of his spirit, bringing hope and life.
“Mr. Holden, you have two hours, and you cannot leave the grounds.” The guard at the door passed a look between them. “You’ll be expected back on duty by...” He checked his watch. “One.”
“Thank you, sir.” He curbed his accent into a muted version. “Two hours is more than generous.”
Jess’ tilted brow asked for clarification, but he wouldn’t admit to his adjustments in front of the guard. The week since the attack changed many things for him.
He waited until they stepped beyond the doorway and then drew her arm within his, allowing himself to accept the reality of her visit. “You are here?”
She nodded, her evergreen gaze glossy with a teary luster. “I had to come. Five weeks is too long. Much too long.”
“Yes. It is.” He searched her face, staring in silence, drinking in every nuance of her endless eyes, every flake of gold in her freckles. “Will you take a walk with me?”
Her smile bloomed, her breath hitching on her response. “Anywhere.”
He pulled her closer and guided their steps toward a little grove of trees at some distance behind the hospital. It seemed strange to hold her, to plan a quiet walk together, when their days labored with the sick, dead, and dying. The simplest, most natural pleasure radiated a tender frailty, a potent preciousness. Even his steps felt lighter with her by his side—almost dizzying.
“If I could, I would take you into the city to a romantic restaurant.”
She shook her head. “I don’t need romance or even food right now. I just want to be with you, for however long we have.” Her smile twisted with a pixie glint and she tipped the basket in her hands toward him. “Besides, Granny sent a few treats for us to share. It’s a beautiful day. Perhaps a picnic?”
He squinted from the sun’s brilliance and ran his fingers across hers against his arm, still trying to take in this dream. “How is Amy? And the children? And your grandparents?”
She sighed, her gaze focused forward. “The children are safe at Cliff and Anna’s. Granny caught the flu right after Amy, but her form was mild. We almost lost Amy. Her fever rose to such a degree, her beautiful auburn hair turned white and then fell out.”
“How is that possible?”
Jess shook her head. “I’ve heard of it before, but never witnessed it. She was mortified, of course, but her resilience is inspiring. She’s taken up a new fascination with hats.”
“What will happen to her now that her aunt and uncle have died?”
“Kimp’s brother will take the mercantile, but no one in the family wants Amy because of her family history.”
August stopped their walk and peered down at her. “So your grandparents have taken her in?”
“Of course they have.” Her gaze roamed his face, examining him as keenly as he did her. Her grin tipped. “Should I start calling you Mr. Holden now?”
He chuckled. “I am your alien, as always, but I have become Mr. Holden to those at the hospital. German sentiments are low since the negative propaganda about the influenza. I have found it easier to pretend than to suffer the wrath of those who are less welcoming.”
She trailed her cool fingers across the cut above his eyes. “This type of welcome?”
He hadn’t realized how much he missed her until she stood before him in the flesh. “I would kiss you senseless right now, Mause, if I wasn’t afraid of killing you.”
“Thoughts that make your face so warm?” Her fingers slid down his face to palm his che
ek, as she shook her head. “I’m exposed to the flu every day, August. If I’m going to catch it, I will. Your kiss cannot aid or stop it, but I can assure you, it could do a great deal to improve my overall morale.”
He grinned and snatched her hand, quickening his steps until they were safely hidden within the grove. Without hesitation, he gently tugged her mask to her chin, revealing her lovely face and those welcoming pink lips. She drew him like a parched wanderer to a sweet oasis.
He captured her mouth with his own, hungry for the taste and touch. A sob wracked through her at his contact, the long desert finally filling with the tender rain of withheld affection. Her free hand slipped up to palm the back of his head, holding his kiss in place, urging him to give more. He complied greedily, slipping the basket from her grasp and dropping it at their feet so he could take full advantage of her nearness. He pulled her flush against him, tasting her lips, her chin, her cheeks, and the salt of her tears. She responded with a similar need, ending one kiss long enough to gaze into his eyes before beginning another. His eyes watered from the internal burn for her, his body weak with longing. Her hat toppled to the ground, loosening strips of her hair around her face in glorious sprays of gold.
There had been so much loss and grief. So many dark days. This brief reprieve soaked into his lonely soul with a fragrant vibrancy.
They pulled apart to spread the picnic blanket onto the grass but managed to find ways to touch. A gentle press to the back. A twining of the fingers. Neither willing to go too long without the assurance of the other’s presence.
“How did you manage it? My leave for these two hours? Our entire floor is under guard.”
She sat on the blanket, pulling the basket to her. “Grandfather is a colleague and friend of one of the board members for the hospital. He suggested your medical expertise might be helpful for me to carry back to Hot Springs.”
He joined her on the blanket, his fingers braided through hers as she used her other hand to offer him fried chicken.
“I am not hungry,” he whispered, burying his face into her hair. “For food.”
The Thorn Healer Page 32
