In Times Gone by

by Tracie Peterson

  Kenzie pushed her unfinished oatmeal aside. “I’ll go write up the notes.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  Well, ladies, good news,” Caleb Coulter said, shrugging out of his coat.

  It was nearly ten o’clock, and Kenzie had begun to wonder if the men would ever return. The morning was nearly gone. She put aside some sewing she’d been doing and joined the others gathering around Caleb and Patrick.

  “Do tell, brother.” Camri stood beside her fiancé. Patrick Murdock looked down at her with a lopsided smile and slipped his arm around her waist. They were well-matched and clearly in love. Patrick was just the kind of man the willful Camri needed.

  “I spoke with Judge Winters. General Funston has agreed to share some of the relief supplies with us. His boys will bring a load yet today.” Caleb reached out to touch Judith’s cheek. They, too, were very much in love.

  Everyone is in love. Everyone but me.

  Kenzie frowned as Micah came to mind. How easy it would be to give her heart to him. He said and did all the right things—well, when he wasn’t being a pest or making a fool of himself. Kenzie pushed aside her memories. She was determined not to fall in love with him. She had lost her heart once. She wasn’t going to be fool enough to do it again.

  “I think we should make a place where we can receive and inventory the supplies,” Caleb continued.

  “I figure the dining tables are perfectly situated,” Camri said, glancing toward their outdoor dining room.

  “Generally I’d agree with you, but I saw Mrs. Wong, and she said it was going to rain this afternoon.” Like the others, Kenzie marveled at Caleb’s former housekeeper’s ability to forecast the weather.

  “How are the Wongs? I wish they could have stayed with us,” Camri replied.

  “They’re well. They’re helping their friends and family. Chinatown was completely burned to the ground. The Chinese have lost most everything, and now the Board of Supervisors wants to move Chinatown out south of Golden Gate Park, well away from the city. The land where Chinatown used to sit is being coveted, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s completely against the law, isn’t it?” Camri asked.

  “It depends. The law these days is pretty much being interpreted as we go. The army acts as though they’re in charge, although martial law hasn’t been declared. I suppose we should be grateful for the order they helped bring, but they are also seen as the reason so much of the city burned. Most of the people handling dynamite for the backfires had no idea what they were doing. They caused more harm than good.”

  Judith looped her arm through his. “But they were doing their best. We have to remember that. I’m sure they feel terrible about it.”

  “For sure that’s possible,” Patrick jumped in with his Irish brogue. “But I’m thinkin’ they enjoy bossin’ folks around.”

  “Not to mention they’ve been given approval to shoot looters and miscreants on sight.”

  “That’s terrible. Those poor people are probably just trying to find food and shelter,” Judith murmured.

  “Not all are bein’ so selfless,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “Not unless they’re thinkin’ to eat diamonds and pearls. I heard tell two men were shot siftin’ through the remains of a jewelry counter.”

  “I’m sure most are just doing what they must to survive.” Judith looked at Kenzie and smiled. “What of Micah? Were you able to find him or George Lake?”

  Caleb looked at Kenzie, as did they all. She felt her cheeks grow hot. The trouble with being a fair-skinned redhead was that every bit of embarrassment showed up on her face in bright hues of crimson.

  “I’m sorry. I asked around about Mr. Lake, but no one has heard a thing. The area around the factory and his home were both destroyed. As for Micah, the doctor in charge of the hospital where we last saw him told me he hadn’t seen Micah since that first day. I can’t imagine him not letting his parents know where he is, but what with the chaos and so many wounded, he probably doesn’t feel he can leave his work.”

  “It seems rather selfish to let his loved ones worry,” Camri interjected. “I can’t imagine his poor mother has slept a wink.”

  “Well, at least we know he survived the quake,” Caleb countered.

  “But he might have been injured in the fires or some of the collapsing buildings. You showed me that article, and he could be—” Camri stopped and looked at Kenzie. “Never mind. I’m sure you’re right and he’s just busy.”

  “You haven’t seen how the makeshift hospitals are operating. There’s a lot of confusion. Doctors are even writing on patients themselves to note medications and circumstances. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Caleb’s brows came together as he frowned. “And I hope to never see anything like this again.”

  Kenzie tried not to react in any obvious way. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of fear where Micah was concerned. He thought he was invincible. He thought he had all the answers and could do most anything he put his mind to. His pride very well might see him dead, and where would that leave his poor family?

  Caleb continued sharing information from his talk with Judge Winters, but Kenzie barely registered the words. She was determined for the sake of her own peace of mind and her parents’ that she would steal away from the warehouse and go down to the remains of the chocolate factory. If Cousin George was still alive, he would no doubt be there, sifting through the debris, looking for anything he might salvage, just as other business owners were doing. She imagined he would see the earthquake and fire as yet another attempt to sabotage him. The poor man was suspicious of everything and everyone as a potential threat to his chocolate empire.

  When she glanced up, she found that Patrick and Caleb were once again leaving. She had no idea where they were bound, but she was going to wash up and do what she must. Since she’d already told Camri she’d post the notes on the board at the relief camp, it would be the perfect cover for her additional activities. With Camri and Judith bidding their men good-bye, Kenzie hurried to her room and did what she could to tidy up her appearance. With her hair combed out and pinned and a clean blouse donned, Kenzie found her straw hat and positioned it in place. She secured it with a long ornate hatpin her mother had given her on her eighteenth birthday. The end of the metal pin was decorated with a white porcelain rose detailed in hues of pink.

  She sighed. She missed her mother and father, missed so much about her old life in Missouri. “But I can’t go back there. Arthur’s there.” The words were uttered before she realized it.

  Kenzie glanced around to make sure no one had overheard her whisper Arthur’s name. Arthur Morgan—the man she might have married but for his failure to show up at the church.

  Only a few weeks ago, she had written him at Camri’s suggestion. It felt good to tell him all that she thought of him—what he’d done to her, how she hoped they might never cross paths again. There had been a sense of putting the entire matter behind her when she’d posted the letter, but from time to time little things would stir up memories of him.

  “Go away, Arthur. You have no more power over me. I won’t let you defeat me.”

  She marched to her cot, picked up her coat, and then headed out. She had no room in her heart or mind for Arthur, and she was determined to no longer be bound by the pain he’d caused. The notes she’d written awaited her on Caleb’s office desk. She’d written several, in case each of the relief camps had a board. Her final stop was to take some tacks from Patrick’s workbench. With these in hand, she made her way out the back door, hoping to avoid dealing with Camri and Judith. If they saw her leaving, they might try to stop her or suggest one of them accompany her, and then she’d have a difficult time with her secondary purpose of going to the chocolate factory.

  She came around the side of the building only to find Judith and Camri. Several of the residents were with them, and all seemed to have one problem or another. Kenzie hoped Camri’s attention would be so fixed on the issues at hand that she coul
d slip past them. But it was too much to hope for.

  “Where are you heading?” Camri asked.

  Kenzie pulled on her coat. “I’m going to post our notes at the relief camps. I shouldn’t be long.”

  “One of us should probably come with you,” Camri said, looking at Judith.

  “No, that’s quite all right. You’re needed here, especially since the army is bringing supplies.”

  “She’s right,” Judith said. “We’d nearly forgotten.”

  Kenzie gave a little wave. “I’ll try not to be long. I’ll help you get it all organized when I return.” She hurried toward the street to avoid any further protest Camri might make.

  She needed to find Cousin George.

  Dr. Micah Fisher pulled the sheet over the deceased man’s face. He was weary of death. Weary of life. He’d lost track of the days and knew only that he’d been working around the clock with just a few minutes of stolen sleep. The only thing that sustained him was thoughts of Kenzie Gifford. He needed to see her—to know that she was all right—to hold her in his arms. He knew she wouldn’t welcome his attention, but right now that didn’t matter. The world had gone mad, and Kenzie was his only sane thought.

  Many of the hospitals had been destroyed, and doctors were performing treatments wherever they could set up a decent place to work. Micah had gone back and forth between several of the makeshift establishments, but mostly he went out on the streets and to the relief camps at the urgent pleading of people he saw along the way. There were so many injuries, so many hopeless situations. He spent nearly as much time praying with dying souls as he did patching up their wounded bodies.

  “Doctor, here.” A voice broke through his thoughts.

  He glanced up to find a young woman cradling a babe in one arm and extending a sandwich to him with the other. “That soldier over there told me to bring you this.”

  Micah took the sandwich. When had he eaten last? “Give him my thanks, please.” He looked only a moment at the unevenly sliced bread separated by a thick slab of ham, then devoured it. Nothing had ever tasted quite so good.

  He gathered his bag and went to the pot of water he’d earlier instructed one of the soldiers to boil. Seeing the water was ready, Micah took out his instruments and dropped them into the pot. Cleaning anything was difficult, but he still did his best to keep some semblance of order and procedure. It was a well-known fact that proper sanitation was absolutely necessary, yet many doctors paid it little heed. Here, in a building that had once manufactured shoes, Micah was fairly certain sterilization was never a top concern.

  “Doctor, we need you over here,” a nurse called.

  Micah quickly retrieved a clean towel and fished the tools of his trade from the water. He wrapped the cloth around the wet instruments and pushed the bundle into his bag.

  “What’s the situation?” he asked, joining the nurse, who stood over a man caked in blood, soot, and all manner of filth.

  “They just brought him in. They found him buried in the rubble. He suffered a severe blow to the head. It crushed the back of his skull. There was a great deal of blood loss. His breathing is shallow, and his pulse very weak.” She met Micah’s gaze. “He’s not responding to any stimulus.”

  Micah pried open one eyelid and then the other. The pupils were fixed and dilated. He took a pencil from his pocket and pressed it against the base of the man’s index fingernail. There was no movement, no attempt to fight against his action. Micah did a few additional tests, looking for any kind of response whatsoever, but there was none.

  “We can’t help him. Have him moved to the waiting room.”

  The waiting room signaled the hopelessness of the man’s condition. It wasn’t a place where patients waited to be seen—it was where they waited to die. In the hours just after the earthquake, Micah had seen men and women lined up side by side with nothing more than the floor beneath them—all in various stages of dying. At least now they had the ability to give the poor soul a blanket to lie on.

  He shook his head and gazed out across the large factory floor. Every inch of space was being utilized in some capacity, but it was such an inadequate arrangement.

  “You look barely able to stand, Fisher,” a gruff voice said behind him.

  Micah turned to find one of the older surgeons. He had been called out of retirement to help treat the vast number of wounded.

  “Better just prop me up against a wall and bring the patients to me, then,” Micah replied with a grin. He rubbed his face, frowning at the thick growth of stubble. He’d given up the idea of growing a beard when his mother asked if it was possible for him to be clean-shaven for Easter. Had that only been a week ago last Sunday?

  “Son, you’ll do no one any good if you can’t think clearly. I’m ordering you out of here. Don’t make me get someone to remove you. Go home, or go wherever you can, so long as it’s away from here. Take a hot bath and sleep for as long as you need and come back rested. After that, you can work another week without decent rest or meals.”

  Micah nodded. He knew the older man was right, but he hated to walk away from such urgent need. “It’s just so hard to leave.”

  The gruff old surgeon touched Micah’s shoulder. “Son, I know exactly how you feel, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that rest and proper nourishment are vital to clear thinking. Many of these souls are going to die, which is despairing, but you’d feel a great degree worse if you were the cause of it. Now go.”

  “I will. I need to let my folks know I’m alive, anyway.” Micah suppressed a yawn. “I’ll be back here or elsewhere as soon as I have some sleep.”

  Walking from the factory, Micah felt his legs grow heavier with each step. He wished he could hail a cab and be driven to his parents’ house, but what few services were available were charging outrageous prices, and he’d given his last few dollars to a woman trying to buy milk for her children.

  Focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, Micah barely registered the destruction around him. The blackened frames, mangled steel, and piles of stone and concrete melded together in strange formations. Ghostly reminders of the once glorious city.

  Just ahead, a team of men and women were working to load some of the debris into the back of a large freight wagon.

  “Halt! You there, halt!”

  Micah yawned and blinked at the sight of an armed soldier, who leveled his rifle at Micah. “Is there a problem, son?” The soldier looked to be hardly more than a boy.

  “You are to report for duty helping with cleanup. Every able-bodied man is commanded to report immediately,” the private replied.

  “Son, I’m a doctor. I just came from working at the hospital and various other locations. I’ve been working nonstop since the earthquake, and I’m going home for some sleep.”

  The boy looked momentarily confused, and the rifle lowered slightly. Micah took that as a sign the soldier understood and started again for home.

  “I said halt, or I’ll shoot!”

  Micah stopped again and turned to face the young man. “You’d kill a much-needed doctor because he’s tired?”

  “I don’t set the orders. You have to report for work.” The boy’s voice cracked and seemed to rise an octave as he added, “Right now.”

  Micah didn’t know what to do. There was no way he could help remove debris. He could barely stand. Not only that, but he couldn’t risk hurting his hands digging through the rubble.

  “What’s going on here, Private?” another soldier asked as he approached. Turning, Micah could see this man was older, an officer. The young private snapped to attention.

  “The young private is only trying to follow orders,” Micah offered. “However, he doesn’t seem to understand that I am a physician. A surgeon. I’ve been working without much rest, and I’m heading home to sleep.” He held up his black bag. “You can look at my medical instruments if you doubt the truth of it.” He glanced down at his bloodstained clothes. “You can also see my attire.”r />
  The officer shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. Go get some rest, Doctor.”

  Micah nodded. “Thank you.” He resumed his journey.

  As he moved away from the city’s center, Micah saw areas that hadn’t burned. He’d heard about citizens taking stands in various areas to fight for their homes. It seemed strange to see a seemingly undamaged house standing amidst the burned-out remains of other residences. What might have been the difference if each homeowner had taken a stand against the flames?

  He crossed Van Ness Avenue. On one side of the street, the fire-damaged neighborhood looked much like downtown, but on the other side, it was as if nothing had happened. Almost as if a giant hand had put a barrier in place to keep the fire from going any farther.

  After a few more blocks, Micah found himself in his childhood neighborhood. There were signs here and there that it had sustained damage from the earthquake, but except for the smell of smoke drifting from other parts of the city, the area had escaped the fires.

  The church came into view first. The spire showed no signs of damage, which was good. Every time they had the slightest shaking, his father worried about the steeple falling down. The lawns of the church were lined with tents, and people milled about at various tasks. No doubt some of them were congregants who had been rendered homeless. Micah skirted the church grounds and made his way to the back, where he knew he’d find the parsonage. Even here there were signs of his father and mother’s labors to lend aid. A second and third clothesline had been erected, and a half-dozen women were hanging laundry from the lines. On the far side of the yard was his mother’s garden, and several young boys worked to weed and water it.

  Micah stumbled up the back steps and through the open doorway. He could hear his mother giving commands like an army sergeant.

  “Rose, you get someone to help you peel potatoes. We’ll need some carrots too. Joseph, you help your mother with the firewood. Take the little wagon and fetch what you can.”