Twice Loved

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “Oh God, no! I’ll get my coat!”

  Biddle waited by the door, shivering, afraid to make a move on his own now. When Hector returned, they leaned into the storm together, retracing Biddle’s ever-fainter footprints to the motionless form lying in the snow. Without the slightest hesitation, Hector leaned and slipped his strong arms beneath the shoulders and knees of Dan Morgan, carried him back to the Blue Anchor, and lay him flat on a trestle table before the fireplace, where the coals had already been banked for the night.

  “Is ’e dead?” Biddle’s eyes looked like those of an unfinished marble sculpture, two wide, deep, fearful depressions in his face.

  Hector pressed his fingertips just below Dan’s jaw. “I can feel a pulse yet.”

  “Wh... what we gonna do with ’im?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want him dyin’ here, givin’ the place a bad reputation.” The alekeeper thought for a moment—Morgan’s father was dead, and what could his mother or wife do? “I’ll get a quilt and stoke up the fire and you go down to the cooperage and get Rye Dalton. Tell him what’s happened. He’ll know what t’ do.”

  Biddle nodded as he made for the door with a wild look on his face. Never in his life had he had such a scare. He’d been spending evening after evening swilling with Morgan, and it was sobering in more ways than one to find his cohort brought so low by alcohol. Why—by the saints!—it coulda been me, Biddle thought.

  Rye and Josiah were both in bed asleep when they were roused by a hammering from below.

  “What the hell ...” Rye muttered as he braced up on an elbow and ran a hand through his hair in the dark.

  Josiah’s voice came from the opposite side of the room. “Sounds like somebody’s in a hurry f’r somethin’.”

  “I’ll go,” Rye said, rolling to the edge of the bed, searching for the flint. When the wick caught, he quickly slipped on his pants, then made his way down the rough-hewn steps to the dark cavern of the cooperage below.

  “Dalton, git up!”

  “I’m comin’! I’m comin’!” The door opened and Rye unceremoniously hauled Ephraim Biddle inside. “Biddle, what the hell do y’ want at this hour o’ the night?” Biddle’s eyes looked like he’d been on more than a bad drunk.

  “It’s y’r friend Dan Morgan. He got drunk and fell down on the street, and we found him layin’ there, all sprawled out and half froze to death.”

  “Oh Jesus, no!”

  “Hector says he’s still got a pulse beatin’, but—”

  “Where is he?” Already Rye was taking the steps two at a time, shouting back over his shoulder.

  “Hector’s got ’im layin’ on a table at the Blue Anchor, but he don’t know what t’ do with ’im. Said t’ come and fetch you and you’d know what we oughter do.”

  “What is it?” Josiah asked from his bed. Rye lunged across the room, yanking a sweater over his head, reaching for his pea jacket, mittens, and warm cap. “Dan’s been found out cold, in the storm someplace.”

  Josiah, too, reached for his clothes now. “Y’ want me t’ come?”

  Ship whined and stood watching every motion of Rye, who roughly yanked on boots, then turned toward the stairs again.

  “No, y’ stay here and keep out o’ the storm. I’ll need a warm fire when I get back.” Ship followed on the heels of his master, who ordered, “Come on, Biddle,” as he led the way out the door too hurriedly to take time to send the dog back inside.

  Rye Dalton had rounded the Horn on a schooner. He knew the perils of an icy deck that tilted and pitched and threatened to toss men into the turbulent sea. Running across a flat cobblestone street was nothing for such a man. He hit the door of the Blue Anchor before Ephraim Biddle had scarcely found his footing. He stalked across the dim room toward the motionless form on the trestle table.

  “Get ’im away from the fire!” Dalton roared. “Are y’ daft, man?” Without a pause, Rye pressed his weight against the edge of the trestle, sending it skittering away from the heat, then he reached to yank down the quilt with which the well-meaning Hector had covered Dan. “Bring a candle!”

  Hector jumped to follow the brisk order while Rye searched for one of Dan’s hands. In the wavering candlelight, he immediately saw that Dan’s fingers were frozen. With a quick snap he settled the quilt on the floor, then lifted Dan and lay him on it while he gave further orders.

  “How long do y’ think he was there?”

  “An hour maybe, judging from when he left here.”

  “Y’ can’t thaw out frozen flesh that fast or a man’ll lose it, Hector!”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Get over t’ Doc Foulger and tell him t’ meet me at my house—Dan’s house, I mean—immediately. Dan’ll need attention that only his wife can give him once the doc takes a look at these hands.” Then Rye placed his own mittens on Dan’s hands, his cap on Dan’s head, wrapped the quilt around him as if he were an infant, hefted him off the floor, and strode toward the door. “And send along a pint of the ' strongest brandy y’ got with the doc. Now git y’r feet movin’, Hector!” Dalton didn’t even pause to kick the door shut behind him as he shouldered through into the snow-swept night.

  Laura was aroused from sleep by the sound of someone kicking the door. Thinking it was Dan, she swung her bare feet to the icy floor and hurried to the keeping room, where the mighty racket continued, as if Dan were trying to break the door down.

  “Laura, open up!”

  She realized it was Rye’s voice in the same moment the wind knocked the door from her hand and sent it against the wall with a sound thud.

  “Rye? What is it?” He swept inside carrying something in his arms.

  “Shut the door and light a candle, Laura.”

  Even before she could move to obey his orders, Rye was clumping across the floor toward the bedroom doorway. The bulky shadow of Ship slipped inside, then the door cut off the wind and Laura groped her way toward the flint. In the dark she kicked over a basket of bayberries and heard them roll across the floor, but paid little heed as she called into the blackness, “Rye, what happened?”

  “Bring the candle in here. I need y’r help.”

  “Rye, is it Dan?” Laura’s voice shook.

  “Aye.”

  The candle flared at last, and she moved toward the doorway with growing dread. Inside the bedroom, Rye had already placed Dan on the bed and was leaning over him, pressing his fingers to Dan’s neck. Laura’s stomach went weightless with alarm, then just as swiftly felt as if a lead ball were lying in it. Fear sent moisture to her palms as she hurried to the opposite side of the bed to lean over the unconscious man.

  Josh came awake at the commotion and slipped over the edge of his bed to follow his mother to the doorway of the linter and observe the two, who were unaware of his presence.

  “Oh, dear God, what’s happened to him?”

  “He got drunk at the Blue Anchor and fell down on his way home. Apparently he was lyin’ there for an hour before Ephraim Biddle stumbled on him.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Aye, but his fingers’re frozen, and I don’t know what else.”

  Josh read the fear in his mother’s face and sensed a great urgency in Rye as the two leaned across Dan from opposite sides of the bed. They hardly looked at each other. Instead, they both touched Dan as if they wanted him to wake up. Then Rye started taking off one of Dan’s shoes like he was in a real hurry.

  Laura pressed a palm to Dan’s temple and forehead, trying to control the fear that made her hand tremble and tightened the muscles in her chest. She bit her lips and felt tears begin to swell as the fear of helplessness began to take hold. Laura Morgan, don’t you go to pieces now! She dashed away the useless tears with the side of her hand, turned to Rye, and took command of her emotions. “What do you want me to do?” she asked with brisk intensity.

  “Take off his socks. We have t’ see if his toes are frozen, too.”

  She peeled off the first sock to find the toes red b
ut pliant.

  “Thank God, they’re not,” Rye breathed, scanning the room now with an unemotional eye, his mind racing ahead. “Doc Foulger is coming. We’ll need a hammer and an awl, and y’ can build up the fire out there a little at a time.” Rye flung his jacket off and dropped it on the floor, then turned back to Dan. “And bring an absorbent cloth and a small pitcher.” Only then did Rye see the child, in his nightshirt, clinging to the doorframe, eyes wide with uncertainty and fear. As Laura headed for the keeping room, Rye issued one more order, but more gently. “And keep the boy out there.”

  “Josh, come. Do as Rye says.”

  “Is Papa dead?”

  “No, but he’s very sick. Now you get back into your bed where it’s warm and I’ll—”

  “But I wanna see Papa. Is he gonna die like Grampa?”

  “Rye is taking care of Papa. Now please, Josh, just stay out of the way.”

  Laura had little time to concern herself with Josh as she found the things Rye wanted. Neither had she time to wonder exactly what he wanted them for.

  His voice came firmly from around the bedroom doorway. “Laura, have y’ got a small breadboard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring it!”

  While she was reaching for it, Ship let out a single sharp bark, making Laura aware for the first time that the Lab lay on the rug at the door. Scarcely had she looked up before an impatient knock sounded, and the door was opened not by Dr. Foulger, but by the apothecary, Nathan McColl, carrying an alligator satchel.

  McColl swept inside without a moment’s pause. “Where is he?”

  “In there.” Laura nodded toward the linter room, then followed McColl’s black-caped shoulders through the doorway, her hands full of the items Rye had requested.

  Rye straightened at the man’s entrance, a deep frown lining his face. “Where’s the doc?”

  “Stranded on the other side of the island. When Biddle couldn’t find him, he had enough sense to come for me.”

  Though doctors and apothecaries were authorized to practice almost identical methods, Rye had never trusted or liked McColl. But he had little choice now as the man stepped forward self-importantly.

  McColl felt for a pulse, then examined one of Dan’s hands. “Frozen.”

  “Aye, and not a minute t’ waste before it thaws,” Rye declared impatiently, reaching for the things Laura had brought.

  “They can’t be saved. We’re better off concentrating on preventing the man from getting pneumonia.”

  Rye glared at McColl. “Can’t be saved! Why, man, y’re crazy! They can and will be saved if we act before they thaw!” McColl allowed a smug expression to cross his face before glancing at the breadboard, hammer, and awl. “I take that to mean you know more about medicine than I do.”

  “Take it t’ mean what y’ will, McColl. Y’ve never been on a whaleship and seen a sailor’s hands when he’s pulled on the shrouds all night in an ice storm. What do y’ think the captain does with frozen fingers? Chops ’em off?” Rye’s face was stormy. “I’m not lettin’ those fingers thaw without tryin’t’ do what I can for ’em. If I can’t save ’em, the pain’ll be no worse either way. I could use a hand here.” Rye moved toward the bed as if to place the equipment there, but McColl stepped forward to bar the way.

  “If you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do, I’ll have no part in it. I won’t be held responsible for broken bones and infections that—”

  “Out of the way, McColl! We’re wastin’ time!” Rye’s expression was hard and angry as he counted precious seconds slip by.

  “Dalton, I warn you—”

  “Goddamnit, McColl, this man is my friend, and he earns his pay as an accountant—writin’! How can he do that without fingers? Now either lend me a hand or get the hell out of my way!” The order was issued at a near roar as Rye roughly shouldered the man aside and bent over the bed. “Laura?”

  “Yes?” She stepped forward without hesitation.

  Rye placed the breadboard on Dan’s chest, then laid one hand on it, and at last met Laura’s eyes. “Since McColl chooses not t’ help me, I’ll have t’ ask you t’.”

  She nodded silently, suddenly dreading the task, for whatever Rye was planning seemed something hard to stomach. “Just tell me what to do, Rye.”

  He took a moment to give her a reassuring glance, then snapped at McColl, “Did y’ bring the brandy?”

  The man handed over the flask and looked down his nose superciliously. “I assumed it was meant to fortify you and Mrs. Morgan.”

  Rye ignored him. “Here, Laura, take the cork out and pour some into the pitcher. Then come and sit on the bed and hold Dan’s hand steady.” He covered the board with the absorbent cloth, and arranged Dan’s hand on it, shifting the entire arrangement around until the fingers could lie flat.

  “You’ll end up breaking his bones, Dalton, I warn you.” Rye thought that if time were not of the essence, he’d take several seconds to wrap McColl’s jaw around his knuckles! “Better a broken bone than a lost finger. The bones’ll mend.” Laura held the pitcher ready now, but her face blanched and her eyes grew wide with apprehension. Rye paused and looked directly into them. “Y’ve got t’ hold his fingers flat while I puncture ’em, then pour the brandy into the holes when I say. Can y’ do that, darlin’?”

  For a moment her eyes flickered, and she looked as if she might be sick. She swallowed, willing herself to take strength from Rye, to trust his decision, and finally she nodded.

  “All right, sit down there. We’ve wasted too much time as it is.”

  She moved to the opposite side of the bed and sat down, watching as Rye carefully arranged the first of Dan’s fingers flat on the surface of the board and looked up at her. “Hold it just like this.” She pressed the finger onto the cloth, horrified at how stiff and cold it was. Nausea crept through her as she saw Rye take up the hammer and awl—a wooden-handled tool with a short point like an ice pick. He rested the sharp prick on Dan’s fingertip and tapped the hammer once, twice. Laura felt the gorge rise in her throat as the tip sank into the frozen flesh.

  “Damnit, Laura-love, don’t y’ faint on me now.”

  Her eyes flew up at the half-gentle, half-harsh words, and she found Rye sending his encouragement to her once again. “I won’t. Just hurry.”

  The awl pierced the first finger three times, once on each of its inner pads, before Rye gave the order, “Pour.”

  The brandy ran into the holes and drizzled onto the white cloth, staining it a pale brown. Though McColl refused to help, he nevertheless stood by watching, fascinated by the process and by the endearments that passed from Rye Dalton to Laura Morgan. Behind him, a child stood in the doorway, watching too. Beside the child sat a dog, both of them so quiet nobody took notice as the tap of the hammer on the awl fell into the still room again and again, followed by the firm but quiet order, “Pour.” The man on the bed remained blessedly unconscious, the alcohol in his bloodstream serving a totally useful purpose for the first time in his life: not only did it keep him from rousing, but it made it necessary for Rye to puncture the fingers fewer times than he’d otherwise have had to.

  It was with great difficulty that Laura assisted Rye. Time and again she swallowed the clot of nausea that threatened. Tears made Rye’s and Dan’s hands swim before her, and she hunched a shoulder and blotted her eyes on her sleeve, took a firmer grip on her emotions, and steeled herself to hold the next finger.

  Never once did Rye falter. His movements were steady and efficient with the tools as he tapped delicately, gauging the depth of each hole with great care. Not until the last finger had been bathed with brandy did Laura look up at Rye again. She was stricken to find his face ashen as he stared down at Dan. He opened his mouth and drew in a deep draft of air, as if battling for equilibrium, and suddenly he threw down the hammer and awl and spun from the room. A moment later, the outside door slammed.

  Laura’s eyes met McColl’s, and suddenly she remembered how
Rye had called her Laura-love. Then she saw Josh, whose chin was quivering as tears ran down his face. She scooped him up and hugged him close, kissing his hair, and comforting, “Shh, Joshua. Papa's going to be just fine. You’ll see. There’s no need to cry. We’re going to take good care of Papa and make him teach you how to skate as soon as he’s well again.” She deposited Josh back in his own bed, then tucked him in, and whispered, “You try to sleep, darling. I ... I’ve got to go to Rye.”

  She turned to grab a woolen shawl and stepped out into the howling night. Rye was sitting on the wooden step, slumped forward with his head on his crossed arms. Ship was there before him, whimpering softly, pacing back and forth and trying to nuzzle beyond his master’s arms to his face.

  “Rye, you must come back inside. You don’t even have a jacket on.”

  “In a minute.”

  The wind lifted the fringe of Laura’s shawl and slapped it across her face while snow streaked down and bit at her exposed skin. She hunkered down beside him and put her arm across his shoulders. He was shaking uncontrollably, though she realized it was not solely from the weather.

  “Shh,” she comforted as if he, too, were a child. “It’s over now, and you were magnificent.”

  “Magnificent!” he flung back. “I’m shakin’ like a damn baby.”

  “You have a right to shake. What you did was hardly easy. Why, not even McColl had the nerve to do it. And me—why, if you hadn’t been so sure and confident, I’d have fallen to pieces.”

  He raised his head, wiping his cheeks with long palms as if exhausted. “I’ve never done anythin’ like that before in my life.”

  His shudders continued beneath her arm, and she gently kissed the top of his head, tasting icy snow on his hair. “Come on now. It won’t do us any good if you catch pneumonia, too.”

  With a shaky sigh he stood up, and she along with him. “Just give me a minute, Laura. I’ll be all right now. You go back in.”

  She turned back toward the door, but his voice stopped her.