Until June

by Barbara M. Britton

  “It’s early. If I use too much, the count will be off. You said the doctor—”

  “I lied.” He flashed a satisfied grin. “Doc Miller wants a pain-free patient. Morphine keeps me happy and quiet.”

  She rubbed the slat of a dining room chair while her mind paged through the instructions she had received her first day on the job. She certainly had enough vials and syringes. Weren’t those for an emergency or delay?

  “Don’t make me butt-sit every one of those steps to your room.” He stiff-armed the sofa and lay on the cushions. “If you think I can’t get up those stairs to the supply, you’re wrong.”

  “Fine.” She could use a restful afternoon. Her bath tumble and wolf encounter had her shaken like a woven rug on a windy day.

  She gave him a shot of morphine—against her better judgment. Peace-filled hours were her reward.

  After supper, she sat in the high-backed chair near the couch and worked on needlepoint. With every change of colored thread, she glanced at Geoff who seemed to be memorizing a page in his book.

  Lightning flashed.

  The bay window behind the couch illuminated like the flicker of a motion picture. Geoff received the best possible reading light.

  Oh, no.

  Her threaded needle poked through the wrong square.

  A drawn-out rumble threatened in the distance.

  “Storm’s coming.” She licked her lips hoping the moisture would stay. Nope. Gone.

  He repositioned his left stump. “Great, something else to keep me up at night.”

  Shushing wind played with the trees.

  Bright flash.

  Number two.

  “I don’t like storms.” Dropping her needlepoint, she pulled her legs in close to her chest and hugged her knees.

  “Judging from the seeding fireweed out back, you only have about six weeks until this rain turns to snow. I’ll take the rain.”

  In. Out. She concentrated on her breathing. In. Not too fast. Out. In.

  “Jo?”

  The wheelchair parked beside her.

  “I’m turning in.” The back of his hand brushed her forehead, hesitated, then dropped to the arm rest. “With that inlet out there, it’s only going to get worse before it gets better.”

  She nodded. “I’ll check on you before I turn in.”

  Who was she bluffing? When Geoff fell asleep, she ran upstairs, grabbed the white afghan from her bed, and dashed into his room. What a good plan putting the extra couch near his bed. She wasn’t going to sleep alone. Not alone on the second floor.

  During the night, she listened to Geoff’s occasional groans. The rain’s assault on the roof muted some of his grunts.

  The thunder retreated down the channel.

  Finally.

  She snuggled into the afghan, curling into a ball, and into her own personal incubator.

  “Over the top. Now. Now. Now!”

  She bolted off the couch, arms flailing under white yarn.

  Geoff shouted again, less intense, but shrill enough to cause her to panic.

  Her heart raced, pounding in her throat as she freed herself from the bedspread. Its warmth fell to her feet.

  “Geoff. It’s me. We’re at the lodge,” she said, arms crossed and gripping her shoulders to keep her skeleton in one piece.

  He sat up and turned on the light by his bed. “What are you doing in here?” His chest heaved as if he had run a sprint.

  “I don’t like thunder.”

  “Then warn me.” He gazed around the room. “I thought you were a ghost.”

  “Ghost? Why would you think I was a ghost?” She picked up the afghan and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You don’t believe in them, do you?”

  “I usually don’t have white blankets dancing about my room. I almost had a heart attack thinking you were Mr. Gilbertsen.”

  “He’s not here. He’s dead.”

  “Haunted.” Geoff’s voice was whisper soft, like he was slipping into a dream.

  “By our Mr. Gilbertsen? The former owner?” she asked. “I took care of him. He’s in glory.”

  Geoff’s head whipped to the side. His lips puckered. A scowl wrinkled his face.

  “I can’t go on patrol. Not tonight.”

  She shivered as if thunder had rattled the wall behind her. Geoff acted as if someone else was in the room.

  “Tell him, Jo.” Geoff’s gaze turned to her. “No sentry duty.”

  No one was there to tell.

  “Do it.”

  Should she talk to the air? She didn’t sign up for this—the physical care yes—but the mental? How could she heal someone whose nightmares grew flesh?

  “I told you.” Geoff held onto every vowel.

  Was he talking to her or the man? Wait. No one else existed.

  Flinging off the afghan, she balled it up in front of her chest. She could do this. Boss a ghost.

  Staring at the closet doors, she cleared her throat and said in her calmest voice, “Please leave. Geoff Chambers is unable to assist you.”

  There. Done. Then, why was she still looking at the invisible intruder?

  Geoff settled into his covers.

  She turned to leave, but then she heard a real voice.

  “I need more morphine.”

  And that was the scariest voice of all.

  9

  She caught the hen coop door before it slammed shut but not before it flattened her middle finger. Her nail bed ridged with white flesh. She held her finger against her tongue to dull the stinging. Tears welled in her eyes. Eyes dry and bloodshot from lack of sleep for four weeks.

  Morphine was her enemy. The more morphine Geoff demanded, the more agitated he became, the more nightmares he experienced, the more she wanted to go home. There had to be a way to defeat the enemy.

  Heading back to the lodge with her basket of eggs and a throbbing finger, she saw it—the beast. It stood on the path, half-hidden in the fronds of a fern. She froze. Should she call for Geoff? No. One beast to deal with this morning was enough.

  She sat on the back porch ramp and waited to see what the wolf dog wanted. It jogged closer, its tail swaying. A round object was visible in its mouth. The animal dropped the object a few yards from where she sat and trotted down the trail.

  This animal had to belong to someone—claim jumper, miner, woodsman.

  She reached for the object it had dropped and picked up a ripped leather ball.

  Ack. The makeshift ball was also soggy.

  She threw the toy into the forest.

  The beast leapt into the underbrush and emerged with the ball ready for another chase.

  “You sure are full of energy on this crisp October morning,” she said, tossing the ball down the trail. “But I can’t stay and play. Or someone’s stomach will be growling with hunger.”

  She hurried into the kitchen.

  “Who were you talking to?” Geoff’s question came from the living room.

  “Uh.” Her heart sped. The tickle of spider’s legs crawled up her arms. “Myself.”

  “If you’re that bored, come play cards with me.”

  She entered the living room. Geoff had pulled the coffee table flush with the couch. He shuffled a deck of cards. More time had been spent rearranging the furniture than on his appearance. Wavy brown hair stuck out like a ruffled collar around his ears. His beard wasn’t prickly; it was downright daggers.

  “You need a haircut,” she said, trying to change the subject. “And breakfast.”

  “I’ll eat and let you cut my hair when you play cards with me. I’m tired of playing alone.”

  “I don’t play cards. My mother says it’s a sin.” She headed to the kitchen.

  “Your stepfather played,” he said. “Apparently not well. Afraid you inherited his luck?”

  She whipped around. Her hands fisted and sent a sting down her smashed finger. Heat crept across her cheeks. Offer him candy not vinegar. Vinegar might be unpredictable, even painful.

 
Candy won. Almost.

  “If my stepfather had listened to my mother and brought home his paycheck, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

  “Guess I’m the lucky one.” He bridge-shuffled the cards.

  “Don’t speak ill of my stepfather. He worked hard for you out at Kat Wil.” Her chest cinched as she spat the name of his precious mine.

  He scratched his beard with the two of diamonds. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. Guess I’m biased by what Marshal Dorsey told me.” He pushed the deck toward her. “Can’t we play a silly game of cards?”

  Crossing her arms, she stared at her reading chair, not at him.

  “Come on, Jo. Didn’t you play Pit as a kid? Where’s the devil in trading hay and oats?”

  Make him happy. Pass the time. Delay the morphine.

  “If we burn in hell, I’m going to pester you for eternity.” She sat at the coffee table. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about cutting that rodent’s nest hair of yours.”

  Her fingers drummed on the table.

  “What are we playing?”

  “Gin Rummy,” he said, starting to deal.

  “You must like it hot.”

  He laughed, deep and long, like a car backfiring.

  “Rummy’s simple,” he said. “Collect three or four of a number or make a run, such as the nine, ten, and Jack. All of the same suit. Diamonds. Hearts. Clubs. Spades.” He threw out cards to illustrate his point. “Now, for the numbers.” He rifled through the deck and found sixes. “They’ll be different suits. Aces are low. They’re ones. First one to one-hundred wins. If you’re ready to go out, knock on the table.”

  “You don’t expect me to understand all that, do you?”

  “I’ll coach you. It’s not like we’re pressed for time.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight before we begin,” she said. “I’m not betting. I’m expecting some birthday money to arrive when Tubby comes again, and I’ll be darned if I’m losing it to you.” She clasped her hand over her mouth.

  “Josephine Nimetz. Did I hear a near curse word come from your mouth?” A mischievous grin enlivened his haggard face. “When’s the big day?”

  “October twenty-sixth. I’ll be eighteen.”

  He cut the deck into two small piles. “Three days, hmm? For me, eighteen seems like a century ago.”

  “You’re not that old. Are you?” She tugged at her skirt, wondering if she had offended him. Her mother said never to discuss age.

  “I sure feel old. I’ll be twenty-one on Christmas Eve.”

  “Then I’ll be sure to make you a big chocolate cake.”

  “I don’t like chocolate.”

  “I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like chocolate. What do you prefer?”

  “Strawberry.”

  “Well, on my birthday it’s going to be chocolate. You’re out of luck. Now deal.”

  They each received ten cards. She organized her hand by numbers and suits. Nah. It couldn’t be. She had a court of royals. Pretending to be watching the hens roost, she picked a card from the pile and knocked on the table and discarded.

  “You can’t be serious,” he said. “What do you have, Runt?”

  She laid her hand down. “A run. I think. King, Queen, Jack, ten, all hearts, and four eights. Only two aces left in my hand and they’re ones. Right?” Her stomach felt like it was popping corn. “Can you beat it?”

  “No,” he said, leaning back on the couch. “I must not have shuffled well enough.”

  “Or my luck isn’t cursed?”

  “And mine is?”

  “How many points is that?” she asked, not wanting to dwell on sinner’s luck.

  He figured the difference between their hands.

  “Ninety-eight points.”

  “This shouldn’t take long if I need a hundred to win.”

  He handled the deck for an extra long time, shuffling, bridging, shuffling, bridging. He threw ten cards her way.

  This hand lasted longer. He knocked on the table with a satisfied smirk.

  Placing her cards on the table, she laid down four twos and played three cards on his runs. Counting the cards in their hands, she had one less in her total than he.

  “Do I get any points for that?” She pressed her lips together and waited for him to declare her the winner.

  “Yes, you’re over 100.” His eyes pinched shut. He rubbed his forehead as if he was tallying scores in his brain.

  “I’d better start the stove.” She rose from the table.

  “I want a re-match. And a shot.”

  Not this early. But she climbed the stairs to her room, to the metal morphine box, to a reprimand from somebody—Doctor Miller, Mrs. Prescott, Mr. Chambers—what would overdosing for ten months do to Geoff’s health? Would he survive? Could she survive without the tranquility it gave her patient?

  He had to be lying. Someone was keeping track of the narcotics.

  She heard him tapping the deck on the table like an impatient child.

  Filling the syringe, an idea came to her. It came from the cards. She didn’t need to fill the syringe with a King, Queen, and Jack. A simple three sevens would be enough. Geoff didn’t inspect the dosage when she gave him a shot. He looked away and waited for the poke. By the time Tubby came again, Geoff’s dosage would be back to pre-lodge levels.

  The thunk of the card deck grew louder.

  “Jo, I need that shot.”

  She closed the metal box and hurried downstairs.

  Perhaps playing Gin Rummy wasn’t so sinful. Perhaps her morphine dosing plan would work. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been bad to place a token bet. She erased the thought from her mind. All she could see was the image of her stepfather’s body slumped in the woods—slain.

  10

  “Watch it with those scissors. I don’t want to lose any more body parts.”

  She straightened Geoff’s hair between her fingers and trimmed the split ends. Water trickled down her arm. At least the sensation helped keep her awake and alert.

  “The blades will rust with all this water. Didn’t you dry your hair?” She grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen counter and rubbed it across his head. The fresh scent of his shampoo hung in the air.

  His head bobbed as she massaged his scalp. She moved her hands in a circular motion down to his neck.

  Groaning, he lifted his head and stared at the ceiling. “I’m in pain. I need relief.”

  Stall.

  Her stomach muscles clenched, cinching her waist smaller than a dressmaker’s dummy. “It’s too early. It’s only been a few hours since your shot at breakfast. How about more cards when I’m through?”

  He grasped her arm, pulling her over the back of his chair. Scissors protruded from her hand.

  She didn’t want to be this close. She tensed. Her eyes slammed shut. Her lips melted together like creamed butter on fresh baked biscuits.

  “I have a need. You’re supposed to meet my needs. Now, follow my orders and give me a shot.”

  His grip tightened and tightened and tightened some more.

  She nodded in agreement.

  “I’ll take these,” he said, removing the scissors from her tingling hand, freeing her to get the narcotic.

  She didn’t leave.

  “I want my scissors,” she said, grabbing his chair. “No scissors, no morphine. I’ll break one rule, but I won’t break them all.” Her cheekbones could boil broth.

  “Here.” He held out the scissors, blades open. “Take ’em.”

  “Close the blades, Mr. Chambers.”

  She waited.

  He snapped the blades shut and handed her the scissors. His arm trembled terribly.

  “My shot.” His voice crackled like a low burning fire.

  She drew a third of the customary dose of morphine, the amount she had given him earlier in the day, after cards. She stood by her decision to give him what he received in Juneau. After the injection, while disposing of the needle, she heard him shout, “I’m shuffling
.”

  After more cards playing, she cooked and cleaned until evening. Geoff insisted on dining in his room to escape her clattering and clanking.

  Her day’s labor done, she settled into her reading chair with Woman’s Home Companion.

  The romantic serials left her wondering what would happen next. Subscribers had to wait a whole month to find out if there was going to be a wedding or a scandal. It seemed cruel to keep readers in suspense, but the editors knew what they were doing—printing money. Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait a whole month to find out the ending to the storyline. Mrs. Prescott had sent the August and September issues along with her to the lodge.

  The women in the stories, sketched to look like movie actresses, kept her spellbound. Wavy hair primped perfectly, complimented the stylish fashions. An illustrated breeze swept form-fitting crepe de chine dresses away from curvy bodies. Handsome love interests, perfectly suited in style and wealth, came to call on the women, strong in build, yet vulnerable with desire.

  She became the woman in the story, embraced by the broad shoulders of an attractive suitor, imagining how it would feel to kiss his lips as he held her close to his firm chest.

  “What are you reading?”

  Her body twitched—all at once—sending her heart into a spasm. Lost in the world of Woman’s Home Companion, she had not heard Geoff enter the room. She shut the magazine, keeping her thumb in the serial.

  “You startled me.”

  “Is the story any good? What’s it about?” He wheeled closer to her chair.

  “Women’s things,” she answered. “Sewing. Baking. You wouldn’t be interested in the newest wood polish.” She fanned herself with the magazine trying to calm down after her start.

  He studied her face as if he was determining whether she had a winning hand at cards. “Wood polish, eh? It must be quite a product to make your cheeks that red. I even heard a giggle when I entered the room.”

  “You scared me. It’s no wonder I’m flushed.”

  He held his hand out for the magazine.

  She stopped fanning and tried to pull her page-marking thumb out of the Companion. “I’m not finished.”