Authors: Christina Cole
“She
spitting anything up?” When Tom nodded, Kellerman’s face turned grim. “Most
likely pneumonia.”
“Can
you do something for her?”
“I’ll
do all I can. I give you my word.” He pulled out his pocket watch, then glanced
toward the neat little row of shops along Main Street. “Listen, you get on
home, tell Charlotte I’m on my way. Keep her warm, keep her comfortable. Get
her to drink some hot tea, if you can.”
“Consider
it done.” Tom tipped his hat, then hurried to reclaim his horse from the corral
next to the saloon. For a moment, he thought about following
Abner
Kellerman and keeping a close eye on him. But the man
had given his word, and for all intents and purposes, he seemed as sober as Tom
had ever seen him. He mounted up and headed home.
Kellerman
arrived within the hour. To Tom’s surprise, he wasn’t alone. Seated beside him
in his old buggy was Clyde Shepherd, the town’s barber.
Tom
cocked his head, gazed at the two men, and scratched at his jaw. Far as he
knew, nobody was in need of either a shave or a haircut, so what the devil was
Shepherd doing there? Both men climbed down from the buggy and approached the
house, carrying black leather bags.
“How’s
she doing?”
Abner
asked.
“She’s
resting.”
“Good.”
The
doctor and the barber continued on toward the house with Tom following close
behind. When they reached the door, Kellerman stopped and looked his way. “Why
don’t you wait out here, Tom.”
“Hell
if I will.” He shouldered his way past both men. “I’m the one who pays for this
place, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit outside while my ma’s sick in
bed.” He pushed open the door and was about to reconsider the wisdom of letting
Kellerman inside when he heard his mother’s raspy voice.
“Tommy,
you bring him? You got Doc with you?” The woman stirred in the bed. She tossed
her head back and forth on the pillow. “
Abner
won’t
let me die.”
“No, of
course not, Ma. You’re not going to die.” Tom wasn’t so sure about that. Maybe
it would be best if she did. The thought crossed his mind, and at once he was
stricken with guilt. He lowered his gaze and stared down at the worn
floorboards. He cleared his throat and looked up again. “You’re going to be all
right.” Tom looked toward the doctor. “She will be all right, won’t she?” he
asked in an aside. “You can help her, can’t you?”
“Give
me a moment, Tom. You, too, Clyde.” Kellerman gestured toward the door. “I need
to make an examination.”
“Yes,
of course.”
Much as
he hated to leave the room, he understood the need for privacy. Bad enough to
have
Abner
staring at his mother—he’d probably seen
all of her body at one time or another—he sure as hell didn’t want Clyde
Shepherd gawking at her.
He
needed a breath of air anyway. Jerking Shepherd’s arm, Tom stepped outside into
the crisp coolness of the October day. For several moments they stood in silence.
“Smoke?”
Shepherd asked, holding out his makings toward Tom.
“Thanks,
but, no.”
Shepherd
stuffed the little cloth bag back into his shirt pocket. They fell silent
again.
Still
puzzled over the man’s presence, Tom studied the barber’s face. Before he could
inquire, the door opened and Kellerman signaled for them to return.
“Listen,
Doc, be straight with me,” Tom said as he stepped inside. The grim look in
Kellerman’s eyes worried him. “I don’t want my ma to die. It’s not that bad, is
it?”
“I
can’t make any promises. Life and death…it’s in the hands of the Lord.” He
turned away from Tom to confer with Shepherd.
“Wait a
minute.” Enough of this. Tom had a right to know what was going on. “What’s
Shepherd doing here? What’s wrong with Ma, and what do you plan to do about
it?” His suspicions were on full alert now as Shepherd opened his leather bag.
Inside, cutting implements gleamed menacingly in the flickering lamp light.
Kellerman
cleared his throat. “As I feared, Tom, your mother’s come down with pneumonia.
Shepherd’s here to perform the venesection.”
“The
what?”
“Blood-letting.”
Shepherd answered.
“No way
in hell. You’re not bleeding my mother.”
The
doctor placed a thick, shaking hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Venesection is an
approved medical technique. It’s been used for hundreds of years.”
“I
don’t care what kind of fancy name you give it,
Abner
.
I won’t allow it.”
Shepherd
glanced toward Kellerman, holding a sharp-edged straight razor in his hand. His
dark eyes seemed to gleam. “So, am I supposed to do this or not?”
“Do
it,” rasped Charlotte, her breathing still harsh and labored. “Put me out of my
misery.”
“No!”
Tom reached out to stay the man’s hand. “I’m not so sure this is the best way—”
“It’s
the only way,”
Abner
informed him. “Her body’s filled
with poisons.”
Shepherd’s
somber gaze affirmed the sorry state of affairs. “He’s right, Tom. She’ll die
if we don’t.” He drew back, then placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I know it
hurts to watch, so maybe you better step outside.” He gestured toward the door.
But Tom
wasn’t about to let Shepherd, Kellerman, or anybody else push him out.
“Did
either of you gentlemen hear what I said? I will not allow this.” He gestured
toward the barber’s bag of instruments. “Get your tools packed and get out.
That goes for you, too,
Abner
.”
“Now,
listen here, Tom, you don’t know a damned thing about the medical practice. I’m
a trained physician—”
“—who’s
been too damned drunk for the last twenty years to practice anything.”
From
the bed came another moan, followed by a gasp. “Tommy…”
“Hush,
Ma,” he said, rushing to her side. “You’re going to be all right.”
“If
they have to do this…”
“No,
Ma. I won’t let them.”
Kellerman
strode across the room and stuck his face in Tom’s. “You’re making a big
mistake. Her death will be on your conscience, not mine. I at least tried to
help.”
Dear
God, what was he supposed to do? He closed his eyes, surprised by how swiftly
the petition to the almighty came. He’d never been a praying man before, and if
his ma knew he was praying for her well-being then and there, she’d probably
roll over and die.
But his
prayers brought a sense of peace, a sense of rightness. In a way he couldn’t
begin to explain, his silent entreaty gave him comfort and an undeniable
assurance that he’d made the right choice.
Would
his mother live? Or would the Lord take her?
Kellerman
had been right about one thing. Life and death lay in the Lord’s hands.
He
escorted both men to the doctor’s buggy. “How much do I owe you for making the
trip out here?”
“Two
bucks,” Shepherd said. “Had to close up my shop, you know.”
“I
understand.” Tom peeled off a couple of greenbacks and tucked them into the
barber’s jacket pocket. “What about you,
Abner
? You
charging me, too?”
“Don’t
get smart with me, boy. I came out here at your request, and for your
information, blood-letting is a standard medical procedure in cases of
pneumonia. You’ve got no education, Tom, so don’t be telling me how much you
think you know about—”
His
sentence hung unfinished in the air, interrupted by a commotion as a wagon
bounced and jostled its way across the yard, the driver shouting in a loud
voice.
“Mrs.
Phillips? What are you doing here?” Tom turned toward the approaching wagon.
She drew to a halt a scant few feet from him.
“I hope
you haven’t let that damned quack lay a hand on your poor mother, Tom. Or that
one, either.” She pointed to Clyde Shepherd.
“No,
actually, they wanted to do some procedure.” Tom bit his lip, trying to recall
the medical term Kellerman had used. “
Vene
—” He
shrugged. “Guess you probably know what I’m talking about.”
“Sure
do. The barbaric practice of blood-letting.”
“It’s
standard procedure for pneumonia,” Kellerman asserted again. “If you, Mrs.
Phillips, were an actual physician, you’d know that.”
“And if
you weren’t a worthless drunk, you’d know that venesection is not always the
best course of action. Some very intelligent men,” she added, casting a frown
in his direction, “have made scientific studies.”
“That’s
hogwash.”
“You
think so?” She shrugged and looked at Tom. “According to the medical reports
I’ve read, almost half the patients with pneumonia who were treated by
blood-letting died soon thereafter. That’s most likely what would have happened
to your mother if these fellows had their way.”
“She
might yet die, Tom,”
Abner
said, climbing into his
buggy. “I’ll be real sorry to see it happen. I’ve come to care a lot about her,
you know.” He gazed toward the cabin and swallowed hard.
“Yeah,
I know. And if the good Lord sees fit to take her, you’ll probably be so damned
broken up over it, you’ll spend another twenty years drunk as a skunk.” He
turned on his heel. “Good afternoon, Doc. Good afternoon to you, as well,
Clyde.”
Amanda
Phillips climbed down from her wagon. “Want me to have a look at her, Tom?”
“I’d be
real grateful to you, ma’am, if you would.”
* * *
*
For the
next week, Tom remained at home, keeping a close watch on his mother. He prayed
a lot, and sometimes he pulled out the pocket bible he’d bought one day at the
mercantile and read a verse or two. Even though the words were difficult and he
couldn’t always grasp their meaning, they somehow brought him comfort, gave him
a feeling of peace he’d never known before.
The
first few days were filled with doubts, but by the fourth day, it appeared the
worst was over. Ma’s fever broke, her complexion regained its color, and the
hacking cough subsided. While she’d slept, he’d given the cottage a thorough
scrubbing. He’d swept away all the broken glass, had made certain no more
whiskey remained on the premises, and he’d done a fairly good job, in his
estimation, of putting the house in order.
Now
would come the more difficult task of talking a bit of sense into his mother.
“If we
had the baby, Tommy,” she insisted when he broached the subject of her
drunkenness, “I wouldn’t touch a drop, I swear. I only started drinking when…”
Her lower lip quivered. “When we lost Faith.”
“Maybe
we can get her back, but first, you’ve got to prove that you’re capable of
looking after her.” He glanced over to where she lay huddled beneath the
bedcovers. At the moment she couldn’t even care for herself. But she was
getting stronger every day, and before long, she’d be on her feet again.
He
needed to get back to work, as well.
Tom got
up, grabbed his hat, then put on his leather jacket. An idea had come into his
head, one that might benefit them both.
Chapter Nine
The
bell jangled as Tom pushed open the door and stepped into Lucille’s shop. He
wandered past the frilly laces and fancy ribbons, heading toward the sales
counter. A quick glance about the shop showed no one present except Lucille.
Her mother, he suspected, was at home with Faith. A twinge of disappointment
jabbed at his gut. He’d hoped to see his little niece. A moment or two holding
her would have lightened his heart.
Lucille
had obviously heard the bell. She walked toward the front of the shop, but she
hadn’t yet seen him. Tom nearly laughed at the sudden change in her demeanor
when she looked up and realized it was him. As soon as she saw him, she
stopped.
“What
are you doing here?” she asked.
“Is
that any way to greet a prospective customer?” Tom wasn’t sure why he said it.
The last thing he needed was to pick a fight with Miss McIntyre, but the
question shot out of his mouth before he could catch it.
“You’re
not a customer.”
“I
could be. Could be I came into town with the express intention of buying a yard
or two of ribbon.” To emphasize his point, he strolled to the counter where the
ribbons and laces were displayed, wrapped around thick bolts. He reached out,
almost touched a delicate lavender velvet, then thought better of it.
“You
touch it, you buy it.”
Her
voice goaded him. He stretched his hand out and with a light touch, he stroked
the soft fabric. “Reckon I’ll take a bit of this.”
“How
much?”
He
stood back, admiring Lucille’s dark, wavy hair. She’d tied it up with a narrow
black grosgrain ribbon. All Tom could think was how nice that lavender shade
would look if she were wearing it instead.
“Enough
to make about a dozen hair ribbons.”
“Don’t
be ridiculous. You didn’t come here to buy hair ribbons.” She stepped up and
all but pushed him away from the counter. “Somehow, I can’t imagine your mother
wearing bows in her hair.”
“You
wear them.” Damn, but what was it about Lucille that made him act like a kid
every time he was near her? A stubborn, ornery kid at that! He tried his best,
but he couldn’t keep from reaching out, grabbing the dull black ribbon in her
hair, and tugging it loose. The ends fell down across her cheeks as her rich
brunette hair spilled out.
“Stop
that!” She batted his hand away then bustled across the shop, heading toward a
long mirror. “And put that velvet away, Tom. I don’t know what you came here
for, but I’m busy. I don’t have time to play silly games.”
“I
do want the ribbon,” he said, picking it up again and carrying it toward the
sales counter at the rear.
She
gathered her hair up into a loose bun, pinned the grosgrain ribbon into place
again, then, with a sour look, she approached the counter. “Do you really want
a dozen lengths?”
“Sure.
Why not?” He smiled as she drew out a pair of scissors, then he stepped back.
The sight of a woman with a cutting tool of any sort could make a man cautious.
“By
the way, I heard your mother’s been sick.”
“A
touch of pneumonia.”
“Is
it true she really wanted old Doc Kellerman to bleed her?”
“Yeah,
he even brought Shepherd out to the house with all his tools, but I put a stop
to that foolishness.”
“Good
for you.” Lucille stretched out the velvet and made a mark. She looked up.
“When are you going to put a stop to the rest of it?”
“What
are you talking about?”
“Never
mind. She’s your mother. Of course you’re going to stand up for her.”
“Are
you talking about her drinking?” Tom leaned over the counter. “Just say it.”
“All
right, yes. Your mother’s a dipsomaniac. She needs help.”
“Well,
now, that’s a right polite way of putting it, I suppose.”
“Don’t
make light of the situation.” Lucille deftly continued marking and cutting as
she spoke. “That’s your problem, Tom. Always treating everything in life as if
it were a joke.”
“And
you know what your problem is?” He moved closer. “You’re always taking life too
seriously. At least I know how to laugh, how to have a good time.”
“Life
isn’t about having a good time.” Lucille laid the scissors aside and gazed up
at him. “It’s about accepting responsibilities, doing the right thing.”
“Like
standing up to
Abner
Kellerman and Clyde Shepherd?”
Shifting his weight, he kept his eyes fastened on hers. “Or how about bringing
Ma here to Sunset in the first place? Does that sound like somebody who’s not
willing to shoulder responsibility?”
“Well,
no, but—”
“And
how about Faith?” he challenged. “Did I do the right thing by her?”
Lucille
bowed her head. She picked up the scissors and resumed cutting the lavender
velvet into neat, even lengths. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I guess I did speak
out of turn. You have taken on a lot of responsibility recently. Learning to
read and write, doing your best to provide for Faith, all the while working
hard.” When she looked up again, her expression had softened. “You deserve more
credit than I’ve given you.”
Her
apology touched him. “Thank you.” He held the ribbons up and nodded his
approval. “How much do I owe you?”
Lucille
grabbed a pad and pencil. Quickly she scribbled a few figures on the page.
“It’s three pennies a yard. That means it would be about twelve cents, total.”
Small
price to pay, he figured, counting the coins out. As she reached to wrap the
ribbons in tissue, he put his hand on hers. “No need. They’re yours.”
Her
chin came up. “Mine? Well, that’s foolishness if I’ve ever heard it. I don’t
need you buying hair ribbons for me, Tom. Or doing anything else for me.” She
bustled out from behind the sales counter and pointed to the door. “Really, you
need to go. This is a dressmaking shop, and I don’t think you have much use for
fancy skirts.” She eyed him up and down.
Tom
noticed the way her gaze lingered on one certain part of his anatomy. He liked
the hungry way she looked at him, and he took a step closer.
“You’re
sure in an awful big hurry to get me out of here, and I think I know why.”
“I
already told you. I’m busy.”
“No,
you’re not. You’re scared.”
“Scared?”
Her voice rose an octave on the single syllable. “Scared of what? You? Not in
the least.”
“You’re
scared of yourself. Scared of what you’re feeling right now.”
“You’re
talking rubbish.”
He
moved closer still, reached out, and stroked her cheek with the back of his
hand. “You know, your skin’s as smooth and soft as that velvet ribbon, and
every bit as pretty.”
Her
breath caught, but she didn’t move away.
“Whether
you admit it or not, you are afraid. You’re afraid of all those crazy feelings
stirring inside you right now. Afraid that if you don’t get me out of here real
quick, you might do something crazy, something you might later regret.”
“Like
what?” She looked at him with hope in her eyes and an invitation on her lips.
“Like
let me kiss you.”
“You’ve
kissed me before. It wasn’t anything—”
He
silenced her as he pressed his lips to hers. The pleasure of her hot mouth was
almost too much for him to bear. His arms closed around her and she moved
easily into his embrace. Waves of desire undulated through him. He tightened
his hold, and her body responded at once, yielding to him, pressing against
him. Tom groaned. He wanted to hold Lucille forever, to make her part of his world,
part of his life, part of his future.
No
woman had ever affected him the way Lucille did.
When
she fought against him, it made him stronger. When she showed kindness, it made
him proud. With Lucille at his side, he
could
be a good man, a wise man, a man whose life was truly worth living.
He
felt her shudder. The way her body moved against his sent quivers down his
spine, rippling through his muscles and arousing him.
Her
hands went rigid against his chest. She tore away, her breathing ragged.
“Please, stop.” With her hand pressed to her mouth, Lucille staggered away from
him. Shaking her head back and forth, she gasped. “Tom, we mustn’t do this.”
“Why
not?”
“Things
between us are too complicated, that’s why.”
Raking
a hand through his sandy-blond hair, he fought to regain control. “It’s only
complicated because that’s how you’re making it. Why don’t you just admit the
truth?”
“About
what?”
“About
us. About kissing. You like it, Lucille. I know you do.”
The
flush on her cheeks gave her complexion a soft glow. “Oh, all right. Yes, I
like it when you kiss me.” A sigh fluttered from her lips. She moved closer and
held her hands out to him. “I like it a lot. Maybe you’re right. I am scared,
Tom.”
He
held her hands in his, glad for the chance to provide a moment’s comfort and
reassurance. “No reason to be frightened. I’ll never do anything to hurt you.
You know that, don’t you?”
Sagging
against him again, she nodded. “I know.”
Her hand in his felt good. He drew in a deep breath.
“Honestly, I didn’t come here to cause any problems or upset for you. I need to
ask a favor.”
“Go on. I’m listening.” She seemed
content to stay close beside him, resting her head on his chest.
“Ma
needs someone to look after her. Not for long, just until she regains her
strength.”
“So?
What’s that got to do with me?” She suddenly pushed herself away from him and
looked up. He could tell when she figured it out. At once, she shook her head.
“No, if you’re thinking I should be the one to take care of your mother, you’re
wrong. She hates me. She wouldn’t want me around.”
“She
would if you brought Faith with you.”
“Tom,
no. I can’t do that.”
“Why
not?”
“I’ve
got a shop to run. Am I supposed to shut down my business and lock the doors?”
“What
business?” He turned in a slow circle, carefully surveying the empty shop. “I
hate to break it to you, but you’ve got no customers, Lucille. When Ma was
working here, you couldn’t even afford to pay her for her time, and I suspect
you’re probably behind on payments to at least a few of your suppliers. Am I right?”
Tears
welled up in Lucille’s dark eyes making them look larger and more luminous than
ever. “Yes, of course, you’re right. I’m losing money trying to keep this place
open.”
“Sometimes
best thing to do is cut your losses, or so I’ve heard,” he said with a shrug.
“I’m not much of a gambling man, but fellows at the saloon say that a lot.”
“Are
you willing to pay? For someone to stay with your mother, I mean?” The words
came out stiffly, as if she were embarrassed to have to ask.
“I
can’t pay much, but, yes, I’ll make it worth your time and trouble.” He wasn’t
sure where he’d get the money, but he’d find a way. Doing what needed to be
done was a big part of being responsible.
“I
might as well be realistic.” Lucille walked to the sales counter and picked up
the lavender ribbons. “This was the first cash sale I’ve made in days.” She
stared at the ribbons, running a finger over the soft velvet. “The only real
business I have is doing a bit of mending for the men out at the mining camp,
or sometimes patching something up for one of you rowdy cowpokes.” She smiled
up at him. “I love sewing, but other than the occasional wedding gown, there’s
not much call for fancy dresses around Sunset.” She leaned back against the
counter. “Of course, I don’t need a shop with a high overhead. I can do mending
and sew dresses just as well at home with Mama. That’s what I ought to be
doing, she says.”
“You
could do your mending and sewing while you visited with Ma.” Sensing that
victory might soon be his, he sauntered toward Lucille. “Please, help me. Come
stay with Ma during the days. Bring Faith, too. If Ma could be near her
grandbaby, it would help her a lot.”
“You
think it would keep her sober? Is that what you mean?”
“When
we had Faith with us before, Ma didn’t touch a drop of that devil’s brew.”
True, indeed. She’d only begun drinking again after Tom had placed Faith in
Lucille’s care.
“Well,
it’s something to think about, I’ll admit. I mean, I would like to help.”
He
stood close beside her now. “Please,” he whispered, opening his arms for her.
“Come take care of Ma. It would mean a lot to me.”
She
stepped into his embrace and snuggled against him. “I suppose it would be the
right thing to do. Reverend Gilman preaches every Sunday about the importance
of good works.”
“Hallelujah.”
Tom whispered the word against her neck as he nuzzled her ear lobe.