Open Country (13 page)

“You haven’t lost Jack,” she cut in gently. “He’s simply misplaced.”

“Then why haven’t we heard anything? We don’t even know where they are, or if Elena is completely recovered from the surgery.”

Jessica counted on her fingers. “Let’s see . . . me, the children, Hank, Jack, Elena, the baby . . . is there anything you
don’t
worry about?”

“Money,” he said promptly.

“Well then.”

“Although with all the talk about switching from the silver standard to paper money, the mines—”

“Am I going to have to spank you?” she said with mock severity.

He grinned. “Would you? I wouldn’t mind. Truly. I’ll even show you where.”

Jessica’s soft chuckle vibrated against his chest. “I have a better idea,” she whispered as she rolled toward him.

 

 

“ARE YOU DEAD?”

Hank opened his eyes to find cinnamon brown eyes staring down at him out of a tangled mess of blond hair. Penny. Molly had briefly reintroduced the children to him when they had boarded last night, but he still didn’t remember either of them from before the derailment. “I don’t think so.” Although he did feel odd. Itchy and hot one minute, cold the next. And his arm burned like a sonofabitch. “Are we there?” he asked, realizing they had stopped moving. No more rocking and swaying, and without the clatter of the wheels on the track, he could hear the rhythmic exhalations of the idling locomotive.

“I almost had a kitty once. But he went dead. Do you got kitties?”

“Yeah. Probably.” Didn’t he live on a ranch and didn’t most ranches have cats?

“Guess what? My kitty was white all over except for his nose. It was pink. I was gonna name him Sugar. What’s your kitty’s name?”

“I don’t remember.”

Propping her elbows beside his shoulder, she studied him in that frank and disconcerting way children had. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“Aunt Molly said we were never
ever
supposed to talk to strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger. I’m your steppapa.”

She poked her finger at his cheek. “You’re blue.”

“I’m bruised and that hurts.”

“How come you’re wearing a dress?”

“It’s not a dress. It’s a nightshirt.” And he was burning it as soon as he found real clothes to wear. “Where’s Molly?” It wasn’t that he didn’t like children, but this one was such a talker it was giving him a headache. A family trait, he guessed.

“Do you kick kitties?”

He blinked, taken aback by the question. “No.” What a strange kid.

“Not even if they scratch your best shoes and poop under your chair?”

“No. Does Molly know you’re in here?”

She pulled several strands of blond hair from a tangled knot and stuck them into her mouth. “Steppapas are mean. They hurt.”

Hurt who? Kitties? Kids?
Hank watched her work the rope of hair with her tongue and wondered what kind of man would do either. “I don’t kick kitties and I don’t hit kids.” And even though he couldn’t remember for sure, he was fairly certain that was the first time he’d ever used the word “kitties.” God, he hoped so.

She stopped chewing. “Ever?”

“Ever.”

“Even if they wet their beds?”

“Nope.”

“What if they’re spying little bastards?”

He tried to hide his shock. “Not even then.”

“Suppose they take something they shouldn’t and are too afraid to put it back so they hide it and then lie and say they don’t know where it is?”

Hank shook his head and smiled, masking his concern while he tried to remember every word so he could question Molly. But his mind felt fuzzy and sluggish, and it was hard to keep everything straight. “Did you take something you shouldn’t have, Penny?”

Her lips clamped shut on the strands of hair. He saw fear in her eyes.

“Penny?”

“I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Says who?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Your brother, Charlie?”

Her gaze slid away.

“I bet he wouldn’t mind if you told me.”

She shook her head. “The monster will get us and make us dead too.” Her eyes teared up. Replacing the hair with her thumb, she said something Hank didn’t catch.

Afraid she’d start wailing, he changed the subject. “Would you like a kitty?”

Her mouth formed an “O.” The thumb slid out. “Of my very own?”

He nodded. The motion made his head pound. “I don’t know if we have any white ones but I’d guess we have some with yellow stripes.”

“Sunshine!” she squealed in a high kid voice that ricocheted around his skull like a bullet. “I’ll name it Sunshine! Or Tiger! That’s a good name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Great.” Hank pressed his good hand to his brow and was surprised to find it slick with sweat. How could he be sweating when he was so cold?

“I have to tell Charlie!” She darted toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “I forgot. Aunt Molly wants me to see if you’re awake.”

“I’m awake.” And feeling worse by the minute. What was wrong with him now? Was he getting a fever?

She started, then stopped again. “Oh! And guess what, Papa-Hank!” She waved skinny arms and danced in a circle. “It’s sno-o-ow-ing!”

Which was probably why he was starting to shiver. “Get . . . Molly,” he muttered as weariness pulled him down.

 

 

SHE SHOULD HAVE EXPECTED IT.

With trembling hands, Molly filled a bowl from a water cask in the galley kitchen. It usually took three days for infection to set in after surgery and it had been that long. But she’d been so sure she’d done everything right, and so careful to keep the wound clean, and Hank was so strong and healthy. What had gone wrong? Was he to lose his arm, after all? She wouldn’t even consider the possibility that he could die, that something she did, or forgot to do, might be the cause of his death.

As she added several clean cloths to her medicine basket, Brady came in. “The wagons are loaded. You and the little ones ready?”

“We can’t go. Hank’s running a fever. Take this.” She thrust the bowl of water into his hands.

“Fever? How high?”

“Too high.” Nudging him aside, she picked up her medicine basket and rushed down the narrow aisle toward the parlor section.

Brady crowded behind her. “What are you going to do?”

“Bathe him with cool water to bring down the fever. He won’t like it.”

When they’d reached Hank’s makeshift bed, she set the basket on the floor and threw back the covers. Hank’s nightshirt was wet with sweat. The rank smell of infection rose from the soaked bedding.

“Won’t that wake him up?”

“He’s not asleep, he’s unconscious. Help me remove his nightshirt.”

Setting the bowl of water on a table beside the bed, he pulled a long knife from his boot and cut through the cloth with savage efficiency. “He’s already shivering.”

“That’s his body’s way of trying to cool itself down. The cool cloths will help. If you’ll bathe his chest and neck and head, I’ll check his arm.”

While Brady slapped dripping cloths on Hank’s bandaged chest, Molly cut through the wrappings on his shattered arm. The incision was swollen and red, and the stink of putrefying flesh almost made her gag. Gently she tugged on the strands of horsehair she’d left for drainage. They didn’t move. She pulled harder. Hank groaned and flinched as the ligatures came loose in a rush of blood and pus.

She’d try a drawing poultice first. If that didn’t work, she’d have to reopen the incision and cut away any necrotic flesh. If that didn’t work, she’d have to amputate. And if that didn’t work, he’d be dead.

 

 

SHE STARTED WITH A HOT FLAX SEED POULTICE, REPLACING IT as soon as it cooled. It worked somewhat. After adding ground mustard, it seemed to draw better. In addition, every thirty minutes she dosed him with aconite solution through a dropper to help with fever and restlessness, and with each third poultice, she flushed his arm with one ounce of carbolic acid mixed in a pint of water. Meanwhile, Brady continued with the cool compresses.

Throughout the day they worked, and by late afternoon, the swelling was down and his fever had dropped below the critical level, although it still remained high.

Taking a break to clear her mind and figure out what more she should do, she left Hank in Brady’s care and, donning her coat, stepped out onto the small platform at the front of the parlor car.

It was dusk. The caboose and locomotive and tender were gone, and the parlor car stood alone on a siding next to the main track, slowly disappearing under a mantle of white. Clouds hung heavy and low, and the air was so thick with wood smoke and fog rising from a fast-moving creek nearby, it felt like the world was wrapped in a misty cocoon. Drawing no comfort from it, Molly started back inside.

“Ma’am?”

A woman stepped out of the mist, her face a white oval under a slouch hat dusted with snow. She stopped at the steps leading up to the platform. “Is Hank . . . is he . . .” She cleared her throat. “We were wondering.” She gestured over her shoulder toward shadowed buildings beside the track and the darker shadows standing against them. “Will he make it?”

Dozens of shadows. Workers from their mines, waiting for word of Hank. Emotion clogged Molly’s throat. Knowing she wasn’t alone in this struggle, and that the man she was fighting so hard to save was beloved by so many people, brought the sting of tears to her eyes. “He’s alive and holding on,” she said. “We’re doing all we can, I promise you.”

“Praise the Lord,” said a voice in the shadows.

“Told you he was too big to die,” a man joked.

“Can I help?” the woman at the foot of the steps asked.

Surprised by the offer, Molly hesitated too long. The woman filled the silence with a rush of words. “I don’t know much about doctoring, but I’m a hard worker and I can fetch and cook, and Lord knows I’ve tended men before, so there’s no surprises there, if you know what I mean, and I’d be willing to do whatever—”

“Thank you,” Molly cut in. “I’d be grateful for your help.”

The woman’s smile lit up the dark night. She rose on tiptoe and tried to peer into the glass window of the door into the galley. “Looks pretty crowded in there, so I don’t know if you have room for anybody else, but there’s plenty folks out here who would like to help if they knew what to do.”

Molly felt that surge of gratitude again and with it an infusion of energy and hope. “I could use some cheesecloth and a length of oiled flannel or silk. Also a jar of mutton tallow. And if someone could refill the coal bin and water barrel in the galley? And we need food—broth or weak tea, maybe thin gruel. And Hank could use clean bedding if you have it.”

“I’ll tell them. Anything else?”

Molly thought of Dr. Murray. “Yes,” she said with firm resolve. “You can pray. It
always
helps.”

“We will.” The woman walked back into the shadows.

As Molly opened the door, a man called out, “Good luck to you, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” Molly said and stepped inside.

 

 

THE WOMAN’S NAME WAS MARTHA BURNETT. AFTER SHE RE turned with the items Molly had requested, she took over for Brady, freeing him to check on Jessica and the children, who had moved into the top floor of the Redemption Hotel. She was younger than Molly and pretty in a buxom, overblown way. And quite a talker.

“Do you know Hank well?” Molly asked during a lull between poultices. It would be interesting to get a glimpse of her husband through another woman’s eyes.

Martha laughed. “Oh, sure. He’s a once-a-weeker. You can set a watch by him.” Squeezing cool water from a rag, she spread it gently over Hank’s forehead. “And always a gentleman, not like some others I could name. Great stamina. Generous too.” She laughed and sent Molly a sly wink. “And not just with money, if you know what I mean.”

To her chagrin, Molly was beginning to. Aware of the flush heating her cheeks, she busied herself spreading the hot flax and mustard paste on a clean cloth. She had met prostitutes before. They were as much a part of army life as the field hospitals that followed the troops from camp to camp. There had even been a few at Andersonville from time to time, brought in to service the Union officers.

This woman had apparently serviced her husband. How embarrassing. And curious. She wasn’t at all sure what to think about it. Or say.

Martha didn’t seem to note her unease but continued as if the bedroom habits of the Wilkins brothers were a normal topic of conversation. Which, if that were true, was even more disturbing. “Hank’s not as inventive as his brother Jack, mind you. But then, who would be?” Martha laughed and shook her head. “Lordy Lord, the things that man could think up. We sure miss him.”

I shouldn’t be listening to this
, Molly thought as she covered the poultice on Hank’s arm with a square of oiled flannel to keep the heat in.
How will I ever look any of them in the face again?
Yet she didn’t interrupt.

“And built like bulls. All of them. Why, the last time Brady—”

Molly’s head snapped up. “Brady is a regular too?” How dare he put on a moral act with her while he was deceiving his wife. That lying—

“Not anymore,” Martha said, cutting into Molly’s mental tirade. “Not since Miz Jessica showed up. When she’s around, that man wouldn’t notice an oncoming train much less worn-out whores like us.”

Us?
Had Molly dropped even lower in status without being aware of it?

Martha’s gaze flicked over her, pausing on Molly’s less-than-opulent bosom. “How do you know Hank? You one of Hillsboro’s new girls? I heard he was having some sent in from New Orleans.”

“Ah, no.” She felt the other woman studying her, apparently expecting more of an answer. “I’m Hank’s wife.”