A Veiled Reflection (17 page)

Mac's expression did change, but not in the way Jillian had hoped. It grew even harder, and the words that came from his mouth were given in a cynical tone. “There's no need.”

“Don't be like this, Mac. I said I was sorry, and I am. This isn't easy for me and I don't expect you to understand it, but I'm trying to do the right thing.”

“Well, you're too late. Little Sister has already given birth to a daughter.” He paused before adding, “She passed away shortly afterward without ever having a chance to hold her.”

Jillian felt the room begin to spin. “She's dead?” She barely managed to croak out the words.

“Yes, Jillian. She's dead.”

“Oh, Mac.” She stumbled and reached for the doorpost.

“Are you all right?” For the first time that evening his words softened in concern. “Jillian?”

She held fast to the post, but her grip was weakening as the fainting spell overtook her body. “I'm sorry,” she whispered as Mac caught her in his arms. “I'm so sorry.”

Mac looked at the unconscious woman and waited only momentarily before lifting her into his arms. He carried her to the sofa, uncertain of how to treat the situation. He didn't feel the need to act as doctor to her when it was obviously the shock of the moment that had brought about her condition. Still, he was a doctor first and foremost, even if his heart was aching over their wounded friendship and Little Sister's death. He checked Jillian's pulse, then gently slipped his arm under her neck to lift her head.

“Jillian?” he said in a professional manner, patting her cheeks to bring her around. “Jillian, wake up.”

She moaned softly and began to regain consciousness. “I . . . what . . .” she murmured, struggling to open her eyes.

“You fainted,” he said, brushing back an errant strand of blond hair. Holding her close, Mac felt torn between his anger with her earlier attitudes and his emotions at seeing her so helpless. He realized how deeply he'd come to love this woman, and that fact was almost more troubling than the disappointment he'd felt in her refusal to help Little Sister. It wasn't mere infatuation as he had hoped, or even a love born out of isolation and loneliness. She had become an integral part of his life, and Mac was hard-pressed to let her go now that he knew how important she'd become.

“God help me,” he prayed.
Help us both,
he added silently while glancing down at the woman in his arms. There was no way this was going to be easy. For despite his love for Jillian and a deep desire to keep her in his life, Mac knew the hopelessness of the situation. He could never keep her. He could never marry her—not with so much in his past to condemn him.

ELEVEN

WATCHING JILLIAN REGAIN HER COMPOSURE, Mac was amazed at the flood of memories that came to him. He hated that the past just wouldn't die. People died. Why couldn't their memories be as obliging?

“Oh, Mac,” Jillian whispered, not even trying to get away from his hold. “I'm sorry.”

He felt his anger subsiding. “Don't worry about it. Obviously you have something troubling you quite deeply. Are you sure you're not sick?”

Jillian shook her head. “Not in the sense you're suggesting. It's a long, long story, Mac, but honestly, it has nothing to do with feeling anything against Little Sister. I truly admired her. She could have taken her life as the others did, she could have sought revenge with her brother, but instead she did nothing for herself. I would have come to help, but . . .”

“But?” he asked, his hand gently stroking her hair.

“But I was too afraid,” she whispered.

“Afraid of what?”

All at once Jillian seemed to realize the intimacy of the moment and attempted to sit up. Mac very discreetly withdrew his hold on her.

“Slow down, you don't want to pass out again.”

“I'm sorry,” she muttered, inching away to put distance between them.

“You've already said that a few times too many,” he replied, getting to his feet. “Now, why don't you tell me about this—starting with why you fainted.”

Jillian licked her lips and lowered her gaze to the floor. “I can't abide death, Mac. My grandmother told me such horrible stories that I can't bear to even think about it. She told me if I were in the same room with someone when they died, I would be the next to go. Tales about how if you were the first one to touch someone after they died, they could take over your body. She also told me that dead spirits stayed in the room until a living person came in and allowed them a flesh-and-blood body to take over.

“Grandmother lived with us for about five years, and even before that, she was always telling her stories and warning us of different things. Once when a bird flew into her house, she went positively hysterical, saying that it was a sure sign someone was going to die. Sure enough, two days later my uncle died in a carriage accident. Another time, I accidentally rocked her rocking chair and it turned out to be another sure sign that there would be a death in the immediate family. A week later, we got word that my grandfather on my mother's side had passed away. Grandmother Danvers never let me forget that I had caused it by rocking that chair.”

“That's all nonsense, Jillian,” Mac replied, trying to sound patient. In truth, he wanted to laugh out loud. It seemed so funny that a grown woman could have such fears.

“I know it's nonsense, but it scares me still.” Her voice sounded strange, and Mac worried that she might start to cry. He wasn't at all sure what her tears might do to his resolve to keep his distance.

“I didn't mean to suggest that you weren't within your rights to be scared,” Mac finally said. “Your grandmother's actions and words were cruel. And I was wrong to get so mad at you. It's just . . . well, I was tired and I knew the end was coming. I didn't think the baby would even make it. I figured I'd be burying them both by morning.”

“I know I've been a ninny, and if I hadn't, then maybe Little Sister could have had her brother's comfort in her final hours,” Jillian said, looking up mournfully at Mac.

He shook his head. “Bear would never have come. He'd rather die than step foot in a white man's house. He'll come now to take her home and give her a proper funeral, but he wouldn't have come before then. Mary knew it, same as I did.”

“Oh, Mary must hate me,” Jillian said, burying her face in her 125 hands.

“Mary doesn't know about your refusal,” Mac said softly. “I just told her you were busy. It wasn't exactly a lie.”

“If I'd been there . . .”

“Little Sister would still be dead and you would be hysterical.” Mac tried to keep his tone from sounding too condemning. “Jillian, I understand, and I'm not mad anymore. In fact, I'm pretty embarrassed about the way I acted. I didn't give you a chance to explain, and I'm sorry. I'm just so used to people being unwilling to help when it comes to the Indians, I jumped to the wrong conclusion. There are so many different tribes in the area, and even so, most folks—most of
our
people—won't lift a hand to befriend them or treat them decently. Instead, they just demand that the Indians be contained on reservations. It's easier to pretend they don't exist if you can keep them out of sight.” He paused, realizing he was rambling.

Jillian watched him with wide blue eyes and an expression that melted his heart. “Forgive me?” he questioned with great hope.

“There's nothing to forgive you for,” Jillian replied. “I'm the one who was in error. Do you forgive me?”

He reached out to help her to her feet. “You acted on what you knew. I'm sorry you were so afraid. I'm sorry that you've suffered because of one old woman's superstitious notions. As a doctor, I can tell you that none of that stuff has any bearing on real life. Birds can fly all over the house, stars can fall from the sky, but it doesn't cause death. You know, if Mary were here, she'd tell us about eternal life in Jesus and how we don't need to fear death because He's already overcome it.”

“Do you believe that, Mac?” Jillian asked.

Mac thought about it for a moment. “I was raised to go to church every Sunday, mainly because my father was the one doing the preaching. I used to think I understood this religion thing pretty well. You did as you pleased through the week, and on Sunday you came to church all bathed and gussied up and you told God how sorry you were for all the bad things you'd done. You talked to folks about heavenly matters, leaving each other with a hearty ‘God bless you' and ‘See you on Sunday.' Then you left just in time to go socialize and get an early start on the sins for next Sunday.”

Jillian grinned, and Mac was relieved to see the color returning to her cheeks.

“But I now know there's a whole lot more to being a Christian than going to church on Sunday.”

“What changed?”

“My parents, for one. They began to see that God has something more in mind for them. They decided they were called to the mission field, and before I knew it I was staying with my grandparents and my folks were thousands of miles away.” He remembered that separation as being one of the most painful in his life, and he knew the tone he took betrayed it. “It was hard to lose them.”

“I'm sorry, Mac. I didn't have any idea.”

“Of course not,” he said, smiling. “I can't say that their change of heart changed me. I'm still not sure where I stand or how I look at spiritual things. Mary's helped me to see that it's all a very personal matter.”

“How?” Jillian questioned.

Mac laughed. “She once asked me outright if I was a Christian. I told her, of course I was. She asked me how I knew it, and I told her my folks were Christians and I'd been going to church all my life.” Mac could remember the older woman's reaction like it was yesterday. “She laughed at me and asked me again how I knew I was a Christian. I told her I sat in church every Sunday and that folks who weren't Christians wouldn't do such a thing.”

Jillian smiled. “What did she say?”

“She told me she could drag Dobbin into church every Sunday but it still wouldn't make that mule a Christian—or human, for that matter.”

Jillian giggled. “She does have a way with words.”

Mac nodded. “I finally understood, nevertheless. She asked me if I knew where I was going when I died. I hadn't really given it much thought. I'd always presumed it would be heaven, so I never worried much about it.” He shrugged. “I suppose it sounds a bit foolish.”

“Not at all,” Jillian said, suddenly sobering. “It sounds all too familiar.”

“Well, maybe that's something you should discuss with Mary. She says it's all about a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. She says we can sit in a pew until our backsides are grafted to it and it still won't change our hearts. I wasn't always sure I understood, but tonight I think she finally got through to me.”

“How?” Jillian questioned, watching him carefully, as if he were about to impart some great universal mystery to her for safekeeping.

Mac pushed back the hair that had fallen across his forehead and said, “She told Little Sister she'd see her soon. I came to realize that I didn't have the same confidence in my eternal destination as Mary did for herself. I intend to spend a little time praying on the matter, and tomorrow I'm going to go talk with Reverend Lister.”

Jillian stood completely still for what seemed an eternity. Finally she nodded. “It gives me much to think about. I'll be interested to know what he tells you.”

Mac reached out and took hold of her shoulders. “I'm truly sorry for the way I acted. You've been a good friend, and I wouldn't want to do anything to cause that to end.”

Jillian nodded. “You've been a good friend too. I could hardly bear the idea of spending three months in a place like this, but you've made the time go fast.”

Mac felt a pang of regret stab at his heart. In a very short time, Jillian would return to Kansas City and he'd never see her again. Of course, he could give up his life in the desert and follow her back East. He had lived in cities before; surely he could do it again.

She suddenly appeared to grow uncomfortable. Maybe she could read his mind.

“I need to get back. They'll lock me out otherwise, and I'm not sure I'm up to climbing that trellis, even if Judith could.”

Mac smiled. “Let me walk you back.”

“No, that's not necessary,” Jillian said, pulling away rather quickly. “I wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression. All it would take is one of those nosy women from town seeing us together. Tongues would no doubt wag unmercifully.”

“You think they don't already wag?” Mac questioned.

Jillian paled. “What do you mean?”

He felt sorry for her and decided not to press the issue. “I'm just suggesting that the women who gossip will do so with or without anything concrete on which to base their conversations. It wouldn't really matter if I walked you back or not. If they decide there is something to this, they will merely fill in the details from their imagination.” Jillian moved toward the door. “That's why we'd be wise not to give them any fuel for the fire.” She turned the handle and glanced back over her shoulder. “Thanks, Mac. Thanks for understanding and for caring about my feelings.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He cared about her feelings, all right. And if Jillian Danvers cared about him the way he cared about her, the town would have more than a little bit to preoccupy itself with.

He watched her walk back to the Harvey House and test the back door. It opened and she slipped inside without anyone seeming the wiser. Mac felt an emptiness invade the house. She was gone.

“You're being foolish, Mac old boy,” he said aloud, closing the door. “She couldn't be happy living on here as a doctor's wife. The desert would eat her alive.” Mac slowly shook his head. “No, it's better you let it go. Let her go. Don't even try to love her.”