Ginny Aiken (24 page)

Letty helped Andy with Eric’s transfer, which was accomplished with much muttering and moaning from the patient. Inside, she propped her portion of his weight—which seemed greater by the minute—against a wall, closed the door, and took scant note of rich wood, iron trimmings, and a mirror and table to one side. Only when she glanced at the rug did she see the blood.

“His leg,” she cried. “He’s losing too much blood. Here, Andy, help me get him to a sofa . . . a settee . . . something. I must stitch up that wound.”

As he grew weaker, Eric stopped fighting but could no longer help. Finally they eased him onto a settee and draped his long frame on the piece of furniture.

Letty studied Eric’s trousers where fabric was embedded in his wound, the spurts of blood frightening her. Then she glanced at his belt, a possible makeshift tourniquet. But the thought of touching him, the man she loved, in so intimate a place held her back. Something else would have to suffice.

Over her shoulder, she said, “I’ll need scissors, Andy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the anxious ranch manager answered, scurrying off in search of a pair. He returned in seconds, and Letty cut Eric’s trousers to expose the wound for her examination. From the way blood spurted, she knew the large sliver of wood still in the gash had nicked an artery. There was no time to send Andy for her bag back home. With a cursory thought to decorum, she tore a long strip off the bottom of her cotton petticoat, tied the fabric above the pulsing red stream, and removed the splinter. Wadding another length of petticoat into a pad, she pressed it against the cut.

“Does he keep whiskey or other spirits?” she asked Andy. “And what about a needle and thread?”

“Eric don’t drink, but I can fetch you my flask, miss. Can’t say I know about needle and thread. The missus here’s been dead two years.”

“Martina,” Eric murmured. He opened his eyes, and through the pain, Letty saw sadness. “Martina’s sewing . . . in the baby’s room.”

Letty turned to Andy.

“Third door off the hall, miss.”

“Here,” she said to the wiry ranch hand. “Keep firm pressure on it. Should the bleeding slow, even though I don’t think it will, fetch your flask and see that he drinks. We must dull the pain.”

Letty dashed down the hall. She paused at the door to the baby’s room. Dread in her heart, she pressed down on the iron latch. Inside the room, the tragedy hit her, and she knew just how deeply Eric had loved.

Dust motes danced in the stale air, lit by the weak sunlight that seeped through limp yellow gingham curtains. A cobweb draped the top of the window frame, reaching up to where the ceiling met the wall.

To the right of the window, a peg rack held a trio of smocked newborn gowns, the fabric a dull shade of not quite white. A chest of drawers, probably stuffed with blankets, hats, and nightgowns, bore a tracery of dust. Even so, she saw the love that had gone into preparing this room.

The empty cradle nearly brought Letty to her knees. A tiny, fluffy pillow waited for a fragile head. The quilted coverlet, pieced in strips of yellow and green calico, was folded back, ready for a slumbering infant.

Letty wiped her tears with the back of her wrist. Thwarted dreams lived here; it illustrated what lay in Eric’s aching heart.
His dreams had died with Martina and baby Karl. Death had killed his willingness to love.

A searing pain burned away her hopes, her foolish wishes. Eric might desire her, he might even care for her, but the man who’d enshrined his dead son’s room wasn’t ready to love again.

He never would be until he reached out for God’s healing grace.

Tears flowing unchecked, Letty buried her dreams in the remains of Eric’s past.

12

Letty took a long moment to compose herself. The misery in the nursery made her weep, for the lost lives, for Eric, and for herself. She didn’t think she could move, but remembering Eric’s leg and the spurting blood, she forced herself to rummage through the thimbles, pincushions, and other notions in the sewing basket. When she found the spool of thread, she clutched it as if it were a lifeline.

How would it feel to be loved as Eric had loved Martina? She longed to find out, but it wasn’t meant to be. This room said it all. The man she loved hadn’t stopped loving his late wife, nor had he recovered from the death of their child. He wasn’t ready for a new love, he might never be, and the sooner she accepted those facts, the sooner her heart would heal.

She hurried back to her patient. The biting smell of whiskey told her the bleeding must have subsided somewhat and Andy had provided Eric with a measure of oblivion. From the looks of him, he was nearly there. She loosened the tourniquet and took the flask from her patient. “In lieu of Calendula, whiskey can do the job.”

Knowing she was about to inflict pain, Letty gritted her teeth and doused the raw flesh. A sound akin to that of a dying
animal dug its way up from Eric’s middle before he collapsed, unconscious.

Thank you, Jesus.

Eric’s faint meant she could suture his wound without hurting him further. She soaked the needle and thread in the spirits, then bent to her task. Stitch by stitch, she sutured the gap, tears occasionally blinding her. By the time she tied the last knot, her temples pounded and her fingers shook.

Well, if she had to fall apart, at least her body had waited until she’d taken care of Eric. With a whoosh of skirts, she sat on the floor at his feet.

Letty had no idea how long she stayed there, sobbing. The tears, however, proved cathartic. By the time her eyes ached from weeping and her middle refused more heaving sobs, the anguish of her dying dream had dulled.

She went to find Andy. He stood deep inside the barn, shoulders slumped, staring at a hat that hung on a hook. “Eric’s,” he rasped out.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” she said, knowing her request would distract him. “I need you to fetch my medical bag. I don’t dare leave him. Although he’s still sleeping, I’m afraid he might toss around and reopen the sutures.”

Andy’s solemn gaze caught hers. “Will he . . . ?”

“I think he’ll be fine, but he did lose a great deal of blood, and tonight will be crucial. I plan to stay, even though I’m praying it will be a needless precaution.” She dug into her pocket. “Here. This is my key. The satchel is to the left of the front door.”

“I won’t be long.”

Letty made herself a comfortable nest in a vast leather armchair and maintained her vigil for the remainder of the evening. She made a quick meal of some bread and cheese she found in the
kitchen, then returned to her post and watched over the man she loved. Eventually, she dozed, too.

Hours later, a moan pierced her sleep.

“Nooo . . .”

Aided by the moonlight flowing through a window, Letty’s eyes made out Eric’s shape on the settee. His fists were clenched, his features contorted, his head tossed from side to side, denying whatever visions tortured his rest. “Nooo . . .”

She placed a hand on his forehead and found it normally warm, if somewhat damp. Fever wasn’t to blame for Eric’s distress.

Shudders wracked him, and he bolted upright. A wordless utterance, devastating in its despair, burst from his lips.

Letty’s eyes welled up. He opened his eyes, then focused on a faraway point only he could discern. His body was rigid, and sweat beaded his brow.

When the first tear dropped from his lashes, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Although he remained oblivious to her presence, she continued to hold him while the salty flood continued.

These tears, the tears of a strong man, fell for all he’d lost. He wept out of self-imposed guilt, and he wept for love that died before its time. As Eric grieved for his wife and son, Letty held him, also weeping, praying for God’s mercy on the man she loved.

The tension in his body eventually eased. Letty lifted her tear-splashed face from his shoulder and studied his ravaged features. He blinked and shook his head. When he saw her, a hint of hope glimmered in his eyes, perhaps a lightening of his expression, but then he lowered his eyelids, stiffened in her embrace, and grasped her upper arms.

“No,” he said, his voice as rough as the wood that had torn his leg. “You shouldn’t be here this late. Go home, Dr. Morgan. Business hours have long been over.”

Letty nearly collapsed. What had she done to receive such
a cold rejection? But thinking of the nursery, she knew she’d done nothing wrong; she was just the wrong woman. She made sure he had the medications he would need, then gathered her belongings and let herself out. Somehow she’d find the courage to treat him. She wouldn’t take the coward’s way out and refer him to Dr. Medford’s out-of-town colleague, even if caring for him took her last ounce of strength.

As Letty’s footsteps faded, Eric surrendered to the pain in his body and in his heart. He’d had another nightmare. He’d relived Martina’s and baby Karl’s deaths. Then the scent of violets had soothed him awake, gentle arms had comforted him in grief, and he’d welcomed Letty’s ample compassion.

Soon, under the influence of unaccustomed drink, pain, and loss of blood, his treacherous mind had juxtaposed scenes in which the woman dying no longer owned matted blond locks. The woman in the new vision had streamers of coffee-brown curls dampened by the striving of labor. Letty’s silver gaze replaced Martina’s blue eyes, and when he awoke to her tear-washed face, he knew he couldn’t risk it. He had to stay away from her before his love threatened her life.

One tormented week after the accident, Letty tugged on the reins, and Prince led the buggy onto the road to Eric’s ranch. What a splendid day this had become! The beautiful morning had revived her optimism, and she felt, for the first time in days, the hope that always brought her through hard times. The heart that had mourned the loss of love now welcomed the dawn of the new season, and she thanked the Lord for that gift.

Although the breeze bore a nip, the sun sprinkled golden light on the fresh, new world. Around the ranch yard, scattered patches
of tender grass shoots swayed in each puff of air, their green trying to brighten the hard, inhospitable soil. To the right of the porch steps, two jonquils nodded to each other as if discussing the fine turn in the weather.

Letty left her buggy and paused to admire the scene. She heard Heidi’s piercing call a ways off. Underfoot, three balls of marmalade fuzz tumbled over each other in their rush to reach her skirt. Smiling, she disentangled the sharp, fragile claws of a kitten and brought the rascal eye to eye.

“You sweet thing, you,” she murmured when it rasped its tiny tongue against the tip of her nose. “If I weren’t so worried about your welfare around my five Sunday-dinners-that-will-never-be, I’d hide you in my bag and take you home. I wouldn’t leave you to your crotchety owner.”

As she set the kitten back among its siblings, it meowed its displeasure. “I agree, sweeting,” she murmured. “I’d much rather play with you, but the grouch inside needs medical attention.”

Although her feelings for Eric hadn’t changed since the day of his accident, Letty’s illusions had died. A man who enshrined his child’s room two years after the death wasn’t ready to give his heart again.