Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (16 page)

Chapter Eighteen

W
inifred surreptitiously ran her thumb along the edge of the large square polished walnut table about which seventeen of her fellow conservatory faculty members gathered. The new term would start next week and during the next three hours the perennial matters of classes and practice rooms and who would first use ensemble rehearsal space would be hashed out.

The conservatory director, Professor Rolf Adamson, lightly tapped his wooden gavel, and conversation dwindled into silence. He began to outline the meeting agenda but Winifred found herself gazing out the tall windows, admiring the bright crimson and gold maple trees along the faculty house walkway. She loved the brilliant colors of fall, and when the leaves withered and left the bare branches shuddering in the winter winds, an inexplicable sadness fell over her spirits.

It was like life, she supposed. Eventually spring would come, bringing new green buds and bright golden jonquils poking up from the earth, but it always saddened her to see a lovely thing pass, even a show of scarlet leaves in the fall, which would soon blow away.

Today it seemed especially difficult to keep her mind on the perennial meeting controversies: Should the string department be awarded an extra rehearsal hall time or should the woodwinds have it? Could the piano teachers take on three advanced pipe organ students or could they wait until next term? And who would manage the recital schedule this year and iron out the continuing squabbles and professional rivalries?

Winifred caught her friend Millicent's keen brown eyes and shared a look of exasperation. Streaks of gray peppered the neat bun at the older woman's nape and the severe navy dress revealed an expanding girth. Millicent was aging, she realized suddenly. Her friend had taught piano at the conservatory for fourteen years.

Winifred caught herself in a sigh. Would she look like Millicent in another seven years? Even three years?

She pressed her lips closed. Did she care whether the oboe professor was now maneuvering the string players out of rehearsal space? Or whether two viola teachers complained about their teaching load?

No, she did not. Again she gazed at the shimmering maple trees outside the window; now backlit by the afternoon sun, they seemed to glow.

But she did care deeply about her piano students, their recitals, their progress toward proficiency. And she cared passionately about her own performances this season, with Pierre du Fulet conducting her two favorite Beethoven piano concertos; following that, Boston again wanted her for more Mozart recitals and a new Fauré work.

She watched a small brown sparrow hop onto the tree branch closest to the window and cock its head at her as if to say,
Why do you watch me and dream of spring? Are you not content?

Of course she was content. She was fulfilling the acknowledged purpose of her entire life, what she had worked toward for ten long years.

The oboe professor made a rude remark and everyone laughed, even Rolf Adamson. Everyone except Winifred, who hadn't been listening. A general stirring among those seated around the table alerted her to another simmering controversy, but she found she didn't care until Millicent again caught her eye and raised her eyebrows.

In the next moment Professor Adamson called for a show of hands: all those in favor of an extra vacation day at Christmas?

Just as Winifred thrust her arm in the air, the door burst open and a young messenger boy entered, waving a telegram. Rolf Adamson snagged it, tipped the lad, then glanced down at the address.

“Miss Von Dannen, this is for you.” It was passed down to her, and then everyone resumed the conversation about Christmas vacation.

Winifred ripped open the telegram.

Z
ANE SERIOUSLY INJURED STOP
COME AT ONCE STOP
DR. SAMUEL GRAHAM

With a cry she started up from her chair. She felt numb, her mind suddenly a dark fog. In an instant Millicent was beside her.

“I must go to Oregon. To Smoke River.” She stumbled over the words.

“Now?” Millicent whispered.

With an answering nod, Winifred crumpled the telegram in her hand and moved toward the door.

Millicent followed. “Professor Beher, could you drive Winifred to the train station once she's ready to leave? It's an emergency.”

Winifred didn't wait to hear his response but fled down the hallway, out the conservatory entrance and down the street toward her home.
Oh, dear God, let him be all right. Please, Lord. Please
.

* * *

She stepped off the train into a face-nipping wind. She gripped her hat and closed her eyes, her entire body shaking with exhaustion.

“Miss Winifred,” a voice shouted. She opened her eyes to see a slim young man striding toward her.

“Sandy Boggs, the sheriff's deputy, remember? Doc Graham sent me to meet your train.”

“Oh, Sandy, thank you.”

He grabbed up her valise and took her elbow. “Buggy's right here. You wanna go straight to the hospital?”

Winifred nodded.

“Thought you might. I'll drop you there and take your luggage on up to the doc's house. Wing Sam's expecting you.”

“How is—?” She couldn't finish the question.

Sandy pursed his lips. “He's still unconscious, ma'am.” He loaded her valise and handed her into the buggy, climbed aboard and whipped the horse into a trot. “Been four days now and he hasn't woke up. Doc Graham's waiting for you at the hospital.”

Four days! Her heart dropped into her belly. It all felt unreal. The street, the people, even the white-painted hospital looked just as it always had, but everything was different. Inside that building Zane lay fighting for his life.

She struggled to wrap her mind around what had happened, to stay calm, to be strong. She would not cry. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted blood.

At the hospital, Dr. Graham grasped her elbow. “Thank God you're here, Winifred.” He ushered her into a small reception room adjoining the wide entrance hall.

“Before you go in to see him, let me prepare you.”

Her stomach clenched. The doctor sat her down in a straight-backed chair and reached for her hand. “It's a head injury. There was an accident at the sawmill. Zane was pulling the man out from under a belt when the log slipped. It caught him across the back of his head.”

Winifred sucked in a breath. “Will he live?”

The gray-haired physician hesitated. “Can't say, to be honest. I won't lie to you, Winifred. He hasn't regained consciousness since they brought him in, and the longer he stays that way, the slimmer his chances are.”

She pressed her fist against her mouth and bent her head. “May I see him?” she whispered.

Dr. Graham rose and helped her to her feet. “You look done in, my dear. Maybe you should go on up to the house and rest first.”

“No. I want to see him.”

He nodded, then walked her down the hall to a room with a No Admittance sign on the door, pushed it open and slipped his arm around her shoulders.

She stepped to the single bed and a stifled sob escaped. Zane lay half-covered by a sheet, his chest bare, arms at his sides. But his face—Oh, God. His skin was paste-colored and white gauze bandages swathed his head. His closed eyelids looked bluish and his breathing was very rapid and shallow.

“You can talk to him if you want, Winifred. The last sense to go is hearing, so it's possible he might be able to hear you.”

She lifted one of his limp hands. “Zane.” Her throat closed. “Zane, it's Winifred. I came as soon as I could.”

After a few moments, Dr. Graham gently disengaged Zane's hand from hers and turned her away from the bed. “That's probably enough for right now.”

“Isn't there anything else I can do?”

The physician sighed. “Possibly. Just keep talking to him, but first...”

He led her out into the hallway and nodded at a tall older woman in a crisp white smock. The woman sent Winifred an encouraging smile and disappeared into Zane's room.

“First,” the physician continued, “you need to rest. Elvira will watch over him.”

Numb, Winifred laid her trembling hand on the physician's sleeve. “You will send someone for me if—?”

“I will. You have my word. Now, Sandy's waiting outside with the buggy to drive you home.”

How she got through the next hour she didn't know. Sam greeted her at the door with a somber bow and Yan Li tried to smile but kept wiping tears off her cheeks.

But what broke Winifred's heart were Rosemarie's forlorn cries for her papa. She gathered the girl into her arms, then let Sam carry her luggage upstairs. She settled Rosemarie on the bed beside her and tried to sleep.

Hours later she awoke to find Rosemarie gone and a tray of tea and sandwiches on her bedside table. At first she couldn't eat a single mouthful, but then she gave herself a stiff talking to.
You must eat. You must keep up your strength. Do it for Zane and for Rosemarie
.

Later that night she walked down the hill to the hospital and sat by Zane's bed. She tried to do what Dr. Graham had advised, but it was hard to talk over her tears.

“I came on the train from St. Louis, Zane. It took the same three days but this time it seemed much, much longer because—” She broke off and smoothed her fingers over his limp hand.

“Rosemarie is fine. She's getting so big now, isn't she?

“Growing up just like a weed, my father would say. She is a beautiful child, Zane. She asks for you over and over, but I do not think she should see you like this. Later, perhaps, when you can open your eyes and can talk to her. Otherwise it might frighten her.”

She paused to steady her voice. It would not help him to hear her cry.

“Dr. Graham says you may be able to hear me, so I'm going to keep on talking.” She paused and drew in a shaky breath. “Well, let's see. The conservatory faculty is in its usual uproar over who gets which rooms and what students and the first recital dates. It all seems silly and unimportant to me now that I am here, but I will tell you about it anyway since...since Dr. Graham thinks it may help you.”

She stroked his hand, then lifted it to her cheek. “My friend Millicent—I've told you about her, haven't I? She also teaches piano. She helped me pack my valise. I was in such a dither I couldn't think, so it is possible I have brought too many pairs of gloves but no undergarments.”

She watched his face for a flicker of life. Nothing. And his breathing remained unchanged.

“Sam is treating Yan Li as if she is made of spun sugar. He won't even let her lift an iron skillet to scramble eggs!”

The nurse, Elvira Sorensen, now fully recovered from her gunshot wound, brought a glass of water for her and Winifred gulped down the contents. Her throat felt dry and scratchy from talking.

She talked until she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer, and then Dr. Graham stepped in and gently guided her out and down the hall. Sandy was waiting to walk her home. Her heart swelled at the kindness of the young deputy, but she couldn't articulate one single word of thanks. He seemed to understand. On the front porch he tipped his Stetson and gave her a thumbs-up sign.

Sam and Yan Li fussed over her and coddled Rosemarie until bedtime. They had set up an extra crib in their room off the kitchen, and Yan Li assured her that Rosemarie was used to sleeping downstairs.

“Baby sleep, no matter what,” Sam confided. “Same for you, missy. Must sleep.”

The following morning Yan Li made the little pancakes Zane liked so much. Rosemarie had developed a taste for them as well, though more ended up on her face than in her mouth. Winifred picked at her breakfast until Sam stood frowning beside her. “You eat,” he ordered. “Yan Li make special.”

An hour later Winifred tiptoed into Zane's hospital room to find Dr. Graham bent over him, stethoscope in hand.

At her questioning look he shook his head.

“There's been no change, my dear.”

She resumed her place at Zane's bedside and again began to talk. She told him every inconsequential thing she could think of, about Yan Li's pancakes and Rosemarie's ability to smash them back into dough and smear them in her hair; the crisp sunshine outside; the lettuce in Yan Li's garden that was going to seed in the fall heat; even Sam's frowning presence beside her at her breakfast table.

Elvira brought a fresh glass of water and Winifred sipped it and went on talking. Hours later, she stopped to draw a breath and heard a strident voice in the hallway outside.

“I must see Zane! Where is he?”

Winifred's heart stuttered. Darla Bledsoe. What was she doing here? Zane's hold on life was tenuous at best; Darla would only disturb him.

She rose quickly, walked through the door of the hospital room and stepped into Darla's path.

“Stand aside,” the young woman snapped. “I know he's in there.”

“I will not stand aside,” Winifred replied calmly. “Zane is unconscious. Dr. Graham says he needs complete quiet, and no visitors.”

“But you're here! I want to see him.”

“No.” Winifred put as much steel in her voice as she could muster. “You may not see him.”

Darla's face grew mottled. “Why not? I'm closer to him than you are!”

Winifred ignored the comment. “Go home, Darla. If you want to help Zane, then pray for him.”

The widow made to push her way past, but Winifred stepped in front of her. “Zane does not want to see you.”

“You don't know that,” Darla shouted.

Winifred took a deep breath. “I do know that. I am not letting you past this door. You will leave him in peace.”

Dr. Graham arrived, took hold of Darla's arm and brusquely ushered her away. Shaking, Winifred returned to Zane's bedside and again took his hand in hers.

Suddenly she felt a gentle but definite pressure against her palm.

“Elvira! Elvira, come quick!”