Prairie Storm (11 page)

“Flowers?”

“Well, sure. When they're grieving, folks like to come and spend some quiet time in a graveyard. Makes them feel better. I thought flowers would perk up the place.”

Lily reflected on Abigail's barren grave. The baby had no headstone to mark her short life. No one would ever tend the spot where she lay. She had not even been given a little speech or a prayer—not that Lily thought prayers for the dead did any good. In fact, she hadn't found prayers of any sort to be worth much. God never listened.

“I could put up a stone marker for your baby,” Eli said in a low voice. “I could ask Jack Cornwall to carve her name on it.”

Surprised, Lily looked into the man's blue eyes. How had he known what she was thinking?

The preacher shoved his handkerchief back into his pocket and shifted from one foot to the other. “I just figured maybe—”

“Thank you,” Lily murmured. “I would appreciate a marker in my daughter's memory.”

“I'd be privileged to do that.” After a pause, he asked, “Did I tell you Sam smiled at me this morning? Well, sort of. Anyhow …” He looked up at the church and frowned. “Sam's been awfully quiet.”

Lily felt a twinge of dread. “Have you checked him lately?”

“He was sleeping, and I came out here to dig. But that's been a good while ago.”

Tossing down the clamshell shovel, Eli started past Lily on his way to the church. She gathered up her skirts and ran after him. Side by side, they pushed through the narrow door at the back of the building and entered the dimly lit room where the pastor had been staying.

“Sam?” Eli dropped to his knees beside the wooden produce box on the floor. “Hey, Nubbin.”

Lily sank down beside him and drew back the blanket. Heat radiated through the damp cotton gown as she lifted the tiny baby into her arms. Limp, listless, the child opened his eyes and gave a little whimper.

“Oh, Elijah!” she cried softly, covering the baby's forehead with her palm. “Samuel's so hot.”

“Is he sick?” Eli took the baby and pressed his face against the child's cheek. “He has a fever. Oh, God, help us.”

Lily uncurled the baby's tiny hand. “Elijah,” she said, “we've got to have help.
Real
help. Let's take him to Mother Margaret.”

Chapter 6

M
ERCY, you got yourself one sick baby there, Brother Elijah.” Mother Margaret watched the preacher carry a bucket of cool well water into her house and set it on the floor beside the washbowl.

“Isn't he any better?”

“He took a little milk,” Lily said in low voice. “Just before dawn.”

Eli knew that she and Mother Margaret had been awake all night, mopping Samuel's feverish body and trying everything they could think of to lower his temperature. He had hovered over the two women, trying to see what they were up to, asking questions, offering suggestions—until finally the older woman had shooed him outside to pray. Trudging back and forth along his fence, Eli had pleaded with God for the child's life. He was angry with himself for neglecting Sam all afternoon. He was dismayed at the absence of medical care in the little town. And he was truly frightened that his baby might die.

“He's going to be all right, isn't he?” Eli asked, kneeling beside the chair where Lily was rocking the baby. “This is probably just a head cold or something, don't you reckon?”

Her depthless blue eyes gave him all the answer he needed. On the frontier, babies often died for one reason or another. Lily had lost her daughter. Eli might lose his son.

“Here you go, Brother Elijah,” Eva Hanks said, handing him a cup of steaming liquid. “It's sassafras tea. You need to eat something too. How about one of these biscuits?”

He shook his head. “My stomach feels like a knotted-up lasso. I don't think I can eat a thing.”

“Ben has gone to the neighbors around Hope to let folks know about the baby,” Eva told him. “Everybody will be praying.”

Eli looked at Lily. Could prayer save Samuel? Obviously Lily didn't think so. Her face showed exhaustion and hopelessness. Her eyes were red-rimmed from weeping. She fingered the baby's thin blanket.

“I think he might have diphtheria,” she said. “He's so limp and bedraggled.”

“No.” A chill of dread wrapped around Eli's heart. “Not diphtheria.”

“He's still breathing comfortably enough. But I wish we could give him some kind of tonic to break the fever.”

“What about that potion you sell in your show? Could you make up some of that?”

She shook her head. “It's useless. There's nothing in the elixir that would help Samuel. I can't think of anything—”

“Castoria.” A cheerful redhead stepped into the house and held up a dark blue bottle. Eli recognized her as Caitrin Murphy, the woman whose wedding he was to perform on Sunday. “Sure, I've brought Castoria for the wee one. Sheena—that's my sister, so 'tis—she says you must put a plaster on the baby's chest to draw out the infection, and wrap him tightly in blankets to sweat the fever from his body.”

Eli grabbed the blue bottle. “How much should we give him?”

“Wait!” Lily said. “How can you be sure this medicine will help? He's so tiny. He can barely take milk.”

“Sheena says he must have Castoria,” the woman explained. “My sister has five children and one on the way. She knows about these things.”

Eli laid his hand across the baby's heated body. “We've got to do something, Lily.”

“Let me try to nurse him again first. If he can just get a little stronger, maybe he'll be able to fight the fever.”

“I let him get too weak. I fed him mashed potatoes.”

“It's all you knew to do. This is not your fault, Elijah. Abigail was in perfect health when the diphtheria struck Topeka. You mustn't blame yourself.”

“But look at the little fellow. He's skinnier than one of those fence rails I've been splitting. What chance does he have?”

“You answer that question,” Lily said. “You're the one who believes in a God of healing and protection. Where is your God when children are ill? Where is he when they're struggling to take in their last breaths? Where is he when they're hurting … and … and unable to defend themselves … and helpless …?”

A tear started down Lily's cheek. Without thinking, Eli reached up and brushed it away with his fingertips. “Don't cry now, Lily,” he murmured. “God's eye is on the sparrows, and he's watching Sam. He knows the number of hairs on our baby's head. He's holding Sam in his arms, and he's holding you and me, too. He's here with us, right now, this minute. I can't see the future, but he can, Lily. Why don't you sing for Sam? Sing one of the hymns.”

Eli took his mother's hymnal from the table near Lily's chair and opened it. She shook her head as another tear trickled down her cheek. “I can't … can't sing,” she said.

Eli began.

“Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide!”

She joined in, her voice choked with emotion.

“When other helpers fail and comforts flee,

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.”

“Keep on singing, Lily,” Eli whispered. “Sing for Sam.”

Standing, he followed Miss Murphy and Mother Margaret out onto the porch. Hands clasped, the two women waited with heads bowed. Eli stared across the vast plain and thought about Lily's questions—and more uncertainties crowded in. Where was God? Why did children have to suffer and die? What had Sam done to deserve the fever that raged through his tiny body? What had Abigail done? Did God really care about his people? And if he did, why wouldn't he heal Sam?

Mother Margaret began humming along with Lily's soft voice. “Yes, Lord,” she murmured in prayer. “You are the Lord of life. You know the number of my days, short or long. Oh, God, I give them all to you. In health and in sickness, you are my comfort. In peace and in trouble, you are my strength. Lord, you fill my heart. Amen and amen.”

Eli clutched the post that supported the porch roof. God would hold them all in his love—through life … and death.
But please, Lord
, his soul cried out,
don't let Samuel die!

Lily's pure voice drifted out from within the frame house.

“Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;

Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;

Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;

In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.”

Through the rest of that day and the next, tiny Sam battled the unexplained illness that raged through him. Though Lily was exhausted from lack of sleep and from her efforts to feed the listless child, she was touched by the warmth that poured from the townsfolk of Hope. Ben Hanks and Caitrin Murphy, it seemed, had rallied the forces in support of their weakest member.

Caitrin brought a sample of every medicine she stocked in the Hope mercantile. Rosie Hunter, careful for the health of her own unborn child, sent Seth and Chipper to the Hankses' house with enough food to last a week. Sheena O'Toole bustled into the cabin with a batch of fresh bread and orders to
brauch
the baby. She and Mother Margaret tightly bound Sam's abdomen and then wrapped him so that no fresh air could reach his lungs. After a time, they removed the wrappings, rubbed his little body with vinegar and fat, moved his legs and arms in rhythmic motions, and prayed out loud. Then the wrappings were bound again, and the child lay in deathly silence.

Not only the neighbors close at hand, but everyone in the community reached out to the ailing baby. Violet Hudson, a young widow with many mouths of her own to feed, brought a new quilt to cover Samuel. The Laski family sent vegetables from their abundant garden. A Frenchman named LeBlanc arrived with oil to keep lamps burning all night as the caretakers watched over the baby. Even Rolf Rustemeyer, the big shaggy German, rode his mule into town and stopped by to see the Hankses and drop off a baby rattle he had carved from a piece of wood.

“Why?” Lily asked Elijah as Rolf stood on the porch that evening talking to Ben Hanks and Jack Cornwall. “Why have they brought all these things? They hardly know you, and most of them have never even seen the baby.”

Haggard, the preacher studied the tiny child in his arms and shook his head. “Jesus,” he said. “These people love Jesus. That's the only explanation I know.”

“How futile.” With a sigh of disgust, Lily pushed up from her chair and walked to the rough, hand-hewn table. “Look at all this food. What good can it do Sam? None. And neither can their precious Jesus. Some Savior he is. Why isn't Sam feeling any better? It's been two days. He's hardly eaten, and his fever keeps creeping higher. He's wrapped up so tightly he can hardly take in air. Has he even opened his eyes in the last hour?”

“I can feel him breathing. He's still alive.”

“Oh, I can't bear this!” she cried out. “I wish Beatrice were here. She could read the tarot cards and tell us what to do. She has a crystal ball that foretells the future, and she knows how to study a person's skull. Phrenology, she calls it. She even has séances.”

“You told me that elixir of hers is useless.”

“But Beatrice has magical stones that can heal the sick. If she were here, she could put them on Samuel's body. Amethyst and garnet and quartz—they're very powerful, Elijah.”

“Did Beatrice's crystals help your daughter?”

“Why must you bring Abigail into this?” She wrung her hands. “At least if Bea were here she could
do
something. That's better than sitting around praying to a God who doesn't listen. I'm tired of the silly prayers everyone is saying. I'm fed up with their trite little messages of hope: ‘Oh, Samuel's so sweet that I'm sure God will let him live' or ‘Maybe the Lord needs a new little angel in heaven.' That's horrible. It doesn't do any good. We need help here, Elijah. We need to
act
, not just sing and pray. I feel like I'm going mad!”

“You can't bring Abigail back, Lily,” Eli said in a low voice. “Trying to force Sam to live won't bring your daughter back to life.”

“I know that. Of course I know that. I'm not stupid.” She pulled her handkerchief from the pocket of her apron. “But I can't lose two!”

“Mother Margaret lost three.”

“She's obviously a much better woman than I am. I'm selfish and greedy. I want life. I want Abigail.”

“Lily—”

“What do you know about anything?” she cried, turning on him. “You're so blindly trusting. You think God is protecting you and watching over you all the time. He's not, Elijah! If there is a God, he doesn't care about you. He doesn't care about Sam. You would understand that if you'd ever had to suffer!”

“I've suffered. I lost my mother when I was a boy. You think that didn't hurt me, Lily? You think I didn't hear my daddy crying in the night after he thought I was asleep? I was as helpless then as I am right now. I couldn't bring my mother back, and I can't make Sam well. But there's one thing I can do.”