Gold Rush Baby

Hattie’s grin died. “Wouldn’t hurt you none to take an interest in someone, Viola. It ain’t right, a beautiful young woman like you being satisfied to do nothin’ but work and spend her time with an old woman and a baby.”

“I’m not.” Viola summoned a cheeky grin, offered it as penance for her sharp tone. “I go to church, too.”

“Hmmph.” Hattie stepped in front of her and held out her arms. “Leastways, let me take this one and feed her some of the oatmeal. Lest you want her growin’ up to be a slender slip of a thing like you.” She lifted Goldie, propped her on her round hip, grabbed the bottle and headed for the door. “It wouldn’t hurt you to put some flesh on them bones, you know. Men like somethin’ they can get ahold of.” The parting comment floated over her round shoulders as she walked away.

“Which is exactly what I do not want!” Viola pressed her lips closed on her vehement whisper and lifted her hands to rub her fingertips across her gritty, tired eyes. Since moving in with her, Hattie had become aware of her lack of social life and was beginning to probe as to the reason. And the woman was not satisfied with her casual answers. She was pushing harder.

She rose and crossed to look out the window, absently rubbing at the scar on the outside edge of her left hand. The one where Dengler had cut her with his knife the last time she had run away. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take Hattie in. But she couldn’t simply ignore the woman’s homeless state when her husband had died. Please help me, Lord. Please give me the right words to say to satisfy Hattie’s curiosity. You know I can’t tell her the truth of my past, nor can I lie to—

“How’s our patient doing?”

She gasped and spun toward the doorway.

“Sorry, Viola, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dr. Calloway smiled. “I knocked, but the door was open, so I came on in. I thought you must have heard me at the door.”

“No. I—I was thinking.” And remembering. She forced a smile. “Come in, Doctor.” She stepped back to allow him ample space to pass her in the narrow room. “I’m afraid Mr. Stone is still sleeping.”

“I’m…awake….”

She jerked her head toward the bed, looked into those penetrating green eyes. How long had he been awake? Had he heard Hattie’s comments? And her whispered retort? What if she had prayed aloud? Her body went rigid. She looked away. “I’m going outside for some fresh air while you examine your patient, Doctor. I shall return shortly. If you need anything meanwhile, Hattie is in the kitchen.” She turned and walked out the door.

The doctor stared after her a moment, then looked down. “That is one beautiful woman. But I guess you’ve probably noticed.”

“A man would have to be…blind not to.” Thomas frowned. What had caused that flash of fear he had seen in Viola Goddard’s eyes before she turned away?

Jacob grinned, set his bag on the end of the bed and lifted the edge of the covers. “Feeling a little grumpy, are we?” He pulled his watch from his vest pocket.

“Grumpy?” Maybe he had imagined the fear. He gave a snort, winced. “I’m feeling downright surly. And…uncomfortable.” The doctor’s fingers closed around his wrist.

“The pain is bad?”

“Beyond bad. But it’s the weakness that aggravates me.” Thomas scowled up at Jacob. “And your betrayal. I told you I did not…want to come here.”

“Ah! That is a problem.” The doctor chuckled.

Thomas turned the scowl into a glare. “It’s not funny, Jacob. And I promise I will take that smile off your face…as soon as I can stand.” He sagged into the mattress, all strength gone out of him from the long speech.

The doctor tucked his watch away and pulled his stethoscope from his bag. “All right, Thomas, you shall have your chance to do so when you recover. But that recovery depends on good care. And that is what you will receive from Viola.” He put the earpieces in place and leaned down, listened, then straightened. “I want you to drink a lot of water, Thomas. You need to get your fluids built back up. And above all, no movement! Now, tell me about the pain.” He put the stethoscope away and began to check the bandages.

“Hey, Viola.”

Viola dragged her thoughts from the past, spotted Frankie Tucker, hammer in hand, gazing at her from behind the picket fence she was building around the churchyard. An undertone of melancholy in the woman’s usually hearty voice made her abandon her walk and cross the road. She recognized loneliness when she heard it. “Hello, Frankie.” She smiled, placed her hand on top of one of the pickets. “You’ve done a good job. The fence really dresses up the churchyard.”

“It’ll be finished today. Except for the painting. Burns was going to do it, but he and his dog left for the gold fields. I just have to fancy up these end posts—round the tops off a mite. Mack didn’t want no gate. Says he’s not trying to keep folks out, just lead them in and corral them once they get here.” Frankie smiled, then frowned and ran her work-roughened hand over the taller square post at the edge of the stone walk. “Should of been finished with this job last week. Been kinda slow without Lucy and Margie helping me much. But Lucy is helping to keep Caleb’s books now. And they’ve both been busy…setting up their new homes and all.”

So that was the cause of the unhappiness in Frankie’s eyes. She should have guessed. Even in the short time she had been in Treasure Creek, she’d learned how close the Tucker sisters were. And how adamantly opposed to marriage the three of them were until Lucy had fallen in love and married. It must have been a shock for Frankie. Especially when Margie followed their younger sister’s example a few weeks later. She nodded, tried for the right tone of sympathetic understanding. It wasn’t easy. She was as opposed to marriage as Frankie, though for very different reasons. “It must be difficult to get used to both of your sisters being married in such a short time.”

Frankie snorted, jammed her hammer back into her leather belt, bent over and grabbed a tool from a bucket at her feet. “Never thought I’d see the day a Tucker girl would marry.” She slammed the tool against one corner of the post and shoved down on it, repeated the movement over and over. A blade bit off thin little bits of wood that made a small pile on the ground. “Pa must be spinning in his grave.” The shavings grew longer, wider, curled. The corner now sloped from the center of the post to the outer edge. “He raised us to be able to take care of ourselves, not need some man to do for us!”

Viola nodded. It was the best she could offer. She had nothing good to say about men or marriage.

Frankie stopped working, waved the tool in the air. “You won’t find me getting yoked up to no man.” She scowled, then started shaving away at the next corner of the post. “I’m gonna be a deputy, soon as I can convince that stubborn sheriff of ours I’m as good or better than them men he takes on to help him out when there’s a need.”

There was hurt lurking behind Frankie’s bravado. Her heart went out to the unhappy woman. At least in this, she could offer some comfort. “I’m sure you would make a fine deputy, Frankie. But what will the people of Treasure Creek do without your building skills to call upon?”

Frankie paused, fastened her blue-eyed gaze on her. “Guess I hadn’t thought about that.” She squinted at the post, ran her hand over the two sloping corners and moved on to the next. “I’ll still keep building things for folks. Being a deputy is only when there’s a need. And it seems like Sheriff Parker ain’t a very needful man.” She stopped, looked at her. “Been talking only about me. How’s Goldie? And how’s the preacher doing? He mending all right?”

She gasped. “Mr. Stone! I forgot all about him.” Guilt shot through her. She stepped back from the fence. “I have to go, Frankie. I told Dr. Calloway I would be right back.” She lifted the hems of her long skirt, ran across the road and hurried back to her cabin.

“No movement. And no solid foods for Thomas today, Viola.”

She nodded and walked the doctor to the door. “What would you advise for his sustenance?”

“A good, strong beef broth will help build his blood back to strength. If none is avail—”

“Ha!”

Viola laughed at the satisfied grin on Hattie’s face. “Hattie has already prepared a beef broth, Doctor. She was quite certain it was what you would request for him. Is there anything else?”

“No. Just keep him warm and quiet, and continue the pain medicine. Give him the broth as often as he will take it. And water. He lost a lot of blood, he needs to replace the fluids he’s lost.” Jacob Calloway reached for the door latch. “I will return to check on him this afternoon. Meanwhile, if he develops a fever or other problems, please come for me. And if he moves and that wound starts to bleed, come immediately.”

“I shall, doctor. Please give Teena my regards.” Viola closed the door, made the smirking Hattie a little bow, then took Goldie into her arms.

“Would you please bring Mr. Stone some broth, Hattie? I’m sure he must be hungry.” She turned and walked into the bedroom. Thomas Stone’s eyes were squeezed closed, his mouth was pressed into a tight line and his face looked more wan than ever in the full light of day. She stared at him, feeling sick to her stomach. If she had stayed with Goldie instead of napping to catch up on her lost sleep, the kidnapping would not have happened. Thomas Stone would not have been shot. He would not be in this pain. If only there was something she could do to make him feel better. Perhaps… She whirled around, to Goldie’s gurgling delight, and hurried to the kitchen.

“Hattie, keep the soup on the warming shelf. And please watch Goldie for me. I think, perhaps Mr. Stone might feel a little better if I wash his face and comb his hair.” She handed the baby into Hattie’s arms, then hurried to the tiny bathing room off the kitchen, draped a washcloth and towel over her shoulder, threw a comb and a bar of her soap into a washbowl and went back to the stove to ladle hot water out of the reservoir on the side.

The hot water felt wonderful on his face. The hint of roses hovered, even after she rinsed the soap away. Thomas thought again of his mother, focused on the past to keep from thinking of how soft Viola Goddard’s hands were. Or about the ache their gentle touch brought to his gut. He hadn’t known, until now, how much he missed the touch of his wife’s hands.

The softness of a towel absorbed the moisture from his skin, dragged across his whisker stubble. He had a flash of vanity, wished he was clean-shaven and looking his best.

“I’m going to wash your hands now, Mr. Stone.” Her voice sounded different, sort of tight and small. Her fingers brushed against his neck, slid beneath the edge of the covers.

“Wait!” He forgot, tried to grab the covers. White heat streaked through his shoulder and chest. He broke out in a cold sweat. “Shirt…cut…off me.” He closed his eyes, silently cursed the weakness, the bullet that had put him in this bed.

“You mustn’t move, Mr. Stone. I will do it.”

The blankets lifted, cool air washed over his right shoulder and arm. He opened his eyes, looked up at her. Her face was taut. She turned to the washbowl, wrung out the rag and soaped it. He held his breath, fought the sickening throbbing in his shoulder.

“You are quite covered in bandages, Mr. Stone. I’m so sorry for your pain.” She lifted his hand. The warm, soapy rag slid over his skin. Her hands were trembling. He saw her catch her lower lip with her upper teeth, turn to the washbowl and rinse out the rag, and swallowed hard against the churning in his stomach.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to properly thank you for saving Goldie.” She wiped the soap from his hand, took a little shuddering breath, put down the cloth and dried his hand with the towel. “I’m so very grateful.” She smiled, but there was something in her eyes…. He tried to block out the pain and nausea and concentrate.

“Your left arm is bound to your chest. To keep it still, I suppose. I shall not wash that hand.” There was relief in her voice. She pulled the covers back over him and picked up the washbowl. “You rest now, Mr. Stone. I shall take care of these things and be back in a moment with some broth for you.”

Thomas closed his eyes, yielded to the weakness. She had tried to cover it, but Viola Goddard had been upset by his bandages. There had been a fear, a vulnerability deep in the depths of her beautiful eyes that belied her cool demeanor as she washed him. A vulnerability that made him want to take care of her. He clenched his hands into fists, caught his breath at the pain that knifed through his chest and prayed for a quick recovery before falling asleep.

Chapter Four