Embers of Love (7 page)

Christopher picked up several books and followed her. He waited until she’d secured the books on the shelf. “You really don’t have to keep doing this.” He placed his books beside hers.

She eyed him intently for a moment. “Are you too proud to accept help?”

He rubbed his bearded chin. “Not at all.”

“Then what?”

He liked her spunk. “The books can wait, actually. If you truly want to be useful, I need to get the examination office set up first.”

Deborah dusted off her hands and headed back to the other room. “Very well. Let’s get to work. They’ll sound the whistle when the train is ready to head back up the line.”

Helping Dr. Clayton set up his examination office was a great diversion for Deborah. She found it fascinating to unpack his medical equipment and listen to his reasons for placement. When she came upon a collection of medical journals, Deborah couldn’t help but thumb through a couple of them.

“These look quite interesting.”

“If you’re of a mind to read them, be my guest. Just bring them back.”

She looked up to see if he was serious. His expression assured her he was. “I would like that very much.”

“You may feel free to borrow any of my books, as well.”

Deborah hugged the journals to her breast. “Do you always lend your books?”

“Never,” he said, turning back to a crate he’d been emptying.

Deborah thought about this for several seconds and was about to extend an invitation to him to utilize her book collection when someone called out from the open back door.

“Doc, you in there?”

“I am,” Dr. Clayton announced. He moved to the door and welcomed in a man and woman.

Deborah didn’t know the couple, but she knew their type. They were dirt poor, ill-kempt, and probably had no more than six years of education between them. The woman looked tired and was clearly with child. Her face was edged with lines and her hair was stringy and dirty. Neither the man nor woman looked as if they’d had a bath in a week of Sundays.

“I’m Dr. Clayton. What can I do for you?”

The man held up his hand. “I’m John. My wife here wanted me to see you. My hand is hurtin’ me something fierce.”

“What did you do to it?” Dr. Clayton led the man to the examination table and drew up a chair. “Just sit here and rest your hand on the table.”

The doctor went to a bowl of water and washed his hands. Deborah saw him pour something onto his hands before taking up a clean towel. He then took up a brown bottle and another clean towel.

Deborah could see the man’s hand had swollen to nearly double the normal size and was clearly inflamed. A jagged cut oozed green-tinged fluid. She watched as Dr. Clayton took the matter in stride.

“How did you injure your hand?”

“Cut it at work. Didn’t seem that bad. Miz Foster put a poultice on it, but it don’t seem to be any better.”

The doctor continued his exam. “When was that?”

Deborah couldn’t help drawing closer to see what was happening. The woman stepped forward, as well. “He cut it near a week ago. Ain’t been right since. Cain’t work with it like that.”

“Now, Sally,” he said, throwing her a grin. “You stop your frettin’. I came here like you asked.”

“And it’s a good thing,” Dr. Clayton announced. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t lose that hand.”

“What?” The man was clearly stunned.

“It’s desperately infected. I’m afraid this will be quite painful. Miss Vandermark, would you please bring over a basin and my scalpel set?”

Deborah didn’t even question him. She hurried to do his bidding, rather excited to be of some help. The procedure that followed was not at all pleasant. Without so much as an injection of morphine to kill the pain, Dr. Clayton cleaned the hand and applied the knife. The infection shot from the wound, filling the room with a hideous smell.

Unmoved by the situation, Deborah continued to follow the doctor’s instructions, handing him the supplies he needed to treat the infected hand.

“This town doesn’t seem to overly concern itself with cleanliness. You cannot have a wound of this magnitude and not pay heed to keeping it clean.”

The man and woman exchanged a look. The woman frowned. “Miz Foster said to keep the poultice on. She told us not to wash it at all – said the herbs would draw it until the moon was full. It was a full moon last night, and we took off the bandages.”

“Well, apparently she was wrong,” Dr. Clayton said. He looked to Deborah. “Is this some of that superstitious nonsense you told me about?”

She nodded as the doctor continued to clean the hand. The man was clearly in horrible pain, but though his face paled, he said nothing. She fanned away the flies that hovered and prayed that God would intercede to heal the wound.

“I’ll need to see you first thing in the morning,” Dr. Clayton told the man.

“Cain’t.” He barely breathed the word. “Gotta be at the mill.”

Dr. Clayton straightened. “If you do what I tell you to, I might be able to save your hand. If you don’t, I can guarantee you that you will lose it.”

“John, you cain’t lose your hand.” The woman’s voice was edged with hysteria. “You cain’t work without a hand.”

Deborah reached out to touch the woman’s arm. “Dr. Clayton is a good man. He’ll do what he can, but you have to be willing to do your part. Mr. Perkins trusts him, and you should, too.” She knew that most everyone thought fondly of the sawmill owner. “He looked far and wide to find a doctor as well trained as Dr. Clayton. He wouldn’t allow your care to just anyone.”

“She’s right, Sally.” A fine line of perspiration edged the man’s upper lip. “Doc, will you let Mr. Perkins know that you told me to come here in the morning?”

“I will speak with him as soon as we’ve finished. Now this wound needs to drain.” He instructed Sally as to what she needed to do. “Do exactly as I’ve told you, understand?”

She nodded. Deborah felt sorry for the woman and patted her hand. “You did the right thing in coming here. Dr. Clayton will do everything he can.”

Once the couple was gone, Dr. Clayton turned to Deborah. “You handled that well.”

She shrugged. “I just wanted to help.”

“You definitely did that.”

The train whistle sounded in the distance and Deborah realized she would need to go. She quickly washed her hands. “Things are starting to look a whole lot better in here, but I need to go. Thanks for the loan of the journals.” She gathered up the three magazines that she’d set aside to take with her. “I’ll have them back soon.”

“Please thank your mother for the doughnuts.”

“I’m sure there will be other offerings as people get used to the idea of having a regular doctor. You’ll find folks around here can be very friendly once they feel safe with you.”

She wanted to tell him how much she admired his skills but held back. Instead, she just smiled and headed for the door. “Mama also wanted you to know that you’re always welcome at the house. Come anytime for supper – or any other meal, for that matter.”

Deborah didn’t wait for an answer but headed out across the dirt road and made her way to where the little engine waited.

“Come on up,” the fireman said, extending his hand.

Deborah gathered her skirts, careful not to damage the journals, and made the stretch to reach the first step. She grabbed the grimy rail and pulled herself up. George steadied her as she finally made it into the engine compartment. The engineer, an older man named Jack, tipped a finger to his cap and gave the whistle another short blast.

“I figured you’d come back with all sorts of girly geegaws,” George told her. “Told Jack we probably wouldn’t have room for it all.”

She smiled. “I’m not much of a shopper, George.” She held up the journals. “More of a reader.”

“Never learned myself.” He turned back to his job of loading the firebox as Jack put the train in motion. “Never saw a need. Guess you can read enough for all of us.”

Deborah shook her head. “You ought to learn, George. You’d be surprised how much fun it can be. I could even help you if you’d like.”

He laughed. “Won’t help in gettin’ the steam up, so I don’t reckon I need it.”

She looked out the window and sighed. Ignorance seemed the answer to all things uncomfortable or challenging.

Lord,
she prayed,
I know you brought me back here to help my
family. I want to help them. I love them. But there’s so much more out
there, beyond my little world in Perkinsville, Texas. . . .

C
HAPTER
6

After church on Sunday, the congregation gathered outside under the shady box elders and hickories and held a picnic lunch. Everyone brought something to share, and soon the atmosphere was quite merry. Lizzie had never experienced anything like it. Gone were the pretenses and worries of social status. Even the Perkins family blended with the lowliest mill worker and his family.

The contrast in clothing was evident. The members of the poorer families were dressed simply in garments that had seen a great deal of wear. Many of the outfits bore patches and stains, but it was the best they could offer. People from more affluent families wore stylish outfits that looked store-bought and new, compared to the outfits of their less wealthy neighbors. The Vandermarks fell in between, neither too fashionable nor too unkempt. Lizzie now understood why Deborah had traded most of her beautiful gowns for simpler fare at the secondhand shop in Nacogdoches. Yet even now, as Deborah approached in a lovely gown with yellow flowers set against a cream-colored background, she looked radiant – almost elegant. Everyone seemed happy to see her and stopped her frequently to bid her welcome home or to ask about her travels.

At last Deborah managed to separate herself and closed the distance to Lizzie, who was filling her plate. “G. W. is all alone, and I want you to help me keep him from stewing and fretting.”

Lizzie met Deborah’s determined expression. “What can I do?” She turned back to the table and took a piece of corn bread.

“Just go talk to him. He tends to get moody at these gatherings because he doesn’t want to have to talk to anyone about anything. Just sit with him and keep him from thinking on Papa’s death.”

Lizzie took up a piece of fried chicken and looked to her friend in confusion. “And how am I supposed to do that? I can hardly keep a man from thinking about what he chooses.”

“If you talk to him about other things, he’ll have to keep his mind elsewhere.” Deborah took hold of Lizzie’s arm and pulled her in the direction of the creek. “He’s over here.”

Barely keeping her plate balanced, Lizzie fought to keep up with Deborah. She didn’t think this was a good idea, but it didn’t appear she had a choice in the matter.

“G. W., Lizzie doesn’t have anyone to talk to. I told her she could come sit with you,” Deborah said, releasing her friend as they approached G. W.

He sat with his back to a tree, a plate of food uneaten in his lap. Lizzie could tell that he wasn’t in a mood for company, but he was too much of a gentleman to say so.

“I can go if it’s too much of a bother,” she said softly.

He shook his head. “That’s all right.”

Deborah smiled. “I told you it would be fine.” She lifted her skirt and whirled off in the opposite direction. “I’ll be back after a bit.”

“I really am sorry,” Lizzie told him.

G. W. shrugged. “I know what she’s up to. So long as you know it, too, then we won’t be duped.”

She looked at the ground and then to her plate, wondering how she was going to sit without dumping her food. G. W. seemed to understand her predicament and put his own plate aside. He was on his feet assisting her before Lizzie could ask for help.

“Thank you. I was rather perplexed for the moment.” She smiled and settled the plate of food on her lap.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Lizzie nibbled at her chicken while G. W. stared out at the muddy waters, lost in thought. She couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind. How could she possibly impose her own interests upon him? Whether Deborah liked it or not, Lizzie knew there was only one topic of conversation that would help G. W.

“If I’m not causing you even more pain, I wonder if you might tell me about your father’s accident. Deborah tells me the anniversary of his death is coming up.”

G. W. looked at her in surprise. For a moment, Lizzie wasn’t at all sure he would even remain at her side, much less speak. Finally, however, he exhaled a long breath.

“Three years next month,” he said as if she’d asked for confirmation. “But it seems like just yesterday.” He started at the beginning and filled in the details that Lizzie hadn’t known.

“The work is unpredictable,” he told her after reliving the accident in detail. “Any time you combine sharp tools, animals, and human error, you’re bound to have trouble.”

“It sounds like logging is a very dangerous industry,” Lizzie said. “Did your father realize just how dangerous it was when he started this business?”

G. W. gave a brief laugh. “He knew. He’d been around it in Georgia. My father and uncle had honestly planned to come here and plant cotton, but loggin’ seemed a necessary way to start.”

“Why?”

“The good farmin’ ground was taken by the time they arrived. The land they were able to get was all wooded. They figured they could log the forests, get the lumber to the nearby towns, and clear their land at the same time. They were fixin’ to clear out enough of the forest to plant cotton, but it never worked out that way. The loggin’ proved to be a valuable means of gainin’ an income. Pretty soon they were buyin’ more forest land, and Vandermark Logging became a permanent operation. It was actually my father’s pride and joy. He loved the work he did.”

“So they chose their profession, even knowing the dangers. That’s true bravery, in my mind,” Lizzie said casually. “It amazes me that a man, knowing the possibility of death lingered just around the corner, would continue to put his hand to a task.”

“It was Pa’s way of earning a livin’ for his family. He always said he got along well with the Piney Woods. I reckon he could have done something else. He was a smart enough man.”

“Obviously. Just as you are. Look at how successful the logging industry has proven to be. Why, I heard Deborah say that eastern investors are all over the place looking for land to buy so they can be a part of this success. Your father had great insight.”