Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 01] (24 page)

“Is she wearing a corset?”

A man’s voice came from outside. Daniel couldn’t see him but had heard him clear enough. He ran his hands along Miss Westbrook’s rib cage. “Yes! She is!”

“Take it off!” The man came running up the stairs and through the door, out of breath. “Cut it off if you have to.”

Daniel yanked Elizabeth’s shirtwaist free of her skirt. The corset was laced up tight. He pulled the knife from his belt and, slipping his left hand beneath the corset to shield her skin from the blade, started to cut.

The doctor came alongside him. He checked Elizabeth’s pulse and pushed up her eyelids. Her eyes rolled back into her head. “Have you tried breathing for her?”

Daniel knew what he meant. “Yes. Nothing happened.” Then he saw the blood. “Her hand!”

“I’ll tend to that, you keep cutting.”

As the doctor inspected the wound, Daniel made a clean slit up the length of the undergarment, unable to completely detach himself from what he was doing, and seeing. He cut part of her shirtwaist at the top but left the thin white chemise intact beneath. He’d apologize later.

Her chest rose slightly with the freedom, and a wheeze slipped past her parched lips.

“Roll up her sleeve.” The doctor grabbed a bottle and syringe from a shelf.

Daniel did as asked, watching him prepare it. “What are you giving her?”

“Morphine.” He slipped the syringe into her arm. “It’ll relax the muscles around her bronchial tube.” After a few seconds, the doctor withdrew the empty needle and put his ear next to her mouth. “It’s normally used as a painkiller, but patients with lung problems respond well to it.” He checked her pulse again.

Daniel was certain her skin was paler and her lips a deeper shade of blue. “How long should it take to start working?”

“Not this long.” The doctor grabbed a black bag and another bottle and syringe. “Can you carry her?”

Daniel gathered her in his arms and followed as the doctor ran down the boardwalk and across the street toward a wooded area. When they reached the opening in the stand of fir trees, he realized where they were taking her. And as he stepped inside, he heard Josiah and McPherson calling out behind him.

Elizabeth floated on a wave, away from the shrill hum that had all but quieted inside her now. She gave herself over to the tranquil dream, floating there—cocooned in darkness—not wishing to awaken. Because if she did, the pain would return.

Never had air felt so intense against her skin. Never so smooth and slick, so warm . . .
liquid.
It washed over her in waves.

Was this what it felt like to be dead? Like her mother . . .

Distant voices, indistinguishable, hovered closer. The high-pitched humming began again inside her—a slow, steady thrum.

She shook her head, not wanting to leave this place, wherever
this
was.

A sharp prick, like the tip of a saber, sent a tingling sensation shooting up her left arm. It sped through her torso to her other limbs and returned to explode in her chest.

Her lungs screamed. Frantic, she fought for air.

She arched her back until she was certain her spine would snap, and blinked to clear the fog before her eyes, but to no avail. Every sound echoed back tenfold. She had to get out of here. But where was
here
? And was it real, or her imagination?

Hands were on her body. Touching, restraining.
Those
were real.

She struggled to break free in the chest-deep water, and the stench of sulfur lay thick in the close space. It tasted bitter on her tongue. Through a heavy mist, she made out the blurred outline of a man moving toward her.

Pale light atop the warm water shone a path to the outside world and she lunged for it, nearly going under. She brushed the slick bottom of the cavern with her foot before strong arms penned her back from behind.

The outline of the man to her left loomed close. He took hold of her chin. She tried to scream but lacked the breath.

“I need to get her mouth open!” The unfamiliar voice ricocheted off the walls of the cave.

Elizabeth firmed her lips and turned away. But the arms encircling her from behind forbade her efforts and forced her head back. She clawed at the restraint, digging her nails deep into skin. Her jaw was forced open and in poured liquid fire.

Gagging, coughing, she choked on the liquid now scorching a path through her chest. She spit out the remains and, for a second time, went for the arms restraining her—

“Elizabeth!”

At hearing her name, she stilled—winded, wheezing, heart pounding in her ears.

“The doctor’s trying to help you, and so am I.” Arms held her immovable. “If you still have it in that stubborn mind of yours to go hunting, you’d better hold still and do what he says. You hear me?”

More obedient to the drawl in his voice than the gruffness of his command, she nodded—gasping, coughing—and pushed a mass of sopping curls from her face. Daniel Ranslett’s grip loosened a fraction, and she felt the sharp rise and fall of his chest against her back, matching her own. It gave comfort.

The man in front of her,
the doctor
as Ranslett had referred to him, stepped closer again. “I realize this is easily counseled, miss”—his voice bounced off the cave walls—“and much harder done, but you must try and stay calm. I don’t like being in here either. But please take some breaths, and let’s see if your air passage is responding to the medicine.”

She tried to swallow past the ache in her throat and told her lungs to fill. And to her surprise, they obeyed. A fraction. A whistling sound accompanied the effort, but at least she was breathing.

Seconds passed, and the pain moved further into the distance.

“Have you previously experienced this classification of seizure, Miss Westbrook?”

From what little she could see of the doctor in the dim light, his formal tone far outweighed the youthfulness in his voice—a requisite of his medical training, perhaps.

“No. Not this bad.” She swallowed again and cleared her throat. It was so sore. “But I
have
had them before.”

“You suffer from a lung affliction.”

It wasn’t a question. “Yes, sir. I do.”

“May I?”

Through the fog, she saw the shadow of his hand before her face but wasn’t entirely sure of his intentions. Yet understanding that he had most likely just saved her life, she nodded. “Certainly.”

The doctor’s hand disappeared beneath the surface of the water and came to rest over her heart. She didn’t know this man but was familiar enough with examinations by physicians to recognize their routines. The slightest movement in the water sounded overloud in the narrow cavern. She had intended to visit the territory’s hot springs, eventually, only under far different circumstances.

“How long have you suffered from this affliction?” The doctor moved his hand and gently pressed it against the underside of her throat.

She felt the faint throb of her pulse against his fingertips. “As far back as I can remember, but it wasn’t until my seventh year—” she stopped for breath—“that I started having seizures. My physicians back east tell me that my lungs are being . . . compromised with each episode.”

The arms around her waist loosened but didn’t let go.

“Mm-hmm . . .” The doctor cupped her face and ran his fingers up and down the sides of her throat, then across the base of her neck.

But it wasn’t the doctor’s touch that captivated her attention.

Ranslett stood directly behind her, his hands on either side of her waist, his fingers spread over her abdomen. With curiosity, she followed their progress and with every labored breath, she became more aware of him.

The doctor paused and gave an abrupt laugh. “I’m Dr. Rand Brookston, by the way. We had no opportunity for introductions earlier, Miss Westbrook.” He probed her throat again, but she knew his search would prove vain. He wouldn’t find any lumps or swollen nodules.

He sighed. “No lumps or swollen nodules. . . . Have either of your parents suffered from this affliction?”

“Yes, sir.” These were familiar questions. “My mother.”

“And what is her current state of health?”

“She . . . died at the age of thirty-three.”

Dr. Brookston’s hands stilled. “My deepest apologies, Miss Westbrook. Was her passing . . . a result of the ailment?”

She nodded. “It was.”

“And may I inquire . . . as to
your
age?”

Despite the intimate proximity she and Ranslett shared, Elizabeth didn’t wish to answer the doctor’s question in his company. She cleared her throat again. “I am . . . within two months of the age of my mother when she passed.”

The hands about her waist tightened ever so slightly.

“I see.” Dr. Brookston said nothing for a moment, then gave her shoulder a slight squeeze. “Then we will work together to make certain that a similar fate does not befall you.”

Tears rose to her eyes at his words and as the realization of what had nearly happened to her became more real. She nodded, her voice fragile. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Moments passed as he examined her, checking her pulse, listening to her breathe. Once Dr. Brookston declared her lungs cleared to his satisfaction, he led the way around the corner toward the cave’s entrance.

Ranslett released her and she followed, trying to match the doctor’s pace in the chest-deep water. Nearly losing her footing, she reached out to steady herself against the rock wall and winced at the ache in her right palm. Then she remembered . . . the gash from the broken glass. Deciding to use her other hand instead, she reached across toward the opposite wall. Almost there . . .

Her feet went out from under her. About to go under, she managed a quick breath—

Ranslett grabbed her from behind, so quickly he must have been anticipating it. She spit out the bitter water and tried to find her footing.

“Having some trouble there?” His deep whisper drew no echo. His hold on her remained steady.

“I seem to be. . . . Thank you for your assistance.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

His grip around her rib cage made her breathing more pronounced, but something else felt different about it too. She laid a hand on her abdomen and suddenly realized what it was. Flabbergasted, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed before. She was without her corset! Not the first time she’d lost a corset to one of these attacks, but this time . . .

She quickly felt for her shirtwaist and discovered it unbuttoned, but her chemise seemed intact. A possible scenario came to mind, and thinking of Ranslett, she hoped the removal of the undergarment had been the doctor’s doing. Entertaining the other possibility sent her imagination reeling.

Chancing it, she turned. Daniel Ranslett stood close,
very
close. And when he smiled, she would’ve sworn the water jumped by ten degrees.

“You all right, ma’am?”

She blinked. “Yes, I’m fine.” His hair was also wet. She must have given him a run for his money.

A moment passed.

“Would you, ahh”—he glanced past her—“like for me to take the lead?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yes, I think that might be best. Thank you.”

She waited for him to move, then felt something on her rib cage. What was he doing? A slow smile came. He was drumming his fingers? “Ranslett, I’m fine now. You can lead anytime you’d like.”

“Well, that’s awful generous of you, ma’am. And I’ll do just that . . . as soon as you get off my toes.”

“Oh! Sorry!” She stepped away and braced herself against the wall.

He held out his hand. “I promise not to dunk you . . . intentionally.” “I appreciate that.” With a flourish, she swept back a mass of soaked curls. “I wouldn’t want to get my hair wet.”

His laughter echoed and she found herself staring up at him. The more she got to know this man, the more different he was from what she had first thought him to be.

He climbed out and reached back to assist her up the rocks. The weight of her sodden skirt made maneuvering more difficult, but she managed not to slip again.

Conversation floated toward them, and she gathered that a crowd was waiting beyond the stand of trees. Clear of the cave’s warmth, the air took on a chill, and she peered down at her clothing, shivering. The wet shirtwaist hung open and the thin chemise clung to her curves.

Feeling Daniel’s attention, she turned away and slipped the buttons through the holes, then crossed her arms over her chest for modesty’s sake.

“Here . . .”

She looked over her shoulder to see him taking off his shirt. “It’s wet, but it’s thick. I’ve got a coat out there you can borrow, but . . . you probably need a little something more before we get to it.”

She nodded, self-conscious, but only a little. He was acting as though the situation wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, which made her feel more at ease. She slipped her arms into his shirt and pulled it together in the front. “Thank you, Ranslett.”

He lifted a damp curl from her shoulder and rubbed it between his fingers. “You’re welcome, Elizabeth.”

It was the second time he’d used her Christian name, and she liked it. She also liked what he looked like without his shirt. But just as he hadn’t stared at her—much—she forced her gaze upward and followed him beyond the shelter of the fir trees.