The Doctor Takes a Wife (13 page)

“‘Was'?”

“Was,” Nolan confirmed. “He died, Reverend. A fever took him, and nothing I did made any difference. Not even when I prayed for him. He died just as he wanted to, under that cottonwood tree on the banks of the Brazos River.”

“S
o that's how you came to the great state of Texas,” Pastor Chadwick murmured, when Nolan finished speaking.

“Yes,” Nolan said. He lowered his gaze to Sarah, lying so flushed and still, her eyes closed, her perspiration-damp hair confined in a dull yellow braid lying beside her on the pillow. He wondered what she would have thought of his tale. “Jeff was the brother I never had, and a better friend than any I'd met among those wearing blue.”

“And yet, once your responsibility to your friend, the Confederate colonel, was ended, you didn't return east to your home.”

Nolan shrugged. “Oh, I could have gone back to Maine, I suppose—a medical college there had already sent me word that they'd love to have a physician of my experience teaching medicine. I'm sure my experience as a battlefield surgeon would have benefited the medical students. But Maine didn't feel like home anymore.”

“So you remained in Texas,” Chadwick prodded gently.

Nolan shook his head. “By that time, I'd grown to love Texas…her vastness, her big sky, her interesting, warmhearted people with their drawling accents…Jeff told me about mountains here, and tropical palm trees, and deserts, and it made me curious. I'd like to see the rest of it someday.” He sighed. “I knew Jeff would never be the one to show me. He had been growing more frail for a long time, but rather than admit to myself that he was going to die, I buried my head in whatever books and newspapers were available….”

He glanced back at Sarah then, for it was the part of the tale where she began to be the reason for his stay, but she just lay there, her shoulders rising and falling beneath the sheet, her breathing harsh and labored. Pearls of sweat beaded on her forehead. As soon as he finished telling this saga, he would have to see if he could rouse her enough to sip some more fever-reducing tea—perhaps verbena this time.

Chadwick's eyes remained bright with interest, so Nolan went on. “And in one of those newspapers, I saw an advertisement for the Simpson Creek Society for the Promotion of Marriage.”

Chadwick's lips broadened into a smile. “Ah, the Spinsters' Club. The advertisement piqued your interest?”

In spite of the apprehension that held him in its icy grip, Nolan chuckled. “I admired their pluck in seizing the initiative, to advertise for what they wanted—husbands—rather than staying meekly at home and waiting for them to simply show up on their doorsteps.
I thought if one of these spirited women would have me, she might make a good doctor's wife, and I'd take it as a sign that I belonged here. I sent an inquiry. And in a couple weeks or so, Miss Sarah Matthews started corresponding with me.”

He'd lived for those letters, he remembered. He'd imagined meeting and marrying Miss Sarah Matthews, and bringing his bride up to meet his friend at Beaumont Hall. But the visit was not to be—Jeff died, despite Nolan's care and desperate prayers, and once he was gone, there was no real reason for Nolan to remain at Beaumont Hall. The “Spinsters' Club” had invited him and a couple other candidates to come for Founders' Day. He'd ridden southward, knowing Sarah Matthews would be as beautiful in person as she was interesting in her letters, and hoping she would not hate him because he was a Yankee.

“Thank you for telling me, Nolan,” the preacher said, rising stiffly. “It's getting late, so perhaps I'd better be going, though of course you can send me word at any hour if you need me.”

“Thank you, Reverend. Be careful going home tonight—Antonio said the temperature had dropped, so watch for icy patches in the street.”

“I'll do that, thanks. And know that I'll be praying.”

Nolan rose with him. “When you do, perhaps you could ask that no one else will need a doctor around here tonight.” He wasn't sure he'd be willing to leave Sarah's side, not even if the most experienced doctor in the world could take over.

“I'll do that, son—”

Just then, a harsh, gutteral cry erupted from the woman on the bed. Her spine arched like a tightly drawn bow.

“She's having a seizure!”

Sarah's slender frame threw itself into a racking series of alternating contractions and relaxations. The bed frame thudded in a horrible rhythm against the wall with the force of the convulsion.

Nolan's hand dived to her forehead, and flinched as he felt the heat there. She was as hot as if the very sun had taken up residence within her.

“Dear God!” Chadwick cried.

“Help me turn her on her side, Reverend!” he said, fearful that Sarah would choke.

Prissy ran into the room, perhaps drawn by the noise of the bed shaking, and screamed when she saw Sarah convulsing.

“Prissy! Go out and see if there's ice in the rainbarrel—or in a water trough in the stable. I need it to get her fever down!” Nolan wasn't even sure if she could get it in time to help her friend, but he sure couldn't think with Prissy's shrieking reverberating in his ears.

He was dimly aware of the preacher trembling and sinking to his knees on the other side of the bed, his hands clasped, his head bent.

The seizure went on for an eternity, though in actuality it probably only lasted thee minutes. Then her body sagged in limp exhaustion and a faint pink crept back into Sarah's chalky, blue-white lips. Nolan felt engulfed by hopeless despair flooding through him. It was never good when a fever soared so high the patient convulsed.
He was going to lose her. Perhaps he should have let Prissy cut her hair…

“Reverend, please, pray harder!” he whispered desperately. It was all he knew to do.

Chadwick raised his head, the silver hair gleaming in the lantern light. “
You
pray, too!” he commanded, his voice gentle but strong as granite.

“But I can't… He doesn't listen to me,” Nolan protested, knowing he'd said it before. Hadn't the old preacher been listening?

“Hogwash!” Chadwick retorted, his eyes burning a hole into Nolan's soul. “He's
always
heard you. Sometimes the answer is ‘wait.' Sometimes it's ‘no,' and we won't know this side of Heaven why that is, but He's always heard you, son. The answer may be ‘no' this time, too, but it sure doesn't hurt to ask Him—and it would help
you
. I know our prayers together would be stronger than any I can say alone—and stronger still if you believed in the One you're talking to.”

Nolan felt his knees bending as if of their own volition, and he sank down by the bedside opposite Chadwick and bowed his head, too.

“Lord, please,” was all he said at first, but he knew he couldn't leave it at that. “I don't have any right to come to You, I know that,” he went on, his voice hoarse and ragged with the desperation of his need, “but the reverend here says it's all right to ask. I'm begging, even. Please save my Sarah. Take me, if You want to, but please heal her. I…I'll accept Your decision if the answer is no—at least, I'll do my best to—but please save her. I guess I've never
not
believed in You…but I just didn't think You cared one way or the other about
me or anyone I loved. Reverend Chadwick says You do care, and I've got to believe that. Please, Lord, save Sarah….” He felt the tears, thick in his throat, hot on his face.

“Nolan, I've got ice!” Prissy shouted from the stairway, and ran into the room, her breath heaving her shoulders. She carried a huge bowl of chunks of ice. Her fingers were wet and blue. She'd apparently broken it out of the rain barrel or trough and fished it out with her own hands.

Nolan rose. “Get me some thin cloth, please—handkerchiefs, rags, whatever you have.”

Prissy ran from the room and returned with a two or three delicate lawn handkerchiefs. He wrapped the cloths one layer thick around the chunks so that the ice wouldn't directly touch Sarah's skin, and with Prissy helping him, he stroked the ice over Sarah's forehead, her arms, her neck.

His prayers were silent now, but he continued them.
Lord, please, save Sarah. You are the Great Physician, after all. I'll do anything You want, just save her, please.

Will you serve Me, Nolan? No matter what happens?

Yes, Lord. I'm Yours, from now on.

Gradually, he felt a peace descending, relaxing his shoulders, quieting his pounding heart. He let his forehead relax against the side of the bed.

He must have dozed for a few minutes, for he awoke to Prissy gently shaking his shoulder.

“Go lie down for a while, Nolan. You're exhausted.”

He shook his head vehemently, his gaze flying to the
motionless figure on the bed. “No, I can't, she might have another convulsion—”

“No, she's cooler now, see?” Prissy said, as he reached out a shaking hand to touch Sarah's forehead to verify her words. “I'll watch over her, and I won't close my eyes even for a second, I promise. I'll call you if there's
any
change, no matter how small.”

He wanted to argue, but he was too fatigued to form the words, and let her lead him to the guest room down the hall.

 

Sarah felt like a swimmer who had dived deep into a silent, bottomless pool, now rising slowly to the surface, but not by any efforts of her own, for she was too weak to use her arms to propel herself upward. As if from a great distance, she heard Nolan pleading for her rescue. And then Someone was calling her, telling her to let go, to float to the surface.

Her head still throbbed, her throat remained like sandpaper, but the inferno within had banked its fires. She lay there for an endless time, trying to recall where she was, and what she'd been doing before her body had betrayed her and surrendered to illness.

She had been at the Poteets' home. The sheriff had died. Nolan had been there… She remembered her insistence on staying the night to help the widow, and her first suspicions that all was not right within her….

Tentatively, she opened an eye, squinting against the flaring light of the candle.

“It's about time you came around, Sarah. You've given us all quite a scare,” Prissy said.

 

Prissy had just finished helping her brush her hair, wash her face and put on a pretty robe when Nolan entered the room the next morning.

“See? I told you that she was better,” she crowed, grinning.

“So you did,” Nolan said, his gaze fastened only on Sarah. “How do you feel, sw—Sarah?”

He'd been about to call her
sweetheart
. The thought sent hot color racing up into her cheeks and her gaze dropped shyly into her lap against the earnest intensity of his blue gaze.

“Like a butterfly left out in the desert after it's been trampled by a maddened bull,” she confessed, smiling and raising her eyes to him again. “I hurt
everywhere
, Nolan, but not as bad as I did yesterday. And I can't seem to get enough to drink,” she added, glancing longingly at the water pitcher on her bedside stand.

He took the hint, and poured her a glass of water, sitting down in the nearby chair as if his knees were suddenly wobbly.

“Thank God,” he breathed, his eyes suspiciously wet.

“Ah, the senorita is much improved today,
sì?
” Flora called out as she entered the room, bearing a tray of steaming broth. “I expect she might be ready for some soup, eh? You eat that, Senorita Sarah, and I will bake you my best
pan dulce,
no?”

“Yes,
please,
” Sarah said. “I can't think of anything I'd like more.”

Flora turned to Prissy, saying, “Mees Prissy, your papa wants to see you. Probably he wants to hear how
Mees Sarah fares, eh? Shoo now, I will stay with her,” she added, nodding toward Sarah and settling into a chair.

She had appointed herself as her duenna, Sarah realized, amused, because after a glance in the mirror Prissy had brought, she thought she could hardly be considered a female in need of being chaperoned, with her bloodshot eyes, her hair in a lank braid and her skin pale as milkweed blossoms. She wished she could have had a bath, she thought, even though she realized she would have been too weak to get in and out of it.

“Sarah, I…” Nolan seemed unsure of what to say, which he had never been before. “I…well, I thought you should know that seeing you like this is an answer to prayer.”

She blinked. “I heard you,” she said, even as she realized the fact. “Thank you…”

“I meant every word,” he told her. “Even if you…well, if you had not…not survived, Sarah…” He looked away, as if he needed to collect himself. “I said I would believe. But I asked Him to save you, and He did. And now that He has, I'm going to need your help on this road of believing, Sarah.”

She reached out her hand to him.

I
t was a week before Sarah felt strong enough to leave the big house for their little cottage on the Gilmore grounds. During that time Nolan came to check on her twice every day, morning and evening. At first he seemed fearful when he came into the room, as if he worried that the progress she had made since his last visit—eating solid food, initially getting out of her sickbed, being able to sit up in a chair for longer and longer periods, descending the stairs to eat in the dining room with Prissy and her father—had been only a dream, and he would find her once again lying helpless and insensible, burning with fever. But as each day drew to a close, she grew stronger and coughed less. The bone-deep aching ceased. The anxious look in his eyes each time he beheld her faded.

He stayed only briefly in the mornings, for although the number of new cases in and around Simpson Creek was decreasing, those whom influenza held in its awful grip were still very ill, and some of them died. Every morning Nolan saw the undertaker and his assistant digging new graves in the church cemetery. And of
course, the more ordinary business of a small town doctor continued, as he treated illnesses, broken bones, headaches, belly pains and wounds.

Sarah slept much during the first few days after passing the crisis, letting her body regain its strength. Then sometimes she was wakeful during the night, and she passed those hours praying for those she loved and reading the books Prissy would bring her from her father's library.

In the evenings, after his house calls were finished, he left a notice on his office door that he could found at the mayor's house, and came to spend a few hours with Sarah, cheering on her progress and telling her about his day. Sometimes Prissy sat with them, sometimes she left them discreetly alone, though she was always nearby.

They spent time, during his evening visits, reading the Bible together and discussing what they had read. He had questions, and she did her best to answer them, though sometimes she had to suggest Reverend Chadwick might be able to explain a point of doctrine better than she could.

The day came when she was finally strong enough to make the short journey across the grounds to the cottage, leaning on Prissy for support. When Nolan came that night, they celebrated with a meal that Prissy had cooked of Sarah's favorites, fried chicken, blackeyed peas, biscuits and apple custard pie.

Nolan was pleased to see that Sarah's appetite, which had been poor when she first left her sickbed, had returned and she was enjoying her food. The pink
was returning to her cheeks, too, and the golden gleam to her lovely hair—thank God they hadn't cut it.

“That was wonderful, Prissy,” Nolan praised, when he finished his dessert. “You've turned into quite an excellent cook.”

Prissy beamed with pleasure. “I
have
come a long way from the girl who couldn't figure out how to light the oven, haven't I, Sarah?”

“That you have. Pretty soon you won't need me at all,” Sarah said with a laugh.

Prissy chuckled. “Not so fast! Nolan, she still has to sit there and help me figure out how to get everything ready at the same time,” she confessed, rising. “And now why don't you two go over and sit by the fire, while I redd up these dishes?”

Nolan was glad to comply, and assisted Sarah to the horsehair couch. He suspected Sarah only pretended to need to lean on his arm, and the knowledge that she liked doing so warmed him inside.

“Is that a new dress?” he asked, indicating the flower-sprigged lavender dress she wore. “It's beautiful.”
You're beautiful,
he thought, loving the way her green eyes glowed at the compliment.

She nodded. “Milly brought it by—though I distinctly remember telling her to stay at the ranch until the epidemic was completely over. But she said she'd had time on her hands out there on the ranch, so she made this to celebrate my recovery.”

“I haven't seen any new cases today,” he told her, “and no one awakened me through the night. I think this epidemic is finally on the wane. I believe among those who still have it, all should recover.”

“Thank God.”

He nodded his agreement. “And thanks to the Spinster Nurses,” he said. “I appreciate you organizing them to help. But you know what I
did
see today, Sarah? Buds on the trees! And Mrs. Detwiler has crocus and tulips beginning to poke up through the soil in her flower beds! And it's only February! Back in Maine, the ground would still be covered in a foot of snow!”

Sarah laughed. “I like your appreciation for our Texas weather, Yankee doctor. Let's see if you're still so enthusiastic about Texas summers.”

It was an unspoken acknowledgment, he thought, that he had come to stay. Her amusement lit her entire face.

Then her expression sobered. “Nolan, have you seen Ada around town?”

He nodded. “In the mercantile, just today. She was dressed in mourning—not the loose garments she'd been wearing lately.”

Nolan saw the spark of hope light her eyes. “Did you speak to her? Are you saying she's returned to her right mind?”

He hated to douse that spark. “Yes, I spoke to her. I asked her how she'd been feeling lately, and she announced that the influenza had caused her to lose our baby, though she knew I'd be relieved to hear it.”

“Oh,
Nolan!
” she cried, putting out an impulsive hand to touch his arm in sympathy. “Did anyone hear her?”

“Only the three ladies gossiping by the pickle barrel. I don't think I've met them. They gave me scandalized looks as I departed.”

“Surely Mrs. Patterson set them straight after you left,” she declared with a confidence he was far from feeling. “I know she was one of others who realized Ada's stories were moonshine from the start.”

He sighed. “I don't know if Mrs. Patterson even heard them. She seemed more than a little absentminded when I paid for my purchases. She even called me Doc Harkey.”

Sarah remembered Mr. Patterson had been one of the influenza victims. “The poor woman. She and her husband were married for thirty years.”

The clock on the mantel chimed nine times, and Nolan rose. “It's late. I'd better go.”

“I'll walk you to the door.”

He had hoped she'd say that. “Do you think you'd feel strong enough to go to church with me on Sunday?” he asked, when they reached the shadowy vestibule.

Her face lit with pleasure. “Oh, Nolan, are they holding services again?”

“I told the reverend I thought it'd be safe by then. He told me to tell you not to worry about the music just yet—we can sing without the piano this week.” He couldn't imagine a better way to start attending church again than with her sitting in the pew next to him.

“I have three days to gather my strength, then,” she said with a grin, for it was Wednesday evening. “Shall I meet you there?”

“No, I thought I'd pick you up, and then we'd have dinner in the hotel and perhaps go for a buggy ride afterward, weather permitting. We can look for more signs that spring is on its way.”

Her eyes sparkled, though he wasn't sure if it was
at the prospect of escaping the indoors, returning to church or spending time with him. He hoped it was at least a combination of the three.

“I can hardly wait,” he said, meaning it. At church, the town of Simpson Creek would finally see them as a courting couple. Perhaps that meadow west of the creek would be the perfect setting for their first kiss.

“Oh, Nolan, neither can I!” she exclaimed, and before he knew what she was about, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

Ah well, if his Sarah decreed their first kiss should be now, who was he to want to postpone it till Sunday? He returned her kiss with enthusiasm, savoring the honey sweetness of her mouth.

When they drew apart at last, he looked down at her and said, “Good night, sweet Sarah.”

“Until Sunday,” she whispered.

 

She dreamed of Jesse that night, her fiancé who'd never returned from the war.

She faced the gaunt, hollow-eyed figure in the ragged gray remnants of a uniform.

“It's time,” she told him. “I loved you, but now I have to go on.” She was relieved to realize she didn't feel guilty.

That was what it meant to fall in love again, she realized. Now that she loved Nolan, her love for Jesse Holt was relegated to a memory, a reality that was no more, just as his time on earth was no more.

 

Sarah woke at dawn the next day, conscious of a bubbling energy surging through her. It was high time, she
thought, that she began baking again. She could barely suppress a happy hum until a sleepy-looking Prissy entered the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee.

“Being in love agrees with you,” Prissy observed with a wry smile. “It's about time.” Sarah had told her about the plans for Sunday, and while she hadn't spoken about the kiss, she thought her friend may well have guessed, judging by the knowing look in her eyes.

“Now, don't overdo it,” Prissy said an hour later, as she was leaving to check on her father. “Remember, Nolan told us about the danger of a relapse.”

“I'm fine,” Sarah told her. “A little baking will hardly exhaust me.” She wouldn't tell Prissy that she meant to deliver them, too.

By noon, she had dropped off her first armload of baked goods at the hotel restaurant, and was planning to return to the cottage just long enough to pick up several pies for the mercantile, which lay in the opposite direction.

Coming out of the hotel, Sarah ignored the lone cowboy lounging in front of the Simpson Creek Saloon. Probably suffering from spring fever, she mused absently, for the day was warm enough to be March rather than February. Perhaps he'd been given an errand in town, and he was lingering, reluctant to return to his duties…

“Sarah?”
The voice came from the direction of the solitary cowboy.

She stared, transfixed, into the lean, beard-shadowed face of Jesse Holt.