The Heirloom Brides Collection (50 page)

His eyebrows arched. “More than once. And if I’m remembering that day in the basement correctly, it wasn’t just a peck on the cheek.”

An accusatory flush rushed up her neck and into her hairline. She remembered his touch on her bared skin. “It was more than a kiss, and
that
was a mistake.”

“It didn’t feel like a mistake to me, although I’ll agree the timing could’ve been better.” Zachary sat back, his posture softening. “I’m not trying to embarrass you. And I’m sorry if this all seems too forward.” He glanced at the nearby tables, then back at her. “All I’m trying to say is that you mean something to me. It wasn’t just a moment of passion. I wanted to marry you.”

“That’s what you said.” As he was unbuttoning her shirtwaist. She wanted more from a relationship than just passion—
lust,
her father had called it. Was Zachary capable of a deeper kind of love?

Before she could form a reply, a flurry of activity near the door shifted her attention to a girl huffing out words to the waitress. A lit kerosene lantern hung at her side. When the girl rushed toward her, Darla recognized the white medical bag swinging at her side.

“Jocelyn!” What was she doing out this time of night? Darla’s insides clenched. “Your father?”

The girl nodded feverishly, struggling to get her breath. “He’s real sick.”

Darla snatched her reticule from the seat beside her and jumped up from her chair.

“He’s burning up with fever,” Jocelyn said, her eyes glistening. “I went to the boardinghouse, but you weren’t there.”

Darla gave Zachary a backward glance. “I’m sorry, but I must go.”

She didn’t wait for a reply before cradling Jocelyn’s hand and dashing toward the door, a frantic prayer rising inside her.

D
arla’s breath came in fits and starts as she and Jocelyn sprinted, her in heeled shoes, across Bennett Avenue, up the hill, then down to Galena. Darla had taken her medical bag from Jocelyn, but neither of them had spoken since leaving the café. Even if she could manage the breath to speak, there was nothing to say. If Nicolas had a fever, he had an infection. It wasn’t good, and she didn’t wish to give those words life.

Nicolas’s oldest daughter made it onto the stoop first and flung the door open. Darla followed her inside, squinting in the lantern light. The cot was empty.

“Papa’s in his bed.” Jocelyn pointed to the open door on the left. “I’ll close the front door and turn on more light.”

Darla rushed into the bedchamber, willing her breath to even out. She set her bag atop the bureau beside the bed and unlatched it. Nicolas lay motionless on his stomach, the bandages on his back exposed.

A bulb hanging in the center of the room flicked on, revealing streaks on the cloth binding his bandages and a deep coloring on his face. He hadn’t responded in the least to the light, but his back rose and fell in slow respirations.

Thank You, God.

“Nicolas. It’s Darla.”

Nothing.

Jocelyn whimpered beside her. “I heard Papa groaning and came in to check on him. He was mumbling. His face… it was so red. I knew he had fever, so I pulled the blanket off him. All else I knew to do was to go get you.”

“You did the right thing.” Darla patted the girl’s sagging shoulder. “And don’t you worry. There’s a great deal we can do.” Even as she heard her words, she knew she’d said it to reassure herself as much as Jocelyn.

“I can help.” Jocelyn’s shoulders squared.

“Good.” Darla looked around for a washstand. “I’ll need hot water and soap to wash my hands.”

“There’s water on the stove. I’ll put some in the basin for you.”

She followed Jocelyn to the kitchen. “I’ll need lots of clean cloth or towels. All of them wet. Some real hot. Some cold. I need the hot ones first.”

“And an apron.”

“Yes.” She was so rattled seeing Nicolas like that, she’d forgotten she was wearing an evening dress. “Thank you.”

Her hands clean, Darla took a gingham apron from Jocelyn and tied it over her gown before returning to Nicolas’s side.

“Nicolas, it’s Darla. You’re sick, and I need to remove your bandages.”

When he offered no help, she tipped him to one side to push the wrapping through beneath him, then tilted him the other way. Like her grandmother was fond of saying, “
Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
” While she unwrapped the cloth that bound his bandages, heat radiated from his back.

“When I’m done, I’ll take a look. But I suspect cracks in the scabbing is the culprit here.” When the wrapping cloth lay in a heap on the floor, she carefully peeled the bandages from his back and added them to the pile. Yellow puss oozed from a crack just to the right of his spine. “Yes. We’re dealing with infection. But don’t you worry, Jocelyn and I are going to beat it. And you’re going to help us.”

Jocelyn took slow steps toward her, balancing a roasting pan full of steaming hot dish towels. “Papa’s awake?”

“Not yet.”

The girl set the pan atop the bureau beside the medical bag. “But he can hear you?”

“I’d like to think so.” Darla pulled the first steaming towel from the roaster and laid it the length of the split in the scabs, earning a squirm from her patient. Likely involuntary movement but heartening all the same.

“I’ve been praying.” Jocelyn’s admission came out on a quiver.

“I have, too.” Darla added another sweltering compress. “And we won’t stop.”

“The towels will help?”

“Yes.” As long as she was hoping for the best, she’d start with the hot towels. “We’ll use them to soften the scab and draw the infection out of his body. The cold ones we’ll lay on his face and legs to fight the fever.”

In the three hours that followed, Jocelyn proved to be a capable aide. They’d repeated the procedure with the hot compresses and cold towels time and again. When the fever broke and Darla laid clean bandages across Nicolas’s back, Jocelyn refused to go to her bed but laid out a pallet on the floor and fell fast asleep.

Darla pulled a rocker from the main room and sank into it with a patchwork quilt. Pulling the quilt to her shoulders, she rested her head against the chair. All that was left to do was to continue to pray. And wait.

Nicolas blinked. The sun entered his bedchamber through a narrow opening between the curtains. At the corner of his bureau, just three feet from his bed, a woman slept in his rocker. Was he dreaming?

He blinked again. Her head resting on a balled-up corner of his mama’s quilt, Darla Taggart was sleep-breathing, wearing an evening gown and Maria’s gingham apron. His mind fuzzy, he struggled to remember what had happened.

He’d managed to get himself to bed, but the pain… Jocelyn came in and said he was sick. That was the last thing he’d heard until the other voice called his name.
“There’s a great deal we can do.”

No, he hadn’t been dreaming. He remembered compresses on his back and explanations whispered in his ear. A prayer prayed over him. He reached up and removed a lukewarm cloth from his cheek. Darla had been there taking care of him, bringing him back to life.

Jocelyn popped up from a pallet and knelt between him and the chair, her eyes ringed with redness. “You’re awake.” Joy floated on her whisper.

“Yes. And I feel better.” He patted her face, then pointed to the rocker.

“She came and stayed all night. You had an infection.” His daughter’s shoulders rose and fell. “I didn’t know what to do but to get Miss Darla.”

He nodded. “Sunday night? She was out to supper.”

“Yes.” Her dark eyebrows pinched. “But she said I did the right thing coming to get her.”

“You did.” There was no need to ask whom she was with at the restaurant. Zach had staked a claim on Darla, inviting her to supper in front of him, and she’d accepted.

It shouldn’t matter, but it did.

“Nicolas?” Darla stirred, pulling the quilt off. “You’re awake.” Her smile rivaled the sunlight filtering into the room. She draped the quilt over the rocker and joined Jocelyn at his bedside. “Thank God, you’re all right.”

“Yes, and thank you. Jocelyn tells me you were here all night.”

She nodded, reaching up to cover a yawn. “Jocelyn and I worked together. She’s the best helper a nurse could ask for.”

“I like your new uniform.” He glanced at the soiled apron. “I doubt those fancy New York designers would think to pair gingham with chiffon.”

She dipped her chin and peered up at him. “Your good humor is back. You’re feeling better.”

He drew in a deep breath and blew it out, wishing he’d been the one who had taken her out to supper.

“We need to get some water in you. Maybe some oatmeal. And then I’d like to check your back and the bandages one more time before I leave.”

He nodded. He’d let her treat him this morning, but she’d obviously given her heart to Zach years ago, and this should be the last time he let her touch him. Even in a professional capacity.

For both their sakes.

L
ord God, we are most grateful to you for sparing that dear father’s life again.” Hattie’s voice cracked, echoing the sentiment quaking Darla’s insides. “Thank You, Lord, for gifting our Darla with good training.”

Our Darla.

“And for bringing her back to save Nicolas.”

For bringing her back.
Apparently, Hattie believed God had a part in bringing her here. Not the diary or the cameo pendant. Not Zachary. Not her need for forgiveness. Not even her desperation to understand and resolve her past behaviors. Had God truly brought her here?

Her head still bowed, Darla wiped a tear from her cheek before it could spot her uniform.

It did seem that God had redeemed her misguided notions about Nicolas and his little girls when she’d met them in that one-room cabin in Poverty Gulch. Returning had given her a chance to get to know the Zanzucchi family, and in so doing, to better know herself. She didn’t feel like her past with Zachary had been resolved or those questions answered, but thanks to her time caring for others, she now had a better idea of what she wanted.

“Amen.” Hattie’s benediction brought Darla back to the prayer just in time to join the chorus of
amen
that followed.

Even though the question of God’s true purpose for bringing her back to Cripple Creek still hung in the air unanswered, the
amen
certainly was a fitting closure to her prayers for Nicolas, and Jocelyn’s prayers for her ailing papa. God had answered them. Yesterday morning Nicolas had eaten a bowl of oatmeal and drunk a cup of coffee. She’d left satisfied that they’d beaten the infection and he was on the mend.

“Dear, would you start the egg mess on its journey?” Hattie nodded toward the bowl of scrambled eggs parked in front of Darla.

“Yes, of course.” She scooped eggs into the serving spoon, taking care to include generous portions of bell peppers, onions, and diced ham in her
mess.
She looked forward to these hearty morning meals. And couldn’t help but wonder if Nicolas and the girls would enjoy egg mess.

“I’ll happily take the first two or three biscuits.” Mr. Sinclair set one steaming biscuit on his breakfast plate, then another.

Hattie’s smile reached the crinkles that framed her blue-gray eyes. “Don’t forget to share, Mister.”

“Oh, I’ll share.” He winked. “Eventually.”

As Darla passed the bowl of eggs to Cherise and took the plate of potato cakes from Hattie, she couldn’t help but pray for the kind of love Hattie and Harlan Sinclair shared.

“Are you all right, dear?” Hattie covered her hand like a mother hen would shelter her chick with a wing.

“Yes, ma’am. I feel better than I have in a very long time.” Darla patted the knobby hand resting atop hers and met Hattie’s tender gaze. “Thank you.”

“We love having you here.” Hattie reached for the bread basket. “You will see Nicolas and the girls today?”

“Yes.” Darla stopped her fork midair. “I’ll go check on Rose and her baby, then see Mrs. Baxter. From there, I’ll go to the Zanzucchis’ home.” Those visits always required more time, or at least, they’d earned more time. Visiting Nicolas and his girls gave her something to look forward to at the end of her workday.

She’d scooped the last bite of potato cake into her mouth when the new doorbell rang, and Mr. Sinclair rose to answer it. She’d barely had time for a sip of tea before he returned.

“You have a caller, Miss Taggart.”

“I do?” She set her teacup in the saucer. Perhaps Dr. Cutshaw had someone to add to her list of home visits.

“It’s Mr. Zachary Pfeiffer.”

“Oh.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin and stood. “I’m afraid I left our supper quite abruptly the other evening.”

“I told Mr. Pfeiffer you’d meet with him in the parlor. Is that agreeable?”

“Yes, thank you.” Standing, she glanced at Cherise and Hattie. “Please excuse me.”

When Darla walked into the parlor, Zachary stood in front of the hearth, looking at a small marble bust of President Lincoln from the mantel. He’d traded in the suit for a clean pair of bib-and-brace overalls.

“Good morning,” she said, walking to the back of the settee. Since their supper on Sunday had been cut short, she needed more time with him in order to determine if there was more to her feelings for him than infatuation and regret; more to his interest in her than physical attraction. Since she didn’t have time for all of that this morning before work, determining the true nature of their relationship would have to wait. Perhaps he was there to arrange another supper.