Gold Rush Baby

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“Much better, Thomas.”

“I feel better.” Thomas watched the doctor put his stethoscope back in his bag and pull his watch from his vest pocket. “I can draw breath easily. And I can speak an entire sentence without gasping. So when can I get out of this bed?”

“Ah, it’s always a good sign when the patient becomes impatient and starts complaining. Of course, in your case, that does not apply. You have been complaining since you awoke after surgery.”

“Very funny.” Thomas looked from Jacob Calloway’s grinning face to the fingers circling his wrist. “Well?”

“Back to normal.”

He waited, frowned. “And?”

“And now I check the bandage.” Jacob lowered the covers to his waist. “More good news. There is no seepage.”

He fought the urge to grab the doctor’s shirtfront and shake an answer from him. As if he could. “Which means?”

“Which means I must speak to Viola and see if she has more pillows I can use to prop you up a bit. If you give me your word you will not try to lift yourself higher, sit up or move about.”

“Fine.”

The doctor’s left brow lifted toward his dark hair. “That sounded a little sour, and came a bit too quickly, Thomas. I will have your word as a man of God.”

Perhaps twisting Jacob’s shirtfront and choking him would be more satisfactory than merely shaking him. Thomas took a breath, nodded. “All right. I give you my word.”

“Excellent. Now let me go and find Viola and see about those pillows.”

Thomas watched Jacob go out the door, tried not to envy him the freedom of movement. There was finally some progress. Not as much as he would like. But it would be good not to have to lie flat on his back and… In everything give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you. The scripture flowed into his thoughts, brought him up short. He closed his eyes and opened his heart. “Forgive me, Lord, for murmuring and complaining. I thank You for Your care. Please heal me quickly, so I am not a burden to Miss—”

“These pillows will work perfectly, Viola.”

Thomas opened his eyes, slid his gaze toward the door, listened to the footsteps approaching. Surely Jacob was not bringing Viola Goddard in here. His bandages! He braced himself for the pain he knew would follow and groped for the covers, froze when Viola, carrying a pillow, entered the room followed by Jacob Calloway, his arms wrapped around more pillows.

Viola looked his way, her steps faltered, he looked at her eyes, followed her gaze to his uncovered chest, and clenched his hand on the edge of the blanket. Choking was not fit punishment for Dr. Calloway. He would have to think of something more dire.

“You stand there, Viola—” the doctor dropped the pillows on the bed and indicated the spot next to his wounded shoulder “—and I will go around to Thomas’ s good side and lift him. When I have his head and shoulders high enough off the bed, I want you to place the pillows—two beneath his head and one beneath his shoulders. Thomas—” Jacob looked down at him, no longer friend, but all doctor “—do not tense your body, and do not try to help. All right, everyone ready? I shall lift on three. One…two…three.”

Pain sliced across his chest, drove the air from his lungs. Thomas gritted his teeth and set his jaw, fought down a swirl of nausea. His vision blurred, then cleared to reveal Viola leaning over him, her teeth clamped down on her full lower lip, her violet-blue eyes gentle with sympathy. The soft warmth of her hands touched his back as she placed the pillows beneath him. “All right, Doctor.”

He stopped himself from tensing as Jacob lowered him and withdrew his arm. The softness of feather pillows in rose-scented cases embraced him. Cold sweat chilled him. He shivered, closed his eyes, drew a breath. The nausea ebbed.

“He can have solid food now, Viola. But I want him to continue to drink a lot of water. And he may begin moving his good arm a bit now. But only up and down slowly.”

“All right, Doctor.”

The covers were pulled up over his chest and shoulders. Soft hands tucked them under his chin—her hands, with that same faint hint of roses clinging to them.

“Give him the pain medicine with his meals, even if he says he doesn’t want it. He’s a stubborn cuss. But if you appeal to his godly side, he will come around.”

“I shall remember that, Doctor. Now, if there is nothing further, I will go and tell Hattie she does not need to fix any broth for Mr. Stone, that he will share our dinner.”

Thomas opened his eyes, watched Viola walk from the room, then fastened his gaze on Jacob Calloway. “You have a lot to answer for when I get out of this bed, Doctor. I do not want Viola subjected to such tasks again.”

“Threats? Tsk, tsk.” Jacob smiled and picked up his bag. “Remember your profession, Pastor Stone. Brotherly love and all of that.”

“No need to concern yourself, Jacob. If you do not ask Viola to do any more nursing tasks all will be well. And if you do, I will love you the whole time I am pummeling you.”

“You’re not smiling, Thomas.”

“No. I’m serious, Jacob. The sight of my bandages upsets Viola. I do not want her subjected to that again.”

“I see.” Jacob narrowed his eyes and studied him. “Methinks thou doth protest too much. The question is…why?” He lifted a hand in farewell and walked out the door.

Why?

The question hung suspended in the empty room, bald and begging to be answered. Thomas closed his mind to its challenge. He looked out the window, lifted his gaze beyond the trees in Viola’s backyard, to the mountains that enfolded the town of Treasure Creek, and thought about the prospectors climbing the Chilkoot Trail in search of gold. How foolish those men, thinking happiness rested in possessing the precious metal or the things it could buy.

Viola slipped the bottle from between Goldie’s lips, blotted away the sweetened goat’s milk pooled at the corners of her tiny mouth and rose from the rocker. She knelt on the floor, kissed the warm, soft cheek and laid Goldie in her cradle. The baby’s eyelids fluttered, opened, slid closed again. Viola smiled, drew the blankets up, then sat back on her heels and looked at the handmade cradle. Goldie would soon be outgrowing it. As soon as she could leave Thomas to Hattie’s care, she would go to Tanner’s and look through the catalogs and order a crib for the baby.

She glanced toward the bed to check on Thomas, found his gaze on her and suppressed a shiver. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“I didn’t want to say anything. I thought I might wake the baby.”

There was sadness in his quiet words. And in his eyes. Or was she imagining it because she knew about his child? She rose, shook out her long skirt and crossed to the bed. “Goldie sleeps quite soundly for a baby…I think. I’ve no experience with babies.”

“From what I’ve seen, you’re very good with her.”

“Thank you.” She reached up and tucked a lock of hair Goldie had pulled free back under her snood. “Would you like some water? Or perhaps some bread and butter? It will be a while until supper, and you must be hungry after having only broth since you were…wounded.”

“No bread and butter. But I will have some water please. And no spoon. Now that I am permitted to move my arm, I can handle the glass myself.” He grinned, chuckled. “Foolish of me to feel that is such an accomplishment. I’ve been feeding myself for years now.”

She stared at him, taken aback by the deep, rumbly sound of his chuckle, the warm, fluttering response in her own chest. Dengler, and the men who visited her in his house, never laughed in a pleasant way. Nor did his thugs. Their laughter was cruel. The urge to smile died. She poured Thomas’s water and handed him the glass—hovered nearby while he drank it, lest he start to spill.

“Thank you.” He held out the glass.

She stared at it, empty now, with nothing to spill if he grabbed her wrist.

“Is something wrong?”

She glanced at him, met his gaze and shook her head. “No, nothing.” She snatched the glass, drew it away from his hand. “Would you like more water?”

“Not now. What I would like is for you to sit down and rest.” His gaze swept over her face. “You look tired. I’m afraid you’re exhausting yourself caring for me.”

“I’m fine.” She turned away from him, uncomfortable and tense. Why did he say things like that? She put the glass on the table and reached to close the curtains.

“Would you leave the curtains open please?”

She lowered her hands, looked at him. “You do not want them closed so you can sleep?”

He shook his head. “No, I have slept enough, and I like looking outside. It makes me hopeful. There is nothing like God’s sunshine to cheer you up.”

His smile was warm, friendly. It increased her discomfort. Thomas did not act like the other men she had known, which made her very uneasy indeed. She didn’t know what to expect from him. She went to the rocker and picked up the jacket she was mending for Ezra Paine, freed the threaded needle from the fabric, where she had stuck it for safekeeping and took another neat stitch in the row, repairing the slash in the sleeve. A knife slash. Now she understood that. She glanced at the ridge of scar tissue on the edge of her hand. She was familiar with things like knife cuts and bruised flesh. But not with a man who considered a woman’s needs. How was she to respond to such remarks from Thomas Stone? What was she to think…to believe?