Wind lashed like a bullwhip through the few inches of open window, slicing into Emmy’s back. Setting down her pestle, she pivoted and crossed the few steps of the dispensary to wrench the glass closed. Despite the barrier, she shivered. The morning had dawned sunny and carefree, but now pewter clouds hung low, smothering the fort with a threat. They’d been fortunate thus far with no snow, but with December half-spent, that blessing was stretched tight and ready to snap.
Behind her, the front door blew open, smacking into the wall with a crack. She couldn’t help but jump, for since the awful encounter at the encampment, her nerves balanced on a fine wire.
She whirled, and her jaw dropped. A woman entered, her dark eyes burning like embers. Her face twisted by fear.
“Makawee?” Emmy ran to her. How strange it was to see the woman inside wooden walls instead of buffalo hide. “What are you doing here? How did you—”
“Little Jack is missing.” Her voice was as raw as the chapped skin on her cheeks.
Emmy stiffened. “What do you mean, missing? How could he possibly get out of camp?”
“With snow coming, the soldiers led a group to collect wood. I brought Jack. When we were to leave, he was gone. The men would not search, nor let me. I slipped away but could not find him. Please.” Makawee’s fingers dug into Emmy’s sleeve. “Will you and Dr. Clark come?”
Images of the blue-eyed rascal, alone in the woods, maybe crying—maybe hurt—horrified her. Emmy’s hand shot to her chest. A two-year-old wouldn’t survive long out there.
“I’ll find the doctor.” She dashed to the sick ward’s door. It was doubtful he’d be there, though, for only one private occupied a bed, having imbibed too much and fallen down some stairs. Served him right to break a leg. The man slept openmouthed on his cot, his snores filling the empty room.
Emmy darted past Makawee, who stood wringing her hands where she’d left her. Opposite the sick ward was a supply room, but that led to a door kept shut, one she beat with her fist. “Dr. Clark?”
She listened, willing herself to hear his strong steps on the other side. Nothing but panes of glass chattering like teeth answered her.
“Doctor!” She tried again.
Nothing.
Resting her fingers on the latch, she hesitated. Dare she? What would Aunt think of her entering a man’s chambers?
She sucked in a breath and pushed open the door. “Dr. Clark, please …” Her words fell to the floor. No doctor sat at the tidy desk against the wall, or closed his eyes on the made bed, or sat lacing his shoes on the chair in the corner. The orderliness didn’t surprise her. That he’d left the building without a word of his whereabouts did.
Retracing her steps, she grabbed her coat off the hook, ignoring Makawee’s haunted look. “Maybe the doctor was called by the colonel. Wait here.”
She flew out the door. If she couldn’t find him, then what? No way would she venture out alone, not after what happened last time. She set her jaw. He had to be there, that’s all.
A few soldiers scurried across the parade ground, all eager for the warmth of a fire instead of the wicked air. No one paid her any mind. Since word of the doctor’s rage last month when he’d come to her aid, most men left her alone.
As she ascended the steps to the colonel’s office, a soldier strode out the front door.
“Excuse me, but is Dr. Clark about?” She craned her neck, hoping to glimpse the doctor beyond his shoulder. “He is needed.”
“No, ma’am. Haven’t seen him.”
The fellow whisked past her, and for a moment, she tried not to give in to panic. Where in the world had he gone? Ought she take a horse and try to find Jack on her own? The question hit her like a boulder fallen into still waters, jarring, disturbing, sending out ripples of fear and trepidation. Her throat closed. No. That was not an option.
The next gust of wind slapped her cheek with icy pellets, and she raced back to the dispensary, where Makawee greeted her with hopeful eyes.
Emmy shook her head. “It appears Dr. Clark is missing as well.”
Makawee reached for the door. “Then you and I will go.”
“No, Makawee.” She tugged the woman back. “It’s no more safe for you to be outside the camp walls than it is for me to be inside. Not to mention that you are with child.”
Makawee spun, an angry slant on her lips. “I will not sit here—”
“But that’s exactly what we must do. As soon as Dr. Clark returns, he will help. I am sure of it.”
“No!” The woman flung out her hands, her voice rising like a fever. “My husband is gone; I will not lose my son too. I will go. I will find him.”
“Listen!” Emmy grabbed her friend’s shoulders and shook, praying the action would jolt her to her senses. “Either God is in control or He is not. What do you believe?”
The question slammed into her own heart. If she really believed God was in control, would she not sacrifice her safety for the rescue of one of His little ones?
“You are right,” Makawee finally breathed out. “The Creator governs all.”
“Then let us hope and trust in Him with full confidence, hmm?” She spoke loudly, boldly, forcing the words to fill the frightened cracks in her soul.
Makawee’s mouth wavered, not into a smile, not when her son was somewhere out in a land as cruel as the wind beating against the door. But Emmy took it as a smile, anyway.
“You are a gift, Miss Emmy.”
She frowned and tightened her bonnet strings. “I doubt Dr. Clark will think so when he discovers I’ve gone ahead without him.”
Twice! Twice in the space of a month. James kicked his horse into a gallop, following the flattened path of grass that led to a stand of woods. Fool-headed, strong-willed woman. He’d excused the first time she’d ventured out alone, chalking it up to naivete, but after his stern warning to never leave the dispensary without him?
Sleet stung his face, as goading as Miss Nelson’s disregard for his rule. This time he ought to take her over his knee when he found her. A cold worry lodged behind his heart as the sleet changed to snow. If he found her.
He reined the horse to a walk and entered the trees, leaning forward to study the ground. He should’ve thought to ask a scout to accompany him. What did he know of tracking anything other than the course of a disease? Already snow gathered in a thin but growing layer, covering leaves that might’ve been kicked up by hooves. And here in the wood, the last of day’s light faded to a color as dark as his hope. Which way would she have gone?
Dismounting, he scanned the area for a better clue. Wind rattled the branches overhead, mocking his rash decision to search for her alone—and then it hit him. He lifted his face to the iron sky.
“I am as culpable as Miss Nelson, eh, Lord? Letting emotion get the better of me, running ahead of You time and again, wanting to help others but not waiting for Your lead. Oh God”—he drew in a ragged breath—“forgive me, even as I forgive her.”
The next gust of wind did more than shake tree limbs—it waved a small snatch of cloth tied to the end of a low-hanging branch. His breath eased. He knew that bit of calico, for he’d often admired the way it followed Miss Nelson’s curves.
Launching himself into the saddle, he trotted the horse over to it then squinted in the whiteness to catch another glimpse of bright fabric. There. Not far off. He fought a rogue smile, wondering just how much of her skirt might be missing when he caught up to her.
He didn’t wonder long. Ahead, a dark shape walked, a bedraggled swath of blond hair hanging down at the back.
“Emmaline!” He dug in his heels.
“Doctor?” She turned. “Thank God!”
He slid from the horse before it stopped and ran to her. The way she cradled her left arm, the sag of her shoulders, the stream-clear eyes now clouded to muddy waters—all of it screamed agony, and not just from want of a missing boy.
“You’re hurt.” He reached for her.
“I’m fine.” She shrugged away, but not before he caught the slight groan she couldn’t disguise.
“I know an injury when I see one. Now are you going to let me examine that arm, or are we going to stand here and waste time?”
Snow collected on her long lashes as she stared at him. It would do no good to prod her further. Wait for it. Wait. And there, the pursing of her lips, a standard signal she was about to give in.
She offered up her arm, her nose wrinkling with a poorly concealed wince.
He stepped closer, using one hand to brace her arm, the other to peel back layers of sleeves. “What happened?”
“A falling branch spooked my horse, and he threw me. I landed wrong, and—ah!” She grimaced.
Her pain sliced into his soul as he did what he must—probe for fractures or breaks. “Sorry. Won’t be a moment more. You were saying?”
“By the time I stood, my mount was gone. Ow!” She gasped once more then scowled up at him. “That hurt.”
“No doubt.” Examination finished, he released her. “That’s quite a sprain. It’s not broken, though it will take some time to heal.”
“Good.” She sidestepped him and strode to his horse. “Then let’s continue.”
“Hold on.” He pulled her back, taking care not to jostle her injury overmuch. “That arm needs to be wrapped first, and—”
“No, I’ll ride with you and keep it as immobile as possible. Little Jack is still out here. His life is on the line, now more than ever.” Fat, white flakes collected on her bonnet, adding emphasis to her words.
A sigh—or mayhap defeat—emptied his lungs of air. “Fine.”
He hoisted her into the saddle then swung up behind her. She never cried out, but her muffled grunts belied her brave front.
She used her good arm to point. “That way.”
He narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of her confidence in the growing whirl of whiteness. “What makes you so sure?”
“My father was often called to tend settlers here, and—Oh!”
The horse lurched sideways and she slipped. Shifting the reins to one hand, he wrapped his other arm around her, settling her against his chest.
She peeked up at him, an accusing arch to her brow.
He winked. “In situations such as this, Miss Nelson, propriety be hanged.”
She nestled back, allowing his hold. As much as he wanted to find the boy and get them all to safety, he gave in to the sweet feel of the woman snuggled against his coat.
“There’s a ravine not far from here with a maze of fallen trunks,” she continued. “A haven for a young boy in search of adventure.”
“How do you know little Jack is in this wood?”
“It’s near to where Makawee gathered kindling earlier this afternoon. That and, before the snow started falling, I followed a trail in the dirt from a dragged stick. Wild animals don’t play with sticks, but little boys do.”
“Except for when it comes to your own safety, Miss Nelson”—he bent his head so she’d hear not only the words but the admiration in his voice—“you are a very wise woman.”
She stilled in his arms, and slowly her face lifted to his—but then she leaned forward, pointing, a cry of pain accompanying the movement. “There!”
“Wait here.” He missed her warmth the moment he dismounted. Picking his way down the ravine, he alternated between calling for Jack and straining to listen.
Halfway down, he stopped. Then turned.
“Jack?”
Beneath a fallen trunk, in a world of white and cold, a dark little head peeked out, wailing for his mama.
“Thank You, God,” James whispered as he scooped up the lad and hefted him to his shoulder. The boy’s tears burned onto his neck.
No. Wait.
Holding the boy in one arm, he yanked his glove off the other with his teeth then pressed the back of his hand to the lad’s forehead.
Fire met his touch. And as he looked in the boy’s throat, a blaze raged there as well.
He worked his way back to Miss Nelson, thanking God for her injured arm. There was no way she could hold the boy, exposing her to—no. He wouldn’t think it. He couldn’t be sure of the lad’s diagnosis yet, but even so, he would buffer Emmaline by putting the boy in front of him and her behind. She may have survived measles, but he was pretty sure she’d not yet experienced the reason why he’d been absent from the fort in the first place.
Setting up quarantine for those with smallpox.