Four mornings later, Ewan knocked on the MacLean door, carrying a brace of freshly caught rabbits. Wi’ Arthur and Luke on the mend, nothing will go down half so good as hot rabbit stew—best thing to bring a man back to his feet. When Rosalind, eyes heavy with dark circles, opened the door, his smile vanished.
“What’s happened?” He shouldered past her, dropping the skinned game atop the wooden table. An unnatural stillness filled the house for a brief moment before both Arthur and Luke broke into coughing spasms, the sound shattering the silence.
“They were doing better.” Rosalind’s voice came in an exhausted whisper. “It seemed as though they were on their way to recovery just yesterday. But come nightfall…”
“Fever came upon them both.” Gilda, rocking more erratically than Ewan had ever seen, spoke up. “Their breathing labored…the coughing racks their bodies. Nothing helps.”
Ewan sat heavily on the settle, running a hand over his face. For two days after he’d carried Luke home, Rosalind and Kaitlin had tended to Arthur and Luke night and day. Only yesterday it had seemed they’d turned the corner and the worst of it had passed. But now…He stared helplessly to where Rosalind stooped by Luke, propping him up on cushions to ease his breathing.
“When they’re more upright, they take in more air,” she explained as she noticed him watching. “That and the heat and the tea are all we can do for them. Mam’s asleep now after staying up all night. They were improving—” She broke off in a stifled sob that wrung Ewan’s heart.
He walked over to where she slumped by the hearth and fell to his knees. With his arms wrapped around her, her weary head nestled against his shoulders, she wept. Ewan prayed.
Lord, put Your hand on this home and Your children wi’in it. Bring healing to Arthur, ease to Luke’s lungs, and rest to the women who’ve worn themselves weak with worry. This illness is more than we alone can handle, Father. We turn to Your wisdom and mercy, and seek Your blessings upon those we hold dear.
He stroked the soft strands of Rosalind’s hair that had come free from her braid over the long night. He listened as her sobs quieted, until her breathing came long and deep in the even cadence of sleep. He shifted slowly, so as not to wake her. He swept her into his arms in one smooth motion and looked up at the loft ladder, where her bed must be.
I dare not climb it wi’ her in my arms. Even were there no danger of bumping her head or worse, I’d not risk waking her.
“When she wakes, she’ll take pains not to close her eyes for a scant moment, lest she sleep again,” Gilda warned. “Lay her on the settle, so she can catch whatever rest she’s able. Poor lass hae worn herself to a frazzle, helping her mam tend everyone these past days. The false hopes o’ yesterday stole what strength she had left.” The old woman kept rocking, her gaze flitting from one family member to the next in an unceasing vigil.
Ewan nodded, easing Rosalind down onto the furniture so gently she scarcely stirred. He pulled a crocheted afghan over her to keep her as comfortable as possible. That done, he stood, trying to think of ways he could help her—help them all.
Heavenly Father, when I was a wee lad, I caught ill in such a way. Mam did all the things Kaitlin and Rosalind have already seen to, but something tickles the edges of my memory—a warmth pressed to my chest, the strong smell making my eyes water. What kind of poultice did she use when all else failed to make me well? What made me feel better, though I disliked it? I remember thinking I’d never get rid of the smell…of what? What was that scent?
He looked at the shelves full of baking supplies, spices, teas, and herbal remedies. Nothing fit the memory. Ewan paced back and forth—from the hearth, to the table, and back again—keeping his distance from Rosalind for fear he’d wake her with his heavy tread. He passed the kettle, the pot, the skinned rabbits, and the door to the root cellar more times than he could count, vainly trying to recall Mam’s treatment.
Hearth…rocker…table…root cellar door. Luke beside the hearth, stirring with fever. The rhythmic rocking of Gilda’s concern. The scrubbed wooden surface of the table. The metal ring of the root cellar door—the root cellar!
He grasped the metal ring and heaved upward, descending into the cool darkness beneath without stopping to grab a candle. Without a light, he groped around, searching for the answer that had plagued him all morning.
There. Ewan’s hands closed around the burlap sack and he followed the light back into the warmth of the house. He cautiously shut the cellar door, mindful not only of Rosalind’s sleep but of Gilda’s avidly curious gaze.
“Onions?” She peered in disbelief as he shook some onto the table. “You had a sudden hankering for onions, of all things?”
“I remembered an old remedy my mother used when I was young an’ fought to breathe.” He grabbed a knife and began chopping the pungent bulbs. “I could only recall the strength of the scent—how much I disliked it—but that it worked. She chopped onions, boiled them down, and wrapped the mash in flannel. Than she placed the hot poultice on my chest, changing it out for new whenever the old one cooled.” Ewan kept his voice low even as he chopped. “ ’Twas the only thing that finally worked. I thought it might do the same for Arthur and Luke. They’ll reek of the stuff for what seems like ages, but ’tis more than worth it.”
“Aye.” Gilda’s rocker gave a final, protesting creak as she got to her feet. “I’ll put some water on to boil and then help you. If they must be replaced when they cool, we’ll need a great many of those onions.” She worked as she whispered, and Ewan slid the first batch of chopped pieces into the heating water.
The two of them worked quietly, the only sounds the soft bubbling of the onions, the snick of their knives, and under it all, the horrible rattling gasps as Luke tried to breathe.
Rosalind lifted her head from the settle, blinking to find herself there. How did I…Oh no, I must have fallen asleep! Yet another instance of her failing to take proper care of Luke, and now her da. She swung her feet to the floor, tossing the afghan over the back of the settle.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She bustled over to where Luke lay, half propped up on a mound of pillows. “You should hae woken me.” She looked pointedly at Ewan. “You know that.”
“Aye.” He plopped a steaming poultice on Luke’s heat-pinkened chest. “I knew you’d want me to hae woken you. ’Tis why I didn’t.” With maddening calmness, he took another poultice to where Da lay on the great bed and changed it out.
“What are those?” Rosalind wrinkled her nose as she processed the pungent odor rising from the flannel packs. “Onions?”
“Aye.” Grandmam stirred a pot. “Your Ewan remembered a remedy his mam used when he was but a lad.”
“To a certain point.” Ewan gave a wry grin. “I knew she made a smelly poultice, which eased the ache in my chest, but try as I might, I couldn’t recall what she put in it.”
“Lad near wore out the floorboards, pacing around while he tried to recollect what the mystery ingredient was. Finally, he looked at the root cellar door and remembered ’twas onions.”
“I’d never hae thought to boil onions to ease a cough.” Rosalind felt Luke’s forehead with the back of her hand. “He’s still o’er-warm.” She cast a concerned glance over at Da, wondering whether the onions had wrought any effect on his symptoms.
“Arthur’s taken well to it,” Grandmam answered Rosalind’s unspoken question. “He’s stopped coughing, at least.”
“Praise the Lord for that,” Rosalind whispered, relieved that at least one of them was improving. Perhaps the onion treatment would eventually aid Luke as well. She looked to where he lay, half reclining, his breaths shallow and raspy…. No. She bent closer, listening intently.
No. Please, let me be wrong, she prayed, even as the ominous rattle came again. Luke fought not only tightness—there was fluid gathering in his lungs. With each breath, the rattling gurgle gave hideous warning. Rosalind dropped down, putting her arms about her brother and holding him close. Come on, Luke. Fight it. Just keep breathing. Let the poultice do its work.
Jesus, please, help him. This is as bad as he’s ever been. His chest and ribs ache from the coughing. His head pounds wi’ it. Only in this uneasy sleep does he find any respite. ’Tis grateful I am that Da begins to recover, but what of my brother? He’s never been hardy—he can’t take a prolonged illness. The tears she thought long shed came slipping to the surface once more as she battled for her brother the only way she knew how—on her knees. Prayer was the most powerful tool she could wield, if it served the Lord’s purpose to grant her request. If ’twasn’t the Lord’s will…That didn’t even bear thinking on.
Father, ’tis my negligence that is to blame. I should hae checked on him, watched him more closely. I should hae made him sip more broth and tea to ease his throat. I should never hae allowed myself to fall asleep when he needed me. Lord, don’t let Luke suffer for my failings. Please, make him well. Let Ewan’s treatment work for Luke as it has for Da. Please, Lord. Please…
The shrill of a steam whistle broke through her thoughts. Startled, she looked up to see Ewan bolt out the door, leaving his coat and hat behind as he raced off into the distance. He was heading for the train tracks.
Please, Lord. Don’t let me be too late. Let the train stop. ’Tis the answer we’ve all been praying for—the train can bring Luke to the doctor at Fort Benton where a wagon through the cold could not. Let me be on time.
He ran faster than he’d ever imagined—not for his life, but for Luke’s. Ewan pictured Rosalind’s tired face, the bruised-looking circles around her eyes, and pushed himself even harder. He rounded the smithy and found the train—already stopped.
Thank You, Father.
Ewan rushed aboard to have a short conversation with the engineer, a man by the name of Brody whom he’d worked with before.
“Brody, I’ve a sick little boy not far off who needs the care o’ a real doctor. Will you wait a very short while so I can fetch him? ’Tis a matter o’ life and death.” Ewan didn’t take a breath until he’d gotten through all of his request.
“We’ll wait.” Brody shook Ewan’s hand. “I’m glad to see the railroad put to such worthy use. We’ve only stopped now to let off Johnny Mathers. Go on, now. Get the boy.”
God’s timing. Ewan didn’t even stay to look for Johnny, instead rushing back to the MacLean household. When he stormed through the door, Rosalind stared in cautious hope.
“They’re holding the train for Luke.” Ewan began grabbing the boy’s coat off the peg by the door. “The railroad will get him to Fort Benton—and the doctor—when he wouldn’t make it on the long wagon ride. Arthur, Kaitlin?” He strode over to the bed, waking them both. “The train is waiting to take Luke to Fort Benton. He needs a doctor’s care. Will you trust me to look after your son?”
“Aye.” Arthur nodded weakly. “Though one of us should go.”
“Rose will go.” Gilda stood up. “I’m too old to start a new journey, and Kaitlin should stay to help keep you on the mend.”
“Aye, Rosalind should go,” Kaitlin said, though Ewan could tell she was torn between staying with her husband and going with her son—any mother’s greatest dilemma.
“I’m ready.” Rosalind held a valise in one arm and her cloak in the other. “I’ve packed tea and blankets and socks…everything I can think of to keep him comfortable on the journey. If ’tis settled, we need to go before the engineer changes his mind and sticks to his schedule.”
“That’s my girl.” Ewan scooped Luke into his arms and strode toward her. “We’ll be back before you know it. I give you my word.”
“Godspeed!” Kaitlin called with a break in her voice. “We’ll be in constant prayer.”
With that, Ewan and Rosalind hurried out the door and toward the waiting train—their last chance to help Luke. Ewan didn’t relax until they were on the train, steaming toward Benton at full speed.
They spoke little during the journey. Rosalind kept anxious eyes on her brother, propping him up and giving him sips of water as he slipped in and out of consciousness.
Ewan repeated a litany of prayer. Thank You, Jesus, for sending the train. Let it not be too late. Work through the doctor in Benton to heal our Luke….
If asked, Ewan wouldn’t have been able to say how long they spent on the train, only that it seemed much longer than it probably actually was. When they arrived, he tipped a porter to go fetch the doctor.
“He’ll be all right now.” Rosalind spoke words of hope, but her face was drawn with concern as she mopped Luke’s brow. “He has to be.”
“Hello?” A man clambered into the car with them, lugging a physician’s bag. “I’m Dr. Carmichael. This must be the boy.” Wasting no time, he knelt beside Luke.
Ewan and Rosalind watched with bated breath as he checked for fever and listened to Luke’s breathing and heartbeat. The doctor’s ruddy face grew long, his eyes dulling behind the round spectacles perched on his nose.
“I’m afraid it’s not good news.” Dr. Carmichael sat back, shoving his spectacles higher. “His fever is quite high and, I’d guess, has been for some time.” He waited for Rosalind’s despairing nod before continuing to share his assessment. “The cough has settled in his chest—pneumonia.”
“What can we do?” Ewan strove to remain calm and find how best to serve Luke. “How do we help him now?”
“Make him as comfortable as possible. Keep him propped up, give him hot fluids, and make sure he’s warm.” Dr. Carmichael looked defeated as he spoke the words.
“We’ve done all that.” Rosalind spoke in desperation. “We’ve been doing it since he first fell ill. Is there nothing else?”
“The only other thing I’m sure you’ve already been doing.” The doctor looked from one face to another. “Pray.”