29
Margaret sat between Cassidy’s bed and the cot on which Katherine Demarchis had been placed. When Dr. Reilly found Katherine on the floor in the hall, he’d brought her back into Cassidy’s room.
The cot that had been brought in for her relief now became her sickbed.
Mrs. Harrison hadn’t taken the news well. She’d insisted she be allowed to care for her granddaughter, but the doctor refused. The older woman had become so weak, the doctor feared she had taken the sickness, but so far it seemed to be nothing more than her exhaustion from travel. At least that was all Dr. Reilly would tell Margaret.
She wasn’t used to having all this time to contemplate. And was pretty sure she didn’t like it.
Cassidy stirred, but it was nothing more than the slight bit of movement Mrs. Johnson had seen before. Once in a while there was a moan—even what sounded to be a few garbled words, but nothing that proved her recovery.
Something inside Margaret seemed to crumble. She went back to her chair and took hold of Cassidy’s hand. “You have to get better, my dear girl. You have a babe who needs a mother—a husband who needs a wife.” She paused to wipe the tears from her eyes. “And me. I need you too.” There was a part of her that wished that weren’t true. Margaret had hardened her heart against love for a reason, and now here she was facing the possibility of losing someone she cared about—someone she loved.
“Mrs. Johnson?” a young man called from the doorway.
“Yes?” She looked up. “What is it?”
The man looked hesitant. “It’s . . . well . . . Mr. Ferguson. He’s speaking . . . uh . . . well . . .”
“What’s that to do with me? Can’t you see I’m here taking care of these women?”
He nodded. “I know, but he’s . . . he’s asking for you.”
“He’s asking for me?” Margaret rolled her gaze heavenward. Why would the man be asking for her?
“He’s not doing so good, Mrs. Johnson, and he asked specifically for you. Won’t you please come?”
She sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was leave Cassidy and Mrs. Demarchis in order to speak with the Scot, who’d done nothing but give her trouble from the day he arrived. But what choice did she have? It hardly seemed the act of a decent human being to deny the request.
“Very well.” She got to her feet. “Where is he?”
“The second room down. I’ll show you to him.”
“No. You stay here. Sit there.” She pointed to the chair. “And don’t move until I come back.”
He obeyed and took her place between the women. Margaret paused at the door. “If they so much as move, you come get me. I shouldn’t be but a moment.”
The boy nodded.
She went down the hall and found Daniel’s room. Inside, Dr. Reilly stood by the man’s bed. “He’s been asking for you.”
“I heard. Why can’t he stay asleep like the others?” Margaret moved closer. “He can’t be all that sick if he’s talking.”
“The sick are all in various states of consciousness, Mrs. Johnson. Some are speaking, some aren’t, but I assure you Mr. Ferguson is quite ill.” He lowered his voice. “And perhaps a bit afraid.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. “What can I do?”
“He’s asked for you. Sit with him and hear what he has to say. Half the time he’s speaking another language, but from time to time he breaks into English again.”
The man looked ashen and small—not at all the feisty, burly man who’d stormed her kitchen like a warrior to battle.
“Daniel? It’s me . . . Margaret.” She hesitated, then sat down on the side of his bed.
The man opened his eyes. He looked at her for a moment, not seeming to know her. Then a glimmer of recognition crossed his features. He murmured something she couldn’t understand. Margaret leaned closer and he spoke again.
Understanding dawned. He was speaking Scottish Gaelic. Margaret hadn’t heard this in years, but the words came back to her like it was yesterday.
“I have no family,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I’ve only you, lass.”
Margaret frowned. She was nothing to him but his supervisor, and a bossy one at that. The man must be ranting in his sickness. How could she argue with him now? She felt momentarily awkward and replied in Gaelic, “What is it you want to say, Daniel?”
For several long moments, silence covered the room.
Margaret wasn’t even entirely sure he understood her.
He extended his hand. Margaret took hold of it and waited for him to speak again. For a moment, her mind flashed back to 1918 when she’d done the same for her husband and children. For whatever reason, she had been immune from the disease . . . just as she was now. She had held their hands, wiped their brows, and watched them slip away.
Daniel whispered again, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Thank you. Didn’t . . . want to die alone.”
His words pierced her heart. “Well, you’re not alone.” The native tongue of her ancestors came easier. “And you’re not dying, because I’m your supervisor and I haven’t given you permission to die.”
His eyes opened and he grinned. “Bossy woman.”
“Irritating man.”
He closed his eyes and Margaret let go of his hand. She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for how she’d treated him. The man had been asked to come, and it wasn’t like he intended to stay. She tried to push aside her regret. “Now you’d do well to rest and get back on your feet. I . . . we . . . have a kitchen to run.”
The only sound was that of his strained, raspy breathing. Margaret thought of all the horrible things she’d said to him. Things she could never take back. She hadn’t wanted his help and certainly hadn’t wanted his interference, and she’d made that clear to everyone. Especially to Daniel Ferguson.
How could she have been such a hateful woman to him and yet he asked for her in his moments of fear? The thought only served to add to her weight of guilt.
“I’m sorry, Daniel. I should have been kinder,” she murmured in English.
He opened his eyes. Margaret wondered if he’d understood her apology. Not that it would matter to him at a time like this, but as much as she wanted not to care . . . it mattered to her.
“I am . . . truly sorry.”
He gave the tiniest nod. “Will . . . ya . . . pray for me, lass?”
She hesitated. She’d spent so much time keeping God at arm’s length—wanting to believe He was good and loving like Cassidy believed—but feeling He was only there to take away what she cared about. Would He even listen to her? The battle raged inside. Perhaps if she’d spent more time asking God to heal rather than railing against Him—Cassidy would be better now and Daniel wouldn’t be so sick. Had her own hard heart brought these things on to teach her a lesson? She shook her head. Surely not.
“Pray . . . for . . . me . . . please,” Daniel rasped as his eyes closed once again.
It seemed she had no choice—yet she knew the choice was hers and hers alone. “Aye. I’ll pray for you.”
The general must be sick.
That had to be why he hadn’t gotten any word. The four walls of the room were closing in on him and they were all being watched.
And not just by the doctor and hotel staff.
There were others.
He could feel it. Maybe they had caused the disease. To get to him. To get to the general.
Standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, he tried to think of a way to escape their watchful eyes.
“Uncle . . .”
“Yes, my dear.” He straightened his shoulders. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m afraid . . . that is . . .” She sank into the chair. “I don’t feel too well.”
“I’ll go fetch the doctor.”
“Thank you.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
He had no choice—he must leave at once.
Thomas rubbed his backside. The last seven days on horseback had been good, but today—well, today had been brutal. John asked him to ride ahead as hard and as fast as he could to alert Mr. Bradley—or whoever—that they would be camping on the other side of the river. Since there wasn’t a good deal of flat area that low, they’d have to stay up on Curry Ridge but wanted people to know where they were.
They needed provisions, but they could survive in the wild if they hunted and fished—and the rich people didn’t complain too much.
When he reached the ridge above the river, he tied up his horse and ran across the suspension bridge. There was a bell on the other end that he was going to ring and leave a note so he wouldn’t break the quarantine.
He scribbled what he could on a piece of paper, tied it to the bell, and then rang it.
Then he walked back to the middle of the bridge and waited.
Relief flooded him as he saw Mr. Bradley, the hotel manager, walk out to the bell.
Thomas waved his arm high. “Helloooo!” He watched as his boss took the note. He appeared to read it and looked to be writing on the back. He re-tied the message to the bell, then gave a wave before heading to the hotel.
Thomas ran back across the bridge and retrieved the note.
Glad all are safe and well.
The notes are a good idea. Do not come near any people.
More than half of Curry is sick.
Four dead.
Please tell John and Allan that Cassidy has been gravely ill but the doctor believes she is improving now.
Thomas’s heart clenched. Cassidy was sick? How was he supposed to tell them that? The thought of his sweet friend on death’s door tore his stomach apart. He’d heard horror stories about influenza.
As he climbed the hill back to the ridge where they would make camp, he prayed. Cassidy had taught him so much about working at the hotel, how to study the Bible, and how to laugh and look at life positively. God wouldn’t take her and the baby to heaven like this . . . would He?
Overwhelmed with sadness and feeling selfish for not praying for the others who were ill, Thomas dropped to his knees.
“Lord, I know You can hear me. You know how I’m struggling to understand and how I’m questioning. But please take care of everyone at the Curry. Don’t let anyone else die, Lord. Please. Show us how we can help, and give us wisdom on how to take care of the people in our care out here.”
He stood up and looked around him. The group would be coming soon. He’d better do what he could to make their camp setup easier.
Thomas chose a place near one of the small streams that fed into the river. His horse nickered from behind him as he chopped wood. He straightened and prayed again for strength to give Allan the news about his wife. All the while he’d worked putting their camp in order, he’d prayed for wisdom.
Twenty minutes later, the first of the riders entered the open area, and before long the entire camp was filled with complaining travelers. Why were they stuck here? Why couldn’t they just go on down to the hotel? The complaints went on and on.
“I’m willing to take the risk,” one man piped up.
“It doesn’t matter if you’re willing to take the risk. The town is under quarantine.” Thomas straightened his shoulders. “They have folks who are guarding the perimeter to keep others from getting sick. They’ve already had four deaths.”
One of the women reached for her husband. “Mother is in there—what if she . . . ?”
Most everyone gathered there had someone they cared about inside the quarantine. He understood their concern, but he had to be straightforward with them. “I don’t have any names of the . . . dead. So please don’t ask.”
“Folks, we’re going to abide by the law.” John’s voice boomed over the camp. “If any of you want to make an issue of that, come see me privately. Right now we need to get a fire going and settle in to our assigned tasks. You men who volunteered to catch some fish—get to it. But no one. I repeat . . . no one leaves this camp. Understood?”
While the group didn’t look happy, gradually everyone went about their duties.
Thomas took that opportunity to go to Allan and John. “I need to speak with you both.”
Allan and John exchanged a look. “What is it?”
“Cassidy . . . she’s—”
Allan went white. “She’s not dead.”
“No.” Thomas shook his head. “But she’s been sick. The doctor thinks she’s on the mend, but I thought you should know.”
“And the baby?”
Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I’ve got to go to her.” Allan turned, but John took hold of his arm.
“Son, you can’t do that. You know you can’t. We’ll have a riot on our hands and no hope of keeping these folks on this side of the river if you do.”
Allan looked at his father-in-law as if he’d lost his mind. “But it’s Cassidy.”
John’s gaze never left Allan’s. “I know. I want to go just as much as you do, but we can’t. She’s in God’s hands, Allan. And she’s getting better—at least that’s what the doctor believes.”
“But . . . what about the baby?”
Thomas didn’t know much about such things, but he’d already figured out that it couldn’t be good.
“We need to pray.” John ducked his head as his voice cracked. “God’s brought Cassidy and that baby this far despite her fall down the stairs, and we’ve got to trust that He’ll see her through this. No matter what, Allan, we have to keep these folks calm.”
Thomas saw the battle raging in Allan through the expressions on his face. He knew this was probably the hardest thing the man had ever faced. Thomas knew it was hard enough just for him—how much more for a husband and father.