Love's unfolding dream (Love Comes Softly Series #6) Page 10

  Marty still had not had the opportunity to meet Jackson or his schoolteacher mother. She had thought they would join the community in Sunday attendance at the little church, but so far the Brown family felt strong ties to the small church in their former town. Every Sunday, according to reports, they hitched their one horse to a light buggy and drove the fifteen miles back to

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  worship with the lifelong friends who had supported them in their bereavement.

  So Marty tried not to lose patience as the three silly girls sighed at the end of the school day over young Jackson. If Marty had listened, she would have heard many things about him that she would have admired--both true and imagined. But she did not listen. She was tired of the tales. She was tired of the swooning. She wished Jackson had never arrived to upset her three girls and her world.

  She even considered forbidding the girls to talk about Jackson once they were in the kitchen, but she decided not to, in case the regulation would blow the situation way out of proportion. After all, it was a passing fancy. At their age, if the girls were not moping around over Jackson, they undoubtedly would have found someone else to pine over.

  Marty still had not invited the teacher and her family for dinner. True, she had been unusually busy with her fall work, but Marty had always been busy and still had found time to invite guests. However, this year's teacher had not yet been given an official invitation. Eventually Clark commented on it.

  "Not plannin' to have the teacher in this year?" he asked her one night when they were preparing for bed.

  Marty's head immediately came up. Even that simple statement had her on the defensive.

  "Course," she answered a bit too quickly and sharply. "Been busy"

  Clark didn't pursue it further, but his eyes told her he knew he had somehow hit a raw nerve.

  Marty quickly repented. She had answered a simple question with a sting in her voice. How could Clark know she dreaded the thought of bringing that young man Jackson into her home, where she would need to watch firsthand three silly girls tittering

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  and swooning over him. Yet it seemed foolish to admit to such a ridiculous feeling.

  She sighed as she slipped on her nightgown. The girls had been continually pestering her about it. She wouldn't be able to put them off much longer. Every other day, it appeared, they were informing her of which neighbor family had had the Browns over for supper. Marty could not hold out much longer without seeming aloof and uncaring in her neighbors' eyes. Yet perhaps the neighbors did not have daughters who talked and giggled incessantly about one tall, good-looking, mannerly young fellow. Marty sighed again.

  "Somethin' troublin' ya?" asked Clark patiently.

  "It's jest this here Jackson fella."

  "Teacher's son."

  "Ya've heard of 'im?"

  "How could one live in this here household an' not hear of 'im?" inquired Clark with a grin.

  Marty felt some of the weight shifting from her shoulders. She was even able to laugh in return.

  "Guess yer right. It's been 'most unbearable, hasn't it? I git so sick of hearin' all the tales of Jackson I could jest scream at times. 'Jackson said this'--an' it might be somethin' as simple as, 'It looks like it might rain,' but, oh my, it's so intelligent or so funny if Jackson says it."

  Clark laughed in return.

  "They're jest young girls growin' up," he reminded her. "The others all muddled their way through thet stage, too."

  "Did they, Clark?" Marty asked seriously. "I've been tryin' an' tryin' to remember, but I really don't recall Nandry or Clae or Missie or Ellie actin' like this. Did they?"

  It looked like Clark was thinking deeply as he unstrapped his artificial limb and laid it aside.

  "Don't recall 'em carryin' on like this, either, come to think

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  on it," he answered and let one hand reach down to gently massage the stub of his leg.

  "I know thet they noticed the young fellas," Marty said, "but they didn't fill their days an' their minds with 'em like these girls do. I don't understand it--an' I guess I don't much like it, either."

  "I s'pose part of it is havin' the three of 'em so close together in age. They jest sorta egg one another on, so to speak."

  Maybe that was it. Maybe they would be sensible, too, if they were each on their own instead of comparing and adding to and outdoing one another's stories. Marty folded back the blankets and fluffed up the pillows.

  "Well, as I see it," Clark picked up the conversation again, "we'll jest have to hold steady an' keep on prayin' for some sense to return to our girls, an' fer the strength to endure all the swoonin' an' talkin' till it do." He smiled slightly. "We need ta jest hang in there, knowin' thet 'this, too, shall pass."

  "Yer right," agreed Marty with another sigh. "An' I gotta git busy an' have thet teacher in."

  The two knelt together for prayer before retiring for the night. Marty slipped her smaller hand into Clark's large one as they prayed together for each one of their family members, and for the needs of the community that were known to them, and especially for wisdom and understanding in all of their relationship--including three young girls caught in the time between childhood and womanhood.

  Amy Jo's birthday arrived. The four from the big house joined Clare and Kate's family for the birthday supper. For Amy Jo it was a momentous event--for a few months she was the "same age" as Belinda, and to Amy Jo that was very important.

  Her young brothers were excited, too. A birthday was a celebration, and they reveled in sharing the birthday meal and cake

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  and begged to help her open the presents. Clark and Marty's gift was a note--a note explaining to Amy Jo that by the permission of her pa and ma, Marty would take her into town and let her do her own choosing for new wallpaper for her room and yard goods for curtains and matching spread. Amy Jo bounced joyfully up and down, her auburn tails bobbing out behind her. Marty was sure there was no other gift they could have given her that would have made her more excited.

  Her parents' gift to young Amy Jo brought equal excitement. There, in a neatly wrapped package, were art supplies and a simple book on sketching. Amy Jo was wild with her good fortune. She could hardly wait to begin her efforts. Marty wondered fleetingly if the family would constantly be plagued at awkward moments with requests to pose for a portrait, but she said nothing.

  In spite of her granddaughter's joy, Marty really was not looking forward to the trip to town to make the purchases for the bedroom, but she kept her promise at the very first opportunity. Not surprisingly, Amy Jo insisted that Belinda and Melissa also accompany them. Marty knew that she would be weary when the day was over--unless, of course, Amy Jo stayed with the same choice she had made previously. In that case, the mission could be accomplished quite quickly.

  It was not to be. Amy Jo decided to go with something completely different. She wanted something "vibrant." Marty wondered just how much more vibrant than the bright purple flowers a piece of yard goods could be, but she held her tongue and suffered through the long decision making. Amy Jo took her time, vacillating between a daring yellow with scattered red flowers and leaves, and a smoky blue with green and lavender splashes. Marty had never known that such colorful prints existed.

  Amy Jo finally settled on the smoky blue and tried to match the wallpaper to the yard goods. Marty was sure the room would

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  seem dark--though hardly dreary.

  They did find a wallpaper with the same colors--the background was a bit more blue with an all-over pattern of small purple flowers and green leaves.

  But Amy Jo insisted that it would look just right.

  Clare was persuaded to put up the paper the very next day while Kate sewed the curtains and Marty made the spread. Amy Jo moved into her "new" room, exclaiming over and over how vibrant it looked. Marty had to admit that, surprisingly, the room did look quite homey and inviting. She was glad to move on to other things. Winter was upon
them and she hadn't yet had the teacher's family in for supper.

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  TWELVE

  Emergency

  About the only events that distracted Belinda's attention from Jackson were the house calls she was able to make with Luke. He still stopped by for her when he had a case in the country that he thought would be suitable for her involvement. Now that she was back in school, those times were less frequent, and Belinda undoubtedly would have chafed over the situation had not her life and her mind been so busy with Melissa, school--and Jackson. As it was, she squealed her delight whenever she saw Luke's buggy pull into their lane.

  Amy Jo still turned up her nose over Belinda's medical interest, wondering aloud how anyone could possibly enjoy seeing blood and fevers. Melissa, on the other hand, openly admired Belinda, though she had no desire to accompany her. She was considerate, however, about shouldering some of Belinda's responsibilities in the kitchen on those days when she went off with her doctor brother. Melissa always asked for a full report on the patient when Belinda returned home again, but she did turn a bit pale at times when Belinda described some aspects of their care.

  A brisk, cold wind blew in with Luke when he turned his team into the yard one Saturday morning. Belinda flew out the door to meet him at the hitching rail.

  "Get back in there and get a coat," he scolded her. "Winter

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  is here, and you're out here like it was a summer day. I'll be called out to doctor you next!" He may have been a doctor, but he was also her brother, so Belinda ignored his protest, assuring him she felt warm and would use the blanket if she got cold.

  "Where we goin'?" she asked him.

  "Out to the Simpsons'. Thought it about time you saw a broken bone. But hurry. We don't want to make the poor boy suffer any longer than we have to. A broken limb can be awfully painful."

  Belinda ran back to the house to inform Marty "We're gonna set a broken bone," she called over her shoulder as she rushed back out the door. "It shouldn't take long."

  Luke had already swung the horses around, and the buggy left the yard at a brisk trot. While they traveled Luke told Belinda about bones--the structure of the human body and what the large bones were called. They went over the names until she had them well in her memory. Then he went on to describe different kinds of breaks and the basic treatment for each. Belinda listened with wide eyes.

  "What kinda break is this one?" she asked, hardly able to wait until they got there and she could see for herself

  "I wasn't told. I was just informed that the young Simpson boy had broken a limb in a logging accident of some kind." "Which limb?"

  "I don't even know. I'm guessing it's a leg. Usually when a log rolls, it gets the leg," replied Luke and clucked again to hurry the team.

  For the first time in several days, Jackson was far from Belinda's thoughts. "Are ya gonna take 'im to town?" she asked.

  "Not likely. Once it's set, he should be able to rest in his own bed. I'll stop by often to see how it's coming."

  "I don't think I know the Simpsons," said Belinda.

  "They're new Just moved onto the old Coffin place."

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  "Oh. Will they be comin' to our school?"

  "I don't know a thing about the family"

  "It would be nice," said Belinda. "Iffen they have school-age young'uns, thet is."

  They turned the team down the rutted, overgrown lane and pushed them hastily toward the simple log dwelling. Belinda was scrambling quickly down over the wheel when she heard the most agonized scream she had ever heard in her life. She felt, rather than saw, Luke stiffen. His head jerked up, and his body seemed to become a machine of action. Without even a backward glance, he grabbed his black bag and sprang toward the house. "You tie the team," he called over his shoulder.

  Belinda stood shaking. Luke had said that broken bones could be painful, but never had she dreamed they could make one scream so. Another scream pierced the air, and Belinda broke from her frozen stance and began to flip the reins of the horses carefully around the post. Luke might need her help. She should get to him quickly.

  But when Belinda reached the door of the log cabin, she was met by a heavyset woman in a worn and dirty apron. She placed herself solidly in the doorway, her legs slightly akimbo. Belinda could see that her eyes were red from crying and her brow covered with sweat.

  "The doc says you're to stay out," she said tiredly.

  Belinda could not understand the order. Luke had brought her along to learn how to set a bone. He might even need her assistance, and here was this woman trying to bar her entrance.

  "But--" began Belinda, peering over the woman's shoulder toward the door at the back of the room.

  "It's not a pretty sight in there," the woman continued, and her whole body trembled.

  Another cry rent the stale air of the little cabin. For a moment Belinda went all weak and she, too, trembled. She had never

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  heard such a sound in all her life. Scuffling noises came from the small room. Belinda wondered wildly just what was going on. Luke might need her. He might even be in trouble. How was she to know?

  With one quick movement she ducked around the woman and ran to the room from which the awful cry had burst. Luke had already laid aside his heavy coat and even removed his jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he was bending with deep concentration over a form on the bed. A man and a boy also stood over the writhing form, pinning it to the bed sheets. Sweat beaded the brow of the man, and the boy's lip trembled.

  "I thought I told you to stay out," said Luke without even turning around.

  Belinda took a deep breath to help control her shaking. Her eyes were getting more accustomed to the darkness of the room. Only one small, dingy window let in any light. She looked back at Luke's strong back. The muscles rippled beneath his thin shirt as he fought to administer some kind of drug to the thrashing patient. In spite of a wave of nausea sweeping through her, Belinda swallowed hard and stepped forward.

  "I thought ya might need me," she said determinedly. "Can you?"

  "I . . . I think so," she replied, swallowing hard.

  "I do need you--badly--but I don't want--"

  "What should I do?" asked Belinda quickly.

  "Get a lamp. I need more light."

  Luke had not turned to look at Belinda, his full attention concentrated on the injured young man.

  Belinda swallowed again and hurried from the room. She must not waste time. Luke needed a light. He needed her.

  The woman stood in the kitchen, her head leaning against the wall. Great sobs shook her body. Belinda wished to go over to her and offer some kind of comfort, but there wasn't time yet.

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  "We need a lamp," she said firmly, but the woman did not seem able to move.

  Belinda cast her eyes about the kitchen. There was a lamp on a shelf near the stove. She lifted it down and shook it to check the fuel supply It did have oil. Hurriedly she struck a match on the stove surface and lit the lamp, then hastened with it to the bedroom.

  The boy on the bed was no longer screaming. He was not thrashing around as much, either. Belinda breathed a little sigh of relief. The drug Luke had given must already be working. She pushed forward with the lamp, holding it out in front of her so it would shed light on Luke's work.

  It was then she saw the patient. It was not a broken leg that Luke bent over. Neither would Belinda have called it a broken arm. Mangled and crushed beyond recognition, the appendage was only blood and bits of tangled flesh and bone. Belinda felt her stomach lurch. For a moment she was sure that the rush of blood leaving her head would put her on the floor. She reached awkwardly for the bedpost with one hand, the lamp clutched in the other, and hung on for dear life as she fought for control. The room gradually stopped spinning, but Belinda feared she would lose her breakfast. Wave after wave of nausea swept over her. Luke had no time for a second patient. Belinda fought with all her strength to bring herself under
control. Luke would need her help. He would need all the help he could get.

  The youth showed no sign of struggling now. Mercifully the drug had claimed him. Luke bent over the bloody mass that had been an arm and carefully examined it. Belinda held the lamp as steadily as she could, trying to avoid the scene before her, but her eyes kept returning to the sight.

  Luke straightened and looked directly at the large man who still held his son, even though it was no longer necessary. "I'm sorry sir," Luke said as gently as he could, "I'm going to

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  have to take the arm to save the boy"

  A convulsive sob shook the man. One large hand reached up to cover his face as he wept uncontrollably. The other hand remained on the shoulder of the boy on the bed. Luke reached out a hand to another younger boy, who also stood with his hands still holding his brother.

  "You can go now, son," he said softly.

  The boy dashed from the room, and they heard the front door open and slam shut again. Belinda distractedly thought that he should remember a coat. She had discovered it was colder than she had thought on the way here.

  "I'll need lots of boiling water and some clean cloths," Luke informed the man. "You needn't worry about him throwing himself around now. He's beyond the pain."

  The man wiped at his wet face with a ragged, dirty sleeve and hurried to do Luke's bidding. Belinda moved in closer with the lamp. Luke looked about the small room and dirty bedding, but he muttered to Belinda there was no way he could move the boy into his office in town.

  "I'm going to need your help, Belinda. Do you think you can manage?"

  Belinda nodded, her insides still churning, but she was determined.

  "Put the lamp on that little table and pull it as close to the bed as you can. I'll need your hands to help me with this surgery."