A Convenient Wife (20 page)

And then he slept, holding her, waking when she coughed, offering her water and keeping her covered lest the chills take her once more. He roused when Ethel came into the room to change the water in the steam bath, and assured her that she could leave and seek her own bed. And was not surprised when the woman shook her head in silent refusal, knowing Ethel possessed a bent to aiding those in need. Win slept soundly then.

But by full daylight, Ellie's temperature rose again.

“R
uth Kincaid is here?” Win blinked, reaching for his spectacles, as if the close-vision strength of his lenses could somehow bring Ethel into focus. They only served to blur her pleasant features, and, feeling foolish, he placed them back on the table beside Ellie's bed. He'd read medical books, one after another, until the print blurred before him, and then, when the rooster crowed from behind old lady Harroun's boardinghouse, he'd placed his head on the pillow beside his wife, and closed his eyes.

Now Ethel stood in the bedroom doorway, patiently waiting for him to gather his wits. “She's come to take a look at Ellie, Doc,” Ethel said softly. Her gaze settled on Ellie's face, pale once more after the battle against fever during the night hours. “She's not lookin' too good, Doc. I'd think you'd take any help offered.”

“Yes.” Win staggered to his feet, the weariness of sleepless nights making him weave as he retrieved his spectacles once more, tucking them in his shirt pocket.

“Shall I have her come in?” Ethel asked.

Win looked back at his wife, discouragement running rampant as he thought of what her illness might do to the child
she carried. Certainly, he would welcome help, in any form, he decided.

“Send her in,” he said quietly, then turned to rinse his face in the basin of water he'd used to bathe Ellie with during the night hours. His hands held the towel over his eyes for a moment, rubbing gently against the closed lids, before he placed it beside the china bowl.

Ruth Kincaid stood before him, her dark eyes fathomless as she watched him. A faint smile touched her lips, and she stepped closer, one slender hand reaching to touch his forearm beneath the rolled-up, wrinkled shirtsleeve. Her fingertips brushed lightly across his skin, barely disturbing the pattern of dark hair, yet he felt a warmth against his flesh that radiated from within the woman herself.

Bowing his head, he spoke her name. “Ruth. I wasn't expecting you.”

“I know,” she answered, the soft syllables almost musical in their tone. “I came to help,” she said quietly. “Will you allow me?”

Win felt ashamed of his hesitation of only moments past, nodding quickly, all too aware that Ruth's presence must often have been brushed aside as of little value. And even more so the healing hands she offered. Too many folks on the frontier gave little credence to the Indian way of life, understanding even less the worth of herbs and mystical knowledge that was pervasive in lives of the Native Americans.

Winston Gray was not one of them. He'd learned much in medical school. Even more in his short time in Whitehorn. The Cheyenne woman known as Ruth Kincaid was in fact the wife of Caleb, James's cousin, and Win had heard her described as a healer. If that was true, if she could somehow lend her talents and gifts to heal Ellie, he would gladly step aside.

Covering Ruth's hand with his own, he led her to the bedside, and together they watched Ellie, silence stretching
between them like a bond. Her fingers squeezed his, a gentle farewell to his touch, and she knelt beside Ellie, a graceful movement that offered Win a view of dark hair, woven with wildflowers into a braid. The scent was refreshing, bringing a trace of meadow into the sickroom, and he wondered at its significance.

It mattered little, and he harnessed his roving thoughts, directing them to the examination Ruth began to conduct. Her hand picked up Ellie's and she wove their fingers together, palms touching, bending her head to lay her cheek against Ellie's breast. She was silent, barely causing a movement of the bedcovers as she listened to the heart tones.

They were slow now, Win knew, for he'd placed his fingers on Ellie's throat upon awakening. It was a welcome relief from the rapid pulse that had fluttered against his ear during the time of fever.

“Eleanor?” Ruth's whisper was sweet, melodic, and, as Win watched, Ellie's eyelids fluttered in response to the calling of her Christian name. A name he'd never used.

“Eleanor? I want you to come back to me,” Ruth said quietly. “I'm going to give you some tea to drink and you must be awake to swallow it.”

At the doorway, Ethel caught Win's eye, her hands wrapped around a cup, steam rising from its contents. “It came to a boil, Mrs. Kincaid,” she said, a measure of respect obvious in her voice.

“Good.” Ruth rose to take it from Ethel's hands, and she placed it on the small table beside the bed. Then she turned to Win. “May I be alone with her?” Her eyes were placid, as if she would accept the denial of her request, should it be given. And, indeed, Win hesitated, unwilling to allow Ellie from his sight.

“Doctor?”

He nodded, turning to the doorway, and Ethel stood aside as he walked from the room.

“Do you need me?” Ethel offered Ruth her assistance, and Win was not surprised to hear the negative reply she was given.

That Ruth was a healer no longer seemed questionable, not even to his educated mind, which automatically rejected such a fanciful notion. That she insisted on being alone to perform her acts of healing, or magic, or whatever it was called, was not a surprise. The Cheyenne were a private people, proud and intelligent. He would take whatever Ruth was able to offer, and be thankful.

The kitchen was filled with fragrance, coffee blending with bacon, corn bread and soup beans—a tempting aroma that brought his empty stomach to immediate attention. “I think I'd better eat something,” he told Ethel, who had followed him from the bedroom.

She bustled from cupboard to stove, then to the table, bearing a bowl of beans and a plate of corn bread. Bacon edged the golden offering, and beside it she placed a full cup of coffee. Steam rose and Win inhaled its scent. “I didn't know I was so hungry.” He smiled at Ethel as he picked up a fork she'd provided.

“Stands to reason,” she said shortly. “You've been in there for a long time, Doc. If you don't take care of yourself, you'll fall sick, and then where will Ellie be? Not to mention the rest of the folks who depend on you.”

“It's only been since yesterday,” he said, inhaling the scent of coffee, eager for its effect on his body. He would be renewed by eating, refreshed by the coffee, able to stay awake for the rest of the day.

From the doorway, Ruth spoke softly to Ethel. “Will you take this basin and empty it out?” she asked. “Then I'd like you to boil water on the stove and add the herbs I'll give you. The steam from them will help.”

Ethel moved quickly, eager to do as she was bidden. “It won't take long,” she told Ruth. “I've just built up the fire real
good, and the teakettle is full already.” She lifted the heavy, iron container, hefting it to gauge its contents. “Won't take long at all,” she assured Ruth again, placing the teakettle atop the hottest portion of the stove.

Win glanced back at the doorway, unsurprised at Ruth's absence. The woman walked on wind, he'd heard. What did surprise him was the warming of his heart with the knowledge of her presence in his home. Bending over his plate, he ate, even past the point of the assuagement of his hunger, knowing he would take little nourishment throughout the day.

A knock at the back door drew his attention, and he pushed from the table. No doubt this was a call for his services, and he was torn by the conflict. Whether to leave Ellie and go to help some other patient, or refuse his helping touch to another in order to stay by her side. A rancher stood outside the screen door, hat in hand, an anxious look on his face.

“Doc? My boy fell from the hayloft and it looks like his leg is broke.”

Win shook his head. “I can't leave my wife,” he said quietly, and though it pained him to issue the blunt refusal, he was adamant. “You'll have to bring him here.”

The rancher, Clive Madison, nodded briefly. “I heard she was pretty sick, Doc. So I brought my boy on the wagon. Will it be all right if I carry him inside?”

Win nodded, stepping toward the hallway. “Come this way,” he said, holding the door open. “Bring the boy in the front way and I'll see you in my office.” Clive walked past him, and on out the front door, leaving it open. The wind blew through, caught by the draft from the kitchen, and Win closed that door quickly, lest the heat disappear.

He made a quick detour to his bedroom, where Ruth knelt beside the wide bed, and his glance within was brief. Sensing his presence, Ruth looked up, and her smile was serene. “I'll be in my office with a patient,” he told her. “Clive Madison's boy broke his leg.”

Ruth only nodded in acknowledgment, and, satisfied, Win turned away, his mind filled with the image of Ellie's form beneath the quilt. Her eyes closed in slumber, her hands in Ruth's, she was safe, at least for now. And how he could be so certain of that was a puzzle he set aside to ponder after his immediate work was done.

The boy's leg was a simple fracture, and Win splinted it, wrapping it firmly, then gave instructions for his care to the anxious father, who hovered over the boy as though he would take the pain upon himself. Jeremiah was ten years old, a winsome child, determined to be brave in the face of the unknown, and Win's heart was captured by the freckled face and fiery head of hair.

“You'll be fine, son,” he said firmly, his hand seeking the boy's shoulder for a final squeeze. “Your pa will carry you to the wagon, and I'll warrant your mother will be waiting for you at the door.”

“She was scared, Doc,” Jeremiah confided quietly. “She told me she'd make me some cookies, and we're gonna put a cot in the kitchen for me to stay on, so I don't have to be alone upstairs during the day.”

Win could not suppress a chuckle. “I'd say she has it all figured out. You'll be spoiled rotten inside of a week.”

“And I can't go to school, can I?” Hope lit his eyes as the boy waited for Win's reply.

“I think you need to stay off that leg for a month,” Win said. “But if I know Miss Kate, she'll send you enough lessons to keep you busy. And no doubt your mother will be happy to see to it you work at it every day.”

Crestfallen, Jeremiah sighed. “I was thinking I was too bad hurt to be doing school work.”

Win relented. “No school work for three days, Mr. Madison.” He exchanged a look with the father, and understanding lit Clive's eyes. “In the meantime, I'll tell Mrs. Kincaid about
your injury, Jeremiah,” Win told him. “She can put together a package to be delivered to you.”

“My sister will probably bring it home from school,” the boy said glumly. And then he brightened. “But I get cookies when we get home, don't I, Pa?”

Win watched as the father lifted his son, careful to support the injury, opening the outer door for them, then following as the boy was tucked into the back of the wagon. “He's going to be hurting for a few days,” Win told the father quietly, passing a bottle into the man's hand. “Give him a dose of this in the evening. It'll help him sleep.”

Before the wagon had turned in the road, Win was back in the house, shivering from the cold air, welcoming the warmth of the kitchen stove that permeated his living quarters…eager to return to Ellie.

He met Ruth at the bedroom door, and looked past her to where Ellie's still form lay curled up on his bed. One hand tucked beneath her cheek, she slept. Her breathing seemed normal, her face not unduly flushed, and he drew a shuddering breath. “Is her fever down?” he asked, knowing the answer even as he posed the query.

“She's resting,” Ruth said quietly. “I think the herbs have helped. But she's very sick, Doc. My guess is she won't be up and about for several days.”

His gaze left Ellie reluctantly to focus on the woman before him. “Will you come back?” he asked, feeling humbled by the woman's serene strength. “I won't even ask what you did, Ruth. I don't need to know. If it helped my wife, that's all that matters.”

Ruth's mouth twitched and humor lit her eyes. “There are no magic chants or ancient formulas in my healing,” she told him. “I only use methods that have come to me over the years from my ancestors. The healing must come from within, and Ellie has strength we don't recognize.” She looked back at her patient.

“I would like you to use the steam if you think it helps. I've left several packets of dried herbs beside the bed. Ethel knows what to do with them.” Ruth's hand touched Win's arm, and again he was aware of a strange, potent force that delivered its silent message in a way he could not comprehend.

“I'll do anything you ask,” he told her. “Contrary to what my medical books tell me, I know there are forces within each of us that continue to confound the higher learning we teach in universities and medical schools.”

“You must send for me if she does not respond well in the next day or so,” Ruth said. “I would be careful of using anything to sedate her. The child she carries is strong, but susceptible to whatever we use to treat Ellie.”

Win nodded, feeling almost as incompetent as he had in those long past days when he'd first encountered a professor in medical school. There was no doubt in his mind that Ruth truly deserved the reputation of a true healer. He'd seen evidence of her talent, heard stories of her quiet ministry. Now he looked to where Ellie lay asleep, not stretched out in unnatural stillness, but curled in simple slumber.

“Thank you,” he said, almost beneath his breath, blinking back a mist that blurred his vision. Ruth's hand left his arm and she stepped around him, the soft leather of her shoes silent on the wooden floor. In moments, he heard the murmur of voices in the kitchen, Ethel's raised in inquiry, Ruth's a soft assurance.

His strides were long as he crossed his bedroom floor, dropping to his knees beside Ellie, fearful of disturbing her rest, yet needing to be near her. One hand touched her brow, unable to believe his eyes as he observed the natural color of her skin. No trace of fever met his fingertips, only the warmth he was familiar with, the scent of womanly flesh he associated with Ellie.