Before the Larkspur Blooms (38 page)

The door opened. Albert stuck his head out, looking around the crowded waiting room, down the row of faces. “Hannah,” he said softly. “Can we speak with you in here for a moment?”

Feeling as if she were in a cocoon, Hannah stood and walked slowly into the examination room, knowing the worst had come to pass.

Thom had died.

He was gone.

She couldn’t breathe. It was as if her heart literally stopped beating.
Thom! Oh, why—why couldn’t you tell me? We should have lived each day we had instead of letting happiness slip through our fingers. I’d have loved you no matter what. I’ll love you forever…

Once inside, Albert quietly closed the door behind her. Without asking, she went to Thom’s lifeless body stretched out on Dr. Thorn’s tall table. She placed her hand on the side of his face, loving everything about him. The men followed her over and circled around.

“I want to tell you what I told the doctors,” Albert began. “Yesterday, when I offered Thom the deputy’s job, he turned it down flat. Wouldn’t even think of taking it. Was afraid something like this would happen at a bad time and didn’t want some innocent person to suffer because of it. He also said that it’s because of this situation he wasn’t able to follow his heart and marry you, Hannah. He was afraid not only of dying, but of becoming an invalid. He didn’t want to be a burden.”

No!
She couldn’t hear this! She shook her head softly, never taking her gaze from Thom’s face. Dark hair fell over his forehead, drawing her eyes to his dear face, as if he was only asleep. She wanted to lay down next to him, refuse to let him go. She couldn’t accept that their chance for love was gone.

Albert touched her hand, regaining her attention. “When he was shot, the doctor who treated him was little more than a self-taught sawbones. At least he had the good sense not to try. Thom healed with the bullet inside and was sent to prison.” Albert held up a piece of paper from the telegram office. “This is a response from the doctor in Cripple Creek. Not much to go on, but it’s something. More than anything, Thom wanted the bullet out of his head. Wanted his life back. He told me he would risk
anything
, even death, to accomplish it.”

Her head jerked up. “He’s
not
dead.” Her heart welled, and new tears rushed to the surface.

“Oh, sweetheart, no. Unconscious.” Albert took her hand. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Hannah,” Dr. Thorn said. “Thom needs surgery. Dr. Stockbridge is a skilled surgeon with many years of experience. Taking into consideration what the sheriff told us, we feel compelled to try.”

Her dry throat felt as if it’d crack. “What are the risks?”

Dr. Thorn shrugged. “Huge, of course. I don’t even like to think about them.”

Dr. Stockbridge ran his hand over Thom’s forehead, then lifted each eyelid and looked closely at each eye. “Mrs. Hoskins, the operation is very chancy. If we move the bullet and are not able to extract it, he could be blind, or never walk or talk again—if it doesn’t kill him instantly. However, and let me be clear—if the bullet is
not
taken out, I’m certain he will die soon anyway. Because of the signs and symptoms he’s been experiencing, I feel quite certain his time is near. Your choice is to do nothing and hope he wakes up—only to die soon. Or do the surgery now. It may kill him, but it may give him back his life. At least with surgery he has a chance.”

Albert cleared his throat. “Knowing you’d be his wife if circumstances were different, we wanted to ask your opinion, Hannah. Can you help us decide what Thom would want?”

The door cracked open, and Roberta cautiously entered. She went to Hannah and turned her into her embrace. Oh, it felt good and warm. She snuggled close, loving her mother now more than she ever had. “What is going on?”

“We’re deciding whether the doctors should try to remove the bullet from Thom’s skull.” The horrible words slid out of Hannah’s mouth, almost making her retch. “Either way, he’s at death’s very door.”

Roberta gently set Hannah away and looked into her face. “And what do you think? Would Thom want another chance at life?”

Hannah nodded. “I know he would.”

“Then say so. Take charge. That is why the Irish bloke loves you so much, my dear.”

Hannah wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at Dr. Stockbridge. “You’re right, Mother. Thom deserves this. He served eight years for a crime he never committed. He deserves a little happiness coming his way.”

“Good. I think it’s a wise choice,” Dr. Stockbridge said. “Now, if you two will please wait outside with the rest of the townsfolk.”

Hannah stood her ground.

Her mother tugged the sleeve of her dress. “Come on, Hannah, we need to let the doctors get to work.”

This is it. The last time I might see
—No! She couldn’t think like that. She stepped to the table and carefully buried her face in Thom’s neck, breathing in his masculine scent. Oh, how she wished she could crawl onto the table and hold him close. Instead, she whispered into his ear, “Come back to me, Thomas Donovan! Do you hear me? Live! Live so we can be a family. I love you. I love you so much it hurts. Don’t you dare die on me now, do you hear? Fight for your life!”

“Hannah.” Her mother was waiting for her at the door.

“This will take several hours,” Dr. Thorn said. “You’re tired. It might be best for you to go on home, get some rest. You’ll be the first—”

“I’ll be right outside, Doctor.”

E
verything hurt. From the bottom of his feet to the top of his head. A dull, ripping pain slipped up Thom’s body and then dribbled back down, sizzling as it went. Woozy spins kept him confused.

If only he could get that annoying mosquito out of his face. Murmured voices wafted across the room. If he weren’t so blasted bone-weary spent, he’d ask whoever it was chattering in the corner to come kill it. Lifting his arm seemed as difficult as lifting a team of draft horses. He struggled to open his eyes, but as with his arm, both lids felt like sheets of lead.

Where was he? What was that strange aroma? Someone was definitely here with him, he was sure; unless the ringing in his head was more misperception and he was hearing it as voices. Voices all around. But not a chance of making out any of the words.

Thom felt someone’s presence next to him. He fought to open his eyes.

“Thom, can you hear me?”

A man. He’d heard the voice before but couldn’t place it. “Thom, try to say something. Squeeze my fingers.” Warm fingers slipped into his palm.

Thom squeezed; at least he thought he did. Panic surged into his throat. Nothing happened. Again he told his hand to crush the fingers he felt wiggling in his palm. “Come on, Thom. By now, you should have some strength back. Give it another try.”

My God!

The bullet. It had moved.

The nightmare had come to pass.

Nooooo
, his mind screamed. He wanted to shriek for life’s injustice. He searched his mind. Tried to find the last thing he remembered. When? How? Nothing. His life was now a black, mysterious void. Everything gone.

No. Wait. If everything was gone, he wouldn’t remember the bullet. It took so much energy just trying to remember.
Oh, Lord, help me
was his last thought before drifting off…

The familiar female humming slowly came into his awareness, and again Thom wondered who it was. A thump and then a scraping noise sounded to his right.

“I’m only going to leave this window open a moment, Thom. Just enough to freshen up the room. The cold air will do you good.”

Snow!

Cold, crisp, clean.

“No back talk,” the person said and then chuckled. His shoulders were lifted. Warm liquid placed in his mouth. Reflex made him swallow. The spoon was back, and he swallowed again. Several more times. A sound reached his ears, and he realized it was his own groan. “Only three more and I’ll let you lay back.” A towel at his chin wiped away a bit of liquid that had escaped over his lip.

“Good boy. I think you’re getting stronger. Now, lay back and relax, it’s time for a bath.”

His covers came off with a whoosh, and the air swirled up his body, causing gooseflesh.

He liked it. Something different. He heard a bang. Wondered what it was.

“Mother, I’m home,” a distant voice called.

Hannah!

“I’ll be down in a moment, dear. I’ve just finished giving Mr. Donovan’s limbs a good stretching, and now he’s having a bath and shave. Getting all spruced up for Thanksgiving. You stay downstairs.”

My God.

Roberta.

Taking care of him as if he were a baby.

November crept by, followed by December. Hannah hurried around the parlor, preparing for the company she expected to knock at any time. Every few minutes she stopped to gaze at the striking Christmas tree the Logans had dropped off yesterday. It was lofty, almost ten feet tall. When Uncle Frank helped Markus place the star tonight, it might even touch the ceiling.

She tossed a misplaced pillow onto the sofa and found a forgotten sock underneath. Straightening a tintype of Caleb on the mantel made her think of Dwight and how he’d been cleared of any suspicion of being in league with the rustlers. Last month he’d left for New Meringue, where he planned to open a saloon.

“It’s beautiful,” her mother said, coming into the room. She glided over and slid her arm around Hannah’s waist. They stood in silence for a few moments looking at the tree.

“Everything is ready, and the table is set. It’s going to be a lovely Christmas Eve,” Roberta said softly.

Hannah nodded and smiled. She didn’t want to put a damper on the party. The months since Thom’s operation had drawn by slowly. She wanted him back.

“Susanna is bringing the plum pudding,” Hannah replied. Her mother already knew that, but it was the only thing she could think of to say.

Roberta touched her head to Hannah’s. “Stop worrying so much,” she whispered. “He’s getting stronger all the time.” She gave a sad little chuckle. “More often than not, he resists my efforts. You know, those arm and leg stretches Dr. Thorn insisted were to be done twice a day.” She gently took Hannah’s chin, making her daughter look at her. “I always said he was a fighter, and it’s true. He’s fighting back now—and that’s good.”

Laughter and a loud knock on the door drew them apart.

“Markus,” Hannah called. “Company’s here!” Rapid-fire boot heels descended the stairs, echoing through the room.

Hannah looked at her mother. “Still running.”

Roberta responded, with a melancholy smile, “I’m just glad he’s able to.”

Two hours later, with a delicious dinner finished and the tree almost decorated, Hannah tousled Markus’s hair. “It’s lovely, son. Should Uncle Frank help you set the star?”

Before the child answered, another knock rattled the front door.

“I wonder who that could be,” Frank said, striding to the entry. He opened to a bluster of wind and snowflakes. A group stood outside, wrapped in big coats, scarves, and hats. Hannah, and the rest, gathered around the door.

“It came upon a midnight clear,

That glorious song of old,