Heart of Gold (10 page)

“And his uncle needs a wife,” she whispered. “But where is he to find one with so little time left? Especially here in Grand Coeur.”

She went to her bed and slipped between the cool sheets as her thoughts returned to earlier that evening when Matthew and Todd had joined her in this bedroom for supper. All three of them had enjoyed the meal prepared by Shannon Adair.

Shannon Adair.

She was young and attractive, a Christian, the daughter of a minister, and she seemed fond of Todd. Why not her? But something told Alice she would have to approach the matter carefully.

Very carefully.

8

Shannon sat near the window of Alice’s bedroom, thumbing through the pages of one of her most prized books,
Notes on Nursing
by Florence Nightingale. She paused in the section on taking food.

Every careful observer of the sick will agree in this that thousands of patients are annually starved in the midst of plenty, from want of attention to the ways which alone make it possible for them to take food. This want of attention is as remarkable in those who urge upon the sick to do what is quite impossible to them, as in the sick themselves who will not make the effort to do what is perfectly possible to them.

Shannon lifted her eyes from the page to look toward her patient. What more could she do to help Alice take the nourishment she needed to improve her health? She barely ate enough to keep a bird alive. Even the fried chicken Shannon had prepared yesterday hadn’t tempted her to eat more than a few bites. Perhaps it was too rich for her stomach. But she could not grow strong on chicken broth or beef tea alone.

Perhaps Shannon was expecting too much. According to Dr.

Featherhill, Alice had only a few months at most to live. Still, Shannon had nursed dying men back from the edge of the grave. With good care and prayer, many patients had defied the predictions of doctors.

She looked down at the book and continued to read.

I am bound to say, that I think more patients are lost by want of care and ingenuity in these momentous minutiae in private nursing than in public hospitals. And I think there is more of the
entente cordiale
to assist one another’s hands between the doctor and his head nurse in the latter institutions, than between the doctor and the patient’s friends in the private house.

“What are you reading?”

At Alice’s question, Shannon looked up again. “Nothing important.” She set the book aside and rose from the chair. “Can I get you something? How about some beef tea and bread?”

“Perhaps later. I would rather talk with you awhile. Please.”

Shannon was not surprised by Alice’s request. The woman had asked the same thing numerous times over the past two days. Shannon found it impossible not to comply. After all, wasn’t that part of her job as a nurse? To do everything possible to make the invalid comfortable? But these too frequent tête-à-têtes felt much too . . . intimate to her. She would prefer their relationship remain a professional one, as nurse and patient. That was difficult to do as she learned more about Alice.

“I was thinking about your home in Virginia,” Alice said softly.

“The way you described it. I can see it clearly in my mind.”

Shannon settled onto the chair beside the bed.

“It’s hard to say good-bye to the places we’ve come to love, isn’t it? I was just sixteen when Edward and I left Oregon Territory and returned to his family home in Wisconsin. Of course, I wasn’t leaving anything so pretty as Covington House must be, but it was difficult all the same.”

“I’m sure it was.”

Alice smiled. “We women do seem to always be following a man somewhere, don’t we? Me, going with Edward back to his boyhood home. And now coming here to be with Matthew because this is where his job is. You, joining your father where he pastors a new church.”

Shannon couldn’t argue. It did seem to be a woman’s role to do the following. “I suppose, if not for the men in our lives, we women would never stray far from the places of our births. The entire population of the world might still be living within a short distance of the Garden of Eden if left to the gentler sex.”

Alice laughed aloud. The response brought color to her cheeks and a sparkle to her dark eyes.

She must have been quite pretty before she took sick
.

“I must remember to tell Matt what you said. He’ll find it funny too.”

Shannon remembered that moment by the woodpile, when she’d been on her hands and knees, rump in the air, looking for the puppy. She hadn’t cared at all for his laughter then, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to give him another reason to laugh at her now.

“When we were young, my brother loved to tease me.” Still smiling, Alice closed her eyes. “But he was good to me and looked out for me too. As a girl, I thought the sun and moon rose at his request. Of all the things I remember about my girlhood, I think it’s the sound of his laughter I like the best.”

Begrudgingly, Shannon admitted to herself that Matthew Dubois did have a pleasant laugh.

Alice released a sigh. “If not for Edward’s death and my illness, I wonder if I would ever have seen my brother again. But here we are.

Together.” She looked at Shannon. “The Lord does indeed work in mysterious ways. We see only the threads on the back of the tapestry.

God sees the whole design.”

Quiet faith. That’s what Shannon saw in the eyes of the woman on the bed. No self-pity. No anger over what lay before her. Peace. A peace that passed understanding.

Have I ever known peace like that?

She feared not—and she found herself strangely envious of the dying woman.

Delaney Adair followed the boardwalk through town. When he made eye contact with others, he smiled and dipped his head in acknowledgment, but he didn’t stop or try to make conversation. His thoughts were busy elsewhere. He was busy praying, beseeching the God of heaven on behalf of lost souls—and it was quite clear to him that there were plenty of them in Grand Coeur. On Main Street alone he’d counted seventeen saloons and six brothels.

A block back, he’d seen some women from one of those latter establishments sitting on a second-story veranda. Although morning had given way to midday already, they’d been clad in night attire. Revealing attire, at that. One of them had even called out to him, inviting him to come inside and partake of her pleasures. He recoiled at the thought.

Poor lost souls, indeed.

Then he recalled the story of Hosea and the example of unrelenting, all-pursuing, unconditional love that book of the Bible provided to God’s children. Perhaps the Lord would have him go back to that brothel and speak to that woman. Perhaps Delaney had missed a door God had opened. Perhaps the scantily clad female was among the fruit he was here to harvest.

Lord?

He waited but felt no urging.

Richmond had its brothels, of course, as did other towns in Virginia and elsewhere in the South, but Delaney had never felt called to visit those establishments or reach out to those women. Why was that? Because they were tucked away in corners of the city where he never went? Corners where they couldn’t be seen?

Make the way clear, Lord. Help me to heed Thy voice
.

His thoughts turned to his daughter. He didn’t like the idea of her being exposed to such blatant sin. If a prostitute would call out to a man wearing the collar of a clergyman, might she not be just as bold with a decent young woman? He might want to limit Shannon’s exposure to those in town. Only how was he to do that? His daughter was not the sort to want to be closed away day after day. He supposed it was good she had her nursing duties to keep her occupied.

Grant me continued wisdom as a father, Lord. Help Shannon become all that You want her to be
.

He stopped and looked behind him at the length of the street. God had called him to this town. He had called him here as His servant, to bring His word and His love to a fallen humanity. At first his flock would be believers, most of them merchants and their wives. A few would be miners and some with less respectable jobs. But wouldn’t it be something if the pews of the church began to fill with the broken and forgotten? With men and women to whom Jesus would say, “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.”

He clasped his hands behind his back as he turned again and began to pray afresh.

9

On Saturday afternoon, as soon as Matthew returned from work, Shannon went into town to do some shopping for the Adair household. However, before she reached the mercantile, a window display caught her eye. A dress shop, and in the window was a beautiful carriage dress of tartan glacé. The bodice was cut low and square. The full skirt was gored and slightly trained, belled by the crinolines underneath.

It seemed ages since she’d seen anything so pretty as that dress, and the deep green and blue colors would be perfect with her complexion. Her practiced eye caught the subtle changes to the pattern from the dresses she’d worn for several years. Fashion hadn’t stood still just because the Union and Confederacy were at war. Dress designers had been busy in France and England and other places in the world.

She entered the shop, her heart beating faster than usual. A small bell above the door announced her arrival.

A tall, thin woman pushed aside the curtain that divided the shop from what Shannon assumed to be a workroom in the back. Her appearance was austere, her attire an unrelieved black from head to toe. “Good afternoon,” she said. “How may I help you?”

“The dress in the window. It’s lovely.”

“Yes. The very latest from England.” She showed a quick smile, then asked, “Would you like to try it on?”

What would her father say if she came home with a new dress?

Before the war he wouldn’t have given it a great deal of thought. Now? He might think it an unnecessary expense. Rightly so, she supposed. But could it hurt to try it on? Just a peek. She needn’t buy it simply because she looked at it in the mirror.

“You must be the new minister’s daughter,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Treehorn. This is my shop.”

“I’m Miss Adair.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Adair.” She motioned toward the back of the shop. “I don’t believe the dress will require much in the way of alterations. You look to be the right size. Let’s see if I’m right.”

Less than an hour later, Shannon stepped onto the boardwalk outside the shop, the owner of a glossy tartan dress in the latest style. Mrs. Treehorn had promised it would be delivered to the parsonage on Monday afternoon. That would give her just enough time to prepare her father for the bill.

Shannon would begin by telling him she’d met a woman who was recently widowed, her husband killed in an accident while panning for gold in the mountains to the north of Grand Coeur. So tragic. Mrs.

Gladys Treehorn’s only way to support herself and her adolescent children was with her sewing, and while most of her customers were men buying woolen shirts and pants, it pleased her to be able to make dresses for the women of the town, few in number though they might be. Surely Shannon’s father would approve of her helping the widow by purchasing one of those dresses.

She must hope the good reverend wouldn’t see through her flimsy reasoning and know that she’d thought only of herself, not the dressmaker, when she’d agreed to buy the gown. But now she must hurry. She must get to the mercantile and return home before her father finished practicing his sermon.

She turned and stepped right into the chest of a tall man.

His fingers closed around her upper arms. “Careful there, miss.” His voice was genteel, his accent blessedly familiar.

Shannon took a step back and looked up.

His eyes were blue, his skin bronzed by the sun, his hair the color of straw. He had a mustache that she thought might make him look a few years older than he was. A smile spread slowly across his lips as he tipped his hat. “I trust you are not harmed.”

“No. Of course not.” She placed her right hand over her collarbone, willing her pulse to slow down.

The man bowed slightly at the waist. “Joe Burkette at your service.”

It wasn’t proper etiquette to introduce herself to a man on the street. She should do nothing more than nod, if that, before continuing on her way.