Nan Ryan (31 page)

“Can you walk?” Helen asked Kurt as she knelt on the porch, holding his head in her lap.

“I don’t know,” Kurt said truthfully. “Where are we?”

“On the porch,” she told him, lifting her skirts to wipe some of the blood off his battered face.

“Can’t I rest here for a while?” Kurt mumbled, barely able to speak. “I’m tired.”

“I know,” she whispered, “but we need to get you inside.”

“I can’t,” he confessed, vainly attempting to open his eyes. “I can’t make it.”

“I’ll help you,” Helen said. “I’ll get you inside, I promise.”

And she did.

Straining to lift him, she managed to get him up into a half-sitting position. His head resting on her breast, she wrapped her arms tightly around him. Pressing her lips to his blood-tangled dark hair, she whispered, “We’ll do this together. I’ll stand up and you’ll stand with me. We will go inside the house and to the guest bedroom.”

Helen took a deep breath, draped Kurt’s limp arms around her neck, slid her own around his back, and locked her hands. She struggled up onto one bent knee, bringing him with her. Then, calling on all the strength she possessed, she managed to rise to her feet and pull him up. Breathing hard, Helen stood there for a moment leaning against the house, fully supporting Kurt’s weight, hoping she wouldn’t fall.

Bracing herself on wide-spread feet, she backed into the open front door and literally dragged Kurt down the hall and into the guest room. Halfway across the room, she felt herself losing her balance. Instead of risking a hard, crashing fall which could further hurt the badly injured man, she sank slowly to the floor.

“We made it,” she told him, gently laying him down on the thick, worn rug. “Stay just as you are,” she whispered, then leaped up and dashed out of the room.

She was back in seconds carrying a basin of water and several clean white towels and washcloths. Her heart rose to her throat when she saw that Kurt hadn’t moved a muscle. She set the basin on the floor, dropped the linens, and fell to her knees at his side. Picking up one of his badly skinned hands, she held it to her breast and anxiously called his name.

“Kurt, oh, Kurt, answer me. Please answer me.”

His fingers tightened minutely on hers and his lips stiffly moved. “I’m … not hurt,” he managed weakly. “Don’t … worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

She was worried sick.

She wasn’t surprised that something like this had happened, but she was much too worried to be angry with him for fighting. Praying the doctor would arrive soon, Helen stripped away Kurt’s tattered, bloodstained shirt and gently washed the wounds and bruises covering his chest and shoulders and long arms. With his help, she gingerly turned him over onto his side and cleaned up his punished back. Carefully she washed away the dried, crusted blood.

Dipping the cloth into the water, she squeezed it out, then drew it slowly along the aging white scar slashing around his side to his back. She sponged the blood away from the satiny imperfection, talking softly as she worked. Finally she tossed the stained cloth into the basin of water and again turned him onto his back.

Helen rose and hurried to the bed. She drew back the blue velvet counterpane and snatched it completely off, dropping it to the rug at the foot of the four-poster. She turned back the top sheet and coverlet, fluffed up a couple of feather pillows, and returned to Kurt.

She removed his shoes and stockings, then unbuckled his belt. She made short work of the buttons going down his fly. She considered stripping him of his pants, decided it would be easier once she got him into bed.

Puffing and breathing hard, Helen somehow got Kurt off the floor and across the room. Using the little stepping stool meant specifically for the purpose, Helen climbed up onto the bed and pulled Kurt up with her. She fell over backward onto the high feather mattress with him atop her. She rested for a split second, then eased herself out from under him.

Within minutes she had his trousers off and the snowy white sheet pulled up to his waist. His eyes closed, he lay unmoving, looking so hurt and helpless Helen wanted to cry. But she didn’t.

She put her lips close to his bruised ear on the pillow and whispered, “I’ll take care of you, Kurt. I will, I promise. I’m right here.”

She saw the tiniest fluttering of his thick lashes as if he heard and understood. She swallowed hard, stepped back, and began unbuttoning her bloodstained work dress. She stepped out of the soiled dress, kicked it aside, and considered leaving him for a moment, just long enough to go to her room for a clean dress.

But he tried to speak and even though no sound came, it was her name forming on his lips. He was trying to say her name.

“I’m here, Kurt, right here.” She hurried back to the bed, unconcerned about getting dressed. She laid a cool hand to his hot cheek. Softly she touched his face, his hair, his chest.

His left eye slitted open. He saw her leaning over him. Again he tried to speak.

“Shhh,” she cautioned. She laid a gentle finger to his split, swollen lip. “You don’t need to try and talk. I know. I understand.” She smiled at him.

Kurt’s eye closed. He drew a ragged, rattling breath. And passed out cold.

Chapter Thirty-five

T
he sun was setting across Mobile Bay and the stifling September heat had lost a little of its sting when Dr. Milton J. Ledet finally stepped out into the hall, closing the guest room door behind him.

The bearded, gray-haired doctor promptly announced to the three anxious people waiting in the shadowy corridor, “He has several broken ribs. Multiple cuts and contusions. Two fractured fingers on his left hand. A pulled ligament in his right leg. A badly sprained left ankle. A pair of black eyes. And a slight concussion.”

“A concussion,” Helen repeated, her face as pale as death. “Will he … is he …” She couldn’t finish. She stood staring in horror at the doctor, one hand rising involuntarily to her breast.

“Now, Helen, it sounds bad, but he can make it.” Dr. Ledet smiled, patted her shoulder reassuringly. “The young man has been badly beaten, but none of his injuries are of themselves life-threatening. Infection’s the only thing that could kill … that could be dangerous, but his color is good. And his wounds—thanks to you, Helen—look clean.”

“Praise the good Lord above,” said Jolly, heaving a sigh of relief. Ruffling Charlie’s blond hair, he said, “You hear that, my boy? Your father’s going to be fine.”

“Can I see my daddy?” Charlie looked up at the tall doctor with somber brown eyes.

“You may look in on him.” Dr. Ledet began rolling down his shirtsleeves. “But he’s sedated and presently he’s sleeping, so be very careful not to disturb him. He needs all the rest he can get.” The doctor carefully opened the bedroom door and motioned Charlie inside. Charlie stole softly into the room.

The three adults watched in silence as the little boy cautiously crossed the spacious bedroom lighted only by the eerie orange glow of the dying summer sun. Charlie reached the high feather bed. He pulled the footstool up close, climbed up onto it, and stood looking at the badly battered face of his sleeping father. Charlie didn’t make a sound. But he reached out with short fingers and gently patted his father’s bandaged left hand.

Helen and Jolly exchanged looks and smiles.

Charlie stayed only a minute. When he came back out, Dr. Ledet again closed the door. Then, ushering them all toward the back of the house, the doctor gave them their instructions regarding the care of his patient.

“You must keep him as quiet and as still as you can at all times. It won’t be easy. He’s in for a great deal of pain, I’m afraid. But remember, the more he thrashes about, the longer the healing process will take.” From his black bag the doctor produced a vial of laudanum. He handed it to Helen. “He’ll be needing this; a few drops at a time should ease him. Keep his bandages changed and his wounds clean, his temperature down. Think you can handle it?” He looked directly at Helen.

“Yes, we can,” Helen was quick to respond. “Is there anything else we should do?”

“Yes.” Dr. Ledet closed his black bag. “Make sure you keep him in bed until I say otherwise.” He started for the back door. “I’ll look in on him in the next day or two in case any infection should set in. If you need me sooner, Jolly knows where to get me.”

“Thanks so much for coming, Doctor,” Helen said, touching his shoulder. “We appreciate it.”

“You’re more than welcome, child,” replied the aging bearded doctor whom Helen had known all her life. He suddenly shook his graying head and said, “I’d like to think what happened to the young man was nothing more than a saloon brawl and horseplay.”

“But you know better.” Helen looked him straight in the eye.

Dr. Ledet sighed, started to speak, but said nothing more. He squeezed Helen’s hand and went out. Jolly walked the doctor out to his tethered horse while Helen—with Charlie right behind her—headed back to the guest room.

In the last gloaming of light, Helen and Charlie stood unmoving at Kurt’s bedside. Jolly came into the room, glanced at the worried pair, and lit the coal-oil lamp on the night table beside the bed. Then he too came to the bed, looked thoughtfully at Kurt, and put comforting arms around both Charlie and Helen.

The long bedside vigil had begun.

Jolly insisted he was staying the night. Helen quickly agreed that the two of them could take turns watching over Kurt. Charlie said he wanted to help too. Helen told him he sure could. In fact he could go gather up some of his things and move up to the house until his father was well again. Charlie wasted no time complying. He and Jolly went down to the quarters to get Charlie’s clothes.

Helen fixed Charlie a bed on the long blue velvet chaise lounge so he could sleep right there in the room with his injured father. Bedtime came and Charlie announced he wasn’t going to bed. He was going to stay at his father’s bedside. Neither Helen nor Jolly argued with him.

But when the tall cased clock in the hall struck midnight, Charlie could no longer hold his eyes open. The sleepy little boy sank down onto his footstool and his head sagged on his chest. Jolly lifted him up in his. arms and carried him to the chaise lounge, undressed him, and put him to bed.

Charlie slept while Helen and Jolly looked after Kurt. They bathed Kurt’s face with cool clean cloths. They murmured soothingly when he became restless. They did all they possibly could to keep him comfortable.

And still.

It wasn’t a simple task. At times it took both Helen and Jolly to hold Kurt down. Slightly feverish, in pain, slipping in and out of consciousness, he mumbled and thrashed and moaned. Sometime before dawn he settled down and fell into a less troubled slumber.

When the sun finally rose on a new day, Jolly was dozing in a chair. But Helen was wide awake. She hadn’t been asleep. She might never sleep again. She felt responsible for what had happened to Kurt and she was determined to make it up to him. She would take care of him like no one ever had before. She would get him through this, do whatever was necessary, stay with him for as long as he needed her.

Worried, weary, her shoulders and head aching dully, Helen stood beside the bed as the pastel rays of the rising summer sun slanted into the room and across the dark, still face on the pillow. Her heart hurt as she looked at him. He was hardly recognizable. His handsome features were distorted by fierce swelling and ugly discoloration.

Her hand resting lightly on his bare, bruised shoulder, Helen silently told the prostrate man that she would get him well. She vowed to nurse him back to full vigorous health. She took a solemn oath that come harvest time, she would have him strong and fit and able to travel.

All the way back to his Maryland home.

Helen was gazing wistfully at him when all at once one of his blackened, swollen eyes slitted open. Helen’s breath caught in her chest. Kurt looked up at her. He tried to speak, couldn’t.

“Kurt,” she whispered, leaning over him. “Oh, Kurt, it’s Helen. I’m right here.”

“Helen,” he croaked through split, swollen lips. “You … you look tired.” He weakly lifted his bandaged left hand from the bed.

Feeling like laughing and crying at the same time, Helen took his injured hand gently in both of her own and softly said, “No, dear. I’m not the least bit tired.”

“You’re … awfully … sweet,” he murmured in a choked whisper, and his swollen eye again closed and his breathing became deep and slow.

Jolly took care of the morning chores Kurt usually handled; then, to Helen’s surprise, he went home and they didn’t see him for the rest of the day. Together Helen and Charlie began the long ordeal of patiently, caringly nursing Kurt back to health.

In the late afternoon of that first long tiring day, Helen efficiently changed Kurt’s bandages, cleaned the abrasions on his chest, carefully retaped his cracked ribs, and soaked his sprained ankle in a basin of hot salt water she placed on the bed.

Kurt had awakened in the hottest part of the afternoon and she had spooned beef broth and hot tea down him. Charlie was there throughout, helping, touching, talking.

By bedtime Kurt appeared to be resting comfortably, so Helen turned to Charlie and said, “We both need to get some sleep. I’ll be in my bedroom just next to this one. I’ll leave my door open in case you need me. We’ll keep the lamp burning beside your father’s bed. Think you can sleep?”

Charlie yawned. “Can Dom sleep with me?”

Helen smiled. “If you can find him. Go on. Call him in.”

Charlie raced from the room, down the hall, and out the front door. Helen returned to the bed to have one last look at Kurt. Charlie was back in a minute, wagging Dom.

“’Night, now,” Helen whispered to Charlie.

“That’s not the way you say it,” Charlie told her, dumping Dom on the chaise lounge.

“It isn’t?” Helen reached out, cupped the back of his blond head. “How should I say good night?”

“You have to say, ‘Nighty-night and don’t let the bedbugs bite!’” Charlie grinned.

Helen smiled at him and said, “Nighty-night and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“I won’t,” he said, then turned, raced over to the high feather bed, and climbed up onto the footstool. The little boy leaned over and whispered to his sleeping father, “Nighty-night and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”