Streams of Mercy (23 page)

So what if Mr. Devlin did warm up to her? As she thought about it, how should she receive his attention? How would she respond if he chose to court her? Favorably. Yes. For sure. She would much rather have him than the approval of a demanding woman on a different continent. She would much rather have him than Mrs. Moen’s money. Closeness. Love. A helpmeet in a harsh land. Mutual affection. Happiness. How she missed all that! And to go through life married to this man? She blinked at the rushing of her thoughts. Where had all that come from?
Anji, Anji
, she chided herself,
you are wasting your time and
 . . . She paused and closed her eyes, feeling a smile start inside and bloom on her face. A life with Thomas Devlin? Absolutely wonderful! She looked around. If anyone was watching her, they would think she’d gone daft.
Get on home, you silly woman.

She had nearly reached her front gate when she heard wild laughter out back. What were the children doing that was so entertaining? She left the heavy grocery basket on the steps and walked around to the back yard.

Gilbert and Annika, laughing uproariously, were patting a fuzzy baby elephant. The baby was obviously loving every moment of it, swinging its trunk to this child, to that one. Melissa and Joseph were cautiously laying their hands on the mother elephant, feeling her skin, stroking her cheek, reaching high to pat her shoulder.

And the mother elephant was tearing at Anji’s newly trimmed shrubbery.

“MAN-NY!”

Devlin watched Dr. Astrid count the medicine glasses in the dispensary closet.

She turned to him. “Do you think a dozen are enough?”

“Aye, unless, of course, ye happen to have thirteen patients.”

She half smiled, and that pleased him immensely. Lately, she hardly ever smiled. And her face looked so drawn.

He offered, “I raided the kitchen car on the train, and I think we have enough there. They not be marked glasses with which to measure dosage exactly, but they be about the same size. They’ll serve. Use one graduated glass to measure with and the train’s glasses to serve the medicine in. So I suggest ye can dismiss the needs on the train. Yer main concern is to have enough for the hospital, particularly if new patients come in.”

“Not
if
, Mr. Devlin.
When
. I am terrified that the disease will spread into the town. So many of our people are vulnerable. And the children . . .” That was not mere worry or concern in her eyes. That was cold fear.

“Mayhap I can go out around town and round up some more.”

“Yes, would you, please? And spoons. We are very low on spoons.”

“How about rubbing alcohol? Miriam mentioned she’s low on alcohol.”

“We’re low on everything.” Dr. Astrid flopped down into a chair. “You have a good idea of our needs and what we have. And you have a better idea of what’s available in the train than we do. Can you go out and find as much as you can for us? Even if we’re not out of something but you think we will be, get more.”

He chuckled. “An Irishman above all is a forager. We be grand at scrounging. I shall do me best.”

“Take the wheelbarrow in our backyard.”

“The very thing! I shall return as rapidly as I can.” He walked out into the sun and fresh air, away from the smell of misery and death. Once upon a time when he was young, he was torn between choosing a life in medicine and the life of a priest. He occasionally regretted the choice he had made, but not today. He would have failed miserably as a doctor. He hadn’t the heart or the stamina for it. This nursing job was bad enough. How those women could be doctors day after day after day, he could not understand.

For one thing, he had a headache. It wasn’t a massive headache such as he very occasionally got, with pounding temples. Just a . . . a . . .
O God, no!
He crossed himself rapidly. What if he was getting sick? And here he was waltzing about town as if he were the king of Spain. He himself could be the person who triggered Dr. Astrid’s deepest fear by spreading the pestilence out into the town. And yet they desperately needed supplies. He stood there for a moment.

It was probably just an ordinary headache, to which he was frequently prone. But what if . . . Sore throat? No. But that meant nothing—yet. What to do?

He got the wheelbarrow in the Jeffers’ backyard, waved to Amelia, and trundled it down to the general store. Spoons. They had an unopened carton of spoons. No glasses, but he could try at the boardinghouse. Good idea. Rubbing alcohol? Two bottles. He bought both. He noticed they had towels, and the laundry at the hospital could not keep up with towels. He bought all they had.

His wheelbarrow was pretty much filled. Rather than risk dropping something over the side, he would return to the hospital, empty the barrow, and go back out foraging.

His headache was getting worse. Was he doing the right thing?
He noticed in his ministrations on the train that diphtheria clouds the ability to make good decisions. He might be making a fatally wrong one right now.

Confusion and determination struggled with each other.

And suddenly, the worst thing in the world occurred: Anji Moen was coming across the street toward him, aiming herself straight at him with her shopping basket on her arm, smiling that glorious incandescent smile. Anji!

God knows he had not been honest with her. Never had he told her how he craved her presence or how she lit up his world simply by appearing. Never had he admitted to her that he thought about her so much. Or how bashful this mature man became in her radiant presence. He was afraid to tell her he secretly adored her, for fear she might laugh. He had remained somewhat aloof from her—as much as he could—because she sometimes seemed aloof from him.

And now she was aiming herself right at him. She stopped before him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Devlin.”

“And the top of the day to yerself, Mrs. Moen.” What if he was infectious? Remote chance, but a chance, no matter how unlikely. He could give her the disease, then she would give it to her delightful children, and one or more of the family might die, and it would all be because he . . . what could he do?

Get away from her! He must, for her sake. He touched the brim of his hat. “Mrs. Moen, I must . . .”
I must stop being tongue-tied. I can’t think.
No! He didn’t want to, but he must, for her sake. For her children.

She looked at him quizzically.

“Mrs. Moen, I cannot see you. Good-bye.” He pivoted the wheelbarrow around so violently that one of the bottles of alcohol fell off. It shattered.

He glanced back. She had lost both the smile and the quizzical look. Now she appeared ready to cry.

For her sake, leave! He walked as fast as he could, his headache ringing, the wheelbarrow bumping and rattling. He parked it at the back door of the hospital and jogged to his little room on the train. He sank to sit on his bed, cradled his aching head in his hands, and wept.

C
HAPTER 18

A
h, Devlin, me lad, sure and ye’ve slept under some mighty strange skies, but this one beats all.”
Thomas Devlin lay on his back studying the low ceiling above him. Bright red greeted him, and yellow trim around the sides. He knew that these train cars were painted just as gaudily inside as out. Well, some of them were. Some were also quite staid on the inside, with tasteful, muted colors. The dawn sun pouring in his window turned the red and yellow into fire and gold.

He rose, tugged his bedding into some sort of tidiness, tended to personal matters, and walked out into the passageway. He had long ago learned that sleeping in his clothes made answering an emergency during the night much easier. And those emergencies happened constantly on this beleaguered little train.

He stopped at B compartment in the fourth car, rapped quietly at the door, and stepped inside.

The middle-aged man in the bed by the window turned his head to Devlin. “I think he’s dead, Padre. He won’t talk to me.”

Devlin knelt by the foot of the man’s bed, where a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve lay. They were having to stack people
two to a bed, head to foot, so many were ill. The boy did not respond to his touch. Devlin murmured, “Violet’s been asking for ye, lad.” No response. He spoke louder, “Michael?” He stood up. “I’ll take him out to the tent, Mr. Mason. He’s still breathing, so there be hope.”

“No hope in this old man’s heart.” Mr. Mason coughed.

Best to get the vital data, for the lad’s tombstone. “How old did ye say he be?”

“Twelve in August. August fourth. He looks older than he is.”

“Aye, that he does. And handling a man’s responsibilities too. Fine lad. Can I get anything for yerself before I go?”

The fellow wagged his head, his eyes closed, and coughed some more.

Devlin rearranged the man’s covers, gathered the boy in his arms, and left. The warm, bright, welcome sun hit him in the face as he left the car and carried Michael Mason over to a tent the circus had pitched behind the mill. He stepped inside and, keeping his voice hushed, asked, “Free cot?”

Miriam gestured with a wave of her arm. “Three in that corner.” She was speaking softly as well. She followed behind. “Is this boy alive?”

Devlin laid the limp body on the cot. “Nae, and I’ve committed a sin.” He stood erect and crossed himself. “I just lied to a sick old man and told him the lad is still breathing.”

Miriam knelt beside the boy’s head, felt for a pulse, and held her cheek close to the open mouth. “No signs of life, but he cannot have been dead for long. He’s still quite flexible. We’ve had two that revived after we thought they’d died, so it isn’t a complete lie yet.” She tucked the sheet in around the lad and stood up.

“Is that Mike?” In the quiet of the tent, the voice boomed. Manny stood in the doorway!

Devlin hurried to the boy and piloted him outside. “Ye surely saw the flyers that told ye not to come around here.”

“Is that Mike?!”

“Aye.”

“And his pa is sick, right?”

“Aye.”

“So who’s taking care of the elephants? Mike and his pa, they were the elephant keepers.”

“And how would ye know that now?”

“I come round here all the time. I never seen elephants before, and they’re amazing. Mike and Mr. Mason, they were showing me how they take care of them. That’s amazing too. Who’s taking care of them now?”

Devlin studied him. “That’s a question to answer later. For now, I know not what to do with yerself. Ye’ve been exposed to the disease, so I cannot in good conscience send ye home, but on the other hand . . .”

“Somebody gotta take care of the elephants. Who?” Manny was getting strident.

Devlin sighed. “Let’s go find out.”

Manny took off toward the menagerie wagons at a run. “Slow down!” Devlin yelled, and the boy slowed from a gallop to a jog. Devlin was winded by the time they arrived at a great stout car. From one of the cars they passed, a lion roared.

“Anyone here?” Manny called. No answer. He grabbed a huge door bolt on the car’s sliding door, not your average bolt a few inches long to lock a door. This one was a foot long at least and over an inch in diameter. He managed to slide it free.

“Are ye sure we not be letting something loose that should not be loose?” But Devlin might as well have saved his breath. In a wild lurch, Manny shoved the sliding door open and hopped up inside. Devlin climbed up behind him. It took a long moment
for his eyes to adjust from the bright summer sun to this gloom. This was the elephants’ home, but the three were crowded pretty close. Wedged off in one corner, a camel brayed. A genuine ship of the desert. What an exotic, enchanting milieu.

“Mr. Devlin, ain’t no hay here at all. This here bin, it’s supposed to be full of hay for them, and there ain’t none! They’re gonna starve! Elephants hafta have hay! They can’t just graze like the horses and goats do. And the horses and stuff ain’t been let out today either. They’re still all locked up. And there ain’t no hay at all!”

“Stop!” Devlin barked it so loudly, Violet’s ears flapped forward. Manny wheeled and stared at him. “Ye’re panicking, son, and panic does nobody good. Ye cannot think when ye’re panicky. Take a deep breath. Get yer wits and yer nerves settled, then we’ll solve this problem.”

Manny actually did that, sucking in a deep breath. “What can we do? They gotta eat!”

“Aye, as do we all.” Devlin spotted a milking stool in the near darkness, dragged it nearer the door, and sat down. “Let’s think. Where might we find fodder? Does it have to be a particular kind of hay? Alfalfa or timothy? Indeed, does it have to be hay? Can they eat other things?”

As Manny stared at him, his panic seemed to subside. He bit his lip, then sat down on the floor near Devlin’s feet. He drew his knees up and draped his arms over them. “I’m trying to remember. Mr. Mason told about one time they turned the elephants out into a field that had some baby cottonwood trees. You know, just young ones. So Violet, she put a front leg on each side of a tree and took a step forward, and then another step forward, and another, and she rode it clear to the ground. Bent that tree clean over. Then she and the other two elephants—Fluff wasn’t born yet—could reach the leaves and stripped them all
off.” He looked up. “Yeah. I guess they can eat most any kind of plants, but they don’t eat meat. Mr. Mason said no meat.”