The Beekeeper's Son (The Amish of Bee County Book 1) (22 page)

“I want Deborah.” Hazel joined in. “Deborah comes.”

Fine. A long ride to Beeville might be just what the doctor ordered.

TWENTY-THREE

Swallowing against the nausea that had roiled in his stomach the entire ten miles into town, Phineas scooped Hazel from the backseat, tucked her on his hip, and slammed the door of Mr. Carson’s rusted two-tone station wagon that smelled of cigarette smoke and Mr. Carson’s feet. The little girl sighed and snuggled against his chest, her face wetting the faded blue cotton. She had been brave on the trip into town, but tears stained her eyes red. Her lip, now a purplish hue, had swollen to twice its normal size.

Horse and buggy might have been faster than Mr. Carson’s car putt-putting along the highway, one hand on the steering wheel, one hanging out the window. Phineas’s arm tightened around Hazel. He hated to see little ones in pain or sick. Only the need to ease her pain kept him from turning and running home on his own two feet. “It’s okay, we’re here now. The doc will take good care of you, and you’ll be all better before you know it.”

Her face furrowed in a frown, Hazel patted Phineas’s cheek with chubby, damp fingers. “You got owie too?”

He swallowed against the knot that suddenly appeared in his throat, strangling him. “Jah. I do. I did.”

“Doc fix it for you?”

The words twisted and burrowed straight through Phineas’s heart. From the mouths of babes. Her sweet face held no disgust or distaste. Her hand didn’t jerk back at the feel of his ugly, ridged skin. He cleared his throat. “That’s okay. We’ll just take care of you today.”

Deborah scooted around the back end of the car and held out her arms. “Let me have her.”

Ignoring her command, Phineas leaned toward the window on the front passenger side and spoke to Mr. Carson. “I’ll ask Belinda to call you on your cell when we’re ready to go back.”

“I’ll be over at the diner having an iced tea.”

Mr. Carson touched the tip of his John Deere cap and drove away, leaving the stench of exhaust and gas fumes trailing behind. Phineas whirled and lugged Hazel toward the doctor’s office. The slap of Deborah’s sneakers on the asphalt told him she struggled to keep up. Despite wanting nothing more than to be done with this foray into a town full of people who would stop and stare, Phineas forced himself to slow down.

She hadn’t spoken during the drive in, but he could feel her gaze on the back of his head the entire time. She had some question she wanted to ask but didn’t. He could feel it. Of course Mr. Carson kept up a steady stream of conversation centered on the weather, hunting, and fishing, in that order. Hard to get a word in edgewise, even if she wanted to do so.

“Mudder will pay you back when we get home.” Her voice sounded breathless. And her tone defensive. “For the driver and for the clinic visit.”

“Don’t worry about it. There’s a district fund for medical emergencies.”

Leroy made sure everyone contributed whatever small amount they could spare each month so the community could help each other in times of need. Mordecai always gave more than his share. Phineas appreciated his father’s generous nature, even when that meant doing without a new hunting rifle or making the old buggy last another year.

Deborah scurried ahead of him and opened the clinic door. Inside, the smell of cleansers and bleach carried on frigid AC air hit him in the face. Phineas swallowed against the immediate surge of bile in his throat. This wasn’t a hospital. He wasn’t the patient. He would do it for the little girl in his arms.

Half a dozen people sat in the chairs arranged in rows in the waiting room. A baby wailed on his mother’s lap. A boy coughed and whined to his mother about his sore throat. She hushed him, but her gaze lingered on Phineas, then bounced away as her long, horsey face reddened. An elderly man dozed, his head propped against the wall behind him, mouth open wide, his loud snores like a buzz saw. The wait shouldn’t be too long. Phineas sucked in air and marched up to the reception area.

“Phineas King, hi, how are you?” Belinda, Doc Peterson’s nurse-slash-receptionist-slash-daughter, smiled up at him, her chubby cheeks dimpling, and then at Deborah. “Long time no see, which in my business is a good thing. And this little one. She has a boo-boo, doesn’t she? Is this your girl and your wife?”

More pain, this time a razor-sharp arrow piercing his skin over and over again, sliced through him. Hazel’s warm weight against his hip felt right. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. “Nee. Nee.”

Belinda looked from Phineas to Deborah and back as if expecting someone to elaborate. Deborah’s gaze remained on
the slick black-and-white checkered tiled floor, her expression pained, her cheeks pink.

Phineas shifted Hazel to his other hip. “This is Hazel Lantz. And her sister Deborah. They just moved here from Tennessee. Hazel hit her mouth. Looks like she needs stitches.”

“Well, welcome to Beeville, Hazel. Looks like you took quite a spill.” Belinda bustled around the counter where she put one finger to Hazel’s chin, forcing her to lift it, and peered at her mouth. “I’ll get some ice to help get the swelling down while you fill out some paperwork for me, Deborah. Doc’s got four or five folks waiting, but I can work her in. Have a seat, have a seat.” She shooed them with both hands toward the chairs.

A TV attached high up on one wall blared a cartoon, so Phineas chose seats that allowed them to sit with their backs to it. Hazel clung to him as if she feared he might abandon her. He removed her hands from his shoulder and smiled down at her. “Time for you to sit next to Deborah.”

“I like Phin.”

Her flat statement made him want to smile. “I’m glad, but it is more proper for you to sit in your own chair while Deborah fills out the papers. I’ll be right here.”

Hazel allowed herself to be transferred to a seat next to her sister. Deborah’s gaze was pensive as she studied the clipboard in her lap. Did she like Phineas too?
Stop
it.

He forced his gaze to the magazines on the nearby rack.
Field
& Stream.
That would do. He picked it up and flopped the pages open to an article about trout fishing.

“You’d rather read a magazine than talk to me?” She pressed the pen against the paper so hard, it was a wonder it didn’t rip. “Figures.”

Now she wanted to talk. In front of a bunch of Englischers. “I hadn’t heard you doing any talking.” He kept his voice low. “And remember, we’re not alone here.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt the important discussion you were having with Mr. Carson about how hard it is to find enough time in the day to go fishing.” She scribbled some more, then held the pen against her cheek and chewed her lip. “I don’t know the answers to some of these questions.”

“Just do the best you can. They aren’t picky unless there’s insurance to be filed. We don’t have any and Belinda knows that.”

“Fine.” She scratched something out. “I don’t know why they have to know all this stuff to fix a lip.”

“You sure are irritable.” He flipped the pages and pretended to be enthralled by a photo of a buck with an eight-point rack. “Are you always this irritable?”

“My little sister is hurt.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“Thanks to you.”

He jerked his head up. It sounded an awful lot like she intended to thank him for helping with Hazel but didn’t like that she had to do it. He’d only done what needed to be done. No thanks expected or needed. “You did fine as well.”

“Did I do something to make you mad?”

“Nee.”

“Why do you avoid me?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Her voice rose. She looked around, then clutched the clipboard to her chest. “You make it a point to be out of the house most of the day. Sometimes you don’t even come in at noon to eat.”

He breathed. The faint smell of blood wafting from Hazel mingled with Betadine and bleach made his stomach rock. He hunched forward, hoping the brim of his hat would hide the sick expression on his face. He tried never to come to places of sickness. Certain smells brought back the agonizing pain and then the murky, underwater blur of the pain medications. The snatches of memories. The sounds of a doctor barking orders over him, hands touching him, cold hands. Needle pricks. Glaring lights overhead that made his head ache and his throat dry.

“Are you all right?” Her voice softened to a whisper. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m fine.” He inhaled and let the air out. “When I don’t come in, it’s because I’m working the hives. Nothing more. I’m going outside.”

“Fine. Go. We’ll be fine, won’t we, Hazel?”

Hazel snatched at his hand. “I want Phin.”

“I’ll be right outside.”

Tears teetered in her big blue eyes. “I want Phin.”

He eased back in his chair. “You know how it feels when your stomach hurts because you ate too much ice cream?”

Hazel nodded.

“That’s how my stomach feels today. If I go outside, I’ll feel better.”

“Okay.” Hazel didn’t look convinced, but she nodded again. “Come back.”

He rose a second time. Belinda exited a swinging door that led to the exam rooms. “Doc said to get this little one in there right away. Come on, come on, let’s go.”

“I’ll be right there.” His stomach lurched. He had to go. Now. “Deborah, you go with her.”

“Phin—”

“I said I’d be right back.”

He shoved through the door into the bright, white heat of a south Texas summer. Hoping to leave the smell of pain and death behind. Knowing it would follow him wherever he went.

Six stitches. Deborah hugged Hazel. The little girl squirmed loose, busy plucking at the sticker of a flower the doctor had given her for being so brave. He said most kids got suckers, but he didn’t want Hazel sucking on candy so soon after getting stitches in her mouth. She’d been a brave little girl through the whole thing. Even Doc Peterson had said so.

“That was a nasty little gash, but you’re good to go.” He patted Hazel’s head, then rolled his stool back to the tiny desk on the wall where he picked up a pen and wrote on a pad. “I want her to take antibiotics to make sure we don’t get any infection in there. She needs to eat soft foods. Pudding, mashed potatoes, soft scrambled eggs.”

He stood and handed the paper to Deborah with a flourish and slight bow. “Bring her back in a week and we’ll have another look-see. Stop by the desk on your way out to make the appointment. Belinda will finish up your paperwork.”

And take their money. Money Deborah didn’t have. If Phineas didn’t come back, Deborah would have to figure something out.

She helped Hazel down, took her hand, and trotted down the hallway to the reception area where Belinda sat behind a computer, pink-rimmed reading glasses perched at the end of her long nose. She hopped up. “All done?”

“All done.” Hazel piped up in a singsong warble. “All done.”

“All done.” Deborah took a quick look around. “Phineas didn’t come back?”

“No, but I’m betting he’s outside waiting for you.” Belinda shook her plump index finger with its long nail painted bubblegum pink and adorned with a ring featuring a huge green stone that twinkled in the light. “He’s not the sort of young man who abandons a lady in distress.”

“It’s just that . . .”

“He’s in charge?”

“Not exactly, but he did say he knew about how . . . the bill is handled.”

“Oh, sweetie, is that what you’re worried about? Don’t you fret.” Belinda’s chuckle made the rolls of fat under her chin jiggle. “Your folks having a running account here. We’ll send you a bill. We know where to find you. You’re staying with Mordecai King, right?”

“Right.”

“Mordecai will make sure we get paid, don’t you worry.”

“We don’t take anything on credit.”

“It isn’t credit, honey. It’s good faith. Everybody knows that Mordecai King and his kind are good for it.” Belinda smiled. “Everyone remembers when Phineas was in that hospital down in Corpus for over two months. The trucker’s company’s insurance paid some of the bills, but not all. You folks took care of what was yours.”

Two months. A terrible-long time to be in the hospital. “People still remember after all those years?”

“We remember how heartbroken those folks were and how stoic and brave they were.”

Stoic. That was a good word for Phineas.

“Anyway, we know you’re good for it. Who drove you in?”

“Mr. Carson.”

“I’ll give him a call to come get y’all while you go find Phin. Little Hazel here can draw me a picture for our bulletin board while you see how he’s doing. He’s probably feeling better now.”

“This has happened before?”

“Not in a long while. We haven’t seen him in years. He doesn’t come into town. Not since Mordecai brought him in for checkups so he didn’t have to make the long trip to Corpus. He was scared of riding in the van back then. I don’t think Mordecai was too fond of it either, truth be told.” Belinda handed Hazel a pack of crayons and a piece of white construction paper. Hazel grinned, her fat lip protruding. “I imagine coming here reminds him of things he’d rather not think about.”

Yet he hadn’t hesitated when Hazel needed help. “Hazel, be good for Belinda. I’ll be right back.”