Two Brides Too Many (6 page)

“This here’s one time I’m thankful for Sal’s sluggish nature. Any faster, and I could’ve been in the middle of your mess.”

By the looks of things, Morgan didn’t suppose the jenny could’ve
gotten riled if she’d wanted to. Picks, shovels, and whatnot hung from every inch of the rigging that weighed her down.

“Boney Hughes.” It was a fitting moniker for the rail-thin man who spit a brown streak onto the snow. “You look like an easterner, all right. Must be Cripple Creek’s new doc?”

“Yes, Dr. Morgan Cutshaw.” He stuck out his hand and tried to remember that manners were different here in Colorado. “I’ve come to work with Dr. Hanson.”

Boney wandered up the road behind Morgan, his knee-patched overalls rustling like autumn leaves. “I heard you were comin’ on the train.” The man twisted and shot Morgan a look, his brows raised. “Woulda been a better choice for you.”

Given that I’m a greenhorn easterner and all
. Boney didn’t have to say it.

Keeping his frustration to himself, Morgan followed the man back to the coupé. “This thing wouldn’t fit on the train in Divide. The rest of my belongings will arrive tomorrow from Colorado Springs.” He could already tell he should’ve waited with them. Except for the smoke that billowed up below them in large black plumes. “Where that smoke is down there,” he said, pointing to the valley. “Is that Cripple Creek?”

The wiry man clicked his tongue. “Sure is. A big fire. Second in only a handful of days.”

Stopping about twenty yards behind the coupé, Boney pointed to a black-enamel nut about the size of a dinner roll. “We’ll be needin’ that if we’re to get you back on the road.”

Morgan retrieved the nut and dropped it into his coat pocket.

“Doc Hanson’ll be mighty glad you didn’t wait till tomorrow to get there.”

“How long has it been burning?”

“Chief Allen fired the shot around 1:45. Was finally dyin’ down some when I left, but we have a mess the size of Mount Pisgah to clean up.” He gestured toward a snowcapped hill to the west that was outlined in a smoky haze. “Homes burned. Lots of injured folks. Even some dead ones. But the hospital’s still standin’, thanks to the fire chief and his men.”

“I’d be obliged if you’d help me so I can be on my way.”

Pushing his canvas hat down on his head, Boney backed up to the coupé and lifted it off the ground. “Stick it on there, Doc.”

Once Morgan set the wheel in place, Boney lowered the buggy. Morgan pulled the nut from his coat pocket and threaded it finger tight.

“Not more than a couple of miles down into town now. I’d have Jesse at the livery give it a good look. From there, I’d take Fifth up to Eaton and over to the hospital so you don’t get tangled up in town.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Hughes.”

“Doc, Mr. Hughes was my daddy. I’m Boney.”

“I appreciate your help, Boney.” Morgan reached into his coat pocket. “What do I owe you for your services?”

“My services,” Boney muttered, shaking his shaggy head. “Nothin’. It’s what we do ’round here. Unless you’re tryin’ to poach a claim.” Boney gestured a hanging, and chuckled.

“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”

Boney turned to his mule and pulled the end of the knotted rope off her back. “See you around, Doc.”

After he watched the man lead Sal up the hill past him, Morgan climbed up into the seat and grabbed the reins. The coupé survived the harrowing descent of several hundred yards on rocky, slushy road. His nerves thanked him when the path leveled out, and soon he rounded the corner where the depot for the Midland Terminal Railroad stood at Bennett Avenue. Jesse’s Livery came into view, and so did the effects of the fire. It looked as though the blaze had pretty much burned out, but only a smattering of buildings still stood in the center of town.

Donkeys pulled carts full of belongings and supplies through town, and workers scrambled about with shovels and buckets. As Morgan approached the livery, he scanned the devastation that lay only a couple of blocks down the street. Piles of ash, broken glass, and charred boards stood where people had done business just yesterday. Everything from barber chairs to candy cases formed a wavy line down the center of the muddy road. Most of the businesses and homes at this end of town had been spared, and he was sure there were folks asking why some had lost everything while others had been protected. That had been his question for the past three years.

No doubt the wards and hallways of the hospital were lined with people. The sooner he got there to help them, the better. Morgan guided his dapple gray through the opening at Jesse’s Livery. He’d see that his horse ate and drank while Jesse tightened the nut on the wheel.

After Jesse finished with the coupé and his dapple was satisfied, Morgan headed up Fifth and over to Eaton Avenue as Boney had directed him. He managed to avoid much of the chaos, but wagons and folks on foot still clogged the north-south streets as Morgan made his way to the Sisters of Mercy Hospital, a nondescript building about halfway up the block.

He secured his horse to the hitching rail and drew in a fortifying breath, then crossed the hospital’s threshold. A stifling wave of smells washed over him. Burned hair. Camphor. Dirty linens. Shouts and wails echoed off of dingy walls. About a dozen men and a couple of women lined the perimeter of a room the size of his father’s parlor. Some sagged on deacon’s benches, but most leaned against walls or slouched on the floor.

Three women stood behind a table ripping sheets, and he guessed those were the bandages he’d be using. The youngest of the workers wore a pale blue gown and a hat elaborately trimmed with feathers and flowers. She appeared better suited for a Sunday in Boston than for hospital work. Looking up at him, she straightened her shoulders. “You must be our new doctor from the East.”

“Yes ma’am.” He removed his derby. “I’m Dr. Morgan Cutshaw.”

“We’re glad to see you, and Sister Mary Claver Coleman will be too.” The young woman’s smile was pleasant. “She’s the reverend mother here, and she’s been working in the burn ward since the fire.” Removing her apron, she stepped out around the table and then extended her hand to him. “I’m Miss Darla Taggart.”

Her soft hands told him she rarely did much labor, if ripping old sheets could be considered such. “Miss Taggart.” Shifting his attention to the other women, he dipped his chin. “Ladies, it looks like you are doing a kind service, providing bandages for the wounded.”

After Miss Taggart introduced the other two women, she scooped up an armful of fabric. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the burn ward.”

The young woman sauntered down the hallway ahead of him, her fancy boot heels drumming against the wooden floor. A highly impractical
female, and a bit too friendly for Morgan’s liking. But he was overly sensitive about such matters.

She stopped in front of a closed door, peering up at him. Morgan opened it and followed her into a room about the size of his mother’s kitchen—small for a burn ward, given the extent of the fire.

Eight cots packed the room. It looked more like a logjam than a hospital ward. Male patients screamed and cried. A nun with tufts of white hair sticking out of her headpiece stood over a man whose pants had been burned off of both legs, exposing blackened flesh.

“Sister Coleman, this is Dr. Morgan Cutshaw,” Miss Taggart said, her gaze averting from the horrific scene in front of her. “I’ll leave you to your work, Dr. Cutshaw.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Miss Taggart.”

She nodded, her lips pinched together, and fled the room.

“You’re a godsend, Doctor,” the sister told him. “They keep bringing them in. All the supplies are there in that cupboard, and you can start with Mr. Yu down there at the end.”

The sound of men shouting in the hallway drew Sister Coleman out of the room.

“Doctor, come quick.”

At the sound of the sister’s frantic call, Morgan slammed the cupboard door closed and rushed into the hallway where two miners carried an injured man, his leg a confusing mess of blood and grime.

“Doc, this here’s Ethan Goeke,” said the tallest of the soot-covered men.

Morgan saw that a belt had been wrapped around Mr. Goeke’s mangled limb. “We were using dynamite to clear a building from the fire, and his leg’s hurt pretty bad.”

“Follow me to the surgery room,” said Sister Coleman, spinning around and taking long strides down the hallway. As Morgan followed behind her and the men, he heard her murmuring a prayer. He hoped he could be God’s answer to the sister’s petition, and maybe he could finally make a difference.

S
EVEN

N
ell found herself surrounded by chaos. Pews were stacked on top of one another around the edge of the room to maximize the floor space inside the church. Babies cried, and mothers called for their toddlers, who were running around the sanctuary. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people had been displaced by the fire, their homes and belongings lost to the hungry flames, and Father Volpe had opened up the St. Peter’s Catholic Church as temporary housing for displaced women and children. Pallets of bed sheets and blankets covered its floors, but still more women came, seeking shelter.

Nell glanced around the room at the weary mothers. She couldn’t imagine their heartache—their husbands in the center of danger, fighting the fire, their children to care for, and no home. Lucille, who had ridden into Cripple Creek on the train with Kat and Nell, was there with her mother, aunt, and baby cousin.

Church folks whose homes had been spared had brought extra blankets and clothing, and food was on its way, but Nell’s heart ached
for the children huddled around the room. She tried to remember what used to help her when she was scared. Sometimes Father would gather her and her sisters for a story. Nell looked around the room, but she didn’t see any books. Well, she knew a few stories. Nell moistened her lips and whistled, drawing the children’s attention.

“It’s story time, everyone. Come sit down.” Nell sat in the middle of the pallets and motioned for the children to join her.

“Does anyone want to hear a story?”

“I like the purple cow one.” The request came from a boy who was missing a front tooth.

“That sounds like a good place to start.” Father had read Gelett Burgess’s poems from the newspaper just weeks before he announced his news about Paris, and Nell knew the short poem by heart. Nell recited the first three lines, and the children joined in on the last one.

“‘I’d rather see than be one!’” The little girls giggled and the boys laughed. One little guy with a cowlick mooed like a cow, spurring them on.

The scene reminded Nell of a verse from Proverbs. Something about laughter being good medicine. She knew it was good for her, and she could see in the faces of the children that it was, at least, a healthy distraction from the fear that had held them in its grasp only an hour earlier.

“You’re good with children, Miss Nell.” Lucille’s aunt rocked her infant son.

“Thank you, ma’am.” She’d hoped the Lord would bless her and Judson with many children. Now that seemed little more than a childish dream. He’d received her wire more than a week ago, and now that she was here, she’d not heard a word from him.

“Miss Nell.” Lucille stood over by a mountain of pews, reaching into her valise. “I have my book. You could read a story from
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
.” She pulled the worn book out and walked back over to Nell. “As long as it’s not ‘Cinderella.’” Soot smudged the girl’s face as surely as the fire had sullied her romantic spirit.

Nell took the book from Lucille, vowing to keep her own ideals alive. She knew her prince was real and his letters true.

Please, Lord
.

Kat opened her eyes, trying to orient herself. A dim light mottled the tattered curtain that surrounded her cot. She tried to figure out where she was. Voices swirled around her, but she didn’t hear Nell’s among them. Then she remembered. Nell was off helping the Sisters of Mercy, or back at Hattie’s. Father was working in Paris, and Vivian and Ida were with Aunt Alma in Maine. And here she was lying in a hospital in a town that held nothing but heartache for her.