A Newborn to Mend Their Hearts (Preview)

Chapter One

Eldora, Montana – 1889

Sylvie Morrow tucked a strand of her wavy chestnut hair behind her ear absently. After a full day of helping her father with his patients, her hair always managed to escape her hairpins by evening. In fact, the motion of tucking loose strands behind her ears was as natural to Sylvie as cleaning her father’s medical equipment, refilling his bag for the next day, and preparing the various plants and herbs that Sylvie used for her own poultices and tinctures.

When she was in her teens, Sylvie had begun to help her father increasingly with his medical practice. At first, she’d been taught to sterilize instruments and prepare bandages. Now, she was entirely comfortable managing all her father’s medical equipment. It had become a daily ritual that Sylvie and Maureen, who worked and lived with the Morrows, would stand elbow-to-elbow to clean the day’s tools and prepare for the next day while Dr. Morrow sat at his desk in the cabin’s front room, writing patient notes and studying his medical books.

“Is the water boiling, love?” called Maureen in her Irish lilt as she sailed past Sylvie, arms full of clean linens.

“The kettle just whistled,” replied the younger woman, not pausing in her tasks.

Maureen McBride was as close to a nurse as could be found out on the frontier. She’d spent her fifty years of life caring for others and had amassed an enormous knowledge of how to care for patients, how to get a wriggling child to take his medicine, and how to deliver a baby in the breech position. If she was asked, Maureen would describe herself as a midwife. Yet, since coming to work with Dr. Morrow, her knowledge had expanded greatly.

Part nurse, part surrogate mother, Maureen lived in the Morrows’ cabin. She’d cared for Sylvie and her younger brother, Elijah, after their mother died. Dr. Morrow had been grief stricken, but as the only doctor for miles, he’d had no choice but to continue healing broken bones and caring for the sick. Once Maureen had been hired, he had thrown himself into his work knowing that his own children and the patients who came to their cabin looking for him while he was away would be in good hands.

There were things that Sylvie loved about Maureen. The older woman was comfortable; stout and weathered. Her hair was more gray than red these days, and there were laugh lines etched in her face which had grown deeper through years of merriment. Maureen was as quick with her hugs as she was with her advice.

Unfortunately, in recent years, Maureen’s chattering, bossing ways had begun to frustrate Sylvie who was ready to be treated as an equal and not a junior partner. Where Sylvie had once enjoyed the midwife’s advice and reminders, she now chafed.

“What’s this?” Maureen asked, a note of laughter in her voice. “Have you found something new to add to your poultice?”

Sylvie glanced up from the bandages she was rolling. The nurse was pointing to the willow bark she’d collected. Sylvie’s temper sparked and she frowned. Why must Maureen find this humorous? Herbalism wasn’t inferior to the more scholarly medicine that her father practiced, and Maureen held as practically sacred.

“I ran into Kohana in the woods this morning,” Sylvie explained, trying to keep her voice even. “He told me that willow bark can be brewed into a helpful tea that can lower fevers and ease pain.”

Maureen pursed her plump lips, a fist landing on her ample hip. Despite their proximity to the edge of the Crow lands, the older woman had never grown comfortable with their very peaceful Indian neighbors.

“Well, your father will have to approve this before you give it to any of our patients,” Maureen chided, jerking her head toward the front room where the doctor sat, updating his patient records.

“Yes, I know,” Sylvie replied, holding in her sigh of frustration.

This was an old tension. Sylvie found herbal medicine fascinating. Kohana, an elder Crow man, had a wonderful knowledge of the natural world. If Sylvie had had the time, she would have spent a year just studying with Kohana to absorb as much as she could.

It didn’t help matters that Sylvie’s mother, Eliza, had grown up in these parts and been friends with several of the members of the nearest Crow tribe until her death. Eliza had collected plants and herbs and used them for healing until Dr. Morrow came to the area. After their marriage, Eliza had learned to keep a very detailed, scientific sort of journal, measuring herbs and tracking their effects. Though Sylvie hadn’t seen that journal since her mother’s death, she knew that it had helped to sway her father’s opinion of natural medicine a little. He tolerated Sylvie’s continuation of her mother’s herbalism, even going so far as to admit that some of her concoctions improved patients’ health. Though he didn’t outright invite Sylvie to partner with him, the good doctor allowed her to make suggestions of her own and use plants and herbs on his patients, under his careful watch, of course.

Sylvie was about to suggest they have their evening cup of tea when a knock sounded at the front door. Both women looked up, ears perked as Dr. Morrow rose from his chair in the front room and opened it. The two women were frozen, waiting to hear any orders the doctor might give or overhear the sort of need this new patient might have.

A sudden cry of pain mobilized Maureen and Sylvie. They knew the sound all too well. A woman had come to the doctor’s house in labor.

“I’ll settle her in the bed,” Maureen said. “I just put some fresh nightgowns in there.”

Sylvie nodded even as she moved toward the kitchen door to fetch a fresh bucket of water from the pump in the yard. Whether it was for a refreshing cup of tea when the delivery went long or to quickly sterilize a dropped tool, they would need to have water ready.

The last of the evening light lit the path from the kitchen door to the pump, though Sylvie didn’t really need it. She knew this path by heart after twenty-four years of walking it. As her arm worked the pump lever and water gushed fitfully into the metal bucket, Sylvie’s eyes wandered to the stars that were beginning to twinkle into sight on the opposite side of the fading sun. She breathed in the scent of the trees, the fresh air, and her ears allowed the chirps and croaks of the night to give her a moment’s peace.

Then the bucket was full, and Sylvie lugged it back into the kitchen. She refilled the reservoir on the back of the stove and the tea kettle before stoking the fire they’d just banked.

Dr. Morrow entered the room, wiping his freshly washed hands. “Sylvie, Maureen asked for you.”

“Is there anything we should know about this birth?” Sylvie inquired eagerly.

Her father’s lean, lined face looked incredibly tired, she observed. His hairline was receding bit by bit, the chestnut locks on the side slowly giving in to the inevitable. The creases that formed when he squinted in the bright light were settling deeper. Still, the quick intellect and quiet competence had yet to wane from his steady blue eyes.

“She’s a young woman, about your age. She didn’t give her name and arrived alone.” Dr. Morrow’s voice was grave.

Sylvie’s eyebrows lifted. “How in the world did she get here alone? Was there a horse?”

Her father shook his head. “Not that I saw. Her clothes aren’t very clean, and she seems thin. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that this baby is premature or at least underweight. It might make for an easier birth but a real struggle for the newborn.”

Sylvie finished collecting the things she and Maureen would likely need and scooped them into her arms. She gave her father a sharp nod and promised, “We’ll call you should complications arise.”

Dr. Morrow was perfectly able to deliver babies. Sylvie knew that he had done this many times. However, Maureen was the midwife amongst the three of them and women often preferred to have her in the birthing room. Sylvie couldn’t imagine having anyone other than Maureen deliver her own baby should she ever find herself with a husband and a baby on the way.

Not waiting for a reply from her father, Sylvie turned and made her way out the front door. The cabin, in its early days, had been modest. Her parents had had the foresight to build a wide porch on three sides all sharing the same roof. The original cabin included a large front room, kitchen, dining room, and bedroom. Once Sylvie and her younger brother, Elijah, had gotten older, the Morrows had added a second story with three bedrooms upstairs. After Eliza’s death, Maureen had taken the downstairs bedroom and the remaining Morrows moved upstairs.

Over the years, the porch on the left of the front door had been walled up to make an examination room and a small ward with two narrow beds. The Morrows had taken to calling these rooms the dispensary and it was where all patients were seen should they come to the doctor’s home.

Unfortunately, an especially violent spring thunderstorm only ten days previously had dropped a large branch on the roof of the dispensary, wreaking rather a lot of havoc to the shingles which allowed the heavy rain to damage the rooms below it. Thankfully, no patients had been inside at the time. There were plans in place to have the roof repaired and the rooms put back in order. However, it would take time to order the necessary window panes and shingles needed. Unable to operate without some sort of room for patients, walls had quickly been erected to the right side of the porch. The new room was watertight and there was a bed for emergencies such as this.

The young woman had begun to cry out again. As Sylvie opened the door, the volume grew louder. Maureen had lit the lamp which provided a great deal of light to the room. Sylvie saw that the laboring mother was in the process of removing her clothing and pulling on the nightgown Maureen was holding, though she was hunched over mid-task, one hand gripping her round belly, the other clutching the bed post for support.

This stranger was lovely, Sylvie saw. Her beauty wasn’t marred by the agony she was in or the state of her unwashed clothing. The woman had golden hair in a thick braid down her back, ivory skin, and gray eyes. Sylvie put down her armful, quickly laying out everything in the way that Maureen liked. Then she hurried to the young woman’s side.

With practiced, deft hands, Maureen and Sylvie helped the woman out of her clothing, into the nightgown, and onto the bed before the next pain hit. A stream of calming talk lilted from Maureen as she checked the woman’s progress and prepared for the birth. Sylvie took the mother-to-be’s hand and wiped her forehead with a cool cloth.

“Goodness! Your wee one is already crowning,” Maureen exclaimed. “You won’t have long now.”

The young mother looked up, panting at Sylvie. She was clearly afraid as she whispered, “It’s too soon. The baby’s too young.”

Seeing a chance to gain some much-needed information, Sylvie leaned close. “Do you know how far along you are?”

“I was married in October. I fell pregnant right away. It’s not been seven months!” Another labor pain came on and the woman squeezed Sylvie’s hand, her face twisting.

Sylvie calculated in her head. That set this baby at about six and a half months old, depending on when in October the marriage took place. It was quite early, though newborns did survive at that age. She tucked the knowledge away before focusing on the task at hand.

“Keep breathing,” she urged. The woman ignored her, gasping and struggling. Sylvie tried again, “Let’s breathe together, shall we?” Sylvie began to pant along with the woman whose lovely gray eyes focused on Sylvie fiercely.

Together, they breathed through the contraction before the woman fell back on the pillow.

Sylvie saw that their patient was leaning back too far to be in an optimum position for the delivery. She moved to prop her up with another pillow. As Sylvie helped lift the woman, she was surprised to see an unusual mark on her neck, just behind her ear. Though the lamplight brightened the room down on Maureen’s end of their patient, there were a few deep shadows up by her head that made it impossible for Sylvie to clearly see it. Sylvie tried to convince herself that it was just a birthmark. There was no good reason why this beautiful, married woman would have a tattoo on her neck. Nevertheless, Sylvie vowed to examine it closer should the opportunity arise.

Things began to move very quickly. Maureen recognized that it was time to push and began to coach the laboring
mother. Sylvie did everything she could to make their patient comfortable as the woman worked to bring her child into the world. Maureen expertly managed things from her end, giving orders to push, urging the woman to rest, and finally, to catch the infant in her clean towel as he made his entrance into the world.

“It’s a wee laddie,” Maureen announced, holding the little one up for his mother to see. Skillfully, she cut the cord and repeated, “You’ve a little boy now.”

Sylvie was always amazed to see the depth of love on a new mother’s face amidst the exhaustion at the end of such an agonizing trial. But it was always there. And, sure enough, this woman began to smile and cry, her hands reaching for her baby. Maureen put the tiny, wiggling bundle in his mother’s arms.

The midwife beckoned Sylvie to come closer. “He’s quite small,” she whispered. “Keep an eye on him for signs of distress as I deal with the placenta.”

Sure enough, the newborn was tiny. His wail was high and plaintive and clearly that of a premature baby. As Sylvie listened, the baby took a shuddering breath, and she could hear his struggle. Alarm rising, she stepped closer and saw that the newborn’s lips were tainted blue.

But this was lost on his young mother who leaned forward and whispered in his ear before kissing his tiny head. The touch and sound of his mother helped soothe the little one who struggled less, though he was still clearly not breathing well.

“Since he’s early, I’d like the doctor to look at him,” Sylvie said, using her most confident and efficient voice. It brooked no argument, and she often used it to great effect.

The pains began again, and the woman handed the child to Sylvie before working to complete her final task of childbirth. Sylvie exchanged a worried look with Maureen as she wrapped the baby in her arms and made her way out of the makeshift birthing room.

“I’m sorry to take you away from your mama so soon,” she said to the baby as they moved to the cabin door. She glanced down and found his little, red face turned toward hers. She smiled at him and wrapped him more tightly against the night’s breeze. “The doctor needs to see you. He doesn’t help with many births since Maureen is such an experienced midwife. Most women prefer that men stay out of the birthing room until their work is done. Oh, not you, young sir. No, you are most welcome.”

She reached the front door and pushed it open. Her father sat at his desk, his head propped on his hand as he read from one of his college medical books. He looked up, read something in his daughter’s expression, and was on his feet in a moment.

“He’s struggling to breathe,” she explained as the baby was taken out of her hands. “His lips look blue, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” the doctor murmured. He pulled his stethoscope from his pocket and pressed it to the baby’s chest.

Sylvie didn’t stop to watch. She knew what would be needed next. Unless there was something terribly wrong, the baby would need to be washed. Maureen had rubbed silver nitrate on the baby’s eyes which needed to be cleaned away. Sylvie knew, though she doubted the young woman did, that this helped to prevent eye problems from venereal disease. It wasn’t commonly done for women giving birth in wedlock. Here was an important clue that told Sylvie the midwife had also noticed the young mother’s low weight, dirty hair, possible tattoo, and lack of wedding ring and found them concerning. As Sylvie moved around the kitchen, that missing ring registered in her mind for the first time.

Is she actually married? she wondered. This stranger had more mystery about her than most of their new mothers. Is she a prostitute? Or was she once a prostitute? Perhaps that explains her marriage but no husband or ring. Perhaps she took the first opportunity that presented itself to escape a difficult situation. Sylvie’s tender heart was filled with compassion for the stranger in the bed next door.

Soon, Sylvie had the bath water prepared and returned to the front room. Her father had wiped most of the silver from the baby’s eyes and the birthing fluids from his tiny body.

“Were you able to learn how far along the mother was?” he inquired.

“About six or seven months.”

“Ah, I see. We’ll need to keep this young fellow in our care until he’s put on weight and is breathing easier.”

Sylvie felt herself relax a little. Her father had lost plenty of patients over the years, she knew this. Yet, she couldn’t help but trust in him. She knew that Dr. William Morrow was a man of good character and a very fine doctor.

“Is anything wrong with his lungs?” she asked, curiosity piqued.

“It’s common for babies born before about twenty-eight weeks to struggle to breathe. Their lungs aren’t as developed as we’d like, though no one has yet to discover what it is that has caused this problem.”

Sylvie put out her hands and her father handed over the tiny bundle. She made her way to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “What can be done? Is there any treatment?”

“Not out here on the frontier,” Dr. Morrow said heavily, following his daughter. “Back in medical school, I read about a doctor in Scotland who created a pressurized breathing respirator back in ’32. I believe the apparatus has been used in other cities since, but I don’t have access to anything of the sort.”

Carefully, Sylvie used a soft cloth to wipe the baby with warm water. His tiny arms flailed, and his legs kicked feebly. She frowned. This baby couldn’t weigh more than three pounds. The last baby she’d helped Maureen deliver had been nigh on ten pounds and had the loudest cry Sylvie had ever come from one so young. She couldn’t help but worry that the odds of this little one’s survival were small indeed.

“Would it help to put steaming water around him? Would keeping the air damp be helpful?” she wondered.

Dr. Morrow’s eyebrows lifted as he considered. “This Montana air is plenty dry. Steam is a good idea, Sylvie. I’ll keep him here and check him over. You’ve done well, Sylvie.”

Pride filled the young woman. “I’ll go help his mother wash. Surely the placenta has been born by now.”

The baby was passed to the doctor, and Sylvie hefted the bowl of steaming water, a fresh pair of towels draped over her arm. She made her way back outside and heard movement on the path which was likely Maureen taking the placenta for burial. Sylvie backed into the room and placed the bowl on the washstand before turning to the bed.

It was empty.

Sylvie’s eyes searched the small room frantically for clues as to why the new mother might be out of bed. The only thing she found was a torn piece of newsprint taken from the papers they’d laid down on the bed to prepare for the birth. On it were written five words in an educated script: He will be safer here.

Heart pounding, Sylvie turned to rush back to her father, note in hand.

Chapter Two

Awareness came slowly to the man. His face was pressed against something rough that smelled of… But then the pain overwhelmed his senses, robbing him of the ability to do anything other than try to keep breathing. He blinked his eyes, unable to tell if they were open or closed. Was it night? There was a sharp pain in his head and his eyes burned. But the worst pain was in his side.

How had this happened? What had he been doing? Had he fallen from his horse? Been attacked? But no matter how his brain reached for answers, there was nothing there. All pathways to his memories were closed off.

Still, the man had the awareness to slow his breathing, to take stock of what did and did not hurt. He began with his feet. He wiggled his toes, flexed his calf muscles, bent his knees. Good. His legs were working. Hands next, moving each finger, one at a time. His wrists and elbows still worked. Yes, his shoulders worked, too, though…

“Aaargh,” he groaned as he moved his right arm. That pain in his side was on the right, below his ribs and hurt terribly when he’d lifted his arm.

The man’s heartbeat sped up at this realization. Abdomen injuries could easily prove fatal. How did he know that? Was it common knowledge or something he’d particularly needed to know? Again, no answers came to him.

He moved his left hand to gingerly feel the wound. For the first time, he cursed his eyes. Why couldn’t he see? No, focus on your side, he chided himself. If this side wound was bad, it could be the death of him. His eyes could wait their turn for his attention.

Feeling cautiously, he moved his hand around the edges of the wound. He felt blood there. Carefully, he moved his hand up and toward the worst of the pain. There! A stick about a half-inch wide was protruding from the wound.

Should he pull it out? It would have to come out eventually, but was he in any condition to do this? And what if he pulled it out and it began to gush blood? He could quickly bleed to death. No, he decided, removing the stick would have to wait. If he could find his way to help, there might be enough towels or bandages or something to staunch the wound. Perhaps there might even be a doctor to sew him up.

The man moved his neck slowly. He turned his head to one side, listening for any sound that might help him find his way. Hearing nothing more than birds calling to each other and the wind in the trees, he turned his head the other way. Was that the creak of harness? Was he near a road of some sort? Surely, he had to be close to some semblance of civilization. Wait. Why did he think that?

Finally, he turned his attention to his head. There was a pain on his forehead, near his temple, that did not like being probed, no matter how careful his fingers were. He strained his eyes and, for the first time, felt that there was a difference between having his eyes closed and opened. When he forced his eyelids open, there was a gray light. His eyesight was beginning to improve very, very slowly, it seemed.

With all caution, the man rolled onto his left side and then onto his knees. One wrong move left him gasping and almost retching with the pain of the wound in his side. But finally, he was able to gain his footing.

He was shaking with the effort and the stabbing, throbbing pain from his various injuries. And now, he was struck with uncertainty and found himself having to keep his fear at bay. If he allowed it, the reality that he was blind and injured and in a place which he did not know would keep him from ever taking a step.

“Hello!” he called, shocked at how shaky his voice was. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Hello! Can anyone
help me?”

Nothing. Not even the birds bothered to acknowledge this noisy man interrupting their peaceful wood.

The man gritted his teeth, paused to strain his ears toward where he thought he’d heard a harness, then shuffled forward slowly. No, that was no good. Any movement on his right side sent pain shooting off in a dozen directions, stealing his breath. And any time he winced at the pain, the wound in his head pulled, making him gasp.

So, he slid his left foot forward, left hand out to try and find any branch or bush or tree trunk that might slap him. Once he was sure he wasn’t about to run into a tree, he’d carefully pull his right foot forward, keeping his weight on his left leg. In this fashion, the man continued onward for what felt like an eternity. With each step, he tamped down the fear that he was heading toward a fissure in the ground or the edge of a cliff. His brow grew damp with perspiration, and he clenched his teeth on the opposite side of his head injury each time he jostled one of his injuries.

After what might have been only a few minutes but felt like much longer, the ground under his feet changed and the sounds around him shifted. Had he found a path? A road? Hope filled him and he stepped forward more recklessly than he might have otherwise done. His booted foot hit a rock, and the man fell to the ground with a cry.

Mercifully, he slid into unconsciousness as the stick in his side made contact with the ground.

***

Mary Benton was quite pleased to be able to walk alone to her best friend, Sylvie Morrow’s, cabin. With three younger siblings all living in her family’s two-story clapboard house, she often found herself longing for solitude. Her parents owned the lumbermill on which the house was situated. Pa had always worked long hours overseeing the lumberjacks they hired to cut the trees which were then turned into boards. Once Mary turned fourteen, her mother turned over much of the running of the household and general care of the three younger children to her eldest in order to manage the bookkeeping of the mill.

This meant that time to visit with Sylvie was sometimes hard to come by. The never-ending work of keeping house often kept Mary hopping from dawn to dusk. And the luxury of being permitted to walk the half mile between their houses herself was even more rare. Unfortunately, on this particular morning, Mary’s younger brother, John, was not available to accompany her. This meant she was forced to endure a long and completely unnecessary lecture on safety from her mother which had ended with Mary sliding a small pistol into her pocket for protection.

I’ve lived here my entire life, I know about the dangers of the outlaws in the area. I know about bears and snakes and mountain lions. I never go anywhere near the lumberjacks unless I’m with my parents. I’m not a complete fool.

Mary had decided some years ago that she was far too pretty for her own good. Having golden hair and eyes that were sometimes green and sometimes blue, depending on what she wore, meant that Mary Benton was very pleasing to the eye. Growing up surrounded by coarse men had taught her that a pretty face and figure drew unwanted attention more times than not. She knew to keep her head down and never do more than give a curt nod of acknowledgement to any man she did not know. The lumberjacks’ bunk house was far enough from the Bentons’ fine home, but they were sometimes about and unavoidable.

On the other hand, Mary had to admit that she might not be pretty enough to get the attention of the one man she did want to admire her.

“Oh, Thomas,” Mary sighed aloud. It felt lovely to be able to say his name here where no one would overhear and run to tell tales. “Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Avery,” she tested it out. It sounded very fine to Mary. Then, even more daring, she brazenly said, “Mary Avery.”

A thrill ran up her spine at the sound of her given name and his family name together. Surely, the two names belonged together. Surely, Thomas would have to agree. Surely…

“What on earth?” Mary whispered, her attention registering the shape in the middle of the road ahead. “Is that a… person?”

Instantly, Mary stopped, pulling the pistol from her pocket where she’d ceased to notice its heavy presence banging against her leg as she’d walked. She didn’t cock the hammer but held it loosely at her side, pointed toward the ground.

Her eyes searched all around, glancing over her shoulder at the road behind just to be sure. Her ears perked, searching for any sign that there was a dangerous person or animal nearby. But the birds were calmly chattering, not concerned at all by what was happening below. Mary knew that a large predator would have silenced them. So, this person’s situation was unlikely to be due to a dangerous animal near at hand.

Once she drew near enough to realize that this was indeed a man, Mary took stock of him. He had dark hair, a few days’ stubble, and wore the sort of clothes most men in these parts wore when traveling. His pants were denim and made to both stand up to long hours in the saddle and protect the legs inside from sharp branches or thorns. He wore boots, though they weren’t cowboy boots. His shirt was a faded, worn one that had taken quite a lot of damage. He wore no hat and his holster was empty.

“You’re no cowboy or sheepherder,” Mary assessed, again speaking out loud to no one at all. “Someone has taken your gun and your coat.” It was only a guess. He might have dropped his gun or lost it in a poker game. And he might not have had a coat. Perhaps he wore a vest. But Mary knew that he likely had one or the other since their April days were still quite cool, especially out of the direct sunlight. “And where is your horse and wagon?”

She guessed he was about her own age of twenty-three. Perhaps a few years older or younger. Still, he was a young man. Was he an outlaw? A law-abiding man looking for work? Something somewhere in between?

All this Mary assessed in a matter of a few heartbeats. Her attention quickly focused on the messy scab at his temple and the blood pooling on the ground beneath him. She put her hand to his neck and felt a faint heartbeat. He was alive for now.

Mary sat back, her lower lip between her teeth as she considered. He needed help immediately and that lay ahead at the Morrows’ house. But he was a stranger and might be a threat, which meant she needed Sheriff Dalton who was likely in the small town of Eldora behind her. Could Mary move this man? If she ran ahead to the Morrows’ and only Sylvie was there, could the two of them get him there?

No, it would be best to try and stop the bleeding as best she could then run back to town for the sheriff and other men to help her get him to the doctor’s house.

“Thank goodness I was returning these bandages to the doctor today,” Mary said to herself. It calmed her nerves, she realized, to speak as though this sort of thing was entirely commonplace. She busied her hands, pulling the clean bandages from her bag and trying to move the man enough to press them to his side.

“My family owns the lumbermill, you see,” she told the unconscious form in front of her as she worked. “Dr. Morrow is always coming over to see to one injury or another. We wash his bandages and towels and such and bring it home to Sylvie. She probably washes them again, just to be sure. I hope these are clean enough for now.” Mary stopped and frowned. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have said that. You have enough to be worrying about without me adding to it.”

Once Mary had done all she could think to do, she told the still-sleeping man that she was going for help and would return soon. Then she got to her feet, turned, and ran into town as fast as she could manage.

***

It was her footsteps that roused the man to near consciousness. Someone had been talking to him, he registered vaguely. And someone was running away. But then the darkness pulled him down and he knew no more for some time.

He was being jostled. How his side hurt! It was such a huge pain that the man had no ability to do anything else but groan to let loose the sheer agony of it.

“He’s awake,” said a man’s voice.

“Let’s get him on the bed,” said another. “I’ll need to put him under to remove this stick and clean the wound. Sylvie, bring me the ether.”

Then a cloth was pressed to his nose and the man relaxed as everything slid away. Eventually, he began to dream. He was walking down a path to a babbling brook. A young man he knew was laughing as they picked potatoes from the ground and threw them into a wagon. A young woman pinned wet clothes to a clothesline and scolded him for pestering the chickens. He was on a horse, galloping through the woods, chasing something out of sight. No, he was being chased by something behind him now. An explosion.

His eyes opened and the man gasped.

Instantly, gentle hands were placed on his forehead. “You are safe,” said a calm voice. “It was just a dream.”

His eyelids slid shut. Slowly, his heart ceased its frantic gallop. He was lying in a bed in a dim room. His side and head still hurt, but he was not alone now. A dawning sense of peace slowly replaced that threatening fear he’d felt in the woods.

“The doctor wants you to drink some water if you can manage it,” said the woman’s voice. Yes, it was a woman’s voice. He was no longer alone. A doctor was on hand, and this woman was helping to care for the man.

All he could do was manage a brief nod. Then her hand was behind his neck as she lifted him enough for him to drink from a cup. The cool water that slid down his throat was possibly the best thing he’d ever drank. It was tempting to guzzle more, but his pounding head prevented him from taking more than a few swallows.

As he laid back, the man realized that this woman must be experienced with nursing as she hadn’t spilled a single drop.

She moved around the room, and the man tried to focus his eyes on her. She was still just a dim shadow. Still, he could make out the square of light where the window was. And he could see light from somewhere on his side near his head. There must be another window near the headboard, he thought.

“Where am I?” he croaked.

The woman turned and he made out a white oval where her face must be. Her light footsteps drew closer, and she placed a cool hand on his.

“You are at Dr. William Morrow’s cabin. We are a mile or so from the town of Eldora in Montana Territory. I’m not sure where you were headed. There’s a large lumbermill near here; the Benton Lumbermill, to be specific. And we’re not far from Indian Territory. The Crow people have land just east of us. Is that what you wanted to know?”

It was all so calm and efficient. This woman had answered his question thoroughly. Again, he felt a rising certainty that no harm could befall him in this house.

“What is your name?” the woman asked.

Yes, his name. The man opened his mouth as his mind reached for the answer. But it wasn’t there.

“I don’t know,” he said, brow furrowing. “I can’t seem to remember anything at all.”

There was a moment’s pause before she said in a tight voice, “I’m going to fetch the doctor.”