Daisies In The Wind Page 21

  “Why do people have to die?”

  Stunned, she could only stare at him. “What makes you ask that, Billy?” she asked gently, and wondered if he was thinking about his mother.

  “It’s my gramma.”

  “Caitlin? Is something wrong?” Rebeccah’s stomach clenched when Billy nodded.

  “She took sick yesterday—real sick. Doc Wilson said she might die. Pa doesn’t know I heard, but I did. And I’m scared.”

  A cold chill pierced Rebeccah. She sank weakly upon her chair. “But she was perfectly fine a few days ago. She gave me the recipe for vinegar pie and helped me pick out a pattern for new slipcovers. What happened?”

  “The fever came on her all of a sudden. Joey’s ma brought her soup, but it didn’t help. Mrs. Adams has been nursing her, and last night I heard her telling Pa that Gramma was no better. Doc Wilson said the same. Then later ...”

  “What, Billy? What has scared you so?”

  “Gramma called Pa in and she told him that she wasn’t going to get well. And she said he’d better start planning to take himself a wife, because she didn’t want to die knowing the two of us were going to be left all alone in that big house.”

  Stunned, Rebeccah swallowed back her dismay. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Caitlin. Billy’s words alarmed her considerably, but she spoke as cheerfully as she could. “Don’t give up hope, Billy. She might get well. We must pray and hope and take good care of her.”

  “I’m scared, Miss Rawlings! I don’t want to lose Gramma. First My ma died when I was a baby and now if Gramma dies ...” His voice cracked. Tears welled in his eyes. He swiped at them with a grimy hand and sniffed. “There’s something else. I’m worried my pa will marry Miss Westerly or Mrs. Simpson. I don’t want either of them coming to live with us in our house—trying to be my ma or to take Gramma’s place. If they do, everything is going to change.”

  He began to sob—small, frightened sobs that shook his narrow shoulders and brought anguished tears coursing down his cheeks. Rebeccah’s heart went out to him. She drew him into her arms without even thinking, hugging him and stroking the fine, dark silk of his hair.

  “Billy, I know just how you feel,” she murmured. “Change is frightening. I know all about that. When I was little, I used to ride with my father’s gang all over the West. We were always together. And then one day he sent me away. To boarding school all the way in Boston. Look, this far away.” She pointed on the United States map. “I hardly ever saw my father after that. And my life was completely different. I used to lie awake every night wishing things could go back to the way they were. I hated all those changes. I was scared—as scared as you are now. But you don’t have to be afraid, Billy. You’ll still be with your father, no matter what else happens.”

  He was sniffling now, watching her. She continued in a soothing tone.

  “Your father will always take care of you. He’ll help you handle things no matter what happens. That’s something you can always count on.”

  “She’s right, Billy.”

  Wolf’s voice came quietly from the doorway. Both Rebeccah and Billy jumped, twisting around to gape at him.

  “Pa!” Billy pulled free of Rebeccah’s arms and ran to his father. “What are you doing here? Is Gramma ... did she ...?”

  Rebeccah’s heart slammed into her throat until Wolf’s next words brought a modicum of relief. “No, son, she’s holding on. But I’m here because she made a request. I came by to talk about it with Miss Rawlings.”

  He strode toward the front of the room, seeming to fill the schoolhouse with his tall form, with the quiet, iron strength that characterized him. But he looked tired, Rebeccah noted, and there were grim lines around his mouth.

  “Caitlin asked for you to come. She didn’t say why. But I rode home to check on her a while ago, and Emily Brady said she’d been fretting for you.” He took a deep breath. “Will you go to her?”

  Rebeccah jumped up. “Of course. Let’s go right now. Wolf, I’m so sorry Caitlin is ill. What can I do to help?”

  “A visit from you will help a lot.” He reached for the armload of books and papers she’d quickly scooped off the desk. “Let me carry these. Billy, do you want to ride with Miss Rawlings or come with me?”

  “I think you should go with your pa,” Rebeccah said quickly, seeing that the boy was ready to speak her name. “You two need a chance to talk. You’ll have to rely on each other now until your gramma is well again.”

  His gaze locked on hers. She read the truth in his eyes and felt her knees tremble. Oh, God. Wolf didn’t believe Caitlin was going to get well.

  She wanted to ask questions, for she couldn’t understand how things had reached such a bad pass so quickly, but she couldn’t question him in front of Billy. She reached for her dark blue cloak, choking back tears.

  When they reached the Double B, Wolf came to help her down from the buckboard while Billy ran inside. She put a hand on his sleeve and searched his weary face.

  “Wolf, is it really that bad?”

  “It’s bad.” He glanced around to be certain Billy wasn’t within earshot. “She’d been nursing Sally Ralston—Sally’d come down with influenza, along with her whole family. Caitlin worked around the clock trying to get Sally and the others well. Doc Wilson warned her that at her age she might be susceptible to catching it bad herself, but she’s never been one to flinch from helping someone in need.” He sighed. “She’s upstairs, waiting to see you. Come on.”

  Caitlin looked like a tiny, gray-headed doll tucked up in her bed. The windows were shut fast against the early snow and the groaning wind, and a small fire burned in the hearth, but she seemed unaware of either warmth or light, staring sightlessly toward the wall. Her lined cheeks blazed feverishly, looking brighter than peonies against the white bed-sheets drawn up across her frail chest. Her breathing sounded labored, raspy, and uneven.

  Beside her Billy huddled in a rocking chair, his hands tautly gripping the carved arms. Rebeccah threw him an encouraging smile, though her own heart sank as she saw the shriveled figure lying on the bed.

  “Caitlin, it’s Rebeccah.” She knelt beside the bed and sought the blue-veined hand that clutched at the folds of the patchwork quilt. Rebeccah reassuringly clasped the hot fingers in her own. Even Caitlin’s hand, once strong and firm despite her years, now felt thin and crumpled as paper.

  “You ... came.”

  “Yes, of course I came. What would you like me to do for you? Please tell me how I can help.”

  “Piano.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Play ... the piano. Would you play ... my favorite song.”

  “With pleasure. Which song, Caitlin?”

  A cough bubbled out of her gray lips. Then she formed the words with difficulty. “My mother always used to sing me ‘Oh, Susannah.’ I loved it. It was ... Jimmy’s favorite too. When he broke his leg falling out of the tree ... and we had to wait all night for the doctor to come, I sang him that song, and it kept him calm. Remember, Wolf?”

  “I remember.”

  Rebeccah heard only calm in Wolf’s voice. None of the pain or anxiety he must be feeling. Glancing up at him, standing only a few feet away, she saw the stoic expression on his face, but she also saw something else. Beneath his calm a deep anguish burned, apparent only in the very depths of his eyes.

  “I’ll play it right now if you like,” she said, turning back to Caitlin with a forced smile. The dim blue eyes blazed with the fever, and she looked completely bereft of strength.

  “Do, please, dear,” she whispered, and somehow managed to pat Rebeccah’s hand.

  So Rebeccah left the sickroom, with Billy’s anxious face imprinted on her mind and Wolf’s strong one helping to keep her own emotions at bay. She hastened downstairs to the piano.

  With the door upstairs left ajar, she knew the notes would carry up the stairs and along to Caitlin’s bedroom. Her hands shook as she raised them over the keys. Dear God, it terrified her
to see Caitlin so ill. Surely she would recover. With good care and Doc Wilson’s skill there must be a chance.

  Her fingers skimmed across the keys with deft precision, and the tune rolled out with a hearty festiveness totally at odds with Rebeccah’s spirits. She played the song through twice and then rose from the bench, her knees trembling. But before she reached the stairs, Wolf appeared at the landing, with Billy trailing behind.

  “She fell asleep halfway through the second time you played it. Maybe she’ll rest more easily for a while.”

  She wanted to reach out and caress his cheek, to put her arms around him and tell him everything would be all right. But instead she offered to cook supper.

  “We’d appreciate that.” Wolf rumpled Billy’s hair. “Wouldn’t we, son? If it’s not too much trouble,” he added politely.

  “No trouble at all. It will give me a chance to try some of the recipes Caitlin has given me on someone other than myself.”

  But then she saw that Wolf was no longer paying attention to her. His gaze had swung beyond her, to the front window.

  Rebeccah turned to follow it. Her lips tightened.

  Nel Westerly was trodding gracefully across the porch, a large wicker basket slung over her arm, and as all three of them watched, she gave a quick knock and pushed open the front door.

  17

  “Yoo-hoo. May I come in? Wolf, tell me, please, how is Caitlin? I brought her some of Mama’s special chicken broth and also a sweet potato pie. And Billy, I brought you a whole batch of my very own shortbread cookies!” She sparkled her famous smile at the ten-year-old regarding her darkly from beneath his lashes, flipped her fair hair over her shoulder, and turned brightly to Rebeccah.

  “Why, hello, Miss Rawlings. What brings you here? Did you bring sustenance to these big hungry men too?”

  Something in that gooey-sweet voice jarred Rebeccah as much as fingernails scratching down a blackboard. She longed to slap that smug grin off Nel’s pretty, lightly freckled face, but she reminded herself that she’d be setting a very poor example for Billy and that Wolf would probably arrest her for public brawling. “Not exactly,” she countered, meeting the other woman’s cloying gaze with a cool, direct glance. “But I’ve just offered to fix supper for them, so—”

  “Well, aren’t you sweet, but I reckon that won’t be necessary. I’m here now and I’d be glad to do it. What would you like for supper, Billy—fried chicken and dumplings? I can whip up a batch faster than you can spell Mississippi.”

  The boy glared at her. “I want Miss Rawlings to cook us supper. She was here first.”

  Rebeccah wanted to kiss him. Wolf’s expression was suspiciously unreadable, but he did say in a flat tone, “Billy, that’s not polite.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind!” Nel let out a light laugh. She stooped gracefully before the boy and appealed to him. “Billy, you don’t exactly understand. Miss Rawlings is trying to be nice, but she’s probably not used to cooking for two great big hungry men, while I have three big brothers and know exactly what hardworking, fast-eating men like.”

  “I believe I’ll manage somehow. When I was eleven, I cooked for an entire gang of ravenous outlaws,” Rebeccah tossed out casually. She allowed the tiniest of smiles to touch her lips. Turning her head so that only Billy could see, she winked at him. Then she reached for Nel’s basket. “Let me put this away in the kitchen, and then I’d best get started on supper. Wolf, you go right ahead and visit with Miss Westerly. I’ll call when I’m ready to serve.”

  “She’s leaving!” Billy whispered a short while later, peering from the kitchen into the parlor. “Pa’s walking her outside!”

  “It’s bad manners to spy on people,” Rebeccah said primly, rummaging through the pantry to assess the kitchen’s provisions. But she was pleased when Billy reported that Nel had ridden off.

  “Pa’s going back upstairs,” he added.

  “Fine.” She set a sack of flour on the counter and then knelt beside him. “Why don’t you go see to your chores for a spell and let me get busy in here fixing you a scrumptious supper?” she urged. “Your gramma will probably sleep for a while, and I’m sure your father is counting on you to keep up with your responsibilities. He needs your help now, Billy, to keep things running smoothly around here—and he needs you to be a strong young man.”

  Outside, Sam began barking, and Billy glanced eagerly toward the door.

  “Go on, shoo. See what Sam is all fired up about—but don’t forget your chores,” she called, smiling after him.

  Children needed to play, she reflected as she tied on one of Caitlin’s starched cotton aprons. It wasn’t good for them to fret and worry over things beyond their control. She hated seeing Billy so sad and so scared. The best thing for him to do right now would be to get his mind off Caitlin’s illness for a while and to put his cares aside. But what about Wolf?

  Rebeccah sensed his frustration at being helpless. A man like Wolf Bodine was accustomed to solving problems, to taking action. But in this circumstance there was little he could do except pray, hope, and wait.

  That would be hard for him to swallow. But he would do it. There was an inner as well as an outer toughness about him that would enable him to handle just about anything—even death—with steady strength.

  Death. She closed her eyes, praying it would not come to this house, praying that Caitlin would find the strength to fight off the ravaging fever.

  But deep inside, the fear was there, and her heart was leaden as she set a kettle of water on the stove to boil for stew and sliced up beef, potatoes, and onions to simmer.

  It was a simple meal, in the end, but to Rebeccah’s relief both Wolf and Billy thoroughly enjoyed it. In addition to the stew she fried chicken and baked cornbread biscuits and even served Nel Westerly’s sweet potato pie. Wolf ate two servings, she noted, but Billy avoided it and stuffed himself with half a dozen biscuits instead.

  It felt strange to sit at the table in the pleasant kitchen without Caitlin there. Just as they finished, Doc Wilson stopped by for the second time that day to check on her.

  Rebeccah had finished washing the dishes and Billy was drying them when Wolf and the doctor came down the stairs.

  From their grim expressions she knew the outlook was not good.

  “Do you think she could take some soup?” she asked the doctor as he shuffled wearily toward the door.

  “You could try, but I don’t know if she has the strength for it.” His gaze settled briefly on Billy’s anxious face, and he forced a wan smile. “Hey, there, young man, you’re sure shooting up fast. One of these days you’re going to be as tall as your pa.”

  That was all. No words of encouragement, no offering of hope. Rebeccah fought back tears as she hurried into the kitchen to dip Caitlin a bowl of soup.

  But the woman in the bed appeared to have withered even since the afternoon. And the fever had not yet broken. Despite cool compresses, her papery skin was hot to the touch, and sticky perspiration filmed her face and neck.

  After failing to coax her into swallowing more than a mouthful or two of soup, Rebeccah took to sponging her skin with a cool cloth. A cold autumn darkness was falling, a darkness mixed with bits of swirling snow, when Caitlin opened her eyes and seemed to focus her attention with great effort.

  “Who is here?” she asked weakly. “Billy? Wolf?”

  “It’s Rebeccah.” Leaning closer, Rebeccah caressed the frail hand lying limply on the sheet, and kept her tone soothing. “I’ll get them for you. ...”

  “Wait.” Caitlin’s breaths came in short, painful wheezes that made Rebeccah wince. Her faded eyes struggled valiantly to make out the figure of the young woman sitting by her bedside. “Promise me ...”

  “Yes, Caitlin, anything. What can I do?”

  “Take care of Wolf. He ... needs you.”

  For a moment Rebeccah was speechless. She moistened her lips. “Your son is quite self-sufficient, Caitlin,” she responded at last with a note of rueful humor. “Ot
her than needing for you to get well, he really doesn’t—”

  “Yes, he does,” Caitlin insisted, sounding crotchety for the first time since Rebeccah had known her. Suddenly she began struggling to sit up. “He needs ... you.”

  Alarmed by her patient’s restless distress, Rebeccah eased her back against the pillows. “There, now, Caitlin, you must lie still. Please, don’t upset yourself. Let me sponge your face. There’s no cause for being so troubled. Wolf is fine.”

  The brief burst of agitation had already taken its toll. Caitlin’s chest heaved with the effort of breathing, and her skin looked ashy gray beneath its flush of fever. Still she would not be silent.

  “Ever since Clarissa, Wolf has been alone.” Her lips struggled to form the words. “He was so hurt ... I thought he’d never let himself love anyone again ... But when he talks about you .. . or listens to Billy talk about you ... he gets this look on his face ...”

  Sharp wheezes burst from her. Rebeccah’s fear grew, her eyes darkening with concern. “Don’t talk anymore, Caitlin, please.”

  But the old woman went doggedly on, her voice no more than a whisper. “Rebeccah, he doesn’t look like that when he talks about that Westerly girl or ... Lorelie Simpson ... only when your name comes into the conversation ... He cares for you, I tell you. Don’t hurt him,” Caitlin begged.

  Hurt Wolf? Rebeccah shook her head, confused by Caitlin’s words. He cares for you. Could it be?

  “Rest easy, Caitlin. I would never hurt Wolf.”

  “Do you ... promise?”

  “I would sooner hurt myself,” Rebeccah whispered fiercely, her voice breaking. Then, gazing at that dear face so wracked in misery, the next words poured out of her before she realized what she was saying.

  “I love him, Caitlin. I love him so much, it hurts me every time I think of it. I’d never hurt him. Never.”