Chapter Eight
Leigh waved when Jeremiah threw a last glance over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner of a building on his way back to his house. He moved fast, already late to meet with his next patient.
“Are you ready, miss?” the stable owner asked. A burly man with a head of frizzy hair under a cap and matching dark beard, Frank Davis seemed pleasant enough.
Leigh turned around and eyed the hitched wagon. A large sturdy horse stood ready to haul them back to the doctor’s house.
“I am,” she replied.
“Well, let’s go get him. I’m glad to hear Dr. Cook is going to take Harry out of that hovel, even if it’s only until he gets well. I’ve been worrying about him.”
He adjusted the grimy suspenders he wore over an equally soiled gray shirt and dark-green trousers as they crossed the street.
“He’s a small fellow. I’ll carry him over and set him up in the wagon.”
“Thank you!” Leigh said. “I’ll get a few things—a blanket, pillow and some clothing to bring along.”
Frank nodded. They reached Harry’s open door, and Frank stepped in first. He walked over to the bed and looked down on Harry, who appeared to be sleeping.
“He looks bad,” Frank said.
“I know.”
Frank bent down and scooped the emaciated man up into his arms. Harry, wearing something like long johns, opened his eyes and looked up.
“Is that you, Frank? What are ya doing? I’m not going to no hospital.”
“No, you’re not, Harry. I’m helping Mrs. Peters here take you to Dr. Cook’s house.”
“That’s okay then,” Harry said.
Leigh wasn’t sure Harry had even seen her, but that didn’t matter. Frank carried him out the door, and Leigh grabbed up his blanket and pillow.
Little things started hopping off, and she dropped the load of material on the floor with a squeak.
“Fleas!” She backed away and searched the cabin for a wardrobe or chest of drawers so she could grab a few bits of clothing for Harry to wear. She saw no wardrobe or chest, but spotted a wooden crate under the bed. Pulling it out, she noted that it held a few shirts and some socks. Fleas hopped around on those items as well, and Leigh jumped up and fled the cabin.
She trotted across the street, smacking at her clothing in hopes she hadn’t collected any of the creatures.
Frank waited by the back of a brightly painted green wagon, holding Harry, who in sunlight looked to be near death. Gaunt, pale and unkempt, he seemed so ill.
“Thought you were going to get a few things. I don’t want to lay him down in the wagon without a blanket or something.”
“No, I can’t. There are fleas everywhere.”
“Oh, okay. I’m not surprised. Can you go on into the stable and grab a couple of horse blankets? I’m pretty sure they don’t have fleas. I try to be careful about that.”
Leigh hurried into the stable and spotted a stack of red-and-black plaid material. She grabbed up a few, holding her nose at the heavy scent. She had ridden a couple of ponies—or been led on a couple of ponies—as a child, and had no other experience with stables or horses.
She regretted that the smell would transfer onto Mrs. Jackson’s lovely Tiffany-blue dress, but what could she do? She carried them outside and held them out to Frank. He looked down at Harry, sleeping again. Leigh saw Frank’s arms shaking at the strain of holding the old man.
“I’ll lay them out in the back of the wagon,” she offered, wondering how she was going to manage to climb up in the dress.
“Thanks,” Frank muttered, sweat breaking out between his bushy brows.
Leigh dropped the blankets in the back of the wagon and moved around to the front. The tops of the bright-red wheels were level with her collarbone, and she saw no steps.
“How do I get in?” she called out.
“The wagon? Just climb in, ma’am. Not sure why you’re up there though, unless you’re planning on driving the wagon.”
Leigh hurried toward the back of the wagon. “Do I climb in the back? How?” She noted that the wagon sides consisted of panels that could be removed, but she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to reach them.
“Sounds like you’ve never ridden in a wagon. I’ll admit this is a big one, but it’s a brand-spanking-new Studebaker, and I’m awful proud of it.”
“A Studebaker? I thought that was a car.”
“Car?” Frank repeated.
Leigh shook her head dismissively, supposing that was a mistake. “Anyway, how do I get in your Studebaker?”
“See the panels? Can you slide the top one out?” Frank asked.
Leigh rose up on tiptoe to reach for the top of the wagon, but her five-feet-nothing height prevented contact.
“No.”
“Well, you can’t hold Harry, so I guess I’d better set him down on the ground so I can open the back of the wagon.”
“No! Don’t do that! I’ll figure out a way.”
Leigh hustled back to the front of the wagon. Hitching up her skirts, she grabbed hold of a metal bar on the side and planted a foot on the wheel hub. She hauled herself up onto the bench seat, climbed over and made her way to the back of the wagon. From there, she was able to lift the top panel with a fair amount of grunting. She set it down in the bed of the wagon. Then she grabbed the heavy blankets and spread them out. Frank set Harry down on the blankets.
“I’ll ride back here with Harry,” Leigh said, unwilling to climb back over the bench with her long skirts.
“Okay,” Frank said.
Hearing the familiar term, Leigh was momentarily grateful she hadn’t been tossed back to the Middle Ages, where she probably wouldn’t have understood a word anyone said.
Frank walked around the wagon, and Leigh sat down in the bed, prepared to catch Harry should he roll when the wagon moved. Frank climbed up onto the bench seat, said some magical words to the horses, clicked his tongue and off they rumbled.
Harry bounced a bit, and Leigh set a hand on his shoulder to steady him. She didn’t dare touch any other parts of his body for fear of breaking something on the frail man.
They creaked along for a while, and the rhythmic swaying made Leigh drowsy. She closed her eyes for a moment, only to be awakened by voices. She blinked to see Jeremiah standing at the back of the motionless wagon. The last panel had been removed.
“Did you sleep?” he asked with a smile.
Harry was gone, and Leigh pushed herself to a standing position to see that they were in front of Jeremiah’s house. She eyed the back of the wagon, wondering how she was going to get down with any dignity, especially with Jeremiah watching.
“Sit, and I will help you down,” he said.
“This isn’t going to be pretty,” Leigh muttered. “Poor Mrs. Jackson’s dress!”
Jeremiah chuckled, bringing a corresponding smile to Leigh’s lips. She sat down on the back of the wagon and dangled her feet over the edge. As she slid off, Jeremiah caught her by the waist. He quickly released her, for which she was thankful. She didn’t think she’d been that close to a man since Sam died. To his credit, Jeremiah smelled wonderful with a hint of coconut, of all things.
“Do I smell coconut?” she asked. “Of all the smells I expected at the turn of the century in Washington State, it wasn’t coconut.”
Jeremiah’s cheeks bronzed, and he rubbed them.
“My shaving soap. Something new I was trying. Is it displeasing?”
It was Leigh’s turn to blush. “Not at all. It’s very nice.”
“Good!” He rubbed his chin and turned toward the house. “I have a patient waiting so must go in. Frank, carry Harry up to a spare bedroom. I’ll attend to him after my patient departs.”
He nodded for her to precede him into the house. Leigh climbed the stairs and stepped inside, hesitating in the foyer.
“What should I do first?” she asked.
“I’ve asked Mrs. Jackson to take some broth and tea upstairs. Try to get Harry to drink a bit of both. Not too much. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Leigh nodded, and Jeremiah turned and disappeared into the parlor, where she saw a well-dressed middle-aged man sitting, hat in hand. She climbed the stairs, assuming she would find Harry by finding Frank. And Frank would be hard to miss.
As she suspected, she found an open door, and Frank on his way out.
“Thank you, Frank.”
“No problem, Mrs. Peters.”
He passed her and walked down the hall toward the stairs. Leigh stepped into the well-appointed room and looked at the pitiful creature on the four-poster bed. Frank had placed him on a plain but beautiful pale-yellow quilt, and Leigh winced at the dirt already evident on the spread.
“I’ve got to get him out of those filthy clothes,” she mumbled under her breath. She approached the bed and saw Harry asleep. Swallowing hard, she moved down to his feet and began peeling off his grimy socks. The poor man smelled terrible, and she gagged.
“Harry, my friend, I’m sorry, but you stink,” she murmured, keeping watch on his closed eyes. She couldn’t imagine what fuss he might make if he awakened to see himself being undressed by a female. He was so frail, his heart might give out at the shock.
She dropped his socks on the floor with plans to bag his clothing since he probably carried fleas on his person. She examined his pajamas or long johns or underwear—whatever they were called. Gray to the eyes, though they might have been white at one time, the shirt buttoned down the front, as did the ankle-length drawers.
Harry was so small that she thought she could roll him over to undress him easily, but she needed some fresh clothes. She hoped that Mrs. Jackson would give her something of Jeremiah’s to dress Harry in.
She unbuttoned the drawers and worked them down over his bony hips, sliding them off his feet and dropping them on top of his socks. Pulling the quilt over the lower half of his body, Leigh gently removed Harry’s shirt over his head. As she had suspected, he was easy to handle given his emaciation.
She pulled the quilt over his concave chest and turned to search the room for clothing. A small chest of drawers was empty, as was a wardrobe.
A tap on the door brought Mrs. Jackson with a tray. She blinked and wrinkled her nose as she crossed the room and set the tray on a small oval table by the window.
Leigh joined her there and whispered, “Do you have any pajamas or anything he can wear? And where could I find some old linen that you don’t use? I need to wash him up. I’m afraid he might have fleas. His clothing in the shack did, so I didn’t bring it.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Jackson said. “That foolish man! He has always been so stubborn!”
“Let me give him something to eat and drink while you get some things. Thank you, Mrs. Jackson.”
Leigh picked up a cup of tea and the bowl of broth and carried them over to a small wooden nightstand by the bed. Mrs. Jackson tsked and left the room. Leigh spoke softly to Harry as she lifted his shoulders to put a second pillow behind him.
“Harry,” Leigh murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She tucked the available quilt up around his shoulders as she gave him a gentle shake. “Wake up, Harry. You need to drink something.”
Harry opened his eyes—a startlingly lovely shade of blue with white flakes that she hadn’t seen in his shadowed shack.
“Hello,” he rasped.
“Good! You’re awake. Have some soup.” Leigh picked up the bowl, spooned some broth and held it up to his lips. Harry obediently opened his mouth, and she fed him. Memories of feeding her mother suddenly flooded over her, and she swallowed hard several times and blinked to fight back tears.
Harry accepted a couple more spoonfuls from Leigh’s shaking hands before speaking.
“You all right, girl?”
“I’m fine, Harry. Thanks for asking. Just a little unsteady.”
“Your eyes sure are bright.”
“Is that a compliment? Like bright blue?”
Harry’s lips evened out into a grin. “I meant you look like you’re about to cry. Am I dying? Is that why you’re sad?”
Leigh couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “No, Harry, I don’t think you’re dying. Besides, I just met you. I don’t know you well enough to cry.” She meant the last words as a tease, and breathed thankfully when Harry’s smile broadened.
“All right then,” he said. “Lemme have some more of that soup.”
Leigh fed him half of the broth before Harry raised a weak hand.
“That’s it! I’m full,” he muttered. “I’m tired. I’m so tired.” His eyes closed, and his head slumped to the side.
Leigh set down the bowl with a thump and grabbed his wrist. His pulse thumped, though not with any great vigor.
The door opened just then, and she spoke without looking.
“Mrs. Jackson, can you get Dr. Cook? I’m worried about Harry.”
“I’m right here,” Jeremiah said.
Leigh turned, thankful to see him.
He moved to her side and pulled a stethoscope out of his jacket pocket.
“What has happened?”
“Nothing really. His pulse is so weak.”
Jeremiah pressed the stethoscope to Harry’s chest and listened for a minute, moving it around as he did so. He straightened and looked at the bowl of broth.
“You do have a rudimentary knowledge of nursing to realize that his pulse is thready.”
Leigh touched Harry’s forehead, moving a greasy lock of gray hair off his face. “I told him he wasn’t going to die. He’s not going to die, is he, Jeremiah?”
“I hope not, Leigh. I see that he has had some broth. Thank you. Did you undress him?”
Leigh looked up and wrinkled her nose. “His shack had fleas. His clothing has fleas. Mrs. Jackson is going to get him something clean to wear and something to wash him with.”
Jeremiah lifted his eyebrows. “Was it your plan to wash him?”
Leigh nodded. “Yes. If you’re worried about him being embarrassed, he won’t know. He’s out of it.”
“I was more concerned about your embarrassment.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“My last patient for the day is gone. I will help you. You are right. He needs to be cleaned up. I should have thought of this before I asked Frank to carry Harry upstairs. As you may have heard, I do not normally have patients stay in my home. In fact, I never do.”
Mrs. Jackson tapped on the door and entered the room with her arms full. She brought in some material, a bucket of water and a porcelain basin.
“I had to drag this old thing out of the basement,” she said, setting the basin on a dresser. “We haven’t had to use that since your father installed plumbing.”
Jeremiah smiled. “The old days! Thank you, Mrs. Jackson. Leigh and I will tend to Harry.”
Leigh couldn’t help but smile at Jeremiah’s use of the term “the old days.”
Mrs. Jackson nodded and set the material on the end of the bed.
“Here is some old linen that would be suitable for a sponge bath, and I’ve found one of your father’s old nightshirts. I hope that was all right.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you again.”
Mrs. Jackson took another look at Harry. “I had no idea Harry was in such bad shape,” she muttered. “Stubborn old man!”
“Yes, he is,” Jeremiah said with a wink in Leigh’s direction.
Leigh was utterly charmed by the gesture, though she had no idea what it meant.
Mrs. Jackson took a last look at Harry before leaving the room.
“She seems to know Harry,” Leigh said.
“I believe he was sweet on her when they were young.”
“Awww,” Leigh said softly. She turned to look at Harry. “It’s hard to imagine him a young man.”
“Indeed.”
“But Mrs. Jackson married someone else? She said her husband had died shortly after they were married.”
“That’s correct. After that, she was in my father’s employ and then mine. I don’t know why Harry didn’t try to court her again.”
“I see,” Leigh said. “Well, I suppose we ought to get him cleaned up while he’s still asleep. To be honest, I’m glad you’re here. Although he’s light as a feather, I’m afraid to move him any more than I have. I don’t want to break a bone or something.”
“I doubt that you will. He’s a hardy old man.”
“Really?” Leigh said, looking at Harry.
“Let’s bathe him. We must not let him take chill though.”
For the next thirty minutes, Leigh and Jeremiah worked together to get Harry cleaned up. Jeremiah tsked when he saw fleabites on Harry’s legs, and he excused himself and returned with a salve. Leigh did her best to wash Harry’s hair without saturating it, and Jeremiah checked the old man for lice. Thankfully, he saw none. Finally, they were able to pull a nightshirt over his head and roll him under the bedcovers.
“You have natural nursing skills, Leigh,” Jeremiah said.
“Taking care of my mother while she died a long, painful death will do that to a person,” Leigh said in a bitter voice.