Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
“What is done in love is done well.”
~Vincent van Gogh
Annamae finished wrapping Katie Lynn’s arm and tucked the end of the bandage into the taut coil.
During a three-legged race at the schoolhouse, organized for the orphans before the adoption meeting on Wednesday, Katie Lynn had tripped over a pipe sticking out of the ground.
She was lucky to get away with only a sprain.
The girl had smiled at Annamae through her tears, exposing a mouthful of crooked teeth, and said, “We won!”
While Katie Lynn’s spirit was to be admired, her injury would be uncomfortable for the active child for the next few weeks, at least. “Promise me you’ll take it easy on that arm. No activity for a week.”
“Yes’m,” the girl said around a peppermint stick Annamae had given her to distract from the pain. She turned to the caregiver and handed her a small bottle. “If the pain is too great over the next few days, administer half a teaspoon of laudanum morning and night.”
“Thank you.” The woman tucked the bottle into her pocket. She helped Katie Lynn to the ground, and the little girl waved to Annamae as they left the tent.
Annamae chuckled and rolled the leftover bandage for future use.
Mary grunted as she passed by the tent, balancing a load of clean blankets stacked as high as her head.
Annamae rushed to help the nurse she’d befriended from the Philadelphia Red Cross even though Clara had banished the society to another area for not heeding her instructions.
The little warrior hadn’t done it out of arrogance. Clara simply hadn’t tolerance for anyone—especially a man—who acted as if they could run the organization better.
“Here, Mary, let me help.” Annamae snatched blankets off the top of the stack and draped them over her arm.
Mary sagged with relief. “Oh, thank you.”
“Warehouse?”
“Commissary.”
An energizing walk and another cup of coffee were welcome.
She’d stayed up too late last night helping Clara transfer information to the record books, since Hetty had been absent for a few days with a severe headache.
Fighting a yawn, she walked beside Mary through the bustle of laborers and down the street to the commissary.
As they neared the plot filled with tables, chairs, and the scent of cooking meat, she spotted two men carrying someone on a makeshift stretcher. Another construction accident? They’d doctored many injuries of that nature. Some fatal.
Closer now, she grimaced at the poor man’s swollen and purple face. His busted lip oozed blood, and a nasty gash split his forehead. She’d guess the injuries stemmed from a beating more than a fall. Another saloon fight?
Her focus narrowed on the men carrying the stretcher.
Was that Mr. Townsend and Mr. Parkes? She’d only worked around them a few times when training and delivering disinfectants to Monty’s district, and this man bore the same telltale defect across his left eyebrow as Mr. Parkes.
The men headed toward the Red Cross hospital.
Hefting her load of blankets higher, Annamae stared at the men as they passed. She noticed the old scars on the injured man’s hands and spun with a gasp. “Monty?”
Mr. Parkes craned his head and fastened his gaze on her. “Miss Worthington, thank God.”
The men stopped walking. “What happened to him?” she asked.
Her heart pounded in her throat.
“We’re not sure.” Sweat poured down Mr. Parke’s face. He hefted Monty’s weight higher. “I found him lying on the church floor like this. Looks to me like someone beat him half to death.”
Who? Why? Monty was the sweetest man she’d ever met.
“Sorry, Mary, but I’ve got to go.” Annamae returned her stack on top of Mary’s and rushed away, not bothering to make sure Mary had the bundle secure.
She spoke to Mr. Parkes. “I’ll go ahead of you and prepare a bed.”
With each step, the grotesque deformity of Monty’s handsome face swelled in her mind and fear pulsed at the severity of his injuries.
Why would someone beat him and leave him inside the church?
She recalled the newspaper articles about the Hungarians cutting the fingers and ears from corpses for jewelry and anything else of value.
Had someone thought Monty possessed something expensive or that he had money hidden inside the church?
A horse and wagon trotted toward her from the east. She lifted her skirt and raced ahead, not wishing to delay a second of Monty’s care.
The driver jerked the reins, and horse hooves skittered on the dirt.
A deep voice bellowed his displeasure, but she kept running.
She had to. Preparing a bed and alerting a doctor was the only way she could help the man she loved.
She almost tripped at the revelation. Did she love him?
Yes, she did. He was wholesome and wonderful and had transformed her dull existence to vibrant living. She thought of their almost kiss the day before and how desperately she’d wanted his lips on hers.
Yes, she loved him. And she would stay by his side and do everything she could to help him heal.
Sprinting from tent to tent, she searched for Doctor Rose. Her lungs burned from exertion, and her chest rose and fell to keep up with her racing heartbeat.
“Annamae, what’s wrong? Why do you look so—”
She grabbed Clara’s arm. “Have you seen Doctor Rose?”
Clara’s features went on alert. “To the commissary to get lunch, I believe. What’s happened?”
Annamae turned to see Mr. Parkes and Mr. Townsend carrying Monty toward them. “Someone beat a man and left him to die. His injuries are likely extensive.”
Clara snapped into action. “I’ll fetch the doctor. Prepare a bed and do what you can until we get back.”
The woman set off in the opposite direction. Annamae waved her arm high and wide to signal to the men where to bring Monty. Inside the nearest tent, she found an empty bed, added two blankets to add more cushioning, and started gathering items she knew the doctor would need.
The men entered, and she helped them transfer Monty to the bed. Mr. Parkes wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, panting from carrying Monty’s weight so great a distance. She looked Monty over and flinched. He had to be okay. He had to survive.
Gazing down into his bloated face, love for him welled inside her chest.
“Is he alive?” Mr. Townsend asked.
Annamae probed for a pulse. There. It fluttered against her fingertips, unsteady. She released a breath. “He is, but as bad as he looks on the outside, he could be worse on the inside.”
Mr. Parkes nodded. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Me too,” she whispered, raking her gaze across Monty again. “Thank you for bringing him in. The doctor is on his way.”
“I’ll stop by and check on him later.” Mr. Parkes wiped another round of sweat. “We’ll continue our work on the church while we pray.”
That was all any of them could do at this point. Even the most precise doctoring and a skilled pair of hands couldn’t change what God willed. Monty’s healing was completely out of her control, and she wanted to scream. She hated not having control.
Annamae gripped Mr. Parkes’s forearm. “Bless you.”
He patted her hand, and the men left.
She began removing Monty’s boots. He didn’t stir. The more comfortable they could make him, the better.
Odor assaulted her as she dropped one boot onto the ground then the other.
Flesh peeked out from a hole in his sock, and his heels were visible on both where the knitting had worn thin.
Pressing gently, she felt up and down his legs and around his kneecaps.
Nothing seemed broken, but the doctor’s examination would provide more accurate results.
She dipped a rag in water and cleaned dried blood from the hands she loved to caress her. Then she worked on his neck. Next, his beloved face. By the time she finished cleaning the skin around the wounds, the water in the basin was as red as if she’d bled him.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered.
His eyelids twitched, but otherwise, he gave no sign he’d heard.
Her heart ached, unable to fathom why anyone would want to hurt this man. Surely he had no enemies. His kind heart stretched as far as the day was long, so it was doubtful he’d made anyone angry or—
She stepped away. The basin pressed against her sloshed bloody water onto her apron.
The information regarding the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club.
He told her he’d passed the information to a reliable source.
Could it be that the source wasn’t reliable?
Had this person leaked Monty’s name to the club members?
“These are not the kind of men to trifle with.” Monty’s voice rang through her mind like a gong.
Thoughts of her father and the brutal way he’d died raced through her mind. She’d pushed Monty to share the information. If what she feared was true—if Monty died—it would be all her fault.
Night crickets serenaded the dark hillsides.
Annamae loved that sound, but tonight it only served as the accompanying tune to her anguish.
Doctor Rose had thoroughly examined Monty, and the prognosis wasn’t good.
A broken nose, a subconjunctival hemorrhage in his left eye, cracked ribs, and several lacerations deep enough to cause infection.
His abdomen was too swollen to ascertain damage, and the possibility remained that his organs held damage as well.
If only doctors could somehow see inside the body.
She leaned forward in her chair by his bedside and rubbed her weary eyes.
He hadn’t stirred during the examination and likely wouldn’t for several hours yet from the laudanum Doctor Rose had administered to help with pain and allow him to rest. Clara had tried to convince Annamae to sleep in her tent, but Annamae refused—much to the dismay of her mentor, who thought a nurse shouldn’t give her heart away.
Well, Annamae had.
Besides, she wasn’t like Clara. While she loved using her skills to help others, she didn’t want to give up life and love for it.
She used to look up at the night sky with her father and wish on a falling star for a husband and children someday.
Silly tradition, yes, but children often exchanged nonsensical thoughts for things too difficult for their minds to grasp.
She’d chosen her profession after her father died because she had no choice but to support herself.
How glorious it would be to share her life with a good man who would walk beside her in every circumstance.
She thought she’d found such a man in Monty, despite their short time together.
One thing was certain. In the scant number of days they’d known each other, the aching tenderness with which he’d held Joanna and the gentle care he’d shown for Ben spoke of his character. The character she wanted in a husband.
A fly buzzed around Monty’s face. She stood to shoo it away and noticed the sweat beading on his forehead. She retrieved a clean basin of cool water, wet a cloth, and wiped his brow. “I’m sorry, Monty. Please don’t give up. Fight to get well … for me.”
Nothing.
She sighed deeply and dipped the rag into the bowl again. The other nurse on duty gathered some soiled sheets and left the tent. Annamae took advantage of the time alone and whispered a kiss against his lips. “Get well. For me.”
His mouth twitched in the barest of smiles.
She stood erect, studying his mouth in case she’d imagined it.
“You kissed me.” His voice sounded like a croaking frog.
She barked a laugh. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I did.”
He grimaced then moaned. “I’m … telling Miss Barton.”
His muscles went limp.
Annamae sniffed, her heart lighter.
While it would take several days to determine if Monty would survive, a sense of humor was a good sign.
She believed he would get through this. Prayed he would. The alternative was too horrible a thought to bear.