“He is staying in the hotel across the street. He will be back here first thing in the morning, but I can get him for you now, if you wish.”
“Am I dying? If I am dying I want to tell him good-bye.”
“You are not dying.”
“Then let him sleep,” Sally said. “I am sure he is worried about me. I am sure he isn’t getting much sleep.”
“You need some sleep as well,” Dr. Gunther said. “Do you want me to give you something to make you sleep?”
“No. I will be all right.”
“I’ll be right here if you need me.” Dr. Gunther’s words fell on deaf ears. Sally had already drifted off to sleep again.
The next morning Sally was strong enough to be moved from the doctor’s office to Tamara’s small house on the edge of town. She was put on a stretcher and carried two blocks to Tamara’s one room cabin.
Smoke and Cal walked beside the stretcher with her, all the way. And, somewhat embarrassing to Sally, so did much of the town.
“How is she doing?” someone called.
“We’re prayin’ for you, Miz Jensen,” another shouted.
When they reached Tamara’s cabin the stretcher bearers, two young men hired by Smoke for the job, took her inside and put her on the bed.
There could not be a greater contrast between Sally’s fine house at Sugarloaf—a two-story edifice with five bedrooms, a living room, parlor, dining room, and kitchen—and Tamara’s tiny abode. The house was one room, with a bed, a table and two chairs, a cooking/heating stove, and a small settee. There was also a cot, where Tamara said she would be sleeping during Sally’s convalescence.
Dr. Gunther had walked down with his patient as well, and as Sally was moved gently, from the litter to the bed, he put the back of his hand on her forehead. He looked over at Tamara.
“I’m going to leave you a thermometer so you can take her temperature from time to time. There are two things we need to look out for. Shock and infection.”
“How do I look for them?” Tamara asked.
“If there is a change in her alertness, if she starts having dizzy spells, quick, shallow breathing, or clammy skin, those would be signs of shock. I think she is past that danger, but one should always be careful.”
“What do I do if she has shock?”
“If you think she is going into shock, lift her legs so that they are higher than her head. And keep her warm.”
“All right.”
“There may be a greater danger of infection, so I want you to look out for it as well. Her wound will probably start suppurating, or draining. If the liquid that comes out is clear, there’s no problem. That is to be expected. But if it looks like pus, or has an odor, or if you see little red streaks on the skin, leading away from the wound, that would indicate infection. Then I want you to take her temperature. If it is over 101 degrees, that is absolute evidence that her wound has become infected.”
“And if that happens?”
“Treat the wound with iodine,” Dr. Gunther said. “In fact, if you keep the wound treated, I think the likelihood of infection will be remote. I will leave you two bottles, along with the thermometer.”
“Thank you,” Tamara said.
Smoke sent Cal back to Sugarloaf to help Pearlie with the spring roundup. Over the next week, he developed a routine. Every morning he walked down to Tamara’s house to have breakfast with Sally and her friend. He would sit beside Sally’s bed, talking to her, sometimes reading to her while she was awake, remaining quiet as she slept. At night, he slept in the hotel room.
On the third day Sally developed an infection. At first, it was just some red lines, radiating out from the wound. Then her temperature rose to 102. Dr. Gunther was called. He cleaned and disinfected the wound, and kept a wet cloth on her face.
For two days, Sally hovered between life and death. Smoke stayed in the little house with her, talking to her, reassuring her when she was conscious, that everything was going to be all right. But was it?
During Sally’s periods of unconsciousness, Smoke slept fitfully.
A violent thunderstorm struck the valley, scattering the herd of breeding horses, and sending the milk cow off.
“I’ve got to get the horses back,” Smoke told Nicole. “We’ve got to have them for breeding stock. But I hate to leave you and the baby alone.”
Nicole laughed away his fears. “Don’t worry about me. Remember, I’m a pretty good shot.”
“I might be gone for several days.”
“Honey ”—Nicole touched his face—“it was the hand of Providence that brought us that cow. Lord knows how it got here. But you’ve got to get it back for the baby.” She pressed a bundle of food on him. “I’ll be packing while you’re finding the herd—and the cow.” She laughed. “You always look so serious when you are milking.”
“I never did like to milk, even when I was a boy, back in Missouri.”
Smoke left reluctantly, knowing he had no choice. As he rode away on his horse, Seven, he stopped once, turning in his saddle to look back at his wife, holding their son in her arms. The sun sparkled off her hair, casting a halo of light around the woman and baby. Smoke lifted a hand in good-bye.
Nicole waved at him, then turned and walked back into the cabin.1
That was the last time he ever saw her alive.
“Don’t worry about Sally, my darling,” Nicole said. “She will be all right.”
“Nicole!” Smoke said, startled to see his dead first wife. “You know about Sally?”
“Of course I know about Sally. And so does our son, Arthur. We love her, as we love you.”
“But you are ... I mean ...”
“You can say it. I am dead. Though, here, we laugh at that word. You are never more alive than you are when you are here.”
“What are you doing here ? Why have you come now? I mean, after all this time?”
“I’ve had no need to come before now,” Nicole said. “I know how worried you are about Sally. I could not stand by and see you suffer so. I had to come tell you that it will be all right. Sally will not die.”
“Nicole, I ...”
When Smoke awakened from his troubled sleep, he realized he was holding both his arms out in front of him. It was dark in the little house, the only light being the soft, silver splash of moonlight, spilling in through the window. He could hear the soft breathing of Sally from the bed, and Tamara from her cot.
He got up from the settee and walked quietly over to the bed. Reaching down, he put the back of his hand on Sally’s forehead. Where it had been hot for the last three days, it was now cool. Her fever had broken and the infection was stopped.
“You’re going to live,” Smoke said aloud. “Nicole was right. You are going to live.”
“Hmm?” Sally stirred, then woke up. Her face and eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She smiled. “Smoke”—she held up her hand—“what a pleasant surprise. Have you been here long?”
“Not too long,” Smoke replied. “How do you feel?”
“I feel fine.” She touched the wound. “Ha. It doesn’t even hurt anymore.”
“Good.”
“Smoke, tomorrow, I would like to go back to Sugarloaf.”
“We’ll see what the doctor says.”
“Let me reword that. Tomorrow, I am going back to Sugarloaf.”
Smoke laughed. “With that attitude, I’m pretty sure you will.”
Sally looked up at Smoke. “Were you thinking about Nicole?”
“What?” Smoke asked, startled by the question.
“Nicole was killed. I know how you grieved over her. Were you afraid that was going to happen to you again?”