Read The Grass Widow for Free Online
Authors: Nanci Little
physician.”
“And a better one today for having met you. Now my prescription for you, my dear, is a long hot bath. Make your preparations, and I’ll make your tub. Heaven knows there’s no dearth of hot water.”
“Miss Blackstone?”
Drowsily, Aidan stirred. Her dream was undefinable: essences of warmth and closeness, of suspension, of precious nurture…
“Miss Blackstone.”
But a man’s voice didn’t belong where the world was warm and wet and safe, even a voice as gentle as the one penetrating that womb of semiconsciousness, and when a hand touched her shoulder she started awake to the realization of her nakedness in a cooling tub of water and the apologetic, mustached smile of the handsome (and harmless) Doc Pickett. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but you mustn’t take the risk of a chill.”
She struggled to sit up, trying to cover herself with her hands; he turned his back. “Joss? Is she—”
“She’s breathing well enough.” He offered a flannel towel behind him. “You must feel better. Ofttimes a bath is as close to God’s heaven as we’ll know on this earth.”
“This one was.” Acutely aware of him—and feeling as much safety in his presence as she had felt in the dream—she wrapped herself in the towel. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted one so badly.”
She slipped into a silk nightdress and matching wrapper. “Is there any change?”
He glanced back to see her dressed, and sent her a half-guilty, half-worried smile. “Have I been hasty with the fomentation?
They seem to improve her so, I applied them again.”
“The danger is over-stimulation of the blood. What behooves the lungs may be of detriment to the heart. If—” She hesitated. Her father was a talker when it came to his calling; she had heard progressions of research that included things later proven erroneous. Now, she had to separate the wheat of memory from the chaff. “If the lungs labor too soon after fomentation for reapplication,” she said slowly, “hot water may be offered to the feet, or a cloth with pungent oils to the face. Dr. Pickett, I’m playing with fire—”
“I trust you,” he said simply, and made her trust herself. “Seth was dead by now—poor Seth never stood a chance—and this far into it I knew we’d lose Harmon. Ethan fought to the end—”
Wearily, he sat. “I thought he’d pull it out,” he whispered. “I’ll beat this son of a snake, Doc,’ he said, so surely I had naught but to believe he could, and then he—” tight-lipped, he shook his head. “Forgive me. You’re too young for all of—”
“Do you think God cares how old I am? He simply thrusts life upon you.”
His laugh was strangled: it was the laugh of a brand-new doctor turned onto the fields of war without even the grace of a cause in which he could believe, so torn had his home state of Kansas been in that conflict. “He does that, Miss Blackstone; yes. God does do that.”
She made tea, and lifted the lid of a Dutch oven he had set back on the stove to simmer; he had fried the legs and breasts of the chicken and put the rest to stock with onion and spices.
“Have you tasted your soup?”
“I’ve not had the stomach.”
She knew by the look of him how much he loved Joss Bodett.
“Her last lucid word was for you,” she said gently. “Can she take some of this, do you think?”
He pushed at a bowl on the table. “She wouldn’t for me.”
“Have your tea,” she murmured. “I’ll try.” She ladled a cupful
into a new bowl. “What did her mother call her, Doctor?”
He knew what she meant: the sweet names mothers use when their love beats strongest out of fear. “I—” He himself called her Josie, but was the only one who did; he had treated the ills of this house for ten years, and displays of affection had been rare, but at the end, when Jocelyn had known she would die, her fever delirium calmed for that last hour... ‘My best son,’ she had whispered, her
“And a better one today for having met you. Now my prescription for you, my dear, is a long hot bath. Make your preparations, and I’ll make your tub. Heaven knows there’s no dearth of hot water.”
“Miss Blackstone?”
Drowsily, Aidan stirred. Her dream was undefinable: essences of warmth and closeness, of suspension, of precious nurture…
“Miss Blackstone.”
But a man’s voice didn’t belong where the world was warm and wet and safe, even a voice as gentle as the one penetrating that womb of semiconsciousness, and when a hand touched her shoulder she started awake to the realization of her nakedness in a cooling tub of water and the apologetic, mustached smile of the handsome (and harmless) Doc Pickett. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but you mustn’t take the risk of a chill.”
She struggled to sit up, trying to cover herself with her hands; he turned his back. “Joss? Is she—”
“She’s breathing well enough.” He offered a flannel towel behind him. “You must feel better. Ofttimes a bath is as close to God’s heaven as we’ll know on this earth.”
“This one was.” Acutely aware of him—and feeling as much safety in his presence as she had felt in the dream—she wrapped herself in the towel. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted one so badly.”
She slipped into a silk nightdress and matching wrapper. “Is there any change?”
He glanced back to see her dressed, and sent her a half-guilty, half-worried smile. “Have I been hasty with the fomentation?
They seem to improve her so, I applied them again.”
“The danger is over-stimulation of the blood. What behooves the lungs may be of detriment to the heart. If—” She hesitated. Her father was a talker when it came to his calling; she had heard progressions of research that included things later proven erroneous. Now, she had to separate the wheat of memory from the chaff. “If the lungs labor too soon after fomentation for reapplication,” she said slowly, “hot water may be offered to the feet, or a cloth with pungent oils to the face. Dr. Pickett, I’m playing with fire—”
“I trust you,” he said simply, and made her trust herself. “Seth was dead by now—poor Seth never stood a chance—and this far into it I knew we’d lose Harmon. Ethan fought to the end—”
Wearily, he sat. “I thought he’d pull it out,” he whispered. “I’ll beat this son of a snake, Doc,’ he said, so surely I had naught but to believe he could, and then he—” tight-lipped, he shook his head. “Forgive me. You’re too young for all of—”
“Do you think God cares how old I am? He simply thrusts life upon you.”
His laugh was strangled: it was the laugh of a brand-new doctor turned onto the fields of war without even the grace of a cause in which he could believe, so torn had his home state of Kansas been in that conflict. “He does that, Miss Blackstone; yes. God does do that.”
She made tea, and lifted the lid of a Dutch oven he had set back on the stove to simmer; he had fried the legs and breasts of the chicken and put the rest to stock with onion and spices.
“Have you tasted your soup?”
“I’ve not had the stomach.”
She knew by the look of him how much he loved Joss Bodett.
“Her last lucid word was for you,” she said gently. “Can she take some of this, do you think?”
He pushed at a bowl on the table. “She wouldn’t for me.”
“Have your tea,” she murmured. “I’ll try.” She ladled a cupful
into a new bowl. “What did her mother call her, Doctor?”
He knew what she meant: the sweet names mothers use when their love beats strongest out of fear. “I—” He himself called her Josie, but was the only one who did; he had treated the ills of this house for ten years, and displays of affection had been rare, but at the end, when Jocelyn had known she would die, her fever delirium calmed for that last hour... ‘My best son,’ she had whispered, her