Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

J ess worked the dough, kneading and forming each roll until she had a full pan ready for baking. She’d already filled the oven with as many pans of bread loaves as it would hold, so these rolls would have time to rise before their turn in the oven. Bread seemed the best staple to hold them as they traveled. And she’d have a wedge of cheese and slices of ham for sandwiches.

The methodical work helped settle her mind, but her spirit still swirled with too many emotions to count.

Gil sat at his usual place at the table, writing something in his notebook. Or maybe drawing. Working on his sketch of the mountain with all its caves? He kept glancing up at her, as if he wanted to help or something.

She needed this time. Time to gather her nerves. Even when he’d offered to take over stirring the soup, she’d refused.

She caught him watching her again. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing.”

“You keep looking at me like you want to say something.”

One side of his mouth tipped up. “Not really. I just…” He shrugged. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. You seem to be enjoying whatever that is you’re baking. And it smells like heaven.”

She smiled, warmth spreading through her chest. "It's just bread and rolls. Nothing fancy, but it should keep us fed on the journey."

His presence lingered in her awareness as she worked the dough like a comforting embrace. Having him near made everything feel more bearable somehow.

A few minutes later, footsteps sounded as the door curtain swished to the side.

Father returning for the evening meal.

She glanced up as he entered, and thick tension came in with him. His expression was impossible to read.

Gil closed his notebook and tucked it in his pocket, then rose, maybe in respect. Maybe to be ready for another onslaught of Father’s anger.

"Smells good in here." His voice came out gruff as he hung his coat on its peg. He took his usual seat at the table.

"Bean stew and sourdough rolls." She ladled the soup, then placed the rolls still warm from the oven on plates in front of each man before gathering her own food.

They ate in strained silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the clinking of spoons against bowls.

Father spoke casually, as if commenting on the weather. "That old miner you're so fond of...they say he’s dying."

She froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. “What? Who do you mean?” She lowered her spoon, her mind racing to make sense of the words. “Not Ezekiel?”

It couldn't be.

He'd been fine when she stopped by to rub liniment on his back at noon. Well, not fine exactly. In pain, but not…dying.

Father shrugged. “I was told he’s breathing his last.”

Panic spurted through her, and she sprang from the table. “I have to go to him." She spun and started for the door.

“I’m coming too.” Gil’s words made her freeze, and she turned back to check Father’s expression. He wouldn’t want Gil in the bunk room with the other miners.

But Father waved a dismissive hand. "Jedidiah's there." Father spoke around a mouthful of bread.

She eased out a breath. Not that seeing that weasel made her feel better, but at least Gil would be by her side for this.

She grabbed her shawl from a hook and snatched up a lantern.

After shrugging on his coat, Gil took one of the extra unlit lamps, and she led the way to the tunnel. At the threshold, she reached for Gil’s hand. This lantern peeled back some of the black, but she’d rather have his strength.

He gripped her solidly, and they hurried through the corridor, the glow from their lights bouncing off the rough stone walls.

Storage rooms flashed by at the edge of her vision, but she didn't spare them a glance. She had to get to Ezekiel before it was too late. By the time they reached the bunkroom, her lungs burned, and a stitch stabbed her side.

Several men were huddled around Ezekiel's bed, and her middle turned queasy.

It was true. Father was right.

But maybe he’d exaggerated.

She forced her leaden feet to carry her forward.

Sampson was one of the men gathered, and he stepped back to make room for her and Gil.

Dropping to her knees at the bedside, she met Ezekiel’s wonderful, familiar gaze. But his eyes held no shine. She took in his ashen face, his papery skin, and the way his chest hardly seemed to rise, though the rasp of his breathing sounded loud in the quiet room.

Tears stung, but she held them back. “What’s wrong, Ezekiel?” She touched his shoulder, the one she’d rubbed liniment on just hours ago. “What’s happened?”

His mouth curved, though it seemed an effort. “Don’t you worry…Miss Jess.” He stopped to catch his breath between the words. “My lungs are…jest tryin’ to get…the better…o’ me.”

She rested her hand atop his. “Don’t speak. Let’s get some licorice tea in you, and you’ll feel better, like always.” But he’d never been this sick before. Surely, he’d need more than licorice tea.

At least he wasn’t coughing.

She turned to one of the men on the opposite side of the bed and pointed to her satchel of medicines she kept hanging on the wall in the corner. “Could you bring that to me please?”

A fierce cough erupted from Ezekiel.

She startled at the sound, turning back to him.

That first hack turned into a fit, each cough surging from deep inside him, wet and thick. His body didn’t stop to let him breathe, and panic clamped her insides. Were these to be his final moments?

She scooted behind him and forced her arms under his shoulders. “Help me. Someone.”

Gil was already on the other side of the bed, lifting the older man, bearing the brunt of his weight. When they had Ezekiel to a sitting position, she managed to say, “That’s enough. Hold him here.”

The way Ezekiel’s shoulders lurched with every deep bark, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself upright. Please, God, don’t take him now. Make them stop.

At last, the coughing subsided, and Ezekiel sucked in tiny, ragged breaths. Her own heart finally resumed beating, yet watching him suffer with each intake made the tears press hard again.

"We need more pillows." Her voice shook. "To prop him up."

Men scrambled to gather bedding, and soon they had Ezekiel resting in a more upright position.

Gil stayed on the other side, keeping the patient from sliding back down. Ready for anything.

This bunk room was always quiet, the men usually too weary from the hard work to be raucous. But now, a suffocating pall hung over them all, no one moving or speaking except when she asked for help.

She took her satchel from the man who'd retrieved it, not even looking to see who it was, and rummaged through the contents. Where was the pouch of licorice? There. “I need a kettle of hot water." She opened the drawstring and pulled out the thimble she used to measure it. “Put a full scoop of this in the pot.” She thrust it toward the nearest man.

Sampson.

He took the pouch and thimble and moved toward the cookstove.

She turned back to her satchel. She’d already spotted the cough syrup. Uncorking the bottle, she poured a generous dose into a spoon, then raised it to Ezekiel’s mouth. "Can you drink this?”

He parted his lips and swallowed the liquid with a grimace. The expression added a bit of life to his face, easing the weight on her chest a small bit.

What else could she do for him? A peppermint poultice for his chest?

Before she could move to prepare it, Ezekiel rested a hand on her arm. The weight of his touch made her pause, and she met his gentle gaze.

"It's all right, Miss Jess," he rasped out. "It's my time. The Lord's callin' me home."

"No." The word burst from her, her heart crying out. "You have to fight. I can help you get better, I know I can."

But even as she spoke, the words rang hollow. The truth of his condition settled like a boulder in her gut. He was dying, and there was nothing she could do to change that.

His hand tightened on her arm, drawing her eyes back to his face. "The Lord…numbered my days...afore I was born. Ain't nothin'…you can do…to change that.”

A sob welled in her throat. She captured his large, callused hand between hers as the tears she'd been holding back spilled free. "Please don't go. I can't lose you too."

Ezekiel had been her rock, her anchor, for so long. The one person she could always count on, who taught her about the Lord's love and showed it to her every single day. He'd been more a father to her than her own had ever seemed. The thought of facing this cold, hard world without his steadying presence...

She couldn't bear it. She dropped her forehead onto their joined hands as sobs took over. Ezekiel's other hand came to rest on her head, his fingers working through the messy strands that had escaped her braid in that soothing, paternal way he had. "Hush now," he rasped.

The calluses on Ezekiel's fingers caught in her hair as he stroked her head, but the familiar roughness only made her cry harder. This dear man had been such a comfort, such a light in the darkness of her life. Losing him felt like losing a part of herself.

Another hand rested on her shoulder. Gil must have moved around to her side, and now draped his arm across her back like a cloak to protect her against the storm inside her. He didn't say anything, just let his touch communicate his support, his presence.

As much as she couldn’t face the thought of losing Ezekiel, Gil would be here to help. And God too.

Maybe she should feel peace, but all she felt was the breaking of her heart.

Ezekiel’s hand lifted off her head, falling to rest on his blanket.

She straightened and wiped her wet cheeks with her sleeve. As she met Ezekiel's eyes again, peace shone there. The absolute certainty that he was going home to Jesus.

"I love you." She managed a broken whisper. "Thank you. For everything."

He gave a weak version of that dear, crooked smile. "Love you…too, Miss Jess. The Lord's…got His hand…on you. He'll be there…when I'm gone."

Fresh tears slid down her face, but she nodded. "I know."

Ezekiel looked to Gil then. "Take care of…our girl."

Gil’s arm tightened around her. "I will. I promise."

With his breath still wheezing with every small inhale, Ezekiel closed his eyes. "I'm tired."

"Sleep now. We'll be right here."

Though his breathing slowed and his hand went slack, she kept holding on. Memorizing the lines of his weathered face, the calluses on his fingers. This man who meant more to her than almost anyone.

Sobs built in her chest again, but she held them in so she wouldn’t disturb Ezekiel's peace.

Gil shifted beside her, drawing her closer so she could lean against him.

They stayed like that—Gil holding her, her gripping Ezekiel's hand—as the room grew heavy and still.

The other men faded into the background. All she knew was the man beside her and the one slowly slipping away.

Finally, with one last rattling sigh, Ezekiel went still.

An awful feeling settled over her as she held her breath, watching, waiting. But his chest didn’t rise again.

Anguish built in her, ripping from her throat in a cry.

Gil pulled her fully against him, and she buried her face in his chest and let the great heaving sobs come.

He was gone. Her friend, her mentor. One of the two best men she'd ever known.