Chapter 5

Cecil studied the water. Yep, it was higher. He looked as far upstream as possible. Was it raining beyond where they were? But the sky was clear, the sun warm. Surely, this was the end of rising water. Otherwise?—

There was no need to disturb Hazel or frighten either of the women. He wouldn’t hitch the oxen to the wagon just now. But he’d be watching the water level.

Across the flooded river, their guide, Joe, stood with his arms crossed. It seemed he, too, watched the water. The distance and the roar made it impossible for them to shout to each other, but Joe lifted his hand in greeting. Was he warning them? Or reassuring them? Not that it mattered. He couldn’t get to them any more than they could get to him and the others.

A tree churned by in the rushing water. Of one thing, Cecil was certain. They’d be stranded on this side of the river for a day or two—likely more. Might as well make the best of it.

“Tea was good.” He hoped to erase those worry lines from Louise’s face, but they remained. He needed to do better. “Biscuits were almost as good as oatmeal-raisin cookies.”

A smile began in her eyes and spread to her lips. “Yours or your grandmothers?”

“Huh. I doubt you could tell the difference.” He let the sentence hang, and when he saw she was about to say something, he added, “At least after my first few attempts.”

That brought a chuckle from her. “Truly? And how were the first few attempts? Pray tell.”

As they talked, they made their way back to the fire and the log stools. “How was I to know that the oven would get too hot?” He let an injured tone creep into his words. “Gramma didn’t say how much wood to put in. Only that I’d need more.”

“Let me guess. You figured lots.” Amusement tickled her words.

“Well, it seems to me that if you’re going to do something, you shouldn’t be half-hearted about it.”

Her laugh rumbled. “What happened to the cookies?”

“They were, well, a little crispy.” He held up a hand to signal there was more. “But edible…” Another wave of his hand. “But only because Gramma smelled them and insisted I take them from the oven.” He sighed. “Gramma said she’d always used her nose to cook.” He bent over and made a stirring motion with his nose.

Louise snorted her laugh. “I doubt that’s what she meant.”

Cecil pulled in a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose not, but that’s how I pictured it.” He grinned at her. “I confess I never had the nerve to tell her that.”

“Wise move.”

The look they gave each other was full of mirth. And something else that edged around his heart like a warm hug.

Whoa. He’d never been one for fanciful thoughts. To ease the feeling, he brought to mind a memory. “I was two when my mother died. I don’t remember her. I remember Gramma holding me. I remember crying. I remember crying when Pa rode off.” He shook his head. “That makes it sound like all I did was cry, and that’s not how it was. Because I learned to laugh. Make Gramma laugh.”

“How did you do that?”

“One day, as Pa was leaving and I was feeling weepy, I said to Gramma, ‘I’m destated.’ I meant devastated. Anyway, it hit Gramma as funny, and she laughed hard. I ended up laughing too, though I wasn’t even sure why.” He’d been afraid Louise would think his story foolish, but her smile was warm, maybe even a little welcoming.

Shoot. This being alone with her was doing unsettling things to his thoughts. Yet he couldn’t stop talking about his grandmother. Or the things he’d learned, and he didn’t mean about hot ovens or making cookies.

“That day, I realized it’s better to laugh at trials than to let them weigh you down.”

Her elbows jutted to her knees as she leaned forward. The fire crackled and sent out a spray of sparks.

“I like that. Me. I learned to pray.”

“Out loud, if I remember correctly.” And he did.

The breeze shifted, blowing the smoke in her direction, and she moved closer to him to avoid it. “I suppose it seems silly, but hearing my words when I pray helps.”

“Have you always done so?” Was it something her parents taught her?

She grabbed a twig and stirred the coals.

Perhaps she didn’t intend to answer his question.

Then she tossed the twig to one side. “I’m trying to remember when I started doing it. Maybe when I held baby Sharon. I knew she was too tiny to live, but I didn’t want her to suffer. So I prayed aloud for her. Though it was mostly a whisper. Maybe I thought it would comfort her. But—” She turned to Cecil, faith glowing in her eyes. “I discovered it comforted me. And so I started doing it more often.”

He waited, holding her gaze, sensing she was digging deep into her past.

“Like when I said goodbye to Mama.” Her throat worked. Her eyes glistened. “That was hard.”

He nodded. It had been hard to say goodbye to his grandparents, but he was a grown man and knew for months that they were failing. It wasn’t the same.

“Then having to take care of Sammy and Eddie. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, I would whisper a prayer, and God was so faithful. He’d always send comfort or company or something.”

“Like Hazel?”

“Yes, and like Mrs. Sears, who lived next door. She was very helpful and encouraging.”

Did he detect a faltering in her voice? He craned forward, searching her eyes.

She blinked and turned away.

“What happened at Mrs. Sears’s place?”

The wind hadn’t shifted, but she edged over as if avoiding smoke. “What makes you think something did?”

“Are you saying nothing did?” He wasn’t ready to believe it.

A spot of mud on her skirt caught her attention, and she rubbed at it.

“It was something that hurt you…upset you, wasn’t it?” Why was he probing at her wound? It wasn’t like him. But he couldn’t think of one single thing to say that would make her laugh or even smile. Something about the way the skin around her eyes tightened made him want to?—

No. He wasn’t thinking the best way to comfort her was to pull her into his arms. No siree. He hadn’t thought that for even one moment.

Air sucked into her chest, drawing smoke toward them. “I guess you could say that. Mrs. Sears had a younger brother, George. He was kind to me.” She shrugged, though it didn’t seem to lighten her mood. “I thought it meant more than it did. He took me for tea before I left for Toronto to begin my nurses’ training. He said he’d be anxious to see me when I got back.” Another half-hearted shrug. “I admit it was little to go on. He wrote me a few times. Then his letters dropped off. In my final year, I learned he was planning to marry a girl he had met in Winnipeg.” Her voice softened to a whisper.

He could almost hear the moan in her throat.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. This time with both shoulders. “In hindsight, I realize he’d never allow me to be a nurse. He said a woman should be content in her own home.”

Her hair had fallen loose from her normal roll and hid her face. He brushed it back.

She turned to him, startled.

He immediately lowered his hand. “He probably wouldn’t see the need to cross the vast territories either.”

Her surprise gave way to a snort. “He surely wouldn’t. A person should be content in whatever station of life they find themselves. He said that often. I think he read it somewhere.”

“Perhaps he was misquoting Philippians chapter four, verse eleven. It says, ‘For I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.’”

“Really? It didn’t sound like a Scripture verse the way he said it.”

Her tight-lipped comment made him chortle. “I don’t think it means we shouldn’t consider moving or changing things, but perhaps that we shouldn’t be discontent with present circumstances.”

A grin split her face. “You mean like we should be content while we are stranded here but still be ready and eager to move?”

“Exactly.” With that, he looked toward the river and checked its height. It hadn’t risen since he last checked. He might as well enjoy the time they were here. Content, as they’d discussed. And surprisingly, he was.

The log he sat on tipped as he leaned back.

Was it his imagination, or did Louise put several more inches between them even though it allowed the smoke to drift across her? Had he done or said something to offend her?

Apart from touching her hair. And pushing for more information until she confessed to a romantic disappointment. He knotted his fingers together to stop himself from touching her again.

If not for the crackle and snap of the fire, they would have sat in silence.

Until a cry came from Hazel. One of fear. Terror. Pain. Bringing Cecil to his feet and pounding toward the wagon.

At Hazel’s cry,Louise forgot every troubled thought about Cecil touching her. A touch that went much deeper than the feel of his fingers dragging her hair off her cheek.

She was instantly on her feet and running after Cecil.

The wrenching cries continued. Had something attacked Hazel? Or Petey?

Louise reached the wagon two steps behind Cecil and crawled up beside Hazel. Her friend curled into a fetal position, the cries and screams rending the air. A quick examination of the area revealed nothing, and Petey still slept. Louise shook her friend.

“Hazel. Hazel. What’s the matter? Wake up.” Another shake. Harder this time.

Eyes wide and unfocused and bleary as a rain-streaked sky met Louise’s, and then Hazel jerked upright, gasping for air. She looked around, moaned, and scooted to the end of the wagon.

“Peter. Where is he?” Fear laced her words.

“Hazel—”

She waved off Louise’s hand. “He’s calling me. I have to help him.” She dropped to the ground and raced toward the river.

Louise shot a look at Cecil. “She must be having a nightmare.”

Hazel hurried onward, and they followed, catching up. Louise kept as close to Hazel’s side as she could without tripping the other woman. “Hazel! Hazel! You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

The water-laden ground beneath their feet squished.

Was she going to throw herself into the flooded river?

But she stopped and flung her head from side to side.

“Where is he? I don’t see him. I can’t let him drown. Peter!” His name came on a wail.

Louise wrapped her arms around the distraught woman and held tight. “Hazel, he isn’t going to drown.” How much could she say without sending Hazel into a deeper fear? “He’s safe in the arms of Jesus.” She spoke softly. “Lord God”—the words were barely a whisper—“please touch Hazel’s mind. Bring her back to reality.”

A shudder shook Hazel and raced up Louise’s arms.

Cecil stood close, ready to hold Hazel back if the need arose.

Their gazes locked, his as full of concern as hers must be.

Air sighed from Hazel’s lips, and she collapsed into Louise’s embrace and whimpered.

“He called me. I heard him.”

Louise tipped her head back to study her friend. Her blue eyes were clouded. Was it only from distress? Her cheeks were flushed. From her nightmare or something else? Her fingers steady, Louise brushed them across Hazel’s forehead. The woman was certainly feverish.

“Come, my dear. Let’s go have some tea and biscuits.” She headed Hazel toward the fire, Cecil close by, his gaze locked on Hazel.

“Cecil was telling me a story of how his grandmother taught him to make cookies.” The comment didn’t spark any interest in her friend. “He said he got real good at it, though he might have had to learn to monitor the heat in the oven.” They reached the log seats, and she eased Hazel down.

“I’ll get her tea.” Cecil rushed to pour out the last of the brew they’d recently enjoyed. He handed the cup to Hazel, but it was Louise who took it and urged her friend to drink.

She rubbed her hand up and down Hazel’s thin back.

“What’s wrong with her?” Cecil whispered at her side.

“I don’t know. She seems feverish but—” She bent closer, pulled back the collar of Hazel’s dress, and pushed her sleeves up to check her arms. “I see no rash.” She straightened and studied Hazel. “I see nothing else, but her behavior concerns me.” Mentally, she reviewed her lessons and her experience from her training and came up with nothing specific. In which case—“I will treat the symptoms.” She’d make willow bark tea.

Back at the wagon, she opened her satchel and found the jar she wanted.

“Mama?” Petey sat up, tousled from his sleep, and looked at Louise.

“Come here. I’ll take you to her.” She held out her arms as Petey toddled into her arms and returned to the fire.

“I’ll take him.” While Louise made the medicinal tea, Cecil entertained Petey, though his attention was mostly on Hazel, worry leaving his eyes overlarge and dewy.

Hazel drank the tea only because Louise held the cup to her lips and insisted. Finished, she sighed, glanced toward Petey, and seeing he was happy with Cecil’s attention, rose on unsteady legs.

“I’m tired.”

All she’d done for the last twenty-four hours was sleep, but Louise helped her back to the wagon, covered her with a blanket, and returned to where Cecil stood watching and waiting. His brow furrowed.

She pulled at her bottom lip. “Sleep is good.” It had to be.

“Do you think she’s plumb wore out? We’ve had a few challenging days. Plus, she’s tending a baby.”

“She’s always been strong. I’ve never known her to let things get her down, at least not since Petey was born. I suspect she’s fighting something. Perhaps influenza or—” She shrugged. Without more definitive symptoms, there was no way of telling. “All I can do is watch her, make sure she’s getting enough fluid, and treat her symptoms.” She pulled again at her bottom lip. “Sometimes there’s nothing to do but watch and wait. It’s a helpless feeling.”

“We’ll pray.” He shifted Petey to one side and bowed his head. “Father God, You are the great healer. Whatever is wrong with Hazel, we humbly ask for You to heal her. Show us if there is something more we can do. In Jesus’s name, we ask it. Amen.”

Louise stood silent, head bowed as peace and comfort washed through her. “God is good. God is able. I trust Him,” she whispered on a breath. She looked up and clapped. “Now to make something for supper.”

Across the river, she’d be one of several working together to create a bountiful meal. Here she was one. But she’d do a good job. She’d make something robust enough for a man and gentle enough to tempt Hazel. Stew it was. That would satisfy everyone.

In fact—she dug through a wooden crate—yes, there was a jar of bottled meat. Perfect. Flavorful and tender. She found limp carrots and soft potatoes and prepared them to add.

“I’ll let it stew a bit, then make dumplings.” She wiped her hands on a towel.

Cecil watched her, Petey playing at his feet. He’d watched her all the while, and she knew it. Her skin tingled at his study.

Now she allowed herself to meet his gaze. A tiny gasp slid past her lips at the look in his eyes. How would she describe it? Approving? How silly. If he approved anything, it would be the meal she was preparing. Or how she cared for Hazel.

He blinked and the look vanished. “I’m going to check on the river. Do you want to come?”

“Of course.”

He carried Petey as they walked to the bank. “Good. It hasn’t risen further.”

“Nor has it receded.” How long would it be before they could cross and rejoin the others?

In the meantime, she had to make sure Hazel got better.

And she had to keep this unwelcome interest in Cecil rebuked. There was no place in her life or her heart for it. She’d learned her lesson about reading more into kindness than was meant. It wasn’t something she meant to trip over again.

Her heart was set on beginning again in the West and in doing her utmost to see that Hazel got better and, most of all, staying out of the way of the growing attraction between her friend and Cecil.

They belonged together. She pressed her palm to her chest, where a sudden ache developed.

It was concern about Hazel. Nothing more. Nothing else.

The women lined up on the opposite bank and waved. She couldn’t see their expressions well enough to guess if they wondered where Hazel was. But Joe had seen her earlier. He wouldn’t have been able to tell how confused and frail she was, only that she was standing and moving about.

A good amount of debris floated past them. Uprooted trees. Tangled bushes twisting in the current, and then Cecil laughed and pointed.

A coyote balanced on a log, his tongue lolling out.

Louise laughed. “He seems to be enjoying it.”

“I’d say so.”

Across the river, Limpy barked furiously at the coyote.

“Doggie,” Petey said, squirming to get down.

Cecil kept him in his arms. “Not a doggie. A coyote.”

“Want doggie.” Petey struggled to be free. The boy would surely want to run to the coyote.

“Let’s go back and see how the stew is.” Cecil hurried the little guy away from the river.

Louise waved to the others and followed him. Petey continued to fuss.

“Let’s get your ball.” Cecil stopped at the wagon.

He reached inside. “Hazel!”

Louise dashed over to see what caused his shock.