A Thousand Little Blessings (3 page)

Against everything in her heart, she left him in the pasture, the morning sun beating down on him, and ran to the house. “Rosa!” she screamed. “Rosa! Call Dr. Russell!” Etta's dry throat ached from exertion and panic. “Rosa!”

The housekeeper opened the back door and shielded her eyes against the sun. “What's wrong?”

Etta bent at the waist, her hands on her knees, and struggled to catch her breath. “Papa…call Dr. Russell…Papa's had some kind of accident.”

Rosa's dark eyes grew wide with alarm. She hustled into the kitchen, leaving Etta panting outside.

Knowing she could count on Rosa to get in touch with the doctor, Etta ran back to where her father lay moaning on the dusty ground. With each step, she sent a desperate prayer heavenward. She couldn't lose her father as well as her mother. No one could expect her to survive such a loss.

The mares had reformed their protective circle, but upon hearing Etta's approach they nickered and disbanded. Etta knelt at her father's side and raised his head until it rested in her lap. His eyes were closed and his breathing labored.

Rosa carried a crockery pitcher and a glass into the pasture and bent over him. “Oh my, Miss Etta. He looks bad. His face is all crooked.”

Impatience flared in Etta's chest. The last thing she needed was Rosa's dire prognosis. “Give me some water.”

Rosa followed the order, and Etta held the glass to her father's lips. “Papa, here's some water for you. Dr. Russell is on his way. Here, Papa. Drink some water.” She tipped the glass into his mouth, but the water ran down his chin. She reached for the handkerchief she'd used earlier, soaked it with cool water, and placed it in his mouth.

Her father groaned and bit at the wet cloth.

If only she could get him into the house. But if he'd broken a bone or suffered internal injuries, moving him might prove worse. “Stand over there,” she directed Rosa, “and block the sun.” How long would her father have to lie in the dirt before help arrived?

Rosa moved to the location.

The horses nickered nervously as Etta wiped her father's face with the wet cloth and prayed.
Not my father, too. No, Lord. Please.

 

****

 

An hour later, Etta stood as still as an alarmed rabbit outside her father's bedroom.

Dr. Russell had finally arrived, given her father a cursory examination, and then returned to his car for a litter. It had taken all three of them to carry her father into his room, and, once there, the doctor had ordered her out.

If only her mother were here. Her mother always knew what to do.

Etta resumed her prayer. “Help Papa, Lord,” she muttered in the darkened hallway. “Please help him recover. Show me what needs to be done.” Her words were disturbingly similar to the prayers she'd made when her mother fell ill.

The door to her father's room eased open, and Dr. Russell stepped out. “Your father's sleeping,” he said, slipping his arms through his gray suit jacket. “He's had a stroke. At this moment, I can't know the severity of his condition, but he's paralyzed on his right side, and he's lost the ability to speak. However, he is able to follow commands and to give a simple yes-no response.”

Etta's hands flew to her mouth to stifle the tumult of emotions that threatened to escape.

Her father was only in his fifties, much too young to suffer something so debilitating.

“I've called a nurse to stay with Henry tonight, but he'll need much more than that in the weeks and months to come.” Dr. Russell smoothed his salt-and-pepper hair, picked up his bag, and walked down the stairs. “I gave your father something to help him sleep through the night, and I'll be back tomorrow morning to check on him.” The doctor put on his hat and turned to Etta. “If he makes it through the next few days without having another stroke, I'll look into admitting him to a convalescent home in Dallas where he can receive the care he needs.”

Etta felt as though her feet had been cast in iron.

Dr. Russell strode to his car, threw his medical bag through the open back window, and drove away without one word from her.

Etta heard a floorboard creak and turned to see Rosa standing in the dining room.

“Your Papa, he's all right?”

Etta's tears would no longer be denied. Her face crumpled in hopeless sobs as her knees buckled.

Rosa ran to Etta's side. “No, no, mija. This is not the time for tears. Come on, now. Be strong for your Papa.”

Etta hid her wet face in Rosa's worn calico apron. How could Rosa tell her to be strong? Her mother was the strong one.

Rosa caressed Etta's hair. “I called Señora Benson. She'll know what to do. Now come into the kitchen, and I'll make you some lunch.” Rosa slid one arm behind Etta's back and led her toward the kitchen.

 

****

 

“I'm not sending my father to a convalescent home.”

Sara reached across the round kitchen table and patted Etta's hand. “I agree. Henry would wither away in a place like that. But he wouldn't approve of you taking care of him. Your father is a proud man, Etta. The last thing he needs is his daughter feeding him or, worse yet, bathing him.”

Etta winced at the thought of having to care for her father's physical needs. He would be humiliated if she tried. “If a convalescent home is out of the question and caring for him by myself is inadvisable, there's only one option left.”

“Right.”

“But where in the world will I find ‘round-the-clock nurses?”

“You could start with the convalescent home. They may have names of people looking for a job. Dr. Russell could probably give you several contacts, or you could run an advertisement in the newspaper. Lots of people need employment, Etta.”

Etta breathed her first hopeful breath of the day.

No wonder Sara had been her mother's best friend. She had a no-nonsense way about her that blew away confusion and disorder.

“I suppose I could find someone to care for Papa's horses, as well. You know how particular he is about them.”

A sparkle lit in Sara's eyes. “I know exactly the right person for that job. Gabriel's coming home in a few days!”

“Gabriel? Your son?”

“One and the same.”

“I didn't realize…I mean, I'm sure Mom said something about him, but…”

“Catherine didn't know. We got a telegram just last night. Oh, Etta, I can hardly wait to see my boy.”

Since she'd spent most of her girlhood away at school, Etta knew little of Gabriel Benson. He was older, tall, and lean with black hair and dark eyes. He'd gone to Camp Bowie with almost every other young man in the county when America had entered the Great War, and from the snatches of conversation she'd overheard between her mother and Sara, he'd seen action in France. “Is he all right?”

“In his last letter he wrote that he was fine, but I won't believe it until I see him with my own eyes. I hope life in the Army has cured him of his wanderlust. After he got that engineering degree in college, he told us about job prospects in Chicago. As if that wasn't far enough from home, he joined the Army and went to France.”

“Do you think he'd be willing to care for Papa's horses?”

“Of course. Horses were the only thing on our farm Gabriel didn't object to. Besides, Etta, you need to get back to the bank and make sure nothing happens in your father's absence. In one way or another, everyone in town depends on the well-being of that bank. You find someone to help your father. I'll send Gabriel over to take care of the horses, and then you march right back to that bank and do what needs to be done.”

Etta's breath caught in her throat. “Go back to the bank without Papa? I'm merely his assistant. There is no way I can take over his responsibilities. What if I…?”

Sara's eyebrows raised in question. “What if you fail?”

Etta's chest tightened. Failure was a very real possibility. She'd been her father's unpaid assistant for two years, and she understood the day-to-day operations required to keep the bank solvent, but she'd never imagined herself filling his shoes.

Sara touched Etta's wrist. “What if you don't fail? You're a young woman at the dawn of a new age. We'll have the vote soon, and women are making their way in the world like never before. Why shouldn't you be one of them? Show the people of this town what Henrietta Davis can do.”

Despite her anxiety, Etta smiled.

Sara's words sounded so much like something her mother would have said. Catherine Davis wouldn't have sat in a corner, wringing her hands with worry. Etta's mother would have done whatever she could to solve the problem.

Etta stood, a renewed sense of determination filling her. “I'll drive to Dallas and talk to the doctors at the convalescent home. Would you like to go?”

“Not today. That's an overnight trip, and I wouldn't want to be away when my boy gets home. Besides, I've got a powerful urge to bake his favorite cake.”

 

 

 

 

2

 

Gabriel Benson stepped off the mail train two days later.

“Here you go, Lieutenant.” The brakeman was holding his duffel bag and jacket. “How's it feel to be home again?”

Gabriel set the bag on the wooden platform and put on the olive drab jacket that completed his Army uniform. “It feels like I've landed on another planet. Sure this is Earth?”

The brakeman's shaggy moustache quirked at the ends. “Felt about the same when I came home from fighting in the Philippines. But it gets better. Just takes time, that's all.”

Time. That was about the only thing Gabriel had plenty of. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“Couldn't let a fine soldier like you spend the night in a rail yard.” The brakeman scanned the empty platform. “Nobody's meeting you?”

“My family's not expecting me tonight.”

“The railroad put a telephone in the station house last month. Want to give your family a call?”

It was almost ten o'clock. If his parents kept the same routine they'd followed before he left, they'd already be in bed. “Don't worry about me. A long walk will do me good after being cooped up in that mail sorting room for the last three hours.”

The train whistle blew, signaling its imminent departure. The brakeman offered his hand. “Good luck to you, Lieutenant. Maybe I'll see you again sometime.”

Gabriel shook the brakeman's hand and ignored the infuriating doubt swimming through his veins. It would be easy to jump back on that train and keep riding all the way to San Antonio. He could go anywhere he wanted, find enough work to keep him from going hungry, and keep moving until his soul found rest. But he'd never been the kind of man who ran away. As tempting as the open road may have been, his family expected him.

The train groaned to a labored start, and the brakeman pulled his hand free of Gabriel's grip. He yelled something, but Gabriel couldn't hear him over the clamor of the steam engine. He lifted his hand in farewell and watched his chance to escape disappear down the dark tracks.

As the noise receded, the otherworldly quiet of small town darkness bore down. The back of Gabriel's neck prickled. He turned slowly, his gaze straining to see the sniper rifle trained on his back. But there was no one.

Only the ghosts who relentlessly whispered memories into his ear.

Gabriel picked up his bag and blew out a breath. He'd come home to visit his parents and to get his bearings. Standing on the platform wouldn't accomplish either. The station door was locked, but the baggage room was open. He'd lugged forty pounds of equipment all over France, but no more. He'd come back for his duffel bag tomorrow or the next day.

It really didn't matter. Not much did anymore.

The smell of early spring awakened memories as Gabriel walked north along the dusty road. March meant planting time and worming the cattle, two jobs he truly hated. He'd enjoyed working with the horses, but every time he raised a calf only to see it shipped to market, he swore he'd never be a farmer.

But what would he do now that his military service was over? Would time help him settle into his skin and quiet his mind? Perhaps he'd be able to sleep more than a few hours once he adjusted to civilian life. It would be a relief to worry about mundane things instead of artillery bombardments.

A cloudless sky stretched over flat land on either side of the road. Even with the bright moon, Gabriel easily picked out the constellations he'd known as a boy—the same ones he'd taught his fellow soldiers in France. How immense the universe must be for Orion and Cassiopeia to be in almost the same positions when viewed from different continents. There'd been so many quiet nights with nothing to do except exchange stories. Monotony and tedium were the soldier's lot, interspersed with terror and panic.

He knew one thing for sure—he'd never return to the Army. He'd live on the streets and become a beggar before he commanded men to follow him into harm's way again. Captain Brooks had written to the parents and wives and sweethearts of the fallen, had tried to console their loss with sincere praise for the men he'd commanded, but nothing could ever exonerate Gabriel.

No wonder those men haunted him. Living with ghosts was a fitting penance for someone who'd led them to their deaths.

Gabriel stopped at the bridge that crossed Hamilton Creek and veered off the road. Thanks to the full moon, he could follow the creek to his family's farm. The sound of water rushing over limestone rocks was just as he'd remembered, but he couldn't see the cold, clear water where he'd often played as a boy. Did children still catch tadpoles and hunt for arrowheads? How easy life had been before the war.

Lights from a nearby house caught his eye. That place was new, although the three-story structure was more mansion than house. He'd seen similar buildings in England, manor houses that served as part home and part agricultural center. But who would build such a place in Burnet?