Behind His Blue Eyes (10 page)

Time passed. The smoke thickened. Working in the stuffy kitchen, Audra found it harder and harder to take a full breath without coughing. Lucinda was contemplating sending the children and older folks on to the church where the air would be better when Curtis stumbled through the back door. He was covered in soot, his eyes red-rimmed, his shirt dotted with burn holes from drifting sparks.

Setting down her bowl, Audra rushed to him. “Are you hurt?”

“No, Miss Audra. Tired and dirty, is all.”

Lucinda handed him a glass of water. While he gulped it down, she asked if they needed to start moving people to the church.

“Wouldn't hurt, ma'am.” He returned the empty glass, then dragged a dirty sleeve over his sweating brow. “With the wind coming up, it spreading fast.”

Lucinda left to direct the evacuation. With a weary sigh, Curtis turned to Audra. “Got a wagon full of our things parked out back. Where you want me to unload it?”

“Our things? You were at the cabin?”

“That's where the fire started. When we come up, Mistuh Ethan already there, carrying our things out and stacking them in the yard.”

Audra gaped at him as the full impact of his words registered. Then another thought sent panic through her. “Did you get Father's notes? His medallion?”

“In the box with his papers. They all safe. So's our clothes and the furniture Miss Lucinda give us. All 'cept the beds. Somebody done doused the mattresses with lamp oil.”

“And the cabin?”

Curtis shook his head. “Gone. All we got is what's in the wagon yonder. Without Mistuh Ethan getting there so quick, we wouldn't even have that. We lucky.”

Lucky?
Without the cabin, where would they live?

“So where you want me to put it?” Curtis asked again.

She struggled to think. “Do you need to take the wagon back?”

“Mistuh Ethan say maybe later I could bring out food and fresh water.”

“Then we'll take it to the church and unload it there. But first, help me gather our belongings from upstairs.”

Within an hour, the town was in the throes of a mass exodus. Most of the men were out fighting the fire, so it was left to their wives to collect what they wanted to save and find a way to transport it to the church. Dust added to the foulness of the air as wagons tore down Main Street, either carrying supplies to the firefighters, or headed out toward the church on the flats outside of town.

Lucinda took charge, the calm voice amid the chaos. With Yancey and Curtis driving their buggies, she started with the elderly and children, and those unable to walk to the church at the mouth of the canyon. “Be patient,” she called to those anxiously crowding the lobby. “We will get everyone out safely. When you arrive at the church, Edwina Brodie and Pastor Rickman will see to your needs.” To Audra, she added, “Poor woman is beside herself. First Pru leaving and now Declan out fighting the fire. But people love her and if she can keep her spirits up, it'll help them keep theirs up, too.”

And still the wind blew.

Along Main Street, pandemonium ruled—Cal Bagley shouting orders to two Chinese helpers carrying crates of canned goods from his general store to a buckboard—Mr. Gebbers, rushing in and out of his bank, loading boxes into his buggy—the Mandarin Chinese, fleeing their little tent city like a flock of dark startled birds, their cloth-bound belongings hanging from their shoulders or balanced on their heads—Driscoll, emptying every wagon and horse from his livery to help shopkeepers clear the goods from their stores.

And the smoke grew thicker.

Just after noon, several sluice workers staggered out of the canyon, coughing and covered in soot. But instead of running for the church, they set up a bucket brigade and began dousing the lower walls of the buildings with water hauled from the creek. Others joined in, grim-faced and determined.

As the town emptied, animals came in—first horses, then cattle, pouring out of the canyon, wild-eyed and terrified, chased by boys waving sticks. Audra gaped in shock as a bear cub ran down the boardwalk, its fur smoking.

By the time she had helped Lucinda stow the last boxes of business papers and personal belongings in her buggy, the smoke was so dense she could scarcely see the treetops. Looking back as she climbed onto the seat, she saw black clouds billowing into the sky, turning the sun into a brown orb scarcely visible through the layers of smoke. The wind gusted, peppering her face with hot ash. And faintly, like the sound of a distant waterfall, she heard the roar of the flames.

“Heavens, Lucinda. I can't believe this,” she cried climbing into the buggy. “Do you think the town is doomed?”

Lucinda snapped the reins and the buggy lurched forward. “As long as the wind keeps blowing out of the west, there's nothing to save it. I've never seen a fire move so fast.”

Audra was appalled. “But what of the hotel? All your hard work?”

“I'll rebuild.” Lucinda looked over, her eyes reddened by smoke and tears, but her voice resolved. “This is my home, Audra. I'll not abandon it.”

A deer bounded by, its belly distended with the foal she would soon drop, one ear badly damaged, the hair on her hind legs singed.

“Curtis told me about the cabin,” Lucinda said. “I'm so sorry.”

Tearing her gaze from the deer, Audra nodded. She had been so distracted trying to get everyone to safety, she hadn't considered what to do next. If the fire engulfed Heartbreak Creek, she knew she wouldn't be the only one needing a place to live. She looked out at the freshly painted storefronts, the picturesque creek, and the tall, stately trees. That it could all be gone by nightfall was too horrible to imagine. And only this morning she had contemplated a life here.

“How fortunate that Ethan arrived in time to save your belongings.”

“Yes. Fortunate, indeed.”

And convenient.

The thought startled her, popping into her head without warning. But once there, it wouldn't be ignored. From what Curtis had indicated, the fire had been deliberately set . . . at her cabin. A random act by the same vile creature causing mischief throughout the canyon? Or by someone closer—someone she trusted—someone who had targeted her for a specific reason? Like a right-of-way?

Ethan Hardesty.

The notion was so abhorrent she reacted physically to it, gasping as if someone had punched her. She didn't want to believe it. But who else would gain if she were forced off her property? Without the cabin, what other option would she have but to sell the right-of-way and use the money to cover rent elsewhere?

Would Ethan do that to her? Was he that duplicitous?

She prayed not.

But why then, when the others arrived at the cabin, was he already there? And how had he managed to salvage their personal items and Father's papers, even though the mattresses in the room where they had been stored were already aflame? It didn't seem plausible. And yet . . .

She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling half-sick. The only way to know for certain that he was innocent would be to confront him as soon as he came back. Ask him outright if he had anything to do with the fire, and look into those guarded blue eyes when he gave his answer.

She hated the thought of it.

But throughout the afternoon, as she passed out packets of food at the church, and invented games for fussy children, and tried to offer comfort to the fearful, she played it through in her mind, preparing herself for exactly what she would say, and how he might react.

She hoped he would laugh at her suspicions.

Or try to tease her out of them.

But she expected he would be furious. If guilty, to hide his perfidy. If not, at being accused of something he didn't do.

What she didn't expect was for him to return, disoriented and half-conscious, lying in the back of a wagon.

Ten

“D
rink,” said a voice Ethan didn't know.

He opened his eyes, blinked to ease the stinging, and finally cleared the blurriness. Then the smell hit him.

Smoke. And beneath it, chemicals, unguents, salves—odors that sent his mind spiraling back to Salty Point, and the screams, and the sound of falling glass, and Eunice Eckhart twisting in a pool of blood at his feet.

He lurched up, gasping.

A hand pushed him back down. “Take it easy, son. You're all right.”

It was a moment before his heart slowed and he could think. He looked wildly around, expecting to see the long rows of hospital beds. Instead, he saw an older man with a head full of white hair and faded brown eyes distorted by smudged spectacles, sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Who—?” Ethan began, then fell into a coughing fit.

“Doctor Boyce,” the old man said when Ethan sagged back, his head reeling. “But most call me Doc. You're in the infirmary at my house. Drink.”

When he held out a glass of water, Ethan eagerly reached for it, then froze when he saw the huge gauze bandage at the end of his arm. For one terrifying moment he thought his hand was gone. Then a searing pain shot up his wrist, making him gasp.

“Your hands are burned,” the old man said in a gravelly voice. “But not ruined. With proper care, they'll heal.”

They?
Ethan looked down, saw a wet cloth covering his bare chest, a sheet over his hips and legs, and his other hand resting atop the sheet—also bandaged. With that awareness, the pain in his fingers exploded into an intense, burning throb that seemed to reach inside his head. He winced. “My head . . .”

“Hurts, I'm guessing. That's what happens when people get too hot and don't drink enough water. Saw a lot of it during the war. Lift up.”

Ethan tilted his head off the pillow and the man put the glass to his lips.

Water. He gulped at it, felt the cool slide of it down his parched throat, and thought he'd never tasted anything so good. When the glass was empty, he slumped back, still groggy, his thoughts slow to form. Even after the water, his mouth felt chalky and dry. He remembered that bitter taste. “Laudanum?”

The doctor nodded. “A small dose. So I could clean your hands. You don't remember?”

Ethan shook his head, then instantly regretted it. It felt like someone was hammering on his skull. He recalled helping Curtis load a wagon with the items they'd removed from Audra's cabin. Curtis driving away. Trying to find Brodie and Rylander. Heat. Smoke. Not being able to breathe. Just the memory of that suffocating feeling made his throat constrict. “Where's my horse?” he asked in panic, realizing he hadn't seen Renny since Brodie had dumped him in a wagon.

“The big buckskin? In my paddock out back.”

“Is he all right?”

“Better than you.”

Ethan looked down at his bandaged hands, a feeling of dread moving through him. So how bad was it? Would he ever play the fiddle again?

Doc must have seen his fear. “The damage is only two thicknesses deep. And mostly on your palms. But the blisters will need watching. How'd you burn them?”

Ethan struggled to remember. “Stuffing a burning mattress out a window. I held them in cool water. Seemed to help. Then wrapped them in a cloth.”

“Not just a cloth. A woman's silk underthing.” Doc chuckled and nodded toward a pile of soot-smeared fabric in a basket beside the nightstand. “You should have come in then. Folks don't understand what heat and lack of water can do to a body. Or how easily blisters can turn septic.” Removing his spectacles, the doctor pulled a kerchief from his pocket and began rubbing the smudges from the lenses as he spoke. “You were lucky. If they hadn't brought you in when they did, you likely wouldn't have made it.” He held up the spectacles to the dim light coming from the window across from the foot of the bed, then polished again. “What are your scars from?”

Surprised by the sudden change in subject, Ethan was slow to answer. “A knife.” Then, not wanting to discuss it further, he looked around and saw he was in a long, thin room with three beds separated by privacy curtains. Since the other two beds were empty, the curtains were pulled back. The only window was on the wall opposite the beds, flanked by two straight chairs. Not much light came through the thin window curtain, but he didn't know if that was because it was late, or because of smoke. He remembered the wagon driving past the hotel and on to a rambling house at the edge of town. There had been a lot of noise. Shouts. Other wagons racing by. But now everything seemed eerily quiet. “Where is everybody?”

Satisfied with the lenses, Doc put the spectacles back on. “At the church until we see what the wind does.”

Ethan was relieved. That meant Audra and her father were safe. “Has the fire reached town?”

“Not yet. Wind died about an hour ago. If it starts up again out of the east, it'll send it back on itself, and the fire will probably run out of fuel by morning. If not . . .” With a weary sigh, the old man rose.

Ethan saw he was a tall, thin fellow with a bow in his shoulders that spoke of long hours bent over a desk . . . or his patients. Not the usual small-town bone-cutter, but a man who seemed to care.

“My wife, Janet, will be in later with food. Eat it whether you like it or not. I'll not have you hurt her feelings. And don't dislodge that wet cloth on your chest. It'll help cool you down. I'll be back to give you more water after I check on my other patients.”

“Are there many?” Ethan remembered helping Thomas and Rylander clear a fire line and cut down saplings to limit fuel for the flames. He was afraid to ask if they were here, too, maybe in beds in another room.

“Other than you, two scorched dogs and a singed horse. I doubt they'll be as much trouble as you.” The doctor turned toward the door. “Rest while you can. When the laudanum wears off you're liable to feel some pain.”

Supper was a tasteless barley soup with meat and vegetables, and two more glasses of water. Janet Boyce was a likeable woman, with a ready smile and gentle manner, but it was still humiliating to be spoon-fed like an infant.

During the night, Ethan awoke when two more men were brought in, both suffering heat exhaustion and dehydration. But so far, no fatalities or severe burns. Each time, Doc made him take more water, and while he drank, Ethan noticed the air smelled less like smoke and more like the chemicals and ointments usually associated with infirmaries or hospitals. He remembered them well.

It was daylight when Doc woke him up with two more glasses of water. Did the man never sleep? When Ethan complained, he said, “Until you're passing at least half the liquid you're taking in, it'll continue. So drink.”

Ethan drank. But as he finished the second glass, the urge came on him. He wondered how he would manage with his bandages; it wasn't a hands-free process. But the thought of another man helping him piss didn't sit well, especially with two other men watching. “Okay. It's time. Where's the water closet?”

“No need.” Doc opened the lower door on the nightstand and brought out a long-necked male urinal. “Use this.” He plunked it on the bed beside Ethan's hip.

Ethan looked at it in aversion, wondering who had used it last. He remembered battling a similar device during his hospital stay in California. Because of all the stitches, it hadn't always gone well. “How am I supposed to manage that with these hands?”

“I'll hold it.”

“Hold what?” he asked in alarm, ignoring the snickers from the other beds.

Doc pulled the curtain, then turned back to Ethan with a wink. “Guess you'd prefer the help of that pretty little sandy-haired gal who came by.”

“Audra came by?”

“Didn't leave a name.”

“When?”

“Yesterday evening. You were asleep.”

“What did she say?”

“That she'd be by another time. Now let's get this done.”

Thankfully, Doc only held the urinal. Still, it was an ordeal.

When the doctor left, Ethan called through the curtain to the man in the next bed, who had come in just before dawn, “What's it look like out there?”

“Hell,” came the hoarse answer, followed by a bout of coughing. Once the man caught his breath, he continued. “Midnight, the wind shifted. Drove the fire toward the ravine. With the creek there, we were able to get enough water on it to keep it from getting to the sluice. A near thing.”

“So the town's all right?” Surely Doc would have told him if it wasn't.

“Except for the Chinese camp and a couple of abandoned prospector shacks by the creek.”

“Nobody was hurt?”

“Nobody but us and Big Swede, who was so drunk he fell off his horse and cracked his head. But he does that pretty near once a week, so nothing new there. Who's the sandy-haired gal?”

“None of your business.”

Doc returned with the cleaned urinal and a box filled with gauze, sticking plaster, medicine bottles, and surgical implements. He set the box on the nightstand and the urinal in the cabinet below. “Rimmick,” he said to the man on the other side of the curtain, “your wife's here to get you.”

Ethan heard movement beyond the curtain, then a man walking from the room.

“Varney,” Doc called. “You can go, too.”

“I don't want to.”

“They're serving food at the church.” Retrieving one of the chairs by the window, Doc carried it back to the bed, then sat down and began sorting through the surgical instruments.

Ethan watched, his unease growing.

“I ain't going to no church,” Varney called.

“Fresh venison with all the trimmings.”

Silence. Then, “No preaching?”

“No preaching.”

In less than a minute, the room was empty except for Ethan and the doctor.

“Can you sit up without getting dizzy?” Doc asked.

Ethan sat up. A momentary spin, then everything settled.

Doc picked up a pair of scissors. “Let's check those hands.”

This was the moment Ethan had feared. He had seen hands that had been burned, and how they had curled inward as they had healed, until they looked like claws. He dreaded the prospect of living the rest of his life that way—never to play his fiddle again, or stroke a horse's sleek neck, or feel the softness of a woman's skin against his palm.

Another regret to add to those that already plagued him.

As the last wrapping came off, he braced himself, expecting bloated, blackened fingers and seared flesh. Instead, he saw a thickly padded splint that kept his fingers in a nearly straight position, and when it was removed, a red palm covered with puffy blisters. It shocked him that such a mild-appearing injury could have caused so much pain.

“Flex your fingers.”

Ethan did. It hurt, but they moved.

“Now straighten them, spreading your fingers as wide as you can.”

He did.

“Again.”

Flex, straighten, spread. Over and over, until his hand was shaking and the blisters burned. But everything worked as it should, thank God.

After wiping his hand with a saline solution that stung like a son of a bitch, Doc smeared on a greasy salve, put the splint back in place and rewrapped. “Now the left.”

After putting him through the same exercises, he replaced the splint and bandaged Ethan's trembling hand. “How long will I need to do this?” Ethan asked.

“The exercises? Four or five times a day until you can do it without pain. You have good mobility. I want to keep it that way. By tomorrow, if everything still looks good, you can leave off the splints except at night. The main thing now is to keep the blisters from becoming infected. Two, maybe three weeks, you'll be good as new. You can lie down now.”

Gratefully, Ethan did. He wasn't dizzy, but he was beginning to feel wobbly. “When can I leave?”

Doc chuckled. “Not enjoying my wife's cooking?”

“The food's fine,” he lied. “But I've got things I need to attend to.”

“Maybe tomorrow. That soon enough?”

A commotion in the hall drew Doc's attention. A moment later, the door opened and a man Ethan didn't recognize looked in. “Doc, we need you. Got a dead coolie, but we don't think it was the fire that got him.”

* * *

After a late-morning feeding of watery oatmeal and stewed prunes—Ethan was desperate for food that didn't have to be eaten with a spoon—Doc came in to take off the splint and put him through another round of exercises.

“So?” Ethan snapped, peeved at being stuck all morning in a back room with no news. The Chinese worked for the people he represented. Someone should have kept him apprised. “What killed him?”

“The Chinaman? A slit throat.”

“They needed you to figure that out?”

Doc gave him a warning look, then resumed unwrapping. “He was burned.”

“Before or after?”

“After.”

So the arsonist had moved to murder. Ethan wondered what had sent him in that direction. “Got any idea who did it?”

“Some say an Indian.” Doc bent closer to study Ethan's palms.

Ethan did, too. Most of the blisters looked smaller, but some had burst. He quickly looked away when Doc got out a scalpel and set to work, cutting away the loose, dead skin. It hurt like hell.

“Why an Indian?”

“They like to take hair. But I don't think it was a scalping. This might sting a bit.”

Liquid splashed on Ethan's palm. He refrained from gasping. A cool salve soothed away the burn, then Doc was wrapping his hand again, this time with an intricate crisscross weave that protected his palm and fingers, but still allowed some movement. “I'm doing this so that tomorrow, when you take off the splint during the day to do your exercises, your hands will still be protected. It's important to keep these bandages clean. Blisters are as vulnerable as open wounds and can easily get infected. That happens, you could lose your hands. Or worse. Next.”