Contract to Wed (16 page)

“There was every need. Come into the kitchen. I want to
speak to you and Maria and Melinda together.” Zeb followed her, and she
explained to all of them at once. “There is a reason that I insisted that you
leave the Sanchez house. I am concerned this is influenza. I dealt with it in
Boston, and my family knew many people that died from it. There is little that
can be done, but the best medical minds told me that it is spread through the
spittle of the patient. When the patient sneezes, the spittle becomes airborne
and then others breathe it and can become ill. Not everyone becomes ill, and
doctors do not know why. We all must wear masks made of thin cloth like muslin to
help guard against catching this, and we must, and cannot impress on you enough
the importance of this according to the scientists and doctors, of washing your
hands with soap and water. Besides that there is little to be done.”

Jolene dropped down onto the chair behind her. She stared
out the windows of the kitchen, past the gleaming copper kettles, and felt
helplessness descend on her as if she stood at her son’s bedside again, holding
his hand and kissing him, even as he slipped away. The doctor in that room had chastised
her for removing her mask and touching Little William with her lips and hands. She
did not care. She did not care at all. He was her son, and she would not let
him leave this world without feeling his mother’s love and touch. She wouldn’t.
She couldn’t.

Zeb was nodding and went to the sink. He rolled up his
sleeves and scrubbed his hands with the mint soap lying in the dish. Melinda
stood on the stool and did the same beside Maria. They looked back at her.

“I do not know if this is influenza. It may not be. But we
must be careful. It comes quickly and one can never tell who will suffer.
Maria, tell Ruth to come see me. I will show her how to make the masks and have
her hand them out. You must begin to make soup broth. Lots of it. If you do not
have enough meat hanging, tell the men to hurry and butcher a steer. You can
use fresh meat then. Zebidiah, please check the wells. We will need clean water
and plenty of it. If anyone else becomes sick, take them to the new bunkhouse.
We will need every spare blanket and sheet we have. Set up the outside kettles
for laundry near the running water and leave them up. Melinda, you must get a
mask from Ruth, the first one she makes, and you must tell all the children
what to do. They must stay away from sick people. They must wash their hands.
How much willow bark do we have?”

“Quite a bit, Mrs. Shelby. I had just ordered it and have
full jars,” Maria said and turned to the young boy in the doorway. “Fetch Ruth,
Miguel! We have much to do!”

“We’ll get it all taken care of,” Zeb said and tipped his
hat as he went out the door. Jolene could hear him shouting instructions to his
men.

Melinda ran at her and hugged Jolene around the waist. “I’m
scared!”

Jolene stroked her hair. “I am frightened, too. You must be
strong, Melinda. These people count on us to do the right thing and to help
them. We must prepare for the worst, even if it is frightening.”

* * *

It was nearly ten o’clock when Zeb
knocked on her bedroom door. She’d gone upstairs to try and lie down for a few
hours, and made Melinda and Alice do the same. She knew that they may need
every ounce of strength they could muster. Jolene pulled a shawl around her shoulders
and opened her door. Zeb was standing there and from the look on his face, she
knew there was bad news.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Pete just got back. The doctor can’t come. Dallas is
overrun with influenza patients. He can’t even spare a nurse.”

Jolene nodded. “You must get to the nearest telegraph office
at once. I’m sorry to ask you to go at this late hour, but we must get
Maximillian home. He would never forgive himself if he wasn’t here when he was
needed.”

“My horse is saddled. I told Pete to get a few hours of
sleep,” Zeb said. “One of the cowhands is sneezing and feverish already.”

“Get him to the new bunkhouse,” Jolene said. “I will be down
shortly and will handle the sick. I’ve been around it before and never got ill.
The doctors thought I’d had an immunity of some kind and that I probably would
never get it.”

Zeb nodded and hurried down the hallway.

“I will go with you, Mrs. Shelby,” Alice said from the
doorway to her rooms.

“You shouldn’t, Alice. You could get sick,” she said. “Your
family needs you.”

“I was there, ma’am,” Alice said as she folded her hands at
her waist. “I was there when Little William and all the others died. I never
suffered.”

Jolene turned her head sharply. “You must never tell anyone
here about Little William. Do you understand?”

Alice curtsied. “I do.”

Their eyes met, and and Jolene knew that her maid understood
the grim task ahead of them. “I will need the help if you are willing.”

Jolene went downstairs and found Maria in a panic.

“They are leaving, Mrs. Shelby,” she said. “I cannot stop
them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Six of the families are leaving. They’ve got wagons packed
with their children and whatever else they can fit. I will be short eight
helpers in the kitchen, counting two of the daughters that were old enough to
wash dishes. I need help getting this meat cut for the broth.”

“We will make do, and that will be less mouths for you to
feed,” she said and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Alice will help you here
until I need her in the bunkhouse. You are doing well, Maria. Wash your hands
and wear your mask.”

There was chaos in the yards when Jolene went past the
kitchen garden. Pete was arguing with a man loading furniture into a wagon.

“Where are you going to go, Phillip? Your youngest is
already feverish. There’s no help for you out on the range. What if
you
get sick? How will Adele handle the team and the children?” Pete was saying.

“Meggie ain’t sick. Just a little cold. I’m getting my folks
out of here before somebody does get it. Now let me go!” the man said.

Jolene touched Pete’s sleeve. “Leave them go. We can’t hold
people here, and we’ll have plenty of our own to take care of.”

His hand dropped to his side. He looked at Jolene. “How
bad’s it going to get?”

“I don’t know. How many are in the bunkhouse?”

“Just two.”

They both turned when they heard shouting coming from the
Sanchez house. Neighbors in the long row of family homes were filing out of
their doors and staring in the light the lanterns threw as Alcinda wailed and
fell to her knees on her small porch. “She is gone! My baby is gone!” she
cried.

“Mother of God,” Pete said, crossed himself, and pulled off
his hat.

“We’re going to have to come up with some men to begin
digging graves. And we’ll need coffins. The bodies should be buried right away,”
Jolene said. “My biggest worry is that we will run out of healthy people to do
the most basic of jobs. We have animals that will need tended and sick people
that will need cared for and food to be cooked.”

“I’ll go get a couple of the young boys working on digging
the graves.”

“They can’t keep her in the house for a viewing, Pete. She
should be buried within the hour. Much of what we do with this first one will
set the expectations as other families suffer.”

“The first one?” Pete said, nodded, and turned to the
Sanchez home. “I will tell them.”

* * *

Zeb arrived back at the Hacienda at
four in the morning and found Jolene in the bunkhouse. She opened the door but
would not let him pass.

“I got a telegram off to Max. I had to drag an operator from
his bed. I don’t know how long it will take him to get here, though. The trains
aren’t running on time,” Zeb said as he tied a mask around his head.

“He will get here when he can,” she said. “And there is
nothing we can do about it anyway.”

Zeb peered around her at the room and the cots and the
stacked blankets. “Three more since I left.”

Jolene nodded. “Beatrice has died. One of Pete and Maria’s
children is sick. He will be bringing her here any minute.”

“Shit,” he said.

“Prepare yourself, Zebidiah,” she said. “This will touch every
family here.”

Chapter Sixteen

Max wiped the sleep from his face
and stumbled over his open suitcase at the foot of his bed. He cracked the door
to his room and squinted at the bright light from the hallway. A bellman stood
at attention with an envelope in his hand.

“What time is it?” Max asked.

“Four, sir.”

Max took the envelope and reached in his dungaree pocket for
a tip. He was wondering if Timothy ever slept. Papers slid under his door two
nights ago, long past midnight, and last night Timothy’s visit after two in the
morning. He’d not been able to sleep, he’d told Max, knowing now that they were
turning the corner on Sutherland, and that they’d just landed the
Houston
Daily News’s
endorsement, quite a blow to the hometown candidate. Timothy
had called him Senator Shelby that night. It scared him suddenly, that title,
although he’d said it to himself a few times. This was no lark. This was the
serious business of governing his country, as it fought its way past the still
vivid hangover of the Civil War, and as it was propelled forward by advances as
never seen by the world in medicine, in machinery, and agriculture. He would be
at the forefront as an already great nation set its sights on the twentieth
century.

Max sat down on the edge of his bed, turned on the gas
light, and opened the envelope. His eyes quickly scanned the contents of Zeb’s
telegraph and thoughts of a Senate run or victory were far from his mind. Max rang
the bell pull, washed quickly and began shoving his clothes and his shaving kit
into his suitcase. When the same bellman arrived back at his room, he
instructed him to knock on Mr. Timothy McCastor’s door and to tell him to come
immediately to Max’s room. He was nearly ready to leave when Timothy arrived.

“I’m going home,” Max said as he shrugged on a jacket. “And
you should, too.”

Timothy shook his head. “Leaving? You can’t. We’re meeting
with the ministers tomorrow. We’ve got that luncheon day after next . . .”

“It’s the influenza. The Hacienda has the influenza, and
Dallas has been hit hard.”

“Emily,” Timothy said as he stared at Max.

“And Melinda and Jolene and Zeb and all the others there
need me. They’ve set the bunkhouse up for the sick. Some families are talking
about taking their chances and leaving the Hacienda. Zeb is not known for being
overly dramatic but he told me to get home immediately.”

“I’ll meet with one of our contacts here and catch the next
train to Dallas,” Timothy said.

“I’m heading to the train station now.”

* * *

The Houston train station was filled
with people, and he understood why as he made his way from the hotel to the
station two hours before dawn. It was whispered on lips and printed in the
headlines he saw on the banded newspapers in piles outside of the hotel.
Influenza.
Houston was yet to be hit, although hospitals and officials were bracing for
the onslaught. But Dallas was in the throes of an epidemic.  Hundreds had
died already, and the first reported case had only been recorded seventy-two
hours before the first fatality. Some recovered from the influenza, only to be
killed by pneumonia that often trailed it. When he paid for his ticket, the
clerk had looked at him.

“You sure you want to go to Dallas, mister?”

Max nodded and took the ticket.

“Be prepared for delays. We’ve got conductors and coal men
down sick. You may want to get off one stop early at Corsicana. We’re hearing
the train yards in Dallas are nearly deserted. The engines aren’t getting
turned around, and the coal cars are sitting empty.”

There were delays, interminable ones, in Max’s estimation.
He read a Dime Novel he’d bought at the Houston depot but couldn’t stay
focused.
What if his ranch hands or wild catters or their families were
sick? What if Maria and Pete were sick? Or Zeb?
He refused to think of the
two people top most in his mind. He refused to succumb to panic. He said a
long, fretful prayer and hoped the faith that he’d found after Melissa’s death
and relied on to keep him sane in those first years, hadn’t escaped him,
because he was certain that he would need it to face the tragedies that would
surely come his way over the next few days.

Max stepped off the train in Corsicana and got directions to
the stables. Going into Dallas with its inevitable chaos would be frustrating but
nothing compared to the chances he took exposing himself to crowds in an
already distressed city. He needed to be well to tend his people. Max bought a
horse, a fine one with the build for long distances, and a saddle for triple
the price he would have paid otherwise. He sold his empty suitcase and wool
suit at the Mercantile where he bought a bed roll, a canteen, and ammunition
for his pistol. He stood in line to drink a flu remedy made and sold by an old
wizened woman. It tasted like vinegar and smelled like coal oil and nearly made
him gag, and he knew that it was a fool’s errand to believe it could ward off
disease. But he drank it down and paid the five dollars it cost.

Max pulled himself up onto the horse and headed across the
open range. He prayed he wouldn’t be too late.

* * *

Jolene stepped outside the
bunkhouse, pulled the mask from her face, and took a deep breath of fresh air.
She should change clothes, she thought, at least her blouse where there were
spots of blood and other stains she did not want to think about. All fifteen
patients were sleeping and she had just given them either broth or willow bark
tea. She headed to her rooms and found Alice going in the same direction.

“You must sleep, Alice,” she said. “You will be no good to
any of us when you fall over from exhaustion.”

“I will not fall if you do not fall, Mrs. Shelby. It is two
full days you’ve been up without sleep, but I think we have little choice.”

Jolene nodded. “Change into something comfortable and put
the clothes you have on and mine in a bag to be burned. I’m going to check on
Melinda, wash, sleep for an hour, and then get something to eat. I suggest you
do the same. I have left Barnaby Wilson at the bunk house. He is only fourteen,
but he follows my direction, and I told him to get me immediately if any of
their conditions change.”

Jolene awoke at eleven in the morning, nearly two hours
after she’d lay down. She splashed water on her face, dressed in a simple dark
skirt and a white blouse, and knocked on Alice’s door.

“Check on Melinda, please, Alice,” she said through the
door. “I had her making masks this morning when she got up. She needs to feel
useful, but I do not want her outside of her rooms.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she heard back through the door.

Jolene hurried through the kitchens, picking up a clean
apron from the stack in the pantry. Maria was peeling potatoes with tears
running down her face and had a young helper scrubbing pots.

“My Eva likes the potatoes mashed with butter,” Maria said
and sniffled.

Jolene looked at her steadily. “I know she does. She told
me. We will do the best we can, Maria.”

“It is in God’s hands, Mrs. Shelby,” Maria said. “But if the
worst were to happen, I do not think Pete could live any longer, that is how
much he cares for his little girl.”

“We will not think that way,” Jolene said. “We
must
not.”

Jolene went to the bunkhouse and checked on each of the
patients.  Barnaby followed her and told her what had happened while she
slept. Three more had died, and Pete told him to leave Jolene sleep as there
was nothing more she could do for them. She could hear the scrape of the saws
outside the bunk house as more coffins were built. Those three, two men and one
woman that she didn’t think she’d ever met, brought the deaths to twelve. The
bodies had already been removed and Jolene gathered up the blankets and sheets
they’d been on, and carried them to the laundry pots. One lone elderly woman
stirred the water and pulled the clean bedding out. She laid the blankets on a
tarp, folded them in quarters, and knelt to wring out the excess water before
she slowly carried them to the clothes lines, already heavy and swinging with
sheets and toweling.

“Ada? Where are your helpers? This is too much for you,”
Jolene said to the woman. Ada was most likely seventy years old and had lost
her husband and children and had nowhere to go.  She was a great aunt of
one of the families and lived with her niece and nephew in their small home at
the Hacienda and tended their young children while their parents worked on the
ranch.

Ada shook her head at Jolene and replied in broken English,
telling Jolene that everyone else was busy with chores for the sick and for the
livestock, and that she was still useful and would tend the laundry.

“I will find someone to help you,” Jolene said.

Ada shook her head again and her long gray plaited hair
swung over her shoulder. She pointed at the bunk house. “Save them, senora.”

“Mrs. Shelby!” Barnaby called as he ran across the yards.
“It is Mr. Moran! He is sick!”

Jolene gathered her skirts and ran to the bunk house.

“There,” she said to the men dragging Zeb inside. “Put him
on that cot. The sheets and blankets are clean. I need fresh water and please
ask Maria to brew more tea.”

Pete lingered at the doorway. “I love you, my beautiful
Eva.”

Jolene shook her head. “Don’t come in, Pete. You have other
children, and I don’t want you sick. I am tending Eva myself. You must trust me
to do the best for her.”

Jolene hurried to Zeb, knelt on the floor beside his bunk
and tilted his head to drink the willow bark tea.

“So cold,” he said and shivered as Jolene covered him with
blankets. It was warm, nearly hot, in the bunkhouse from the brand new coal
stove that Jolene had the men fill and fire up. She felt Zeb’s forehead. He was
sweaty and burning with fever.

“Look at me, Zebidiah,” she said. “You must use your
considerable stubbornness to fight this disease. Do you hear me?”

“Don’t want to die,” he mumbled.

“You will not die,” Jolene said lamely, knowing that her
saying the words, much as she’d said to her son, did not have the ability to
save him. “You will not die. Mr. Shelby would be very displeased.”

The corner of his mouth lifted just a hair. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jolene and Barnaby attended to the others, cleaning them up,
or feeding them tea or broth, or just holding their hands. Jolene came to Eva
and was pleased to see the girl’s eyes seemed clear of fever.

“I am hungry, Mrs. Shelby,” she said.

“That is very good,” Jolene replied. “Eat some of this broth,
and if you are still hungry after that, I will fetch you the mashed up potatoes
with butter that your mother has made for you.”

“Mmmm,” the girl said.

Jolene turned to knocking on the bunk house door. “Mrs.
Shelby! Mrs. Shelby!” she heard Alice shout.

“What is it, Alice?” she asked after opening the door.

But she knew. She knew as soon as she saw her maid’s face
and their eyes met. Alice swallowed.

“Melinda is feverish.”

“You must tend the sick here, Alice. There is no one left to
do it. Barnaby will help you,” Jolene said. “I will care for Melinda myself.”

Jolene pulled off her apron, dropping it as she ran towards
the kitchens. She scrubbed her hands when she got there and put a clean mask
on. “Eva is asking for mashed potatoes, and her fever has broken. I believe she
is through the worst of it.”

Tears rolled down the cook’s face. “Thank you. Thank you,
Mrs. Shelby. You have saved my daughter.” Maria came around the long table then
and clutched Jolene’s hands. “I will pray for our dear Melinda. You must tell
me if there is anything that you need. I will see to it myself.”

Jolene nodded and took a moment to take deep, steady
breaths. If she began to cry, she was worried she would never stop. She must
maintain her composure even in the face of . . . what would she tell Maximillian?
How would she ever say the words aloud to him? How could she break his heart?

Jolene raced up the steps as fast as she was able to carry
freshly brewed willow bark tea and not spill it. She would not let this child
die. She would not! But even as she thought it, she knew it was a hope at best
and a dream at worst. She opened the door to Melinda’s room.

* * *

Max lit a fire and ate the ham
slices and bread that he’d bought at the restaurant beside the Mercantile in
Corsicana. He could have ridden longer but was afraid to ride in the dark. If
his horse slipped or went lame, he would have a long, solitary walk with little
water. He figured he was about half way to the Hacienda as it sat southwest of
Dallas. It would be another full day in the saddle.

He’d met some travelers in motorized buggies and some in
wagons streaming south away from Dallas. They’d told him some frightening tales
of the sickness in the city. There was no one, one man ventured to say, who
would not know someone that had contracted the influenza and more than likely
would know, if only through acquaintances, someone who had died.

Max slept fitfully, woke at first light, and pulled himself
into his saddle.
Let me be in time
.

* * *

At first Jolene was hopeful. Through
the morning and early afternoon, Melinda was uncomfortable but still quite
awake and ate some broth. Jolene read to her from books on the shelf in her
rooms and even set up the checker board on her bed. She propped Melinda up with
pillows, and they played a few games. Melinda yawned hugely in the early
evening, and Jolene tucked the blankets around her and told her she would be
back in an hour. She kissed Melinda’s forehead and told her to get her rest.

Jolene went to the bunkhouse and was relieved to hear that
no one else had been brought in although a few families were tending sick young
ones in their own home. Jolene did not have the strength to argue. Only two
more had died during the day, and the others seemed to be on the mend besides
Zebidiah, who was clearly in the worst way.