Long Road Home, The (7 page)

“Maybe you shouldn’t come with us, Mrs. Finlayson. It’s not very clean.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beckett, but I’ll be fine.” Abby nearly regretted her words a few minutes later.

Bunk beds lined the walls of the empty building. It was obvious the men had been gone for a good while, but the stale smell of smoke and unwashed bodies lingered.

The six people skirted the stove in the middle of the room and moved toward the rear. Paul Cameron was on a lower bunk at the back, and Abby was horrified at his condition of neglect. His beard and hair were matted with food, and his body and union suit reeked of sweat and human waste. Abby was sure the blankets he lay on had not been cleaned or aired since he had been placed upon them. A hand to Paul’s bearded cheek told Abby there was no fever. He didn’t stir when she touched him.

Directing the men to take the four corners of the blanket, Abby had them lift him carefully from the bunk. It was enough to bring Paul around, and the first person he spotted was Abby.

“What are you doing? Put me down!” His voice was a bit rusty from lack of use, but he spoke with force.

Abby had decided long ago she was not going to have an argument with this man, and an explanation now would surely cause one. She ignored the question.

The men began to walk now, and Paul realized he was being moved from the building. “What are you doing? Put me down!” Paul spoke with enough command to check the men in their stride.

“Put him in the wagon.” Abby spoke in a no-nonsense voice that propelled the men forward without question.

Paul opened his mouth to tell this woman what he thought of her high-handedness, but the men at the foot of the blanket moved wrong and Paul felt nauseous from the pain.

Gritting his teeth to keep from screaming when they put him in the wagon, Paul didn’t recognize any of his bearers and never caught sight of Mr. Beckett, who was driving the wagon.

Paul’s entire body convulsed in agony as the wagon dropped into the ruts in the road. As spots danced before his eyes, he knew he couldn’t take much more. His last thought before darkness invaded was that he wanted to murder the redhead bending over him.

Paul’s bedroom had obviously been a servant’s quarters, so furnishings were simple. The bed was large and sat in the middle of one wall. There were two windows, and Abby could see the shadows lengthening with the setting of the sun.

A washstand stood in one corner along with a small wardrobe. Wooden pegs on the wall held Paul’s few things which Mr. Beckett had carried from the bunkhouse. On the far side of the bed was a small table with a lantern and on the other side was a rocking chair in which Abby sat, watching her sleeping patient.

Washed now and with fresh splints, Paul lay in a clean bed. Abby couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired, but the sense of accomplishment more than made up for it.

Even though the temptation was overwhelming, she had not cut his hair for fear of igniting his fury. He had been angry enough as it was. Coming to from time to time, Paul ordered
her hands off him or swore at her. Abby had ignored it all and scrubbed him from head to foot.

Movement beyond the door reminded Abby that the Becketts had a cook who lived in town and came each day to the house. She knew it was getting close to supper. Abby only hoped she would be able to stay awake.

“I can’t think what has become of Ross. He dropped your trunk off and I haven’t seen him since.” Lenore was more than a little upset with her son at the supper table later. “I wish you would speak to him, Sam. He knows when we eat supper.”

“I’ll talk to him, dear.”

“Abby, did you get a chance to settle into your room?”

“No, I didn’t get more than a quick peek. It is really lovely, though.”

“If there is anything you need, just ask.”

Abby smiled and thought that the only thing she needed was sleep.

The dishes were being cleared when the front door opened. The dining room door that led to the parlor was open, as was the door leading out into the foyer. The absentee son didn’t stand a chance of entering unheard.

“Ross, come into the dining room, please.” Sam Beckett’s voice carried easily to the entryway.

Abby’s mouth nearly dropped open and some of her exhaustion disappeared when the young man from the train depot walked through the door.

Abby listened with only half an ear to the exchange between father and son as she recalled how upset he had been at the mention of the Beckett name. Her attention returned at the sound of her name.

“Abby, this is our son, Ross. Ross, this is Abigail Finlayson. She and a man who is in her care will be staying with us for a while.”

Abby took instant pity on the red-faced youth. His eyes didn’t plead with her, but Abby was sure he was holding his breath.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ross.”

His sigh was audible and his smile was back in charming force as he repeated the amenities. Ross was then ordered by his mother into the kitchen for his supper.

Abby made her apologies, checked on Paul, and took herself off to bed. Her last prayerful supplication as she fell into a dreamless sleep was that all her days in Hayward would not be this busy.

Abby had checked on Paul twice during the night and found him sleeping. She made sure the bedpan was within reach and, other than those short visits to see to his needs, slept through the night.

Ready to take on anything the next morning, she began her day in the Scriptures. In Luke 11, starting with verse 33, she read, “No man, when he hath lighted a candle, putteth it in a secret place, neither under a bushel, but on a candlestick, that they who come in may see the light.”

As soon as Abby read the words, she thought of the promise. With an effort, she didn’t cry. It wasn’t that she planned to break her word, it was just that she never believed she would be alone to carry it out.

“Dear heavenly Father, Ian is with You now, and I know this was Your will. I hurt. I hurt so much. You gave him to me. He was the husband of Your choice, and now You have seen fit to take him home to Yourself. Please hold me close, Lord. Comfort me with Your Word. And please, Lord, help me keep my promise.”

Abby washed and dressed and thought about being a light to the Becketts. She prayed again and asked God to give her opportunities to share Him.

Her next thoughts were of Paul. In the confusion of leaving Baxter, she had not slowed anyone down long enough to
ask a few questions about Paul. Her aunt must have known something, but when they talked she hadn’t elaborated.

He was a widower—she knew that much. And Grandma Em had made it sound like he was angry with the family, or maybe his bitterness was directed at God and that made him angry with everyone.

The subject of Abby’s thoughts was just waking up in his downstairs bedroom. As usual, Paul’s first thoughts were of Corrine. It was getting harder and harder to picture her laughing or smiling at him with eyes of love. The time he had seen her that way had been so short; their total time together had been all too brief.

He wished he had understood the severity of her illness. It wouldn’t have changed his feelings, but the surprise was so hard to take. She shouldn’t have died. There was no reason for her to die. God could have healed her so easily; He could have reached down and lengthened her life for many years. After all, their plans to work for Him were so big, so wonderful. Paul let the now-familiar feelings of betrayal wash over him.

Some minutes passed before he allowed himself to come out of his tiny shell of misery. Where in the world was he? Oh yes, he smiled unkindly—the bossy redhead. At the same time that Paul remembered the woman herself, he remembered her bathing him. A fast look under the sheet told him his worst fears had come true. He was wearing only his leg splints and a bandage on his wrist. “Well,” he thought uncharitably, “at least I can stand my own stench for the first time in weeks.”

The bedroom door opened on his bitter mood, and the present object of his anger walked confidently toward the bed.

“Good morning, Mr. Cameron. Did you sleep well?”

“Where am I?” Paul growled without answering her.

“You’re in the home of Mr. Sam Beckett.”

It was not the answer Paul had expected, and it gave him pause. Beckett was one of the mill owners and for some reason had come to see him twice in the bunkhouse. Why would he move him here? Surely he had better things to do with his time than take care of one of the many loggers who was injured.

Paul felt no better after having run all this through his mind, and his voice was no less curt on his next question. “Who are you?”

“I’m your nurse, and my name is Mrs. Finlayson.” Abby’s voice was kind, but she did not offer any more information than necessary.

Now Paul was really confused. Why would Sam Beckett bring him here and hire a nurse to take care of him? He thought of asking the woman by his bed, but she was just hired help and he doubted she would know.

Paul felt at a definite disadvantage next to her. She was calm in answering his questions and she could come and go as she pleased, whereas Paul knew he was nearly helpless and undressed to boot.

“Where are my clothes?”

“The ones with you in the bunkhouse are hanging over on the pegs. The ones you were wearing were not savable.”

“What do you mean by ‘not savable’?”

“I burned them.”

“You what?” he exploded at her. “What gives you the right to...”

Paul stopped shouting when he realized she wasn’t even listening to him. Abby had walked over to the windows to draw open the curtains and to let in a little air. She took her time and, when everything was straightened to her liking, she went back to stand by the bed.

“Would you like some breakfast?” When Paul only stared at her in open hostility, she continued. “I’ll go now and fix your breakfast. I won’t be long.”

Abby reached without embarrassment and touched the bedpan. She waited until his eyes followed her hand before exiting without another word.

Paul had never known such humiliation and anger. He pictured himself throwing the bedpan at her retreating back, but didn’t follow through with the violent thought. With eyes focused bleakly on the ceiling above, he knew without a doubt he was living in a nightmare of his own making.

Abby closed the bedroom door and leaned against it. He was not happy and she suspected he was feeling violent, but he hadn’t thrown anything at her. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Abby thought wryly of her days in the hospital with some of the most unpredictable patients a nurse could never hope to meet.

Before she had gone into the bedroom, she had stoked the fire and put on some coffee. With a little searching she had all she needed and was well on her way. Abby was just finishing with the tray when in walked the cook. In her middle years, she was short and stocky with blonde hair and blue eyes set in pale features.

“Hello! I stoked the fire and started the coffee. I have to deliver this tray and then I’ll be back.”

The woman smiled broadly at her, bobbing her head but not saying a word. Feeling a bit bemused, Abby picked up the tray and moved to the bedroom.

“Well now, that didn’t take too long, but you must be hungry.” Abby shifted the table a little nearer to the bed and set the tray down. She felt Paul’s eyes on her as she moved to the wardrobe and removed two pillows she had spotted there yesterday.

“Now if you’ll let me, I’ll prop these behind you so you can reach the tray.”

“I can move myself ” was the snarled reply Abby received as she moved to help him.

The nurse watched quietly as her patient placed his palms flat on the bed and attempted to move himself up against the headboard. His bandaged wrist gave out immediately under the pressure, and he glared at Abby as though it were her fault.

“Maybe you’d rather I spoon-fed you,” Abby stated in all seriousness. The comment deepened his scowl, but he made no further remarks as she helped him back up against the pillows.

Abby placed the tray across his lap and watched again as he fell on the food as though he were starving. Abby could see why his beard had been matted with food—he ate like a wolf!

“I’ll be right out the door here, in the kitchen. Call if you need anything.” A grunt was the only indication he had heard her and Abby exited, thinking she had her work cut out for her.

A little disappointed to see that the cook was gone, Abby poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. Lost in thought over the hostile Mr. Cameron and over possibly getting a letter off to Baxter, Abby soon heard a noise. Turning expectantly and thinking to see the cook approaching, Abby was surprised to see Ross.

“Hello,” he greeted her cheerfully as he plopped down in a chair across the table from her. “Boy, was I surprised to come by your room and find the door open and you already up.”

“I have a patient to take care of,” she told him not unkindly.

“Oh yeah. Who is that guy anyway?”

“His name is Mr. Paul Cameron.”

“He’s not your husband or anything is he?”

“No,” Abby assured him.

“Good.”

Abby wondered for a few moments why Ross found this information good, but she was too preoccupied to spend much time musing on it.

When she glanced up a few minutes later, it was to find Ross staring intently at her. Warning bells went off in her head and, hoping to remind him he was staring quite rudely, she raised her brows questioningly.

He didn’t drop his eyes from hers, but spoke softly. “Why didn’t you tell my parents we had talked at the train station?”

Abby shrugged, somewhat relieved that she had misread the look. “I didn’t agree with your actions at the train station, but I felt there was no real harm done.”

Ross’ smile was triumphant. He knew he had been right. She was as attracted to him as he was to her.

Abby frowned at that smile and spoke sternly. “I don’t intend to tell your parents of our conversation, Ross, but if I had my way I would have boxed your ears for such behavior.”

Ross’ triumphant mood evaporated. Why, she was speaking to him as though he were a child! Abby saw the look and interpreted it correctly.

“Ross,” her voice was gentle now, “how old are you?”

“I’ll be 18 in July.” His chest swelled out as he answered.

“You’re a man now, Ross, and it was foolish of you to let your friends goad you into that stunt yesterday. I was not amused, and you’re old enough to know better.”

It was all said so gently, Abby’s eyes so filled with kindness, that Ross couldn’t find it in himself to be angry. He smiled at her and Abby smiled back, mostly in relief. They had come to an understanding. Had Abby not felt so distracted, she would have noticed Ross’ smile was a good deal more personal than her own.