More Than a Dream (33 page)

Not long after ‘‘that night,’’ as she referred to it, she started having nightmares, dreams so terrible she would wake up shaking with her hands clutched around her throat, trying to protect her vulnerable jugular from a slashing knife. The glittering knife was always poised just above her, held in the hands of a man with a stained and filthy gunnysack over his head.

But one night her dreams had reverted back to the hospital and to the day that Moira and her baby had died and her grief-stricken drunken husband had carried Patrick like a sack of potatoes under his arm and had thundered vengeance against Dr. Morganstein and her hospital for butchering his wife.

That was when she knew.

It was the same voice that threatened to slit her throat if she screamed. And she’d believed him.

But how did Ian Flannery get to Northfield? And why did he come after her instead of the doctor? Or was he planning on meting out his brand of justice to both of them? Should she call Dr. Morganstein?

Elizabeth recognized the purple shadows under her eyes, painted there by sleep just before he stole off instead of taking up residence for the night. And soon her mother would be asking what was wrong, and then she would have to lie and say that nothing was wrong. She rubbed her forehead where a headache had formed in the wee hours when she’d been turning and tossing and pounding her pillow into submission.

‘‘So you want to say what is bothering you?’’ Cook caught her before her mother did.

‘‘Just nightmares. I am having a hard time sleeping.’’ Elizabeth took the proferred cup of coffee, already laced with cream, the kind called café au lait in France, where she’d learned to like it. She and her mother had spent a month in France the summer before her senior year in high school, supposedly to improve her French and introduce her to real art and to the world beyond American borders. In actuality she had found a hospital to visit. Her mother had not been pleased. Today she really needed the dark brown, near to black sludge kind of coffee from the hospital. Something that would pop her eyes open and put apples on her pallid cheekbones.

‘‘Looks like more than nightmares to me. Although with what you went through, not having them would be more surprising.’’ Cook set a plate with warm buttered cinnamon bread down on the counter Elizabeth leaned against. ‘‘You’ve not been eating either.’’

‘‘I think my abdomen is still bruised from bouncing on that man’s shoulder.’’ Elizabeth rubbed her middle with the hand not holding the coffee cup, still inhaling the fragrance rather than drinking. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see dark lines in front with faint light between the mesh. No matter that she’d taken baths and wore perfume to kill the stink, her nose refused to forget. Finally the coffee fragrance took over, and she sipped while reaching for the bread.

‘‘Made just this morning, right?’’ Sometimes she wondered if Cook ever slept.

‘‘Don’t get many chances to make your favorite things anymore, least not with you here to enjoy them.’’ She nodded toward the outside. ‘‘You go on out and lie back in that chair out there, and I’ll bring you scrambled eggs with bacon.’’ When Elizabeth started to protest, Cook pointed a long finger toward the door.

Feeling as though she were eight years old again, Elizabeth did what she was told. Inside, she chuckled at the sight. How good it felt to be where someone was trying to take care of her instead of . . . She blocked the rest of the thought and swung by the rosebush to sniff the perfume of the late bloom. Her mother’s roses didn’t look quite as well cared for as usual; in fact she picked off a yellowing leaf with black spots and stuck it in her pocket. Her mother was spending more time at the newspaper than in her yard. And Old Tom was not as careful as she.

After sitting on the chaise, Elizabeth held her coffee with both hands, sipping like a little girl at a tea party. But she’d never been one for tea parties. She enjoyed playing hospital far more. Her dolls had worn splints on their arms and bandages on their heads.

‘‘Here you go.’’ The plate held enough food to feed three people.

Elizabeth groaned.

But Cook just shook her head and refilled the coffee cup. ‘‘The cream is there in the pitcher.’’

‘‘The tray is lovely.’’ Elizabeth smiled up at her longtime friend. Yellow and rust-red nasturtiums, their round leaves still bright green, smiled out of a small cut-glass vase. A bit of parsley graced the eggs, and sliced peaches cozied in a shallow layer of cream, lightly sugared.

‘‘I will remember this.’’ She swallowed back the tears that hovered so near the surface.

‘‘We’re having peach pie for dinner.’’

Elizabeth nodded and laid her napkin in her lap. ‘‘Thank you.’’
And how am I supposed to eat dinner in two hours after all this?

As she ate, Elizabeth thought back to an earlier conversation with Thorliff when they’d been sitting out here under the oak tree.

‘‘What do you hear from your family?’’ she’d asked him.

‘‘Mor is busy with all the normal gardening and fieldwork, and she is making more cheese than ever.’’

‘‘All by herself?’’

‘‘No, she has several women working for her, but summer is her busiest time because the cows produce so much better when feeding on grass. I’m not surprised that she and Astrid can’t get away to visit me.’’

‘‘But you were hoping.’’

‘‘Yes, earlier in the summer it looked like they might squeeze in a trip. As Alexander Pope said, ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast.’ But from the reports I’ve heard, North Dakota looks to be having a good harvest, barring grasshoppers or hail or too much rain or—’’

‘‘I guess living in town as I have, I never realized how precarious a farmer’s life is. It is easy to take flour and milk and such for granted.’’

‘‘Yes, but if the prices go up because of crop failure, city people scream the loudest, accusing the farmers of selfishness and wanting too much money.’’ Thorliff shook his head. ‘‘They don’t realize how many hands make up the chain from the farm to the city table.’’

She took another bite of Cook’s incredibly light and fluffy biscuits. Perhaps the flour for the baking had come from the Bjorklund farms. And they often had Bjorklund cheese when they could get ahold of it. Thompson’s Grocers sometimes stocked several Bjorklund cheeses.

She looked over to the chair where he’d been sitting and felt warmth creeping up her neck. Often lately, thoughts of Thorliff made her feel slightly mushy inside. Until she reminded herself that mushy feelings for a man did not coincide with her life’s dream.

‘‘Do you have time to go for a walk?’’ Elizabeth asked Thorliff that evening. They’d just finished supper, and Phillip was heading back to the office.

‘‘Go ahead, Thorliff. I’ll keep an eye on the press.’’ The older man waved his hand.

‘‘You sure?’’

‘‘Now, how often do you get an invitation like that from such a lovely young woman?’’ Phillip shook his head, eyes twinkling. ‘‘Not often enough to turn it down. You two go on, and I’ll see you later at the office.’’

Thorliff and Elizabeth followed Phillip down the hall to retrieve Thorliff’s straw boater from the hat rack.

‘‘So where would you like to go?’’ He set his hat firmly on his head when they stepped out the front door.

‘‘You don’t have to do this, you know. It is not required of an employee to walk with his employer’s daughter.’’

Thorliff stopped on the step below and stared at her, eyes slightly slit. ‘‘I don’t walk with you for any other reason than you are my friend and I enjoy your company.’’
And miss you when you
are gone, and wish for more walks and talks and family concerts
and . . .

‘‘I’m sorry.’’ Elizabeth had the grace to look ashamed. ‘‘I was teasing you, but I can tell it wasn’t funny.’’ She touched his arm but snapped her hand back as if she had been burned.

He glanced at the spot on his arm, every sense aware of the reaction that ran from the skin under the sleeve of his shirt to all points south, north, west, and east on his body.

‘‘You’re forgiven.’’ Without further thought, he took her hand and tucked it under his arm. His look suggested she not try to take it back. ‘‘Now that we have that all straightened out, where shall we go?’’

‘‘Down along the river.’’

‘‘Are you sure?’’ Thorliff stopped walking to turn her toward him. He waited until she looked up, reading resolution in her eyes and the lift of her chin. Only the slightest quiver of her lower lip betrayed her.

‘‘Yes. I cannot let fear rule me.’’ She inhaled a breath deep enough to raise her shoulders. ‘‘And the longer I put this off, the more I dread going there. You know that has always been one of my favorite places. I can’t let that man take it away from me.’’ She paused with a slight shake of her head. ‘‘I can’t.’’

The desire to take her in his arms and shield her from all harm swept through him like a fierce wind. She’d been in danger, and he hadn’t been able to protect her. And this was in their very own town. How helpless he would be with her back in Chicago.

With a sigh he tucked her arm through his again, and they picked up their leisurely pace. Tilting at dragons took a steady heart and firm footing.
Lord, please protect her; keep her safe from
harm, and give her the strength to overcome whatever lies ahead
.

Thoughts whirled through him, mind and heart, as they reached the river. Their pace slowed.

‘‘Right or left? We don’t have to slay all the dragons at once.’’

‘‘Left, and then we’ll come back and go for a soda at Mrs. Sitze’s.’’

Elizabeth’s step faltered only slightly as they walked westward, the river flowing gently on their right.

‘‘Tell me where you are on your story.’’

‘‘Better than that, I’ll let you read it if you like.’’

She flashed him a smile. ‘‘I’d like that a lot.’’

When Thorliff started classes again, Elizabeth felt a pang at being left out. For all these years she’d gone to school every September, and now she wasn’t even looking forward to October and her lifelong dream of attending medical school. Instead, she felt that part of her heart was missing. The mailman left her an envelope from Dr. Morganstein, and she stared at it a long time before slitting it with a pewter letter opener. Unfolding the paper, she read,

Dearest Elizabeth,

This place just doesn’t seem the same with you gone. It is like you have become part of our family, and there is a hole with you not here. The children ask after you, and so do some of the outpatients. Dr. Fossden grumbled at one of the surgical nurses that his third hand was missing and she wasn’t an adequate substitute.

This is not to lay pressure on you to return earlier than the starting of school but to let you know how valuable you are, and not only to us. I know your Dr. Gaskin hates to see you leave again.

I am still set on having you teach physiology and anatomy, and if you get stuck, one of us will help you out. I have already ordered the textbooks and all the charts, and we have an articulated skeleton to hang in the corner of the classroom. You can name it when you come or have the other students assist. As a designated second year student, you will officially be given the title of Doctor because of your copious experience.

I am honored that you want to join us in our mission to provide doctors who are more skilled and experienced than might be available otherwise.

Please greet your mother and father for me and know that we await your arrival with joy.

In God’s love,
Althea Morganstein, M.D.

A tear dripped on the paper.
Lord, I cannot let fear rule my life,
but Ian Flannery is most likely back in Chicago. What if he tries
again? But if I told Sheriff Meeker what I believe, there is no way I
could prove that it was Mr. Flannery who abducted me. I never saw
his face. I only know it was his voice
. She clenched her fists into her diaphragm, where even the thought of the man brought spasms.

Lord, what do I do? I know that you protected me from death or
violation. I know that you will continue to do so because that is one
of your promises. You said you will guide me, to the right or to the
left, you will set my path before me and, Father, I want to walk on it,
for I feel you have set my path and my feet on it
. She opened her Bible and laid her clasped hands on the fine pages.
Lord, I confess
my fear, and I ask, I plead with you, to deliver me. I will trust you
and your Word. I will. I will. I do
. Tears rained down her cheeks, cleansing tears that washed the fear away and left her feeling as though she could float right up to the ceiling. She leaned back in her father’s chair, the library around her a safe place, a haven for her to remember that here, at 10:40 A.M. on September 14, 1895, she gave God her fear.