Tomorrow's Dreams (46 page)

“His brain?” Penelope repeated, her fear reflected in both her face and voice. “But he will be all right, won't he?”

The doctor rose slowly. “I'm going to be blunt with you, Mrs. Tyler,” he said, still laboring under the misconception that she and Seth were married. “When the infection spreads to the brain of a healthy child, I'm generally less than optimistic, but hold out enough hope to say that a recovery is possible. However, with a baby already so weak and frail …” He shook his head.

She turned so ashen, that Seth was certain she would faint. Wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her close, he reassured her, “Tommy will be fine. Between the two of us, we'll pull him through.” And he meant it. He'd just found his son, and he'd be damned if he'd lose him again. Transferring his gaze to the doctor, he asked, “What can we do to help him?”

Doc Larson shook his head again. “I'm going to leave some drops for you to give him every four hours. Aside from that, all I can suggest is that you get as much nourishment in him as possible and sponge him down with tepid water for the fever.”

“Would it be all right to move him into town?” Seth inquired, anxious to provide his son with every possible comfort.

“No. He's much too ill to make the journey.” The doctor bent closer to Seth. “You don't look much up to it, either, son,” he observed. “Why don't you lie down over there”—he indicated the bed with the fan quilt—“and let me examine you.”

Seth started to protest that he was all right, but Penelope cut him off. “Stop arguing, Seth. Your scalp needs to be restitched and that cut on your arm should be cleaned. And don't forget about your hip. I noticed fresh blood on the seat of your trousers when you mounted your horse earlier.”

Seth grimaced. As if he could forget about that particular wound. His backside was so damn sore that if his head weren't plaguing him so, he'd have probably found riding unbearable. Still he hesitated, reluctant to leave his son's side.

“Go on,” she urged, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “There's nothing you can do for Tommy right now, anyway. Minerva and I can—Oh!” She glanced apologetically at the older couple, who'd been standing silently at the foot of the cot, holding hands and exchanging worried glances. “I'm sorry. Seth, this is Sam and Minerva Skolfield. They've been caring for Tommy, but”—she waved dismissively—“I'll tell you all about that later.”

Seth stood up and shook hands with the couple, then, at Doc Larson's prompting, followed him to the bed.

“Been fighting again, have you, son?” the doctor asked, setting his bag on the small table next to the bed. When Seth nodded, prompting a mild bout of dizziness, the man shook head in disapproval. “Not a healthy hobby, fighting.”

“And certainly not one of my own choosing,” Seth muttered, gingerly favoring his injured left buttock as he sat on the bed.

“Didn't think it was.” The doctor popped open his black bag and pulled out several items, among which was a bottle of antiseptic that Seth remembered stinging like a son of a bitch. “You're going to need to get out of those clothes so I can see what kind of damage you've done to yourself this time,” he continued. “The little woman said something about a cut rump?”

“Knife wound,” Seth supplied, shooting a self-conscious glance at the Skolfields. Their backs were turned to him, and they appeared to be absorbed in listening to Penelope, who was tenderly bathing the baby's fevered body as she recounted the details of Adele's arrest. Still, preoccupied or not, he was uncomfortable about removing his clothes.

Apparently his embarrassment showed, because the doctor murmured, “Hell of a place to get stabbed, huh?” When Seth nodded miserably, he added, “Well, since it's not likely to be fatal, I'll tend it last. We'll see if we can't get you some privacy then. Guess I'll start with that head wound.”

Which he did, and which proved to be an extremely unpleasant experience. Having his scalp stitched the night before had hurt, but it was nothing compared to having the bits of broken thread plucked out of the reopened wound. As he sat there, manfully stifling his moans, Sam approached.

“Minerva and I have a few things to settle with Adele,” he said, grimacing his sympathy as he watched the doctor. “We'll be back tomorrow. Do you need anything from town?”

“How are we set for supplies—food, kerosene, and such?” Seth gritted out from between his clenched teeth.

“You're set for at least a couple of weeks.”

Without moving his head, Seth drew a handful of coins from his pocket and gave them to Sam. “Buy a nice cradle, and whatever else you think might make my son more comfortable.” He thought for a moment, then added, “I'd also like to send a telegram.” At the man's nod, he gave his message and where it was to be sent.

When he'd finished, Sam peered down at the gold in his hand, almost a hundred dollars' worth, and asked, “Anything else?”

Seth started to say no; then his gaze fell on Penelope, who was still sponging their now feebly wailing son, her face the picture of maternal distress. “See if you can find a big box of maple nut candy,” he said, remembering how the treat always made her smile. “And ask the store to tie it up with ribbons.”

Fifteen minutes later, the Skolfields were off. By then the doctor was restitching Seth's scalp, quizzing him as to whether he was … dizzy?… headachy?… nauseated?… and other symptoms to which he would've replied yes if he were being truthful. However, since he was in no mood to endure any more of the doctor's fussing than was absolutely necessary, he said no to everything.

As for Penelope, she sat on the cot at the other side of the cabin, gently rocking and singing to the fretful baby. Now and then she glanced wistfully at Seth, longing to be near him but doubtful if he would welcome her company.

Little did she know that having her by his side, holding his hand and distracting him from his pain as she'd done the night before, was exactly what he craved at that moment. Yet, he figured that after the way he'd treated her this morning, she was probably about as eager for his company as she was for Adele du Charme's. So he sat silently enduring his solitary misery.

He soon discovered, however, that he was not a man who suffered well alone. And by the time the doctor had finished stitching his scalp and was preparing to tend the cut on his arm, he was so desperate to have Penelope near that he was ready to throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness.

Well, perhaps I'd better forgo the throwing myself at her feet part
, he decided, his head resuming its drunken reeling as he stripped off his shirt. As dizzy as he got every time he moved, he'd probably pass out, or worse, vomit on her boot from his nausea … both misadventures that would win him lectures and probably more unpleasant poking from Doc Larson.

The begging part, however, he could manage. Prepared to do just that, he called softly, “Penelope?”

She looked up from the baby, stopping mid-lyric of the lullaby she was singing.

“Would you and Tommy sit next to me?” He smiled with all the charm he could muster. “Please?”

To his relief, for in truth his head was pounding way too much for him to beg effectively, she readily complied. As she sat next to him, rocking the mewling baby and crooning soothing, motherly nonsense, Seth studied his son.

There was no doubt that Tommy was his. From the color of his eyes, a striking shade of light hazel, to his square jaw and fair hair, he was every inch a Van Cortlandt. Yet there was much of Penelope in him as well.

Where the Van Cortlandt family had a strong, bold sort of handsomeness, his son was nothing short of beautiful … a legacy from his mother. As anyone acquainted with the Parrish family could attest, they looked like heaven's fairest angels.

As did Tommy, Seth thought with fatherly pride. Like all the members of the stunning Parrish clan, his son's eyes were distinctly tip-tilted at the outer corners and fringed with impossibly thick lashes. And he was certain he saw evidence of their trademark dimples lurking beneath the measles. He'd also inherited his mother's well-shaped mouth and perfect ringlets.

For a long moment Seth stared at his son's fair curls, wondering if they were as soft as Penelope's ebony ones. Slowly he reached down to touch them, then paused. With his hand hovering just over the baby's head, he glanced uncertainly up at Penelope. She nodded her encouragement.

Trembling with tenderness, he gently stroked his son's hair. Amazing. It was even silkier than Penelope's. Filled with sudden awe at what he'd helped create, he moved his hand from the baby's hair to cradle his tiny fist in his palm. While Tommy's fingers were crooked and contorted at unnatural angles, there were five of them, all with perfectly shaped nails. He was so preoccupied admiring his son, that he forgot about the doctor until he said:

“I need to look at your rump now, son.”

Seth glanced down at his injured arm in surprise. It sported a clean white bandage. He hadn't even felt the doctor tend it.

However, he certainly felt his hip wound when he tugged down his trousers. Hours of sitting on horseback had made the fabric stick to the cut, and he almost hit the ceiling howling his pain as wool ripped from flesh.

“Nasty one,” Doc Larson observed as Seth stood with his trousers to his knees, convulsively clutching his buttock.

“That's the understatement of the century,” Seth muttered, though he doubted if the man could hear him through the baby's squalling. Poor little fellow had been startled by his bellowing. Biting his lower lip to keep from crying out again, he cautiously finished removing his trousers, then lay belly down on the bed.

A few feet away, Penelope paced back and forth, making soothing noises and gently jiggling the wailing baby; a wailing that Seth was half tempted to join in the second the doctor began to clean his wound with the fiery antiseptic.

“Whoa there, son!” the doctor exclaimed as Seth bucked violently beneath his ministrations.

“That hurts!” he spat, jerking his hip away as the man made to dab at it again.

“I'm sure it does, but it'll hurt a lot worse if it gets infected,” Doc Larson replied, pressing his hand into the small of Seth's back and flattening him, belly flush, against the mattress. “Now, lie still.”

Seth tried his best to comply, honestly he did, but he couldn't help jumping every time the cut was touched.

Finally, after what felt like a century of poking, the doctor announced, “It isn't too deep here.” He indicated an area in the center of his buttock. “The rest of it'll need stitching, though. Looks like you got stabbed here”—he touched an area about three inches from Seth's hip, almost making him howl again—“and then had the blade dragged the rest of the way across in the scuffle.”

Penelope wandered over to stand next to the doctor, patting the back of her now-hiccuping baby as she peered down at Seth's backside. Seth felt like the main attraction at a sideshow the way they were gawking at him. Shooting them both a disgruntled look, he mumbled, “Skip the commentary and get on with the stitching.”

The doctor shrugged and threaded his trusty needle, while Penelope sat at the edge of the bed near Seth's head. Seth reached up and lightly clasped the baby's hand again, then lay quietly staring up at Penelope's face. She returned his gaze steadily, her expression compassionate and her eyes filled with such love, that he felt suddenly shamed by his earlier thoughts. How could he have ever thought her heartless?

While it was true that she'd sought to abort their child, in the end she hadn't gone through with it. She'd risked being shunned by the society she so loved to bear his bastard … not the act of a pitiless monster by any stretch of the imagination. In all fairness he should have praised her for her final decision, not condemned her for her first desperate impulse.

Well, he'd make amends just as soon as they were alone, he promised himself, gritting his teeth as Doc Larson leaned over his backside. He'd apologize for being a judgmental ass, and then tell her just how brave and truly wonderful she was. After he'd said all that, he would beg her to marry him and not just because of their son. No. He wanted to marry her because he loved her.

He gasped aloud as the doctor began to sew. As his body convulsed reflexively at the next stab of the needle, he hastily released Tommy's hand, afraid he might inadvertently crush the baby's fragile bones in a spasm of pain.

Without her gaze wavering from his, Penelope made one of her soothing noises and slipped her hand into his now empty one. As she laced her fingers between his, she sang in a low voice:

“Sleep, my love, my heart's desire. Let slumber come, gentle and sweet. Close your eyes, drowse soft and deep. And I will sing my song of dreams.”

Seth recognized the lullaby as the one she'd been singing earlier. It was a pretty tune, one made beautiful by the sweet perfection of her voice. And as he lay listening to the melodious flow of notes, lulled as much by the tenderness in her eyes as by her song, the stabbing pain in his backside receded.

On and on she sang, of hope, joy, and love. By the time the last note faded away, Seth was astonished to discover Doc Larson applying a dressing to the area. Why, after the initial pain the stitching hadn't hurt at all. And all because of Penelope's song.

Smiling gratefully up at her, he gave her hand a warm squeeze. “That was a splendid song. What was it?”

She returned his smile and hand squeeze. “I call it my “Song of Dreams.” I made it up for Tommy shortly after he was born.”

“I had no idea you were such a talented songwriter.”

She glanced down at their son, fast asleep on her lap. “I'm not. I was only singing what's in my heart.”

“There now, that wasn't so bad was it?” boomed the doctor.