Two Brides Too Many (7 page)

Feeling a bit lightheaded, Kat blinked back the tears that pricked her eyes. She raised herself up into a sitting position. When a twinge of pain pinched her shoulder and traveled down her left arm, she rolled onto her right side instead. The piece of glass must have done more than just cut her skin. She shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing about life in Cripple Creek had been easy so far.

Why, Lord, why?

She’d done all she knew to do. She’d even rescued a little girl from the fire. Rosita was probably reunited with her mother by now, while she lay here all alone, wearing a ripped dress that smelled of smoke
and dried blood. Drawing her knees to her chest, Kat let the tears fall.

“You waked up.”

Sniffling, Kat dried her face on the sheet and rolled to her left side, wincing against the ache in her shoulder. The little girl she’d found sat up on a blanket against the wall. “What are you doing here?”

Rosita crossed her heart. “You ’member?”

Kat sighed. She remembered everything, but why was the girl still here?

“Now we find Mama.”

Why hadn’t someone reunited this child with her mother?

“Rosita, have you seen my sister?” Kat said, trying to peer around the curtain. “Her name is Nell. She’s about my size, but with blond hair.”

The little girl shook her head, sending a drape of black hair over her narrow eyes. “I only seen Doc and the Black Sack Sisters.”

The Black Sack Sisters
. Kat felt a smile tug at her. Apparently that was Rosita’s name for the nuns.

Rosita toddled over to the bed. “You better. We find Mama now?”

Before Kat could respond, she heard footsteps approaching and turned onto her back, hoping to see Nell walk in. Instead, a tall man pulled on the curtain and stood at the foot of her bed while Rosita scurried back to the blanket.

“I’m Doc Hanson.” He fiddled with the stethoscope curled around his neck. “It’s good to see you’re awake.”

“Thank you. Kat Sinclair.” Kat rolled to her right side, then sat up. A much less painful feat from that angle. “I know a piece of glass cut me, but why am I so sore and groggy?”

“Ma’am, it was a pretty good-sized piece that dove into the deep
tissue near your shoulder blade. I used six sutures. You lost some blood, so we gave you a sedative to help you rest for a couple of hours.”

Kat rubbed her brow. “That explains my lightheadedness.”

He scratched his bald head. “The fire wiped out thirty acres and left thousands of folks homeless.” He glanced over at Rosita, who had her thumb in her mouth. “I’d count yourself among the lucky, Miss Sinclair. You’ll be fine.”

The man was right. The injury could’ve been a lot worse, and here poor Rosita was stuck with some stranger when all she wanted was to find her mother.

“Doctor, I found Rosita looking for her mother during the fire.”

A shadow crossed his face, deepening a scar above his right eye.

“I thought she might be—”

“Her mother’s name was Carmen.” He’d whispered it, and Kat wasn’t sure she’d heard him right, but before she could say anything, he’d turned toward Rosita. “Come here, child.” He opened his arms to her, but the little girl shook her head and turned to the wall.

“Was?”

The man nodded, and Kat’s throat tightened.

“Sister Coleman found Carmen’s body just twenty feet out behind Sunny’s brothel where she worked,” he said, his eyes sad. “Had weak lungs, and the smoke was too much.”

Acid burned Kat’s throat, and she swallowed hard. “Her father?”

“Don’t know anything about him. Nobody left here ’cept the other girls.”

“Surely they could—” Kat gestured at Rosita.

“With their building gone, might be a while before they could do anything.”

“The sisters?”

His chuckle sardonic, the doctor shook his head. “Ma’am, we’re all going to be tied up caring for the injured for a long time. You’ll have to find someone else.”

Kat felt like she was going to be sick. How could she be the only one available? She’d have to find a place to take Rosita. That’s all she could do. But first she had to tell the little one her mama was gone.

Sliding her legs over the side of the cot, Kat looked down at the child. “Rosita, I need to talk to you about your mama, but I need you to come here.” She patted the cot, and when Rosita inched toward it, the doctor hoisted her up beside Kat.

“Miss Sinclair, I have to get about my business. More and more patients are pouring in.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.”

“The sisters left you a cotton frock to change into.” He glanced at a hook behind the cot where a housedress hung beside Kat’s cape. “When you feel up to it, you can go home.”

Home
. That was Maine.

But even as the thought blew across her mind like a wayward wind, she knew Maine was no longer her home. She wasn’t sure where home was now.

“Come back in a week to get your stitches out,” Dr. Hanson said. “Sooner if you have any redness or swelling.”

He was already on the other side of the curtain when she mumbled, “I will.” Kat had no idea how she would manage to find someone to care for Rosita on top of finding Judson Archer for her sister and finding a means to support herself. And dealing with Patrick Maloney was another matter entirely.

Moments later, Kat had told Rosita they weren’t going to find her mama, that her mother had died. The little girl sat in the middle of the cot, facing her.

“Mama gets better. Doc makes her better.”

Kat folded her hands over Rosita’s. “Not this time.”

The child pulled her hands back, her eyes welling up. “I want Mama!”

“I’m sorry.”

The child’s bottom lip quivered as tears poured in rivulets over her cheeks, and an ache the size of Pikes Peak gripped Kat’s heart.

What was she to do now? What was either of them to do? She couldn’t leave the girl here to fend for herself. There had to be someone who could care for her. She’d start with Miss Sunny tomorrow. For now, she needed to get them both to Hattie’s for a bath and some supper. She pulled the smock off the peg.

“I’ll change my clothes, and then we’ll go to Hattie’s Boardinghouse. You can stay the night with me and my sister.”

Rosita nodded.

Once she’d changed into the smock, Kat retrieved her cape and wrapped it around Rosita. “When we get to Hattie’s, we can take baths and have something to eat.” Tomorrow she’d find Sunny and see if she knew any more about Rosita’s family.

Draped in the wool cape, Rosita shadowed Kat through the ward and into narrow hallways where men and women waited for treatment. Before she and the little one could reach the hospital door, a scream from down the hallway pierced the putrid air.

“Somebody please help me!”

No one rushed to the woman’s aid. Kat knew she had to see what
was wrong. She reached for Rosita’s hand. The child at her side, she hurried toward the pleas and wrenched open a door.

The woman on the bed, who had the roundest middle Kat had ever seen, was alone and devoid of even a single stitch of clothing. She looked like a knotted rope that had been dragged through a muddy wash, then plunked on the cot and left to unravel. Soggy red hair was plastered to her bobbing head. Kat remembered when Mother had gone into labor with Vivian, and the experience still seared her memory. She knew enough to know she wasn’t qualified to help this woman. Besides, a birthing room was no place for a child, and Rosita had been through enough today.

“I’ll go find a doctor.”

“No.” Rocking in lopsided circles, the woman motioned for Kat to come close. “You have to help me.” She arched her back and grabbed her knees.

Kat motioned Rosita toward a chair by the door and crept toward the bed.

Neither of them belonged here. She should’ve been at home in Maine playing checkers with one of her sisters in front of a warm fire, not in some wild mountain town with a naked woman on the verge of giving birth.

E
IGHT

F
ollowing the surgery on Mr. Goeke’s leg, Morgan returned to the burn ward. He craved fresh air, but he couldn’t leave the side of the man with the charred arm. Sister Coleman had been called away from the hospital, so he was tending to the last burn victim on his own. He finished treating the scorched skin and dropped his instruments into an enamel pan. After he scrubbed his hands over the sink, he pulled a sterile petroleum jelly dressing out of the container. Once he’d finished wrapping the arm, he returned to the water bowl.

“We need a doctor. Now!” The woman’s shout had come from down the hallway, and the fear in her voice zinged Morgan’s spine.

He darted out of the room and followed guttural cries to an open doorway where a small Mexican girl waved him inside. Rushing past the child, Morgan stopped at the foot of the bed where a young woman hunched over the knees of a loud, writhing patient in the midst of labor. The midwife glanced toward the girl, who now sat in a chair near the door, then at him, her eyes wide.

“I’m Dr. Cutshaw, ma’am. Is this her first baby?”

The woman in the bed kicked the air. “Only baby! And if I ever see—”

“First babies can take a day and night or more to deliver.” He shifted his attention to the midwife, who looked as if she was about to cry. “I’ll send someone to look in on you in a while.”

The patient reared up, muttering curses.

“That won’t do.” The midwife clenched his shirt sleeve, pulling him toward the woman. “See for yourself.”

Morgan opened his mouth to rebuke her, but then he saw the tiny blue foot that dangled out of the patient. The sight stole his breath.

He sighed, whispered a soul-deep prayer, and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. Ignoring the mother’s curses and screams, he reached inside her. When he felt the baby’s other foot, he grabbed and pulled until he had both legs out.

But the baby’s head remained inside his mother. He needed to get the child out.

Haunting memories surfaced and threatened to undo Morgan as he reached back inside the mother and secured one hand on the infant’s spine. He wouldn’t let another baby die.

“Why won’t the baby come out?”

Morgan fought his growing frustration with the midwife. She should have known what’s wrong.

“Breech.” And its breathing may already be cut off.

Morgan’s heart pounded. He couldn’t let this happen.

He placed his other hand on the woman’s pelvis and twisted, flipping the baby face down. Then he slipped two fingers inside the baby’s mouth and pulled. It was still stuck, and time was running out. Struggling
for a better grip, he rocked the baby back and forth and then pulled harder until the head began to emerge. The mother’s shrieks only got louder as he slowly eased the child out. He pulled the baby clear of the mother, and for a moment, the only sounds were the mother’s shuddering breaths and the midwife’s shaky announcement that it was a boy. The mother wasn’t screaming anymore. Neither was her infant son.

He wasn’t breathing. The baby had to breathe.

Lord, he has to breathe
.

Holding the baby’s feet secure, Morgan dangled the newborn and gave him a quick whack on the back. “Cry. Come on, boy, you have to cry.”

The slightest of whimpers tickled Morgan’s ears. He slapped the baby’s back again. “Come on, fella. I know you have more to say than that.”

Miniature arms flailed and legs kicked. A hearty wail followed, and then a steady tirade. The boy’s chest heaved and his body quaked. His ears pinked up. And Morgan thought his own legs would collapse beneath him. Sighs of relief filled the room, instead of the groans of sorrow that still echoed in his dreams.

Thank You, God
. He had done a new thing.

Morgan handed the baby off to the midwife, who awkwardly enfolded him in the dry towel. She handled the newborn as if he were a china vase. This could be her first midwifery, he reasoned. But had she slept through the training? Her hesitation to reach in and manipulate the infant could have endangered this mother and her son. If he hadn’t come when he had—

“What now?” The midwife glanced hither and thither, everywhere but at the newborn in her uneasy arms.

“You can lay him on his mother. Then please find a clean sheet and cover her.”

Inexperience was no excuse. Not when you had lives in your hands. After Morgan clamped the cord, he snipped it. Then he motioned the midwife away from the bed and the little girl, who now played patty-cake with the plaster wall.

“This woman and her baby could’ve died because you were too timid to take action.”

Her jaw dropped. Had the woman never been corrected? No matter. Someone needed to instruct her and then watch her in an actual birth. Someone other than him.

“I’m reporting you to Dr. Hanson. You have no mind for being a midwife.”

“And you, sir, have no mind for being a gentleman.” The young woman dashed out the door, with the little girl running to catch up with her.