Sage Page 3
“Keep it. I have plenty,” he said as he smiled down at her, his eyes crinkling.
“You know the doctor is very busy, Papa. That’s why I help him. He can’t be everywhere he’s needed all at once,” she said as she looked up at her father and smiled, tucking the handkerchief into her sleeve.
Her father lifted his hat and ran his hand through his black hair, the tinges of gray at his temples glinting in the early morning sun.
“I do realize that, my dear, but to ask you to stay up all night—well, you’re not a doctor. Nor are you family.”
She stiffened and squared her shoulders. “I realize that, Papa, but I am able to give comfort, and Mr. Jackson has done the same himself for many Tombstone families.” She paused a moment, her eyes drifting toward the doctor’s office down the boardwalk. “I’ve learned quite a bit working with the doctor. And he lets me deliver babies, as you well know,” she said as she nodded. Fortunately for Sadie, she did know how to deliver babies, or her husband Tripp would have had to help as the doctor was on an emergency call. “Besides, Dr. Folsom sometimes allows me to administer tonics. I am perfectly capable of that, don’t you think?”
“Allows?” her father asked quietly. He’d brought up this point before, and every time, she’d told him that in the beginning, Dr. Folsom had asked her to show him her tonics and she had. But he, in his brilliance, knew better.
He offered his arm to her, and patted her hand as she looped her arm through his. They turned and her father gently guided her down the boardwalk.
“You are more than capable, Sage. More than capable. I just worry about the strain on you. You look very tired.”
She rubbed her forehead with her gloved hand, the leather cooling her skin. She certainly didn’t feel very capable.
He was right. She was tired, and if she was to be of any help to the doctor, she’d best get some rest. She looked back over her shoulder toward the mercantile as the scent of coffee faded in the distance and she headed for home.
Chapter 5
Clint took a deep breath as Mrs. Baxter pulled her arms from around his neck and stood back to look at him. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and his heart warmed at the sight of her. She’d been very good to him and his father since his mother died. Like a mother. As he searched her pale face, he frowned at the sight of worry lines in her face—they hadn’t been there when he’d last seen her.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he reached for her hand.
She held her handkerchief to her mouth and turned to look at the door she’d just exited. Her sorrowful eyes turned back to him and she dabbed at a tear as it succeeded in spilling from her eye.
“My own circumstances are the least of my concerns. I’m fine. But I can’t say the same for your dear father. I’m so pleased that you’ve arrived. Your father will be ecstatic. What a blessing that you’ve arrived in time...”
In time. Clint had busied himself with studying the large medical tomes he’d tucked in his trunk during the long train and stagecoach trek across the country. He’d been immersed enough that he’d been able to push the thought of his father’s illness and all that that meant from his mind. Now, however, that was impossible and he ached for this kind woman as well as for his father.
He reached out and placed his hand on her cheek, and she closed her eyes as she gave up her battle against the tears that now fell freely.
“What can I do to help?” he asked quietly as she dabbed at her cheeks.
Mrs. Baxter forced a smile and glanced again at the door. “I don’t believe there’s anything to do but be with him. The doctor has been delivering tonics but they haven’t seemed to help. He sleeps a great deal, but is sometimes lucid when he’s awake. He will be overjoyed to see you.”
Clint took off his hat and overcoat, and hung them on the hook by the door. He tugged at his vest and squared his shoulders as he turned to the door.
“Would you like me to be with you?” Mrs. Baxter asked softly as she placed her hand on Clint’s elbow.
He smiled at her fondly. They’d spent many hours together comforting other people who’d lost loved ones or were in the process of losing them and they had frequently buoyed each other when the grief overwhelmed them. Now, he was comforted by her willingness but he wanted to see his father alone. Just the two of them.
“Thank you, Mrs. Baxter, but I’d like to see him alone first, if that’s all right. I’d like to talk to you afterward, however, about the nature of his illness and his ultimate prognosis.”
She shook her head. “He’s not long for this world, son. He knows it, too, and tries to talk about funeral arrangements as he’s done his whole life with other people. I just can’t do it,” she said as she turned from the door. “Go on in, and I’ll bring tea after a bit,” she said, and she left him alone in the dark hallway outside the door of his dying father.
His mind traveled swiftly over all the times he’d entered rooms like these, mostly with his father, to comfort the dying. He hoped that the example of compassion, concern and kindness that his father had been for him wouldn’t desert him when he needed it and that his father would receive the comfort that he’d given to so many.
Clint tugged at his collar and closed his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath and he pressed on the door latch, anxious to see his father but steeling himself against what he might find.
He looked around the small room as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the heavy drapes drawn against the bright morning sunlight. The scent of roses permeated the room, and even in the filtered light, he spotted several vases of them—red ones, white ones and even yellow ones—around the room. All he’d seen on the stagecoach ride from Tucson were cacti and the occasional desert scrub tree, but he’d always known his father to find flowers somewhere, even in New York in the winter. He’d always said that flowers brought joy, especially to those grieving.
A small figure that Clint barely recognized lay still in the bed in the center of the room, a down comforter drawn practically up to his nose. Surely it hadn’t been that long since he’d seen his father, but the man in the bed bore little resemblance to the vibrant, robust man he’d last seen in New York. Regret flooded him that he hadn’t realized until this very moment that the fleeting nature of life that he had certainly been exposed to through his father’s vocation would impact him so greatly—and suddenly. He should have come sooner.
His father rustled under the bedcovers and Clint crossed the room, settling himself gently on the side of the bed. He reached for his father’s hand, his eyes settling on the bony fingers that were almost unrecognizable to him.
“Father?” he asked softly as he leaned forward, tucking the comforter around his father snugly.
Mr. Jackson’s eyes fluttered for a moment and he stared directly up at the ceiling as he took in a deep breath.
“Son? Is that you, Clint?” his father asked as his eyes searched in the near darkness.
“Yes, Father, it’s me. I’m here,” Clint said as he brushed his father’s white hair back from his eyes. He frowned at the heat radiating from Mr. Jackson’s forehead and his eyes were drawn to the brown bottle of tonic on the bedside table. He’d need to ask Mrs. Baxter what medication his father was taking. Maybe he even needed some now.
“And Miss Archer? Is she here as well?” his father asked as his eyes fell closed again.
“No, Father, she left. I imagine she could use some sleep,” he said as he searched the room for a pitcher and a glass, hoping to offer him some water.
He thought of the charming young lady he’d met on his way in—yes, Archer was her name—whom he’d startled in the parlor. Her sparkling blue eyes had been quite striking, her sense of compassion evident, and he wasn’t at all surprised that his father enjoyed her company. She’d radiated kindness, much like his father, and he gave a nod of gratitude that she’d generously offered her time and care to his father in his absence.
As he poured a glass of water, Clint said, “She
seemed quite kind, and I’m pleased that Mrs. Baxter has some assistance in caring for you.”
His father pulled himself up on his elbows and reached for the water Clint held toward him. “She is quite kind. Exceptional, really. I have enjoyed getting to know her and am, of course, quite grateful that she’s been here.”
He leaned forward and took a sip from the glass, sputtering and coughing as he held the water out to Clint. His coughing spell lasted for longer than Clint would have liked it to, and he was just becoming uncomfortable when Mrs. Baxter bustled into the room.
“Now, sir, take it easy,” she said. “What are you doing sitting up?” She looked at Clint with wide eyes as she reached down to fluff the pillow behind Mr. Jackson. “Been a long time since I’ve seen this,” she said under her breath to Clint as she moved to the drapes, drawing them open slightly. The sunlight spilled in and Mr. Jackson squinted for a moment before turning toward his son.
A soft rap sounded on the door, and a lovely, older woman leaned in, her eyebrows raised. “Mrs. Baxter, is this a good time for me to look in on Mr. Jackson?” she asked, her eyes flickering from Mr. Jackson to Clint. “I don’t want to interrupt if it isn’t.”
Mr. Jackson’s eyes lit up as he turned toward the visitor. “Mrs. Allen, how lovely to see you,” he said as he leaned back against the mahogany headboard. “Kind of you to come.”
“Do come in, Mrs. Allen. I’ll fetch tea,” Mrs. Baxter said after a long look at her patient, appearing to decide that the company might do him some good.
“Thank you, Vera,” Mr. Jackson said as he gestured to the chair in the corner. “Please, sit down, Mrs. Allen.”
She crossed the room, stopping in front of Clint. She was quite elegant, Clint thought, and looked as if she belonged in New York. In fact, she looked vaguely familiar. Her black hair was artfully piled on top of her head, several gray streaks rising up directly from her forehead, which—rather than making her look older—looked worldly. Her piercing eyes twinkled, and he liked her instantly. She extended her hand and said, “Miss Archer informed me that Mr. Jackson’s son had arrived. Would you be he?”
He took her hand and bowed slightly. “Yes, I am Clint Jackson,” he said as she nodded at him. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, Mr. Jackson. It’s such a blessing you’ve arrived. Your father speaks of you quite often. A doctor, is it?”
Clint shook his head. “No, a medical student, ma’am. Not a doctor quite yet.”
She stepped aside as Clint drew the chair closer to his father, settling it beside the bedside table. “Well, I imagine it’s only a matter of time, then, before you’re a doctor in your own right,” she said as she pulled off her white leather gloves, setting her reticule on the small table.
“May I take your coat?” he asked.
“Thank you, no. I won’t be but a moment.” Turning to Mr. Jackson, she smiled and rested her hand on his. “It’s encouraging to see you sitting up, Mr. Jackson.”
The elder Mr. Jackson managed a weak smile and turned his kind eyes to his son. “It’s a special day, Mrs. Allen. Special, indeed. Least I could do,” he said before he fell into coughing. When he caught his breath, he spoke slowly. “Now Clint is here, I’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Mrs. Allen’s eyes clouded as Clint stood and offered his father more water. After the coughing subsided, he stepped back toward the window and sighed.
Mrs. Allen cleared her throat as the room fell silent. “I wanted to tell your father about the arrangements for the library fundraiser this evening.” Turning to Clint’s father, she said, “We were hoping you could attend, Mr. Jackson, but I dare say you should remain abed and save your strength.”
Clint clasped his hands behind his back as she took his father’s hand and they chatted for a few moments about the fundraiser. Apparently, his father had been a patron, making several large donations to the charity to help start it the prior year, along with volunteering his time to organize the books. His eyes lit as they spoke, and he seemed to come to life as Mrs. Allen filled him in on the arrangement, from the warm apple cider they’d been preparing to the entertainment and the high hopes they held for donations.
Clint stood quickly as his father began to cough again after Mrs. Allen had caused him to laugh, and he reached for the water pitcher to fill his glass once more. Mrs. Baxter hurried in, a spoon in hand.
“It’s time for your tonic, Mr. Jackson,” she said as she reached for the brown bottle on the bedside table.
“And what exactly is his tonic, Mrs. Baxter?” Clint asked as she opened the bottle, poured a large spoonful and offered it to his father.
“I don’t exactly know,” she said, and she clucked until Mr. Jackson had taken all of it and leaned back against the headboard, his eyes closing.
Clint frowned. “Father, do you know what it is?” he asked, but his father’s head had immediately fallen back on the pillow after Mrs. Baxter’s administration of the tonic, and soft snores rumbled from him already.
Mrs. Allen stood, squinting at the unmarked bottle of tonic as Mrs. Baxter set it on the nightstand. She pulled on her gloves as she whispered goodbye to Mr. Jackson. Clint followed her out of the room and closed the door as quietly as he could.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Allen. He’s clearly fond of you and enjoyed hearing about the library,” he said as he escorted Mrs. Allen through the parlor.
“Oh, it was certainly a pleasure. He is a dear friend, and he will be sorely missed this evening. I dearly wish there was something I could do to help. I’m afraid I’m not exactly certain what is wrong with him.”
Clint realized that in none of the letters he’d received was there a clear diagnosis of what was wrong with his father. “I suppose I’d better check with the doctor. Find out what I can, and what tonic he’s taking.”
Mrs. Allen glanced back down the hallway. “I’d be curious to know, as well,” she said, her eyes flashing. She turned back toward Clint, her eyebrows raised. “You wouldn’t perhaps be available to join us this evening at the fundraiser, would you? Your father is such an enthusiastic volunteer, and we were so hoping he could attend and enjoy the festivities. The Tombstone Library was a major feat, in no small part thanks to your father’s efforts. I realize you’ve just arrived, but would you consider it, at least? That is, of course, if you’re not needed at that particular moment here. I wouldn’t want to take you away if that were the case.”
Clint ran his hand through his hair and looked back down the hallway as well. “I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. Allen. I’ll speak with Father and if he’d like me to attend, I’d certainly do so.”
“Marvelous,” Mrs. Allen exclaimed. Her pearl earrings danced as she nodded. “It was quite a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jackson. Your father is remarkable, and I’ve a sense that you may have taken after him.”
“Thank you.” He closed the door behind her. Leaning against it, he turned around and glanced about the parlor. His eyes lit on the curtains Miss Archer had fallen through when he’d startled her. He’d been jovial then, but after seeing his father, he wasn’t quite sure when—or if—he’d quite feel like laughing again.
Chapter 6
The rumble of wagons and the forlorn whistle of the mine filtered through the small bedroom Clint had taken in the back of his father’s home. They hadn’t disrupted the deep slumber he’d fallen into—Lord knew New York could be much noisier—and he pulled back the lace curtains to see the bustle of Tombstone’s main thoroughfare.
When his father had left New York to start anew in the small but rapidly growing frontier town, he’d described it as a new adventure, one he’d been longing for after a lifetime in the crowded city. In their discussions, Clint had pictured the town as small, quiet and serene. He glanced up and down the boardwalk through the window—Tombstone was anything but quiet and serene, it appeared.
His father had also been intent on retiring from his chosen profession. Clint remembered the
ir final goodbye fondly.
“Father, please take this time to rest and relax. You’ve worked your entire life, helped many, many people. It’s time for you to enjoy yourself.”
His father’s parting words, after a firm embrace, had been, “I will, son. You tend to your studies and don’t worry about me. I’m finished with undertaking, and plan to bask in the Arizona sunshine. The dry air will do me good.”
Clint shook his head and laughed as he spied the sign over the front door of his father’s home—and business. He should have known that his father’s gift of helping people through their grief would not be dimmed.
Mrs. Baxter’s soft voice took his attention from the wash basin he’d just used to rinse his face.
“Hot water for you to shave, sir. Thought you might want it in case you’ve decided to attend the fundraiser,” she said through the door.
Ah, the fundraiser. He’d forgotten all about it. Surely he didn’t need to attend. He’d barely had the opportunity to speak with his father before he’d fallen asleep and he wanted dearly to be with him, speak with him, give him comfort—even though he knew it may be the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life.
“Thank you, Mrs. Baxter,” he said as he opened the door and took the proffered pitcher. “Does my father wish that I attend?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m about to take him his supper. Would you like to take it in? You can ask him yourself.”
Clint set the porcelain pitcher on the marble vanity and buttoned his satin vest. “Yes, thank you, I’ll do that.”
He pulled his pocket watch from his vest. He also hadn’t expected the customs to be so different in Tombstone and he shrugged. With the longer days and more daylight, he supposed it wasn’t that odd to be holding a fundraiser this late in the evening, or for his father to dine so late.
He followed Mrs. Baxter into the kitchen and she directed him to a tray on the kitchen counter. The porridge didn’t look very appetizing to him, and he glanced up at Mrs. Baxter.