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  “No, I’ll do it myself.”

  Willy’s cries, loud and clear in the still, sultry air, sped her feet toward the saloon that dominated the west side of Main Street.

  The Castle stood by itself, a long, two-story building with an extra story added to the false front that had been built to resemble the owner’s idea of a medieval castle. Julie lifted her skirt delicately as she climbed the four wooden steps to the porch that ran the length of the front of the building. She wiped her palms on her apron and took a deep breath, then pushed one side of the swinging door open and walked into the Castle.

  The sudden gloom left her lost and disoriented, but she was instantly aware that the noise of men’s voices and women’s laughter had suddenly ceased. A bottle clinked on the rim of a glass, and there was a soft thud as the bottle was set down, but only a deathly silence followed.

  “I…I’m looking for Mr. Morgan,” she asked softly, her fear of her father’s wrath overcoming all others. “I was informed he might be found here.”

  Someone laughed, a woman perhaps, then a masculine voice called from some dark corner of this cavern, “Hey, Del, ya got a young lady lookin’ fer ya. Are ya here, or should I tell her yer gone?”

  Laughter broke out everywhere, and Julie felt as though a thousand voices raised in ridicule. Her stomach turned over at least twice, but the thought of Wilhelm’s fury if anything happened to his son kept her feet rooted to her spot just inside the door. At least Morgan was here; she wouldn’t have to repeat her humiliating plea elsewhere. As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, she scanned the room for the source of that laughter.

  “Yeah, I’m here,” a figure slumped at a table in a far corner growled. He reached for the bottle in front of him and took a hearty swig before asking, “Who wants me and why?”

  Aware of the eyes that watched her, Julie approached with all the confidence she could muster. Even this drunk, Morgan couldn’t be worse than Opper was sober.

  “I need you, Mr. Morgan,” she stated plainly. “My brother’s been hurt.”

  “Oh, it’s your brother now. Last week your mother falls down the stairs and this week your brother has…?” He tipped the bottle up again and didn’t look at anything else while he waited for her to finish his question for him and answer it.

  “He’s caught a fishhook in his forehead and the cut needs stitches.”

  “Don’t you know how to thread a needle?” Morgan asked her sarcastically after he had set the bottle down. “Or can’t you find old Horace again?”

  The man was stinking drunk, and even if he had been sober, she couldn’t tell him the truth in front of all these other people. Not the whole truth.

  “Yes, I found Dr. Opper. He is…well, he is unable to perform the job satisfactorily.”

  Morgan laughed.

  “And you think I can?”

  He wasn’t quite drunk enough to ignore the girl; he wished desperately that he were. He didn’t like the feeling her stare stirred in his guts. Maybe if he had been more drunk, he could have spit some filthy excuses at her and gone back to his bottle, but the obscenities stuck in his throat. And the girl kept staring at him.

  She swallowed and rehearsed her plea once more. Then she let the words out, one at a time in rapid succession.

  “He is a little boy in a great deal of pain and he is very frightened. I would appreciate any help you can give me.”

  She could hear her father’s words if he had witnessed that pleading tone. Hollstroms do not beg, he would have scolded her. A Hollstrom should order others to do his bidding, not the other way around. But Julie had far more experience following orders than giving them, and now she hardly knew how to act. All she knew was that she had to have Del Morgan’s assistance.

  The queasy feeling in his stomach had little to do with the half bottle or so of whisky he had swallowed since nine o’clock. He was used to the humiliation, the laughs when he stumbled, the snickers behind his back when he dragged himself home or collapsed halfway there. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face Horace Opper again. Besides, he had turned tail last week, had slunk away like a whipped cur and let the old quack take care of the woman. He’d need a lot more courage than what was left in his bottle to stand up to the old fart again.

  But last week the patient had been an adult. A child was different. Could he put a young life in the old man’s hands? And the girl, so trusting, so pleading, and so obviously frightened. Of what? Morgan asked himself. Of me? Of the charming, civilized patrons of this elegant establishment? Or of something else?

  He was also aware of the silence that had come over the Castle. There was an unfamiliar expectancy where before there had been laughter.

  “All right. I’ll take a look.”

  Sheer willpower got him to his feet in a single more or less steady lurch, and he sidled around the table toward the girl without that last swallow of whisky.

  *

  Willy’s screams had brought several of the neighbors to their porches, and three more boys had joined Clancy and Donnie on the Hollstroms’ steps. They all watched silently as Julie and Del Morgan strode past them and into the house.

  The needle had so far not touched Willy’s cut. Wilhelm Hollstrom knelt awkwardly on the sofa, his square strong hands clamped on either side of Willy’s head, while Horace Opper lay sprawled on Willy’s chest. But even that brute strength wasn’t enough to halt the boy’s thrashings. Opper still had not removed the fishhook. The gash was slightly longer now, and the trickly flow of blood continued. There were spatters of it on the wall above the sofa back, on Wilhelm’s shirt and face, and even on the faded floral carpet.

  “He’s going to die, Julie,” Katharine wailed from her chair by the window. “My baby’s going to die! Julie, Julie, do something so Willy doesn’t die!”

  Standing next to Morgan in the doorway, Julie looked up at him and whispered almost sarcastically, “You had best see that Willy doesn’t die.” Then, realizing she had let her irritation and impatience show when she most wanted not to, she added in a calmer tone, “I’ll take care of my mother; you do the mending.”

  He made no move to do anything at all. The sight of the boy stunned him, froze him where he stood. He had to choke down the nausea raised by the blood and the child’s frightened face.

  The boy must be eight or nine, though he was small for his age. Built like his mother, Morgan decided, and he’ll end up on the paunchy side like her, too. His hair was somewhere between her brown and the father’s dull blond, his eyes a bright blue. But the delicate, almost feminine features and the slightly pouting mouth were inherited from the female side; there was nothing soft at all about his father’s. And the boy was indeed terrified.

  “God help me,” Morgan prayed under his breath as he took the first faltering step into the parlor.

  “Get the hell out of here, Morgan,” Opper ordered, threatening the younger man with the black-threaded needle. “We’re busy.”

  “I can see that. Busy, but you haven’t accomplished much.”

  Opper looked up, and Willy took the opportunity to plant a solid kick in the old man’s side. Horace grunted, then slapped the boy hard in the face. Blood sprayed freely, and Willy let out a furious shriek of pain and anger.

  Morgan’s hand was a bit unsteady, but his grip held like a bear trap on Opper’s flabby upper arm. With the gentleness that only comes from strength, he pulled the wheezing physician off the boy and shoved him out of the way.

  “What do you think you are doing?” Wilhelm sputtered. “Who are you? My son’s life is at stake; he needs the doctor.”

  “His life is hardly endangered by a fishhook, unless he’s a trout, but I don’t think his rib cage will sustain the weight of this over-stuffed flounder much longer.”

  Julie had never heard such a commingling of emotions in so few words. Morgan was angry, that was clear, but he seemed almost to be fighting back tears, and there was more than a trace of the black, bitter hatred Julie knew could only be turned to
wards oneself. She had felt it often enough. And yet he could still turn up a wry smile at the cleverness of his own metaphors as he knelt by the sofa and placed gentle, trembling fingers on Willy’s forehead.

  “It’s going to be all right, son,” he crooned. “Miss Hollstrom, would you get me some wet cloths so I can clean up this mess, and then we’ll see just how much sewing we need to do.”

  Willy stiffened, but he didn’t fight. Even Wilhelm seemed subdued by the drunkard’s speech. With quiet reigning once again in the parlor, Julie scampered to the kitchen to refill the basin with warm water and bring fresh towels.

  When Julie walked back into the parlor, Morgan was saying to Wilhelm, “Take her upstairs and keep her quiet. Give her some whisky or wine to settle her down.”

  Wilhelm drew himself up and spouted, “I do not keep spirits in this house.”

  “Then go out and get some,” Morgan snapped. “I need some to clean this wound and your wife needs something to help her sleep.”

  Julie took the basin and towels to Morgan and knelt beside him, well aware of the man’s unwashed odor but more concerned about Willy, who now lay calm but pale on the sofa.

  “Here, you can wash your hands in this and I’ll get fresh for Willy,” she suggested as she set the basin on the floor between her and Morgan.

  She had thought she would simply get up and fetch another basin from the kitchen. She had no intentions of looking at Morgan, because she remembered those eyes and didn’t want them examining her, as though she were the patient. But when she got to her feet, she looked down and saw him gazing up at her with those strange green eyes.

  Horace Opper broke the trance.

  “I’ll see you in court, Morgan,” the doctor panted from where he sat on the floor, his back propped against a maroon mohair chair. His face was nearly the same color. “You can’t practice medicine, and you can’t attack a licensed physician like that and get away with it.”

  “Horace, if you ever were licensed, which I doubt, it had to have been because some official was drunker than I’ve ever been.” He reached for a dry towel after washing his hands and then turned to Wilhelm, who still stood beside Katharine’s chair. “I thought I told you to get that woman out of here. I don’t want her fainting on me or worse, getting hysterical again. I can only handle one patient at a time.” Then, to himself, “And I’m not even sure about that right now.”

  Julie heard him, but she ignored the remark and instead directed her comments to her father.

  “Mr. Morgan is right, Papa. I can help with Willy; you take Mama to her room and stay with her. I’ll send one of the boys for the whisky and some wine.”

  “You will take care of your mama, and I will see that this drunken pig leaves my house,” Wilhelm answered her. He stood between the two women, Julie standing firm, Katharine white-faced and limp on her chair. “Then Dr. Opper and I will see to Willy’s wound.”

  “No!” Willy howled. “He’ll poke me with that big needle, and I’ll die!”

  Before Julie could return to her brother’s side, a rough, callused hand touched the boy’s forehead and the wild crying stopped almost instantly.

  “No big needles, I promise,” Morgan soothed. “I can’t promise it won’t hurt, but I’ll do everything I can to make it hurt as little as possible. How about if I promise some strawberry ice cream afterwards? Or do you like chocolate better?”

  “Chocolate,” Willy replied. “Julie likes strawberry.”

  *

  It took longer than any of them anticipated, thanks in part to Wilhelm’s frequent interruptions and in another part to a fishhook that had to be cut out. That meant more bleeding and two extra stitches, none of which Willy took with much fortitude. Julie held his hand and let him give vent to all his pain, while Morgan waited patiently, his own brow as sweaty as the boy’s and his face almost as white under its unshaven tan.

  No one noticed when Horace Opper left. Wilhelm, despite repeated orders, did not leave the parlor any longer than was necessary to escort his wife to her room and pour her a glass of sherry. He stood in the archway between parlor and dining room, arms folded across his barrel chest, blue eyes trained coldly on the man and woman and boy. Julie shivered more than once when she caught that icy stare, but Morgan never turned away from his task.

  The black sutures wandered almost two inches from the inner edge of the eyebrow upward in a drunken diagonal. There’d be a scar, no doubt about it, but at least the fishhook was out, the bleeding was stopped.

  Julie began to pick up the damp, bloodied towels and cloths that littered the floor. It gave her something to do while she thanked Morgan.

  “I greatly appreciate your coming here this afternoon. I know you didn’t want to, but I’m glad you did,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, well, you’re welcome,” he stammered in a similarly quiet voice. He recalled the way he had left her last week, demanding that exorbitant fee. She probably expected him to ask three or four times that much now that he had actually done something. “Uh, I think I’d better be going, Miss Hollstrom. He’ll be all right now. The stitches might draw and itch in a few days. See if you can keep him from pulling them out for a week or so and then just let Horace remove them. I think he can handle that.”

  He couldn’t remember making a speech that long in years and quickly bit his lip to keep from blabbing even more. Besides, now that the job was done, all the quivery queerness returned to his stomach. If he was going to lose its contents, he’d rather do it at the Castle or at home, not in front of the girl who had for some strange reason trusted him.

  “I must owe you something for what you did here today,” she said. “I can’t pay you right now, but I’ll try to get you something as soon as I can.”

  Oh, God, the nausea was worse now that he was on his feet.

  “Let Willy sleep as long as he wants; it’s the best thing for him. I’ll, uh, I’ll stop by tomorrow and get him that ice cream.”

  Without another word, he turned and bolted for the door, pushing Wilhelm out of his way and slamming the door back on its hinges in his flight.

  He made it to the stairs before the first convulsion hit him. He controlled it only long enough to charge down the stairs and then lose his balance. The sunlight and the heat and the frayed ends of all his nerves combined to topple him in the dust as the bitter taste flooded upward.

  There was dust in his nostrils, and the bright red and white of flowers danced in front of his dizzy eyes. His whole body curled fetally as his stomach emptied itself on the ground. The red and white petunias turned to bloodstained petticoats in the tormented vision of his memory.

  Chapter Four

  The nightmare lingered even after he was certain he had wakened. There was light on the other side of his mattered eyelids, and he thought he smelled bacon frying. But the aroma brought back the nausea and that was part of the nightmare, so he couldn’t be truly sure of anything.

  Had he slept, or had he just been unconscious all that time? He didn’t know. Vaguely he was aware that he lay on something hard and relatively smooth, just as he vaguely remembered collapsing in the girl’s flowerbed and throwing up his liquid breakfast. He had almost reached the memory of sewing the boy’s forehead back together, an essential part of the nightmare, when his head cleared enough that he heard voices and could actually understand the words.

  “You mean he just died?” A child’s voice, it sounded like the boy’s.

  “Apparently.” The reply came from Julie. He had no trouble recognizing her voice.

  “Well, who found him? I mean, how did they find out he was dead? And where did he die?”

  “Mr. McCrory found him early this morning in the alley behind his store.”

  “How’d you find out about him?”

  There was a clattering and the tapping of an eggshell on the edge of a skillet, followed by the unmistakable sizzle.

  “Mrs. McCrory came over earlier, before you were awake, and told me. The funeral is to be this aft
ernoon.”

  “How come so soon? When Mr. Callahan died they had that big wake for him, with all the—”

  “That was in Minnesota, Willy, and here they just can’t wait that long. Besides, Mr. Callahan was Irish, and it’s a custom with the Irish to do that.”

  Morgan struggled with his eyes, tried to open them and wondered if perhaps they were held shut with coins, maybe even silver dollars from Julie Hollstrom’s apron pocket. No, he seemed able to move his limbs, though with a great deal of stiffness and plenty of pain, too, so he didn’t think he was the person scheduled for burial this afternoon.

  He rolled onto his back and discovered a small pillow. He eased it under the back of his neck and then rubbed his eyes, feeling the rough granules that stuck his lashes together finally loosen. After a few tentative flutters, he opened his eyes and struggled to focus them.

  Despite the pain it brought, the blinding morning sunlight was one of the most beautiful things Del Morgan had ever seen in all his thirty-four years. His head pounded, his eyes felt as though they were being slowly burned from their sockets, his hip and shoulder joints practically squeaked with aching stiffness, his belly growled with hunger he knew he didn’t dare satisfy right away or he’d lose whatever he ate, and his mouth tasted as if some old buzzard had dragged a piece of carrion in there and left it. Yet he was so relieved just to be alive that he smiled and then stretched with a loud yawn.

  And he realized he hadn’t felt this good about being alive for years, though he felt so lousy that he didn’t care to wonder why he felt so good.

  He was now aware that he lay to one side of the Hollstroms’ porch, and the pillow under his head was a well-worn cushion from an old wicker chair at the other side of the porch. He was indulging in another yawn and stretch and wondering where the nearest privy was when the front door opened.

  If there hadn’t been a railing to the porch, he would have tumbled into the petunias again, but he was not going to lie down while Julie Hollstrom came out with his breakfast. He clutched the turned pillar with numb fingers and prayed that the world would stop spinning quite so recklessly, but at least he was on his feet before the door had closed behind her.