I looked down at the matches with the advertisement for a tall-towered building named The Terrance Plaza Hotel somewhere up in Cincinnati, Ohio.
“Natti.” Doc was away. My heart sank, and I dropped the money into my coat pocket. Millie must’ve seen my despair because she said it softer, “Nur, nurses.” She pointed behind me. “Rider. Ah-Amara Ballard.”
“The riders. Frontier nurses,” I whispered.
“Ja. Old Tw-trace.” She snatched the matches out of my hand, slipped back inside, and slammed the door. In a second the porch went dark.
Once more I pointed Junia toward Amara Ballard’s, urging her to go fast, hoping this time the nurse would be there.
When we got there, she still wasn’t home. I sat down on the stoop and waited for over an hour, worrying she was not going to be back anytime soon, maybe not even tomorrow or the day after that. I looked up at the stars, stood, and knocked again though I knew it was useless.
Reaching into my coat pocket, I pulled out the bills and note, then found a small rock and carried it to her door, sitting the stone atop the money with Retta’s address and directions.
I dusted off my hands and said a prayer the nurse would come, another that Retta was safe.
***
I arrived back at Retta’s a little past nine, surprised to see her sitting at the table with a cup of tea, mopping her last bite of corn bread across a plate of molasses.
“Doc’s out of town, Retta, but I left a note for the frontier nurse. You feeling better?” I kissed her cheek.
“A li’l better, child. Had me a bite of dinner, then brewed some hawthorn berries.”
Retta knew a lot about herbs and remedies, more than Doc even.
She pushed back wisps of hair and patted her sloppy bun, gave me a wobbly smile that never lifted into her eyes. “Hawthorn pert me right up.”
Hawthorn. I knew the herb well. Mama’d taught me it was used for ailing hearts—failing hearts. I studied Retta, worrying.
Retta glanced at my darkening hand. “I’m pert, sure ’nough, child.”
I quickly swallowed my fright and nodded. “Let’s get you another cup of tea.”
Thirteen
I was up most of the night checking on the old woman, peeking out her curtains into the darkness, watching for the wide sweep of the nurse’s lantern.
At sunrise, Retta called my name, rousing me from my deep slumber. “Child?” She stood over my bed, one hand on the headrail. “Child, get ya some breakfast ’fore you head out to Junia.”
I raised up on my elbows and saw she had a plate waiting on the table.
Yawning, I rubbed my eyes. “Retta? Retta, you feeling better?” I quickly kicked off my covers and stood.
“I’m feeling much better this morn’， Honey. Go on, child, take yourself out for fresh air an’ a ride after you eat.”
Relief flooded over me and I hugged her carefully. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if she got worse. “I’d rather stay here today.” I went behind the hanging curtain in the corner and slipped out of my long gown and into britches and a flannel shirt.
After breakfast, I let Junia out to graze, cleaned her stall, then inspected the mule’s coat and shoes. Inside the cozy home, the quiet morning slipped into a quieter afternoon, and later, the day chased the last hours of light into shadowed, tired, soot-baked walls and cobwebbed corners. I sighed.
The nurse wasn’t coming. But Retta seemed to be feeling much better today, so I put on the kettle and made us tea.
I sat at the table mending aprons with Retta, glancing up from my stitches to make sure she was doing well. In a moment I saw she’d fallen asleep, and I reached over and gently took off her glasses, placing them in front of her.