And it was anger that swept her past Raina and the sleigh, to the edge of the prairie, just past the barn—just past where her husband had fallen. She raised one hand, fisted in rage, at the sky. She screamed—one raging curse at the land.
Slowly, she walked back toward the sleigh, and waited patiently as Tor picked up his little brother—stiffly frozen like his father had been, but so much smaller—and, with a sudden tender look on his face, gave him up to their mother. She took her younger son into her arms and carried him—as gently as she must have when he was first born—into the house.
Tor finally looked at Raina; she steeled herself as he raised his head, but did not turn away. Whatever he would say, however he looked at her—she would take it, she would give him that relief.
He had no tears in his eyes; he was sad—oh, so sad! Grief held him in its grip, but not so tightly that he didn’t look like himself, like who he was. No longer a schoolboy; a man forever now, just as Raina was a woman. A man who had lost too much. He stared at her with such heartbreaking sadness, sharing it with her as if it were the bread of life. And she took it as solemnly as she’d taken her first communion.
Then the sadness was replaced with disgust, followed by the flickering flame of hatred; he looked away from her, dismissing her.
“Please, Tor, I’m so sorry—”
“Go, now. Leave us alone,” he said in a choked voice, his arm thrust toward her, warding her off as if she were a witch.
She nodded, unable to think of a single thing to say that could help this broken family. So she turned to go, to find the doctor, because there was still Anette—the only person left that she could help.
She knew that she’d never see Tor in her schoolroom again.
* * *
—
NOW IN THE makeshift operating room, Doc was bandaging Anette’s stitched-up stump, warning the women of the days to come.
“She’ll feel as if she still has her hand, at first. It’s a phantom pain. It will itch and burn. She may get a fever; these things can’t be predicted. She might yet die, of course, if the infection’s too far gone. We can’t tell if it is or isn’t, there’s nothing more I can do for her. Watch her. If she seems to do better quickly, that’s often a sign that, in fact, it’s worse than we thought, and there will be a relapse. That’s the danger time.”
“How will she—how will she get about, without the hand?” Anna asked in a choked whisper.
“She’ll learn. People do. She’s younger than most who go through this—although I’ve never had to amputate so many children’s limbs as I have these last couple of days.” The poor man, for a moment, let his mask of professionalism drop, and his face was scored with defeat and grief. “But children learn new things rapidly. They have wooden hands now, too; and maybe someday, she can afford one. But they’re just for show, not functional.”
“But to get a man—not whole like this—I don’t see how?” Anna shook her head. “Who would want a woman not whole?”
“You’d be surprised,” Doc said matter-of-factly, packing up his instruments of torture and placing them inside his worn leather satchel. “We’re not in a big city, she’s a child of this place, and there are more incomplete people on the prairie than anywhere I’ve ever seen. This place, it devours people, spits them out missing things like hands and feet. There’ll be a lot like her from now on, I’m afraid. This storm—” But he shook his head and chose not to finish his thought.
“Rosa—what happened with her?” Raina asked as she walked him out of the stifling bedroom. Doc Eriksen looked too exhausted to stand; she offered him some coffee but he declined.
“I think she’ll recover all right—she won’t lose her feet, just some toes. She’s one of the lucky ones.”