Bronx shook his head and took the knife. “Not til today. Just in the legends.”
“Yes, he does have a way.” She caught a glance at Bronx. A tic in his cheek kept rhythm with his cutting. “Doc has been known to stop by from time to time.”
“For spiritual guidance?” Bronx’s mouth twisted in what she read as a grin.
“For coffee and conversation.” She wiped away a strand of hair and leaned a bit closer. The chatter of the night’s guests had increased. “And to check those who might be sick. Even though his specialty is diseases of the mouth, he has also studied anatomy and knows much about physical ailments. So I’ve learned at least a bit about disorders of the lungs. I know Mr. Dykstra needs rest and warmth, and a hospital. But this is all I can do. I’m not really a clinic. Just a...safe haven, I suppose.” She shrugged, blinked away tears. For Emmett had died here. His wish.
“It seems safe and warm.” Bronx’s gaze left the bread and rested on her face. She felt it like a touch.
“We...” She caught her racing breath, nodded to the closed door of the original cabin where Clemmons Dykstra now slept. “Emmett bought the abandoned cabin. It started out a miner’s hut, but had been improved somewhat by a pioneer family before they left it empty. It was, and I suppose is, quite rustic.”
“You a city girl? Were you discomposed?”
“No, not at all.” Not then, at least. And certainly not by a lowly cabin. She forced a laugh but her hands tightened around the towel. “It was all an adventure, a calling. Hardship was part of the deal. I wanted to be a true life partner for my husband.”
The sconces seemed to dim. In those days, the newness, the closeness between them still held promise. The cold nights in Emmett’s arms had held possibilities of romance and intimacy. But he made it clear. The lack of it, all of it, was her fault.
The hurt still managed to swamp her, so she straightened her shoulders and smiled. “Oh, Emmett had big dreams. He wanted a common a room for services in the day, then shelter for the needy at night. But for a while, he held prayers outdoors. Here. Where we’re standing now. Before this addition.” She moved her feet, restless, and the floorboards creaked. “And sometimes, on nice days, in a meadow or grove of trees.” She swallowed. Memories burned. “But donations came slow. All we—he managed, at first, was framing covered with canvas.”
For something to do, for something to stop the memories, she grabbed a bowl and wiped it with a vigor its cleanliness didn’t need. “And now I do what I can do for whoever I can do it for.”
“For a woman alone, I think you do a fine job.” Bronx’s gentle words landed on her like a feather drifting from a pillow.
She bristled anyway. Would Emmett think so? He had often deemed her weak and delicate. Ah, would that he could see her now. “I’m likely handier than you think,” she told Bronx, but meant to tell her husband.
“I see that.”
For an odd moment, hope and the old love swam through her head, her heart. Heat from the stove brushed her cheeks, but maybe it was Bronx’s elegant movements just cutting bread. Emmett...
“Emmett and I started out with framework and canvas walls. Pride is a deadly sin, I know, but I can’t help feel a bit of it when I look around.” Regret mixed with the pride. “After he passed, helpful friends enclosed the framing with clapboard and tarpaper left over from construction sites.” By then, the canvas walls had gone ripped and filthy.
But she didn’t mention that.
“He must have been a clever, hardworking man.” Bronx nodded as he peered around the board and batten walls.
She chuckled so she didn’t smirk. “Oh, he had much help. He was quite bookish by nature.” No one ever discussed the war wound. She flushed anew.
“You must miss him.”
“Yes.” And she did. But only because a third winter all alone would be hard.
The teakettle began to whistle, so she brought herself into the present. While Bronx held a big bowl, she poured the water and added a half-dozen drops of eucalyptus oil, then laid a plate down to hold in the steam of the fragrant brew. “Let’s go.”
After nestling the bowl on Mr. Dykstra’s lap, Bronx held him, sitting. Lila hung a towel over his head. For a few moments, his chest heaved with guttural breaths, outshining the wind outside. Finally, Lila pulled off the towel and Bronx lifted the bowl.
“You must be feeling perkier now, Mr. Dykstra.” She wiped his hot face.