Prologue
Colorado Springs, 1891
“Is there nothing more that can be done?” Ruth pleaded as Dr. Thompson clipped his weathered brown surgical leather bag shut. “There must be something.”
“I am sorry, Ruth.” Dr. Thompson told at her gently. “We can only pray he survives the night. The rest is in the Lord’s hands.”
Ruth wiped tears from her eyes and turned toward her father lying helplessly in bed. She could not bear listening to his labored breathing anymoree, and willow bark tea no longer helped to reduce the fever. For days she had tried to get him to eat and drink, but he was too weak.
Dr. Thompson placed his black top hat firmly on his head, covering the gray hair that had thinned out over the years. He was a kind man who sometimes helped out at her father’s clinic and had become like an uncle to Ruth.
“All you can do is to try to keep him comfortable,” he said with a sympathetic smile, “It breaks my heart, Ruth, to see my dear friend like this. I will come by early tomorrow morning.” He tried to hide his melancholy, but nothing escaped Ruth. She saw the sadness in his eyes and knew the time she feared most had come; she was not ready to face the truth. She believed if she prayed hard enough, her father would be healed.
“Thank you,” Ruth said, “I know you have done all you can, and I shall pray hard.”
After bidding Dr. Thompson farewell, Ruth made her way back to her father’s bedside, a beautifully hand-crafted cherrywood four-poster bed with intricate carvings. The green and red tapestry drapes had been pushed back, and cushions were placed comfortably beneath her father’s head.
She found him shivering, but she could not put any more blankets over him. The floorboards creaked gently as she rinsed a cloth in cool water and placed it over his brow. Beads of sweat had gathered over his mustachioed lip as well and she dabbed it dry.
His strong masculine features and once rosy smiling cheeks were now thin and pallid, and his skin had a bluish tint. She missed his warm smile that brought her comfort during her darkest days. She sat down on the walnut armchair next to his bed, smoothing the bedclothes.
Oh, Lord Jesus, why?Ruth closed her eyes, repeating the question she’d asked at least a hundred times since her father fell ill. Of all people, why her father? But even one of the greatest physicians she knew of, Dr. Francis McKinley, who tirelessly helped patients fight consumption, was now suffering from the same dreaded disease as her father, Dr. Spencer McKinley.Diphtheria is just not fair, Lord,Ruth argued, eyes closed, and tasting salt as tears slipped down her cheeks.
Her beloved father, mentor, and best friend; she could not lose him, she just could not. What would she do without him? Her mother died when she was a baby. There was no one else, and she felt so alone.
As she leaned forward to rest her head on the side of the bed, she felt her father move and he began to cough, heaving with the effort. She immediately stood and moved the cushions, lifting him gently to a more upright position.
“It is alright, Father,” Ruth murmured soothingly, “I am here, right beside you.” She grasped his hand and held it firmly.
Blinking against the dimly lit gas lamps, he slowly opened his eyes and glanced around the room.
“Ruth?” His usually deep gruff voice was now faint, like a whisper. He coughed again, taking heavy rapid breaths.
“No, Father, please don’t talk.” Ruth leaned closer and modeled deep slow breaths, hoping this would ease his discomfort.
“Ruth, you must listen,” he pressed, a frown sweeping over his face, his eyes watching her closely. “I can see in your eyes that you are scared. There is no reason to be scared. We all reach an end, and this is my time, my dear. But I am so very blessed, knowing that when I take my last breath, the last image I’ll take with me will be that of my beautiful daughter.”
“Father,” Ruth buried her face in her hands, “please don’t talk like that, you are going to get better. Tomorrow will be a better day…”
“Yes, Ruth,” he rasped. “Tomorrow is a new beginning for you. I want to tell you something.” He paused, gasping for air.
Ruth wondered why he was being so stubborn about recovering.
“Father, please stop talking and rest.” She felt her eyes sting as she began to realize that she would lose the person she loved and admired most in the world. Her only remaining family member who had taught her all she knew and helped her grow in her Christian path.
“Ruth, in the top drawer of my cabinet you will find a letter. I want you to get it for me.”
She didn’t want to leave his side but she retrieved it as he had asked, wondering what was so special about the letter that he wanted it now, at a time like this.
His voice came out in short gasps. “We both know I am dying my dear one, and I don’t want you living here on your own with no one to help or protect you.”
Ruth felt like she had fallen through the floor.No!“No, Father,” she protested, trying to be strong for her father. “The Lord will spare you.”
“Ruth,” her father stroked her hair and gave a weak smile. “A good friend of mine lives in Wyoming, Alexander Grant.” He paused, taking a deep breath, and continued. “He is a great doctor. I wrote to him and told him everything happening here.”
“Why did you write to him?” Ruth frowned, instinctively knowing she would not like what he was about to say.
“I want you to go to him …” He paused and began to cough heavily.
