“I’m coming too.” Gil’s words made her freeze, and she turned back to check Father’s expression. He wouldn’t want Gil in the bunk room with the other miners.
But Father waved a dismissive hand. "Jedidiah's there." Father spoke around a mouthful of bread.
She eased out a breath. Not that seeing that weasel made her feel better, but at least Gil would be by her side for this.
She grabbed her shawl from a hook and snatched up a lantern.
After shrugging on his coat, Gil took one of the extra unlit lamps, and she led the way to the tunnel. At the threshold, she reached for Gil’s hand. This lantern peeled back some of the black, but she’d rather have his strength.
He gripped her solidly, and they hurried through the corridor, the glow from their lights bouncing off the rough stone walls.
Storage rooms flashed by at the edge of her vision, but she didn't spare them a glance. She had to get to Ezekiel before it was too late. By the time they reached the bunkroom, her lungs burned, and a stitch stabbed her side.
Several men were huddled around Ezekiel's bed, and her middle turned queasy.
It was true. Father was right.
But maybe he’d exaggerated.
She forced her leaden feet to carry her forward.
Sampson was one of the men gathered, and he stepped back to make room for her and Gil.
Dropping to her knees at the bedside, she met Ezekiel’s wonderful, familiar gaze. But his eyes held no shine. She took in his ashen face, his papery skin, and the way his chest hardlyseemed to rise, though the rasp of his breathing sounded loud in the quiet room.
Tears stung, but she held them back. “What’s wrong, Ezekiel?” She touched his shoulder, the one she’d rubbed liniment on just hours ago. “What’s happened?”
His mouth curved, though it seemed an effort. “Don’t you worry…Miss Jess.” He stopped to catch his breath between the words. “My lungs are…jest tryin’ to get…the better…o’ me.”
She rested her hand atop his. “Don’t speak. Let’s get some licorice tea in you, and you’ll feel better, like always.” But he’d never been this sick before. Surely, he’d need more than licorice tea.
At least he wasn’t coughing.
She turned to one of the men on the opposite side of the bed and pointed to her satchel of medicines she kept hanging on the wall in the corner. “Could you bring that to me please?”
A fierce cough erupted from Ezekiel.
She startled at the sound, turning back to him.
That first hack turned into a fit, each cough surging from deep inside him, wet and thick. His body didn’t stop to let him breathe, and panic clamped her insides. Were these to be his final moments?
She scooted behind him and forced her arms under his shoulders. “Help me. Someone.”
Gil was already on the other side of the bed, lifting the older man, bearing the brunt of his weight. When they had Ezekiel to a sitting position, she managed to say, “That’s enough. Hold him here.”
The way Ezekiel’s shoulders lurched with every deep bark, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself upright.Please, God, don’t take him now. Make them stop.
At last, the coughing subsided, and Ezekiel sucked in tiny, ragged breaths. Her own heart finally resumed beating, yetwatching him suffer with each intake made the tears press hard again.
"We need more pillows." Her voice shook. "To prop him up."
Men scrambled to gather bedding, and soon they had Ezekiel resting in a more upright position.
Gil stayed on the other side, keeping the patient from sliding back down. Ready for anything.
This bunk room was always quiet, the men usually too weary from the hard work to be raucous. But now, a suffocating pall hung over them all, no one moving or speaking except when she asked for help.
She took her satchel from the man who'd retrieved it, not even looking to see who it was, and rummaged through the contents. Where was the pouch of licorice? There. “I need a kettle of hot water." She opened the drawstring and pulled out the thimble she used to measure it. “Put a full scoop of this in the pot.” She thrust it toward the nearest man.
