Her nerves calmed with the warmth of the liquid, and she patted the bottle. Her companion and help in facing what was to come. As she passed through the kitchen, she tore a leaf off the mint plant and shoved it into her mouth to chew on. A habit she’d picked up from her grandfather.
Oh, Granddad ... how will we make it without you?
Dr. Peter Cameron pushed his horse as fast as he dared over the snow-covered road leading to the Bundrant farm.
How could one family endure so much loss and hardship? So much unexpected and unsettling change. The Bundrant family never seemed to get a break.
Especially Whitney.
Ever since he’d met the eldest Powell daughter, he’d been impressed. And just a little concerned. Unless he was misreading her, she was keeping something hidden behind those deep brown eyes of hers. As much as he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to break through the wall she kept around herself.
But she seemed to trust him. A rarity, he’d learned, for anyone but family. Because Miss Whitney Powell kept to herself.
Especially where Mr. Sinclair’s attack on her was concerned.
At least she spoke to him as her doctor. That was a good start.
He’d spent a lot of time at the Bundrant farm checking on Chuck and getting to know the family. Christmas had passed in quiet apprehension while the family seemed to hold their collective breath, awaiting the next tragedy.
Now it had arrived.
He let out a long breath and watched it float behind him in a frozen mist. If the news from the milker was correct,they’d just lost their beloved patriarch.Lord, how will they ever endurethistribulation?
As he rode up to the house, Whitney was outside the door. Without a coat, gloves, or scarf. She stood there, stiff.
Her mussed, dark-red hair hung in a mass of curls around her shoulders and down her back. Her cheeks were ruddy and tear stained. But it was the look in her eyes that threatened to undo him.
Never had he seen such anguish and anger in one person.
“He’s gone, Dr. Cameron.”
Her clipped words and clenched jaw struck him to the core. How he longed to comfort her, to reach out and hold her close, but he knew better. After all these months, all the trauma, all the struggle, she would withdraw again. Of that, he was certain.
Would she be able to get past this and heal?
“I’m so sorry, Miss Powell.”
She sniffed. “Thank you for coming. I’ll take you to him.”
As she led him through the familiar home and down the hallway to Chuck Bundrant’s room, he caught a glimpse of the rest of the family gathered in the room with the piano. Their voices were soft, as were their sobs and sniffs.
His steps echoed on the wood floor. The hall stretched out before him. And then he saw Chuck.
“I didn’t move him––”
How was Whitney keeping her words so calm and controlled?
“––because I thought you might be able to save him at first, and I didn’t want to hurt him if he broke any bones when he fell. Then ... well I wouldn’t let anyone else touch him.” She choked on the last word, then the stoic expression was back in place.
This woman was a force to be reckoned with.
She cleared her throat. “Do you need my help to move him back to the bed?”
Peter set his black bag down and shook his head. “No. I can manage.” He’d been told that Chuck had been a robust and strong man before his bouts with apoplexy. The last year had taken a devastating toll. The man before him was thin, his skin sagging.
Peter leaned down and lifted the older man into his arms. A man who had lived a long life. Worked hard. Provided for his family. A man who had hoped to see many years to come. A man who told him just a few days ago that he was ready to put his efforts into walking again.
And yet, there was hope. Chuck had been taken from this life of suffering and gathered into the arms of his Savior.
