Since when did Havyn boss them all around? Bossheraround?
The shooting pain in her temples chose that moment to start up again, so she just closed her eyes and nodded.
Everyone left in an awkward silence. She’d hurt them, but she couldn’t seem to figure out her own feelings—much less her outburst. Headaches and bitterness toward Dad and Godtormented her.Nothingwas right anymore. It was almost as if she didn’t know her own family anymore. Didn’t know who she had become.
Dressing for bed, she couldn’t take her eyes off where she’d hidden the whiskey. A little before bed should take the edge off the pain. Then tomorrow, she’d talk to Peter about it. Surely he had another remedy for her headaches and anxiety.
Yes. She would do that. Then she wouldn’t need the strong drink anymore.
But ...
What if Peter couldn’t do anything else? What if she became an invalid and a burden on her family?
The pain overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes and counted to ten. No. She was fine. She had a handle on things.
Climbing into bed, she pulled the whiskey with her. Too tired to refill the small tonic bottle, she just drank out of the larger one. Just until the headache settled down. She took a small sip and tucked the bottle next to her. Just in case.
Relaxing against the pillows, she reached for it again and this time took a long drag on the mouth of the bottle.
The liquid warmed her.
In the morning, she could apologize.
The room smelled of antiseptic. A smell Peter was used to, but at the moment, it turned his stomach.
Then he saw her.
Charlotte.
Her hair drenched from sweat, her face bright red. No matter what he did, he couldn’t stop the flow of blood. And his wife was suffering because of it.
“I can’t, Peter ... I can’t.” She fell back against the pillows and breathed heavily.
“Yes, you can. I’m here with you. It shouldn’t be that much longer. Hold on, Charlotte. Stay with me. Please.”
What good was his medical training? He had no idea what to do. And Dr. Willis—his mentor and teacher—was out on another call. A young man had been gored by a bull. Peter sent word, but so far, the good doctor hadn’t come.
His wife and child were dying, and he couldn’t stop it!
The scenery changed, and he was outside. The humid summer of Kansas threatened rain. The scent of damp, freshly turned earth filled his nose.
He stood beside the grave. A simple pine box held his wife. And his son.
“There was nothing any of us could have done, my boy. Not a thing. Your wife simply couldn’t carry a child.” Dr. Willis had a hand on his shoulder.
The man reassured him over and over again that nothing could have prevented the disaster that took his whole world. They hadn’t known that his wife had a malformed uterus, or that the baby hadn’t developed correctly. Then the placenta had ruptured.
All Peter knew was that he hadn’t been able to save them. Neither one of them.
He’d failed. Plain and simple.
The scenery changed again. Whitney was there, walking a narrow ledge, a bottle in her hand. Her expression was so sad.
“Whitney!” He rushed toward her. “Don’t move. You’ll fall!”
And then she was gone over the side.
Crouching at the edge, he watched her fall until she disappeared into the blackness––
