His eyes connected with hers. A darker blue than Judas’s, there was something else different about them. Something ... deeper.
She and Peter stared at one another for several moments.
He reached forward and gripped her hand. “Thank you. Not only for bringing us out here, but for jumping in and helping. But I also want to protect you. You’ll need to keep your hands clean. Keep that scarf over your face too. I wouldn’t want you to get sick.” He squeezed her hand and let go.
As soon as his touch was gone, she missed it. Wished he would hold her hand again. She shoved the thoughts away. These men needed medical attention. “I can do that. What else?”
“You’ll have to run back and forth to the sleds to fetch supplies. Since these tents are so crowded, there’s not a lot of room for anything but the sick. Which also proveshowthe sickness has spread. But we can’t do anything about that now. Can you stay for a day or two, or do you need to get home?”
“I’ll stay with you. I’ve got a shelter I can set up for me and the dogs.”
“Thank you. I should see if they have a tent I can set up next to yours. I don’t want you to be by yourself here.”
She hadn’t thought about that. While most of the men were sick, those who weren’t could hear her voice. Know there was a woman among them. “I would appreciate that.”
He nodded at her and headed toward the next tent.
This group of men appeared to be more feverish. Lots of coughing filled the air.
“Dr. Cameron?” Dad’s voice came from behind them. “Can I help?”
“Did you not find Stan?” Whitney hoped for Ruth’s sake that the man was still alive.
“No. But the man I was told to ask is asleep. Seems to be pretty sick. He’s in the next tent.” He thumbed at the exit.
All four of the main tents at this camp were filled with sick men.
“Whitney, come quick!” Peter was holding a man upright as he coughed.
She scurried over, working her way between cots. “What can I do?”
“Give me your whiskey.” Peter held out his free hand while the man convulsed with hacking.
What? What ifsheneeded it? Her heart began to race as heat rushed to her face.
“What are you doing with whiskey?” Dad’s accusatory tone filled the tent.
“Keep your voice down.” Whitney spat the words at him.
“You do have it with you, don’t you?” Peter’s words were low and compassionate.
She gave a slight nod and reached into her pocket, but as she gripped the bottle, she couldn’t bring herself to lift it out of her pocket. What would she do without it?
Her mouth went dry.
“Whitney ... please.” The look in Peter’s eyes did her in. He knew what a sacrifice it was for her. Understood her pain. No one else did. “I promise you it will be all right.”
She pulled the bottle out and handed it to him.
He didn’t say anything, but as he took it, their fingers touched. And he left them there for a moment. Then with a nod, he turned back to the patient.
“Whitney?” Dad put a hand on her shoulder.
She jerked away and ran out of the tent.
Her legs took her to the outskirts, past her dogs, past the signs of other people. When she was out of air, she collapsed on her knees in the snow and let the tears fall. She hadn’t asked for this revelation that now stared her down. Handing over that bottle had made it real. She couldn’t deny it any longer.
She’d become dependent upon alcohol.
