“I know,” she said. Her dad would hate Red even more. She’d just have to make it back alive with Claire and whoever was with her. “Trust me, Red.” She held out her hand for the other vest.
He hesitated, then untied the vest and gave it to her, his jaw tight. “Be careful.”
Frannie hugged it to her chest, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold went clear up her scalp. She was really going to do this. She tried not to think about the dark water, and what was floating in it. Or if she could find Claire. Or if she could make it back.
“Frannie,” Paul said from the bank. It was too dark to see his face but she could tell by his voice he was trying to be brave for her. “Go get ’em.”
She threw him a kiss as if this was just another prank. “Abso-poso-lutely,” she said, and was glad that her voice didn’t sound as scared as she felt.
Then she plunged into the icy water and started swimming into the dark.
chapter 57:BRIDGET
Bridget had nothing left to give.
If help didn’t come soon, her patients were going to die.
She and Mrs. Greer had depleted the gauze and iodine within minutes. They used what clean water they had to cleanse wounds and bandaged them with strips of towels. Between patients, Bridget sanitized her hands with the brandy, and gave a dose of the spirit to a girl named Vicky who was nearly hysterical. Linda and Lance had scoured the camp for ice to pack around wounds, clean water, blankets, and food.
When Red had left, Bridget felt like her heart was being torn in two. What if Claire and Frannie needed her? What about Jenny?
And yet, the pull of her duty to the injured here was undeniable. Phillip and his mother. The Wilsons. She couldn’t leave such critical patients. And Red... if she’d learned one thing about her brother-in-law on that dreadful ride into the canyon it was that Red Wilder didn’t give up. If her sisters were out there, he would find them.
As she treated the injured and tremors continued to shudder over the ridge, Bridget prayed for Claire and Jenny and Beth. For Frannie.For Red.Lord, help them.Bridget saw families kneel in prayer as the earth trembled. She saw husbands and wives, hands clasped and heads bowed. Hundreds of prayers, spiraling to heaven like sparks from the myriad campfires. Was Claire praying? And Red? Would this night bring even Frannie to her knees?
When the rain started, Bridget ordered the critically injured to be moved to the backs of station wagons or into trailers. The rest of the refugees huddled in cars or around campfires. Now, with the rain easing, Refuge Point—as they were calling this place—was a muddy mess.
Bridget found Lance at the campfire. “Is there any more hot chocolate?”
Lance held up a tin cup. “This is the last of it, Nurse.”
“Give it to Phillip with these.” She shook the last two aspirin from the bottle Bucky had sent. It wouldn’t touch the pain the boy was experiencing, but it was all she had. “Small sips,” she ordered Lance as he headed toward the trailer where they’d transferred the injured boy and his mother.
Linda was at her side. “The stones are heated.”
“Wrap them in a blanket and come with me.” Bridget followed her flashlight beam to the station wagon where Mrs. Greer was holding vigil over the Wilsons. “Tuck these stones up next to them,” she instructed Mrs. Greer. “Not too close, just enough to warm them up.” The Wilsons’ temperatures were dropping as their bodies began to shut down.
“Is there anything more we can do for them?” Mrs. Greer whispered, out of earshot of Connie and the twins.
Bridget was asking herself the same question. She gazed around the makeshift hospital, her flashlight taking in injuries from severe to minor. Sprains and scrapes, cold and shock. A woman with an injured eye, a little boy who needed stitches. Phillip would most likely lose his foot, and his mother—it might be too late to save her.
She could only shake her head in answer to Mrs. Greer’s question. She had nothing left. No medicine, no bandages. Nothing toadminister or chart. No more she could do to alleviate the terrible suffering all around her.
“Will my mom and dad get better?” It was one of the Wilson girls, her twin beside her.
Bridget didn’t have an answer, at least not one she could voice. Mrs. Wilson’s pulse was increasingly weak. Mr. Wilson’s wounds were still seeping blood, and his skin had a gray tinge. The truth was these poor girls would most likely be orphans before dawn. Bridget admonished herself as she swiped at the tears blurring her eyes. Getting weepy wouldn’t help anyone. She needed to remain professional. Wasn’t that what her training demanded?
The thing was, she hadn’t been trained for this.
Bridget had none of her usual protections—no medicine to administer, no bandages or needles or doctor to consult. No charts or protocols, and no way to clock out at the end of her shift. She looked down at her dirty clothing, smeared with mud and who-knows-what. She didn’t even have a uniform to hide behind.
But what more could she give her patients? How could she help in this nightmare?
A caring heart is the best medicine.
Darn that Dr. Sampson. She’d dismissed his sentimental maxim. And anyway, a caring heart wouldn’t heal anyone or stop them from dying... would it? Bridget looked at the suffering around her, and thought again about how Jesus had healed the sick. He hadn’t done it from some lofty perch in the sky. He’d been beside them, in the dirt and dust. He’d held their hands, touched them, and treated them with love. He’d wept with them. She’d felt the call on her heart to heal since she was a little girl... but could she risk the heartbreak of really caring?
The Wilson girls huddled close to their parents, their muddy faces streaked with tears.
