“Shh, little one.” Forsythia scooped him up. Poor baby, he was soaked. “Let’s get you changed. Lark will have warm milk for you soon.”
While she changed him into a fresh diaper and gown, urgency pricked the back of her mind. What had gone on in town? Had Salton taken a direct hit? Shouldn’t they go check? People might need help. Adam might need help.
Lilac came to the door with a foaming pail of milk. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Forsythia strained and bottled the milk, filled one of the newfangled baby bottles they had ordered from the store for Mikael, and sent the rest of the milk out with Lilac to cool in the water tank in the pump house. She sat down to feed the baby, his hungry cries quickly subsiding into eager swallows.
Her sisters came back inside, chilled and windblown. Del started supper.
Mikael having finished his bottle, Forsythia rose and burped him, then crossed the room to Lark, who was pulling on her coat. With darkness falling, the temperature had dropped too. “Where are you going?”
“I think I’d better head into town. See what damage there might be and if anyone needs help. There sure won’t be any celebration now.”
“I’m going with you.” Her words were firm.
Lark looked at her without surprise. “All right.”
Forsythia handed the baby to Del and gathered her herbs and supplies, then tied a scarf over her head and bundled into her coat. Though her heart pounded as to what they might find, a certain knowledge pulsed through her.
Adam needed her.
28
Adam had never seen anything like this.
Standing outside his office doorway, he surveyed the street, the devastation rendering him light-headed. Several buildings on the other side had been flattened, including the saloon and a salt business. The tornado had ripped part of the roof off Henry Caldwell’s office as if it were paper. Beams and broken glass littered the remaining fragments of sidewalk amid the hailstones. The schoolhouse had been lifted off as if it had never been, leaving naked ground.
He stepped farther out to look up the street. Several houses on the outskirts of town looked to have taken damage too. Yet his side of the street stood mostly untouched, aside from some missing shingles and other roof damage from the hail. The tornado must have gone straight down the other side. He turned to examine the mercantile next door and drew a quick breath. The big hickory tree that had shaded the store—only a gaping hole remained in the earth. Roots and all, the giant tree was gone.
Mr. Jorgensen burst out of the store, breathing fast. “Doctor Brownsville, help me, please. It’s Lucretia. She’s hurt.”
“Let me get my bag.” Adam ducked back into his office to grab it, calling up to Jesse where he was going, then entered the store through the adjoining door. There was no sign of the Jorgensens, so he hurried through to their house out back.
He found Mr. Jorgensen in the sitting room, cradling his wife’s head as she lay on a lounge, her eyes closed.
“One of them hailstones hit her on the head.” The older man’s voice was unsteady. “I told her to stay inside, but she was bound and determined to get those fool chickens under cover. Next thing I knew, she’d dropped like a stone. I dragged her into the house, but she hasn’t woken up since.”
“She may have a concussion.” Adam examined the gash matting her hair with blood, then lifted her eyelids and examined her pupils. He pulled out his stethoscope to listen to her heart and breathing. “Why don’t you crush up some of those hailstones outside with a hammer and wrap them in a cloth. The ice will help lower the swelling and minimize any bruising to her brain.”
“Of course.” Mr. Jorgensen eased his wife’s head down on a pillow and hurried out the door.
Adam wet a cloth in the water jug he found in the kitchen and set to cleaning Mrs. Jorgensen’s head wound, wiping the blood from her graying hair.
She moaned and turned her head from side to side, then fluttered her eyelids open. Focusing unsteadily on Adam’s face, she frowned. “What are you . . . doing here? Where . . . am I?”
“You’re in your home, Mrs. Jorgensen.” Adam lowered the cloth. “Your husband called for me. I’m afraid you took a blow to the head during the storm.”
“Storm?” She tried to lift her head, then laid it back down with a grimace. “Where’s . . . Edgar?”
“Right here, Lucretia.” Mr. Jorgensen hurried in, bundle in hand. “I’m here.” He handed the rag wrapped around crushed ice to Adam and fell to his knees beside his wife, stroking her hand.
Adam settled the compress on Mrs. Jorgensen’s head. “Keep this on until it melts or as long as she will tolerate it. She must have absolute rest for the next twenty-four hours, and watch her carefully for signs of confusion or increased pain.” He hesitated, but he should let them know. “Or seizures. If any of these occur, summon me at once.”
“Is there nothing else to do?” Mr. Jorgensen laid a hand on the ice compress.
“Not at the moment. But it’s a good sign she has come to already. Most concussions heal with rest and time.” Adam stood and closed his bag. Likely the storm had left other casualties in town that needed tending. And the storekeeper’s wife wouldn’t want him around any longer than necessary. “Let me know if there is any change.”
“Doctor.” Mrs. Jorgensen’s weak voice halted him at the door.
He turned back.
Her unfocused gaze rested on him, regret in her face. “Thank you.”
Adam nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Jesse met him in the yard, coming from the back door of their place. “Uncle Adam, there’s lots of p-people here to see you.”
No surprise. He quickened his pace.
Inside, townsfolk filled his office—mothers, fathers, children. Gashed foreheads and a couple of broken limbs, by the look of it. One woman cradled a girl bleeding heavily from her leg.
Adam scanned the gathering, trying to think. How
