lassie,” McClure answered soberly. “Now anyone can be buried at the Presidio.”
It was only later, when Amelia was pressed into service as a “volunteer” nurse that she learned Ward H stood for “hopeless.” On the day of the quake and fire, however, her spirits had already sunk to a new low when she realized that her father had been given so much laudanum for the pain that he had consequently taken up residence in the land of the living dead.
“He has broken his back in at least two places,” McClure confided as she stood dejectedly next to her father’s bedside. “Nasty business, I’m afraid.”
“So he will be an invalid? In a wheeled chair?” Amelia asked.
“With the bad weather rolling in and the primitive conditions around here, pneumonia’s a real danger. I’m afraid you should prepare yourself for the worst.”
McClure gently took her arm and drew her away from her father’s bedside to have a private word. “You’re welcome to sit by his side for a bit, and then ask someone to find me so I can stitch up those cuts on your forehead. After that, report to the nurses’ tent and they’ll give you a cot. You’d best get some rest while you can.”
At the mention of bed, Amelia experienced such a wave of fatigue she thought she might simply keel over then and there. The idea of a clean, horizontal surface to sleep on sounded like a gift from heaven.
“Thank you, Dr. McClure. I appreciate that.”
Once again, his lilting Scottish accent made her think of her late grandfather. It seemed impossible now that Charlie Hunter had still been alive only six weeks ago, before her world turned upside down.
“Do call me Angus,” the doctor said. “No point in maintaining such formality when we can’t rely on the earth beneath our feet, eh, Amelia?”
She nodded and tried to smile. “Angus, then.” She turned to study her father’s immobile features. It only then occurred to her that the doctor had been trying to tell her that her father would be dead by dawn’s light.
“I’ll just sit here a while,” she murmured.
***
That night, Amelia refused to leave her father’s side, making her bed on a nearby cot and listening to his labored breathing until she fell into an exhausted sleep. Long past midnight, she heard him call her name. Scrambling to her feet, her blanket gathered around her shoulders like an Indian squaw, she stood shivering by his bedside.
“What is it, Father?” she murmured, not wanting to wake the other patients. No one had come to administer laudanum and he sounded more like himself in sober days.
“I was dreaming about you, Melly,” he whispered between gasps for breath, “and when I woke up, there you were… sleeping on the cot.”
“Yes?” She was touched by the wistfulness of his tone. She knelt at his side and felt his forehead. He was feverish, which Angus warned might bring on vivid dreams. “I’m right here. Feeling any better?”
“Sand castles…” he said with a sigh. “You were building sand castles down by the bay.”
She felt a stab of nostalgia at the memory of constructing fanciful turrets with a tin bucket as a child, but all she said was, “Was it Blarney Castle I was building? Remember how you’d always say that was the one we should make?”
“Well, we Bradshaws are Scots-Irish. We’re canny people, but we’ll still spend our last penny on a whiskey. And sometimes our next-to-last too.” His stab at humor resulted in a fit of coughing. When the attack subsided, he seized her hand. “In the dream, you were building the castle all by yourself. You can do that now, can’t you?”
“Well, maybe not castles, Father, but I can build buildings.”
“I know,” he whispered. “You’re a clever girl.” It was a rare compliment, she thought, and all the more precious since the alcohol he’d consumed the previous evening had evidentially worn off. “That’s why I had to try to win back the hotel. I did it for you and your
It was only later, when Amelia was pressed into service as a “volunteer” nurse that she learned Ward H stood for “hopeless.” On the day of the quake and fire, however, her spirits had already sunk to a new low when she realized that her father had been given so much laudanum for the pain that he had consequently taken up residence in the land of the living dead.
“He has broken his back in at least two places,” McClure confided as she stood dejectedly next to her father’s bedside. “Nasty business, I’m afraid.”
“So he will be an invalid? In a wheeled chair?” Amelia asked.
“With the bad weather rolling in and the primitive conditions around here, pneumonia’s a real danger. I’m afraid you should prepare yourself for the worst.”
McClure gently took her arm and drew her away from her father’s bedside to have a private word. “You’re welcome to sit by his side for a bit, and then ask someone to find me so I can stitch up those cuts on your forehead. After that, report to the nurses’ tent and they’ll give you a cot. You’d best get some rest while you can.”
At the mention of bed, Amelia experienced such a wave of fatigue she thought she might simply keel over then and there. The idea of a clean, horizontal surface to sleep on sounded like a gift from heaven.
“Thank you, Dr. McClure. I appreciate that.”
Once again, his lilting Scottish accent made her think of her late grandfather. It seemed impossible now that Charlie Hunter had still been alive only six weeks ago, before her world turned upside down.
“Do call me Angus,” the doctor said. “No point in maintaining such formality when we can’t rely on the earth beneath our feet, eh, Amelia?”
She nodded and tried to smile. “Angus, then.” She turned to study her father’s immobile features. It only then occurred to her that the doctor had been trying to tell her that her father would be dead by dawn’s light.
“I’ll just sit here a while,” she murmured.
***
That night, Amelia refused to leave her father’s side, making her bed on a nearby cot and listening to his labored breathing until she fell into an exhausted sleep. Long past midnight, she heard him call her name. Scrambling to her feet, her blanket gathered around her shoulders like an Indian squaw, she stood shivering by his bedside.
“What is it, Father?” she murmured, not wanting to wake the other patients. No one had come to administer laudanum and he sounded more like himself in sober days.
“I was dreaming about you, Melly,” he whispered between gasps for breath, “and when I woke up, there you were… sleeping on the cot.”
“Yes?” She was touched by the wistfulness of his tone. She knelt at his side and felt his forehead. He was feverish, which Angus warned might bring on vivid dreams. “I’m right here. Feeling any better?”
“Sand castles…” he said with a sigh. “You were building sand castles down by the bay.”
She felt a stab of nostalgia at the memory of constructing fanciful turrets with a tin bucket as a child, but all she said was, “Was it Blarney Castle I was building? Remember how you’d always say that was the one we should make?”
“Well, we Bradshaws are Scots-Irish. We’re canny people, but we’ll still spend our last penny on a whiskey. And sometimes our next-to-last too.” His stab at humor resulted in a fit of coughing. When the attack subsided, he seized her hand. “In the dream, you were building the castle all by yourself. You can do that now, can’t you?”
“Well, maybe not castles, Father, but I can build buildings.”
“I know,” he whispered. “You’re a clever girl.” It was a rare compliment, she thought, and all the more precious since the alcohol he’d consumed the previous evening had evidentially worn off. “That’s why I had to try to win back the hotel. I did it for you and your
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