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Healing of the Heart: A Shumard Oak Bend Novel (Discerning God’s Best Book 4)

By Heidi Gray McGill

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Chapter 1

August, 1872
Pacific Railroad
Pennsylvania, USA
Thomas


“I don’t believe you’ve broken it, but you’ll be sore for a few days.” Thomas ran his hand over the man’s swollen forearm, being careful to stay out of the path of baggage handlers lifting new cargo into the train’s hold. “This purple will eventually turn to a sickly yellow. Give it time to heal.”

The man’s missing front teeth and a nose that pointed east accentuated his gravelly response. “I likely look like a horse kicked me, but ain’t no time to rest. I’ve got work to do. Tanks, Doc.”

“I’m not a doctor yet.”

The baggage master standing watch over the ministrations offered his hand to help Thomas. “Well, fine doctoring you’ve done, son.”

Thomas accepted the hand and clenched his jaw tight to keep the enjoyment of the compliment from showing. “My pleasure.”

“When I saw Big Joe’s arm wedged under that cart—well, downright lucky you walked this direction on your way back to the train.” The man wiped his brow.

“Not luck. Providence. ‘A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the LORD directeth his steps.’” The verse from Proverbs slid easily from Thomas’ tongue.

“Call it what you want, son. The railway thanks you. Can’t move baggage with a broken arm, and that man needs his pay.”

Both men watched the sway of the man’s muscular frame as he moved to the baggage car, then stared as he lifted a crate with his one good arm and hoisted it to his shoulder before climbing the steps with ease.

“Happy I could help.” Thomas buttoned his traveling suit coat.

Two long blasts filled the air, and the baggage master straightened. “That’s my mistress calling. Back to work. We’ve picked up several new passengers and cargo.”

Thomas made his way to his compartment, each step draining his energy. The excitement of the moment hadn’t been more than emergencies he’d encountered back home, but Robin’s wisdom had always been available. He’d gleaned some of her Arapaho Indian knowledge over the years, but not like his best friend Gabe, who had experienced it all his life.

Gabe. Thomas’ heart ached. His best friend’s ancestry kept him from sitting on the padded seat beside him. Adrenaline gone; reality set in.

Soot covered the window, creating shades of gray that held no life in contrast to the beauty whizzing by. It was how Thomas felt now. Even with the anticipation of all that lay ahead, his immediate world felt void of color.

Chooka-chooka, chooka-chooka. The rhythmic sound of the train taking Thomas farther from his home in Shumard Oak Bend, Missouri, did nothing to soothe the ache in his heart. Gabe should be here—had every right. The two had spent endless hours over the past months spurring each other on to reach their goals of becoming doctors. It still shocked him that his best friend’s Arapaho heritage kept Gabe from pursuing the path with him.

The blur of trees and mountains did not hold his interest. He redirected his focus and thoughts to his new compartment companions and studied the boy in the tufted velvet seat across from him. Limp hair fell over the boy’s dull eyes. Though wrinkled, his jacket had a sheen that showed in the light, and the soft-looking fabric indicated the family was well-to-do. But the shiny iron buttons were the only thing on the boy that sparkled.

The boy looked to be about five. At that age, Thomas was full of life. This listless child neither spoke nor fidgeted. The click of knitting needles pulled Thomas’s gaze from the child to the mother. Her posture and pinched mouth said more than words. She’d not spoken to Thomas even though they shared the small berth, much like the one he’d traveled in as a boy. Stale cabin air permeated his lungs as memories of the journey filled his mind.

“Ma, look.” Thomas’s five-year-old fingers danced as he lifted the warm cloth covering his mother’s eyes and damp forehead.

“Tell me what you see, son. Explain it to me.” Her shaking hand replaced the fabric.

“Horses, a big, tall building, and a lady waving something out a window.”

“Be specific, Thomas, like we’ve been practicing.”

“There’s a white horse that looks like it stepped in mud up to the knees, then dipped her nose in it. The man holding the mare’s reins looks like he wouldn’t like to get dirty. He has fancy black boots and his…” Thomas squealed in delight. “Ma, the horse just reached over and ate the flower out of his jacket pocket.”

“Ooh, he’s quite the dandy,” His father interjected.

“What’s a dandy?”

“The man’s suit is quite nice.” His father cleared his throat, and his chuckle filled the small train compartment.

Thomas continued. “The dandy and his horse are standing in front of a big white building that needs to be repainted. It looks like Grandmother’s church at the top, only there isn’t a cross.”

“What makes it look like a church?” His ma encouraged.

“Well, it has a tiny house with a window at the top and a big, huge building at the bottom with lots of steps going up. Ma, you’re missing so much. Can you look?”

Thomas lifted the cloth. His ma’s pain radiated from her clenched jaw.

“Cover your mother’s eyes, Thomas, and use your words.”

“Yes, sir. It must be an important building. And the lady hanging out of the window is waving something red. Ma, those look like your bloomers.”

His father yanked him away from the window. “Fine job, Thomas. You’ll be a fine storyteller someday. But now, I need your help to get these bags ready to go.”

The scene in his mind did not match the one on the padded seat opposite him. He needed to remedy that. No child should endure such isolation. Thomas placed his well-worn copy of the New England Journal of Medicine over his crossed knee, taking in the sight and willing his imagination to create something to whisk him away from his grief.

The child sat unmoving, one leg tucked up underneath his slim frame. He avoided eye contact, and Thomas noticed the boy gently touching the now-matted edges of his mother’s shawl. The skin of his hands was nearly translucent, and the sound of wet, labored breathing carried across the short distance.

The mother reached over and gently patted the child’s back, then continued with her needlework as if this were a common occurrence. When the boy coughed, he spit into a damp handkerchief, which he placed back into his trouser pocket.

What Thomas observed sounded much like an article he’d read. The pages of the journal crinkled as he searched for information on the work of London’s Thomas Bevill Peacock, On Malformations of the Human Heart.

As Thomas reread the information with more vigor than before, he periodically peered over the top of the frayed edges of the paper at the child. Thomas noted the pale skin with a sheen of moisture over his forehead, even though the boy had not exerted himself. His young compartment mate chose that moment to lick his dry lips. The faint blue color of the boy’s tongue was the last clue Thomas needed to confirm his suspicions.

He closed the journal with more force than intended, causing the boy to flinch and the mother to drop her knitting needles, one hand flying to her well-covered neck. He offered a smile, which she did not return.

“I’m Thomas.” His genuine smile offered solely for the child did nothing to brighten the boy’s dull eyes. “I once traveled with my mother, much like you are doing. I had great fun on the journey, telling stories of the things I saw out the window. Would you like to join me in creating a new one?”

Thomas’s eyes never left the boy’s frame, which now sank into and slid down the form-fitting sleeve of his mother’s traveling outfit. A slight panic seized Thomas’s heart when the boy remained motionless. Had he succumbed to his ailments?

Thomas schooled his features. If he were going to be a doctor, he’d need to learn the art of not showing what he was thinking or feeling in his expressions.

“Let’s see what I’ve hidden in my bag to spur our imagination.” Thomas stood, bracing himself on the overhead compartment and rummaging through his bag. He paused and took a deep breath when his fingers found the desired object.

Years of memories competed for importance in his mind. He saw the firm jaw of Hans, who crafted the wooden cow and heard the lilting voice reminding him to respect and care for all of God’s creatures. The now smooth surface of the wooden cow was not the only gift given to him upon arrival in Missouri. Grammie had allowed him to choose his first goat, and Clint later gave him his first foal.

As he’d grown, Delphina, their house help, taught him the art of sewing, cleaning, cooking, and self-reliance. Martha, his schoolteacher, fed his thirst for knowledge. But his mother, Rachel, and her best friend, Robin, Gabe’s mother, fostered his love of medicine.

Gabe. Thomas’s hand tightened around the wooden cow.

I’ll bring back new information to enhance what Robin and Gabe can do. Thomas lessened his grip and pulled the treasure from his case. A familiar excitement coursed through his veins. The item had no healing properties or magic, yet it had cured many ills over the years. Perhaps it could do the same for this little boy.

He gave it one last squeeze and readied himself to share the precious gift with someone who now needed it as he had as a child.

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