In the Face of Danger by Joan Lowery Nixon Page B

“She’ll get over it.”
    “I s’pose. I wonder how long it will take. Maybe a couple of weeks or so?”
    “No,” Megan told them. “Much longer than that.”
    Ben and Mr. Haskill looked at her with surprise. “The loneliness is inside,” Megan said, pressing her hands against her stomach, “and sometimes you forget that it’s there. But other times it makes a picture in your mind of the people you love—the people you left behind—and your stomach aches with the hurt of it all.”
    “Sounds like this is familiar to you,” Mr. Haskill murmured, and Megan nodded.
    “Even when we’re laughing and talking sometimes the loneliness comes. I never know when it will happen.”
    “I think I understand,” Mr. Haskill said.
    “I think I do, too,” Megan said. “About Mrs. Haskill, I mean.”
    The expression in Ben’s eyes, as he looked at her, changed from concern to pride, and Megan smiled at him, no longer caring what Mrs. Haskill had said.

8

    F OUR DAYS LATER Ben left before dawn, taking his wagon to the nearest town to get the iron strips on two of the wheels repaired. Soon after he had gone, Mr. Haskill arrived at the Browders’ house, hallooing and shouting even before he reached the front door.
    “It’s Ada!” he cried in terror to Emma and Megan, who had rushed outside to meet him. “She’s down sick with the fever!”
    “It’s too cold for the mosquitoes to be out, carrying the ague,” Emma said, thinking aloud. “It’s more likely that she’s taken a chill. Does she have a cough?”
    Mr. Haskill frowned. “Not exactly. More of a roughening of the voice.”
    “Good,” Emma said. “I don’t think it’s serious. I’ll give you something for her to drink that will help her sleep and some mustard seed to make a poultice, in case the roughness develops into a chest cough.” She glanced toward the iron stove. “It won’t take long to pluck a chicken and cook up a strong broth. I’ll see that Ada gets it as soon as it’s ready.”
    “I’ll help,” Megan offered.
    “Thanks to you both,” Mr. Haskill said. He looked greatly relieved, although there were such deep circles under his eyes that Megan wondered if he could be getting ill himself.
    “For goodness’ sakes, Farley, she’ll be all right,” Emma said. “We all take to our beds now and then. It’s the way life is.”
    “It’s because the house is damp,” Farley said. “Ada said so.”
    “Damp? With a drought that has lasted more than a year?” Emma paused, and when she spoke again her voice was low and gentle. “Ada just isn’t used to our ways yet, Farley. Be patient, and stop blaming yourself for everything she doesn’t like. Soon she’ll be blooming just like one of the prairie roses.”
    “You think so?”
    “Why doubt it? She’s strong and has a great deal more purpose to her than many women I’ve met. There’s no reason she can’t put those attributes to good use. Just you be patient.”
    Mr. Haskill looked considerably cheered as he left with the package Emma had prepared for him. The front door had no sooner shut behind him than Emma, snugly wrapped in one of Ben’s heavy coats, was out the back door. Megan soon heard a loud squawking in the henhouse, and shortly Emma returned, an onion from the root cellar in one hand, a limp, gutted chicken in the other. Most of the large feathers had been plucked, but Megan set to work to pull the others, saving them carefully to add to Emma’s hoard. As soon as the bag was full there’d be enough soft feathers to fill the small quilt Emma was making for the baby.
    When Megan had finished her chore, Emma singed theskin with a hot coal, washed the carcass in boiling water, and dropped it with the peeled and sliced onion into a large pot of water. She added some salt and two dried bay leaves and nodded with satisfaction. “This soup will be even better than medicine for her.”
    Megan noticed that Emma was moving more slowly than usual, stopping to rub her