Page 34 of At Love’s Command

She touched his arm. “Don’t be. It was necessary. My brother’s well-being is more important than my comfort.”

“You should try to sleep. We still have at least two hours before we arrive in Chatfield.”

“Maybe,” she said. She doubted she’d be able to drift off with the hard wooden benches, the rattle of the rail wheels, and the frequent stops to take on mail and passengers, but it might not hurt to try. Right now, though, she had legs to stretch, and he had plans to finish.

She took a step down the aisle, letting her fingers fall away from his elbow. “I’m fine, Matthew. Truly.” Her gaze swept over the other three men. “I’ll let you get back to your discussion, gentlemen.”

They nodded politely to her, each giving his own interpretation of the action. Mr. Davenport, seated to Matthew’s left, smirked a bit, as if amused by seeing his commander so concerned for a woman’s comfort. Mr. Brooks, across from him next to the window, offered a brisk nod that seemed more impatient than polite, as if he considered her a distraction they would’ve done better to leave behind. Mr. Wallace touched the brim of his hat with the hand of his uninjured arm, his smile pure charm as she moved past. Not for the first time, it struck her how different they were from each other, yet the tie that bound them could not be denied. These men would fight for each other. Die for each other.

A swirl of foreboding eddied in her stomach, leaving her slightly ill. She hardened herself against the unwelcome angst and made her way toward the rear of the railcar. She wasn’t leading them to their death with this mission to save Charlie. These were seasoned soldiers. Experts at defeating outlaws and criminals. They’d rescue Charlie and return unscathed.

She had to believe that God would grant them victory over the villains holding Charlie. It was all she had to hold on to in a situation residing completely outside her control. So she clung to the belief with all her strength. Every time she had rolled over the last two nights, she had prayed for Charlie’s safety. But not only his. She’d prayed for the Horsemen too. For Matthew especially. He was doing this for her. He’d said as much. Which meant if something happened to him or to one of his men, it would be her fault.

Think on what is lovely, Jo. Not all this darkness. Think on what is virtuous and praiseworthy.

Unfortunately, the most virtuous and praiseworthy thing that popped into her mind was the man sitting behind her, which circled her back to where she’d started. She’d never get her mind off her troubles at this rate.

“Tommy?” The alarmed cry sharpened Josephine’s focus like nothing else could. She knew that tone: a mother afraid for her child. “Tommy! What’s happening?”

There. Four benches down the aisle. Right side. A boy, aged seven or eight. Slumped against his mother’s side. Convulsions wracking his body. His arms stiff and unnatural. The mother clutching her son, trying to control the uncontrollable.

Josephine ran down the aisle. “Don’t fight him. We need to lay him on the floor where he won’t hit anything. Here. In the aisle.”

The mother looked at her, tears in her eyes. “I have to help him.”

But she wasn’t. The boy’s shins were banging against the seat in front of him over and over.

“I’m a doctor. The convulsions will pass on their own in a moment. In the meantime, we need to keep him from injuring himself. The best way to do that is to lay him flat in a place where he can’t hit anything. The aisle gives us the most room.”

People in nearby seats were gasping and shrinking away, as if afraid the boy’s condition was contagious.

“It’s the falling sickness,” one man declared.

A woman with a high-pitched voice shrieked. “It’s a demon!”

“It’s not a demon,” Josephine snapped. She turned to the mother, softening her voice. “Slide off the seat and onto the floor of the aisle. He’ll come with you.”

The woman nodded and moved to the edge of her seat. Josephine circled behind her, then gripped under her arms to help her descend. It wasn’t graceful, but it worked. Josephine helped her scoot around until her back faced the opening of the seats across the aisle and her legs sprawled perpendicular across the walkway. The boy had slipped from her lap, but he lay straighter, his legs no longer beating themselves against the seat. His arms flailed, though, elbows locked, wrists bent, hands balled.

One of the fists caught his mother across the cheek. A small, surprised cry escaped her, but she didn’t pull away from her son. “It’s all right, Tommy. Mommy’s here.” She touched his shoulder. “Mommy’s here.”

“So am I,” a deep voice pronounced. Josephine looked up to find Matthew hunkered in the aisle in front of them, her doctor’s bag in his hand. “What can I do?”

The rest of the Horsemen filled the aisle behind their leader. All expressions fierce. Ready to do battle. Whatever that might entail.

“Your coats. Take them off and use them to create padding between his legs and the legs of the benches. I’m going to roll him onto his side to keep his arms more controlled and to ease the pressure on his chest. I don’t like his color.”

The boy’s face had a grayish hue. The muscle spasms were forcing the air from his lungs.

“Move!” a harsh voice growled. Mr. Davenport’s, she believed, not that she took the time to verify. All she knew was that a flurry of footsteps commenced, followed by four coats being rolled up and positioned around the boy’s legs and torso with the precision of soldiers setting up a military perimeter.

“Is he dying?” The mother turned her tearstained face to Josephine.

Jo shook her head. “No. It’s nearly over. Look. He’s starting to relax.”

The convulsions had indeed slowed. The boy let out what sounded like a sigh, and Josephine thanked God when she saw him draw a full breath.

“Tommy?” His mother ran a hand over his hair.