LITMIR.BIZ

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thin reed mat.”

       “Not exactly my idea of comfort. But I’m too exhausted from being such a troublemaker to care.”

       “You aren’t a troublemaker, Dr. Mary.” Clara’s grin came through as Mary’s eyes adjusted to the low light. “You’re just used to being in charge.”

       “Exactly. If Pastor Mayweather would only talk to me instead of barking orders, maybe I wouldn’t have caused him such problems.”

       “Rare is the man who can treat a woman like an equal. Even at the hospital they wanted to relegate you to anesthesia and not surgery.”

       The pain of loss stabbed Mary’s chest. “They were right. The most important operation of my life and I botched it.” Tears threatened to flow. Exhaustion was breaking down both her muscles and her emotions.

       Clara stepped close and put her arm around Mary. “You didn’t botch anything. Your brother was too far gone by the time he arrived at the hospital. Not even that braggart Dr. Hubbard could have saved him—no matter what he said.”

       Mary looked at Clara through unshed tears. “I wish my father saw it that way. Jeremy died on my operating table. Father’s letter spelled out whom he held responsible for his only son’s loss.”

       “Now, now. Grief did his speaking for him. Grief will pass and he’ll think it through. He’ll come around. Your father loves you. He supported your studies to become a physician in the first place.”

       Mary pulled away and picked up the blankets. “I don’t know, Clara. He made his opinion pretty clear that nothing I did could ever atone for costing him his only son.” Mary arranged the blankets over the planks as best she could. “I’m afraid I agree with him.”

       “Nonsense. A German soldier killed him. Men die in war, plain and simple.”

       Mary sat down on the pallet and unhooked her panniers one at a time. “Well, what’s my excuse this time? If I hadn’t reacted to that gunshot and just stayed put, we wouldn’t be in any danger.”

       Clara’s belly laugh startled Mary. She looked up from unlacing her boots. “Dr. Mary, we’re in the middle of the Liberian jungle with heathen tribes known for their cannibalism. Of course we’re in danger. You think the chief wouldn’t see or hear about a pretty woman with red hair anyway?”

       Mary turned up the corners of her mouth despite her fatalism. She reached and pulled the pins from her hair, letting down the long plait and wagging the tresses ruefully. “I suppose you’re right. My hair has always been a beacon for trouble.”

       Clara’s face turned serious. “God made you exactly right, my girl. From the color of your hair to the desire He gave you to be a doctor. We just have to trust that He will protect us in this eternal battlefield.”

       Mary slid off her right sock and removed the plaster from her small toe. No signs of infection, but she pretended to study the healing area awhile to take in what Clara said. It sounded like what William had said, only without the anger. They both envisioned God’s plan so clearly. She just wanted to bury herself away, do some good with her training and not think so much about God’s plan for her. Since Jeremy died, her faith had faltered to the point she wasn’t sure she could even know God’s plan in her life anymore.

       Mary took the fresh plaster Clara offered her from her bag. Even if the God of her childhood was real, did He have a plan for their lives? Otherwise, why would Jeremy have died? Jeremy and so many boys like him. Where was God’s protection, his plan in the Forest of Argonne?

       Clara’s soft voice interrupted her contemplations. “We all have doubts sometimes, Dr. Mary. Take them to Him. He’s the only one with real answers for them.”

       Mary’s tears hung back at the border of her lower lids and she blinked to dispel them. Clara generously pretended not to notice while she explored the small hut. “No place for a fire. I thought there would be some sort of pit in the center.”

       “I don’t know. This hut seems a lot smaller than the ones we passed. Maybe they have them. Or they do all their cooking in the open like the groups we passed with cook pots.”

       “True. Speaking of food, I wonder what we are to do about dinner.”

       Mary formed a reply, but Hannabo stuck his head in the doorway first. “Mammies, food is here.”

       “Oh, thank the Lord. I’m starved.” Clara’s enthusiasm was infectious and Mary’s stomach rumbled in response.

       Two of the village women entered single file. One, a young girl of about fifteen whom Mary hadn’t seen on their walk through the village, smiled shyly. She wore twice the amount of necklaces Mary counted on the other women they’d passed and had a bright red skirt wrapped and tied around her hips and chest. Her well-fed appearance made sense when she bent to place a wooden bowl of steaming liquid in Clara’s hands. Pregnant. And so young. Only four to five months, but pregnant nonetheless. Mary hoped her own expression didn’t mirror the shock on Clara’s when she seemed to come to the same conclusion.

       This girl, still a child in many ways, at home would have been in school, giggling with girlfriends, maybe even mooning over a handsome boy. Here she was already someone’s wife.

       Mary stole her attention from the girl’s pregnant belly and focused on the wooden bowl offered to her. Steaming soup. What kind she didn’t know.

       The woman in the faded blue skirt she’d seen earlier stirring the cook pot stood in front of Clara. A lot less jewelry adorned her. Was this a sign of status? If so, this young girl outranked her older counterpart. This woman looked to be only in her late twenties, but a hard life displayed itself in the weariness, the long lines around the woman’s mouth. Her life story was summed up in her face.

       The same face also clearly advertised the woman’s feelings. Was all that hatred directed at her? Why?

       Mary wondered as she took the steaming bowl and the women stepped back. The two women gave no indication of leaving, and Mary questioned if there was a ritual to the meal. Getting no cues from the women, she lifted the bowl up and inhaled the aroma.

       She took a glance at Clara who sat holding her bowl with one eyebrow raised as if to say, you first. Ha! Afraid of monkey again.

       Mary smiled at the two women now standing to the side, watching intently. She infused her voice with a cheery note and said to Clara, “Probably chicken soup. Whatever you do, let’s not offend them.”

       Mary lifted the bowl to her lips and took a small sip which she balanced on her tongue, mouth open to cool the heat. Heat which never cooled.

       She swallowed. Real tears came to her eyes and her sinuses began to run. She managed to stutter, “A little spicy.” Somehow she kept the smile plastered to her face. The younger woman giggled behind the hand now covering her mouth. The older one lifted her chin as if in challenge.

       Mary managed to take another sip and smile. After all, once her tongue started singing soprano, what did more spice matter? The older woman’s eyebrows went up ever so slightly. Respect? Mary couldn’t be sure. But she never backed away from a challenge.

       She finished the bowl completely and waited to grab for her canteen until the women backed out of the hut.

       Clara’s face flashed between pale and a little green. Sweat poured off her. “I don’t know how you swallowed the soup, Dr. Mary. I’m not sure mine is going to stay down.”

       “Did you catch the expression on the older woman? She expected her food to be insulted.”

       “What was in that anyway?”

       “Pepper of some kind. Let me ask Hannabo.” Mary stuck her head out the door. William and Hannabo held their heads together in conversation. Surely she hadn’t done something else she didn’t understand.

       Hannabo caught sight of her and said something to William. He turned around and walked over to her. “Is there a problem?”

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