Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
brIGIT
Late November
Elijah still keeps his distance. I often wonder if I should have kept my secret.
But a real marriage cannot be built on lies.
I wish love had softened the blow. It only made it worse.
For now, this is my place. Patrick is safe, and I know Elijah’s love for him is unchanged.
Whatever comes next will come in its own time.
Isealed the last crock of dried apples and stared out the one window of the cabin.
The pane of glass Elijah had traded for let in a beam of sun, proof that he had done what he could to make this a home.
The view would be bleak to some. The trees were bare, and the view was nothing but dotted greens and browns.
Yet there was a stark beauty to it. I could imagine how beautiful it would be come the spring.
If I were still here.
I didn’t know how long Elijah would keep me at arm’s length, keep our conversations only to what was necessary. This was the price of my lie.
So I worked.
I spent the days salting meat, prepping food for storage, mending, stacking wood, and tying dried herbs into bundles. I braided rugs from scraps to keep the cold from creeping through the floor. I taught other women about herbs and their uses.
It was all I had to offer. One day melted into the next until a surprise visit.
Two men came in from the south, lean and ragged from travel. One clutched the pommel of his saddle as though it alone kept him upright. The other coughed into a rag, face pale, eyes glassy with fever.
Within days, more settlers had taken ill.
“Boil water,” I told Ruthie, a young woman I’d become close with. “Keep two pots on the fire at all times. Use it for washing hands and cloths.”
Ruthie’s eyes widened. “Will it help?”
“It will keep worse from spreading,” I said, more confident than I felt. “Go on now. Quickly.”
Martha lingered by the door, arms folded. “Tell me what you need.”
“Onions and garlic, if you have them,” I said. “I’ll make a broth. And cut strips of cloth for compresses.”
Her chin bobbed once. “Done.”
I moved from cabin to cabin, brewing teas of horehound and willow, mixed honey with ginger to soothe the wracking coughs. The healthy carried water, stoked fires, wrung cloths until their arms ached.
I was careful with my words. I named the herbs plainly, offered no promises, only that what had been taught to me had served to help before.
No one here knew my grandmother had once been tried as a witch for the same knowledge, nor were there whispers of how I was so much like her. I meant to keep it that way.
Eli was everywhere. He carried buckets, chopped wood, and lifted sick men when I needed them shifted. He never asked what to do—he simply watched and copied my actions.
“You’ve made a difference,” he said one evening as we ate some stew another had prepared for us. “Most families are reporting that the fevers are breaking.”
“Everyone did their best,” I answered quietly, wishing all had been spared. Sadly, we had to bury three people, including the two men who’d ridden in with the illness.
“You led them. We’d have lost more if not for you.”
I smiled tiredly.
“You must rest. I’ll clean up.”
I started to argue, but he shook his head and put an arm around me, guiding me toward the bed.
He sat me down and to my surprise, lifted my brush and began to smooth my hair.
It was the first time he’d touched me willingly.
I didn’t speak, afraid to break the moment.
I grew sleepy, and the next thing I knew, I felt the quilt being tucked around me, and a soft press of lips to my temple.
Sleep came heavy and fast. For the first time in days, I let myself believe the worst had passed.
I woke before dawn to Patrick’s fretful cry. His cheeks were flushed and his little body trembled with each cough. The bottom dropped out of my world.
“Not you,” I whispered, pulling him close and rocking him. “Mo stór. Please, not you.”
Eli knelt beside me, voice low but urgent. “What do you need?”
For a heartbeat, my mind went blank.
“Cool cloths,” I said at last. “Willow tea. Hurry.”
From that moment, he never left us. When my arms shook, he lifted Patrick, rocking him as though afraid to break him. “Easy, lad,” he murmured, pacing the cabin. “Easy.”
“Hold him upright when he coughs,” I said, my voice trembling now, unguarded.
He did—steady as stone. And when I swayed with exhaustion, he pressed a bowl of broth into my hands.
“Drink,” he said firmly.
“I can’t—”
“You’ll be no use to him if you fall over.” His eyes flickered, the edge softening. “Please, Brigit.”
That word—please—undid something in me. I drank.
Through the long night, Patrick’s cries thinned to weak whimpers. I begged God under my breath, while across the room Martha prayed aloud in her southern drawl. Eli paced the floor with Patrick against his chest, whispering words I could not catch.
At dawn of the third day, the fever broke. Patrick lay limp but cooler, his breaths even.
Relief shattered me. I pressed my face to Eli’s shoulder and sobbed, my hands clutching his shirt as though he were the only solid thing left in the world. He did not pull away. He only tightened his arm around us both, anchoring me when I could not stand alone.
But even as Patrick regained his strength, mine failed. Days without sleep, without care, left me hollow. The fever claimed me swift as flame.
I remember Eli’s arms carrying me, his voice rough with command as he laid me on the bed. “Rest, Brigit. I’ll not lose you too.”
The world blurred. Cool cloths touched my brow, broth was pressed to my lips.
I drifted, waking once to find Patrick asleep beside me and Eli seated close, his hand entwined with mine.
His eyes were drawn, weary—but when he thought me asleep, I heard him whisper, “Lie or no lie, you’re mine now. I cannot lose you.”