Chapter Eighteen
Over the past decade, Finbarr had learned to hear the difference between ordinary Wyoming wind and the fierceness of storms. He sat near the fire, carving another baby rattle, Madra curled up in her usual spot, listening to what he knew was a blizzard.
Snowfall of this severity didn’t often arrive so early in the year, but it wasn’t unheard of.
Depending on how long it lasted and how much snow fell, the town might be stuck in the valley for a few days or even weeks.
When snow came early, there was usually a break in the winter weather before another storm arrived.
That would give the men a chance to go collect more firewood.
A knock echoed off the door. In this weather? Either Finbarr was wrong about the state of things outside, or someone was in dire straits.
He set his knife and wood on the mantle shelf and moved swiftly to the door. The moment he pulled it open, a blast of frigid, snow-filled air pummeled him.
“It’s Emma,” a quavering voice said. “Please don’t be angry. I know you said you didn’t want to talk to me again, but Eimear and I can’t get home. It’s too far, and the snow has become a blizzard. Eimear is so cold, and I didn’t know what else to do.”
Finbarr pulled her inside and, with effort on account of the wind, pushed the door closed behind them. “How long have you two been out in this?”
“I’m not sure.” Emma was struggling to get the words out. “Eimear is soaked through.”
“Get her out of her wet things. I’ll grab some blankets.”
He crossed to the cedar chest. Behind him, Emma spoke softly, her voice quivering.
“You have to let me unpin the scarf, sweetie.”
“I’m so cold, Emma.”
“I know. My fingers are fumbling with the pin because they’re so cold.”
Frostbite? Heavens, he hoped not.
“You said we were going home, Emma.”
“We will, once the storm has passed.”
Finbarr closed the chest, and walked back toward them, blankets in his arms.
“Are we staying here?” Eimear asked.
“Mm-hmm.” Even those tiny syllables shook. Emma needed to get warm as well.
“With Finbarr?”
“With me,” Finbarr said, setting the blankets on the floor as he knelt near them. Though neither was speaking loudly, they were loud enough for him to place them in the room.
“Do you have a shirt we could change her into?” Emma asked. “I have her down to her shift, but it’s soaked through.”
Finbarr moved to stand.
“Tell me where it is,” Emma said. “I’ll get it.”
“Only if you promise to find something for yourself as well, Emma. I can hear you shivering.”
“I am too cold to argue with you.”
“In the bureau in my room,” Finbarr said. “Grab anything that’d be helpful.”
Fabric rustled, but not like the sound of a moving dress. “Hold that blanket around you, Eimear. It’ll warm you up.”
“Come here, mo mhilis. Let me hold you.” A bundle of blankets leaned against him. He set his arms around Eimear, then stood, holding her to him. Emma’s dress whooshed as she left the room.
“Emma was scared, Finbarr,” Eimear whispered. “We couldn’t see. And we were cold. She almost fell over.”
“Did you tell her to come here?”
“We were walking for so long. Then she said ‘Finbarr,’ really quiet. Then she walked faster. And then we were here.”
It had been Emma’s idea, then. To hear her apologize and plead with him to not resign her and her sister to the deadly conditions outside tore at him.
She’d been unfair and unkind to him. He’d asked to be spared that.
But surely she didn’t think he wouldn’t have let her in or wouldn’t have wanted her to come here without hesitation when she needed him.
“How long will we be here, Finbarr?”
“However long you need to be, mo mhilis.”
She moved a little in his arms. Her forehead rested against his neck. It was warm against his skin. She’d been out in a blizzard mere minutes earlier, and she was warm to the touch.
Finbarr pressed a hand to her cheek, then her neck. “Are you feeling poorly?”
“I’m all aches again.”
Fever and aches. If only he could see well enough to know if the rash had returned also.
He heard Emma return, and he swiveled to face her.
“This shirt will be too big, Eimear, but it will be dry and warm.”
He handed Eimear over and waited. There was only enough light for the vaguest of shadows to move across his vision, too unformed for him to know how near or far they were or what size. He relied far more on what he could hear.
After a few minutes, Emma pulled in an audible breath. His heart dropped. The rash Joseph had described didn’t sound like one that would be easily missed. Emma, he would guess, had just seen precisely that.
“Wrap up in your blanket again,” Emma said. “And lay down here by Madra.”
“No, I want Finbarr.”
He bent down and held his arms out. “I’ll hold you, mo mhilis.”
Eimear leaned into his arms again. He picked her up. “I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly again. I wish I could fix it all.”
“Because you love me?”
“Because I love you so much.”
“Will you sing me the song?” Eimear asked, resting heavily against him.
“If Emma will change into dry clothes.” He hadn’t heard her leave the room.
“Emma,” Eimear pleaded.
“She’ll be safe with me, Emma. I promise.”
“I have no doubts on that score, Finbarr.”
She trusted him. Did she have any idea how surprising that was?
“You need to get warm and dry,” he said. “We don’t want you growing ill as well.”
She didn’t argue. Her footsteps echoed away from him.
“The song, Finbarr,” Eimear said.
He carried her a little closer to the fire, wanting to be certain she was warm. He slowly rocked her back and forth as he sang the song his ma had sung to him throughout his childhood.
My dear heart’s cheeks are as ruddy as morning,
The brightest of pearls but mimic his teeth,
And nature with ringlets his mild brow adorning,
His lips, Cupid’s bow strings, and roses his breath.
Smiling, beguiling, cheering, endearing,
Together oft o’er the mountain we strayed,
By each other delighted and fondly united,
And I’d listen all day to my dear Irish boy.
“You used to sing that to Ivy when she was Eimear’s age.” Emma spoke from what sounded like the doorway of his room.
“I would have sung it to you as well but you never wanted me to. ‘I’ll be fine,’ you’d always say.”
“And I always was.”
“Always?”
“Nearly always.”
He heard Emma walk toward him, a hint of shadow accompanying the sound.
“Is Eimear asleep?” Finbarr asked. He suspected she was.
“She is.” A moment passed without Emma moving away. “She has a rash. I saw it while I was changing her. And she feels feverish.”
“Joseph and Ivy said they thought she was in the beginning of another one of her fevers. If the rash is back, then they were right.”
“‘Another one of her fevers?’ What do you mean?”
“Have they not told you?”
“Told me what?”
It wasn’t really his place to be telling her this, but she needed to know.
“About seven months ago, Eimear took ill. She had a fever, aches in all her joints, and a rash. Her eyes swelled up and reddened. It went on for over a week. Everyone was worried for her, but she recovered. And then, about a month later, it all happened again, but lasted longer. Then, two months after that bout ended, it returned.”
“And now it has again?”
“It seems so.”
“Is it—” Emma took a trembling breath. “Is she in danger?”
“Joseph and Katie have said Dr. Jones is baffled.”
Emma didn’t say anything. From what Finbarr could hear, she didn’t even breathe.
“He has sent telegrams to colleagues all over the country,” Finbarr added. “He’s not one to give up easily, so I suspect he’ll keep at it as long as needed.”
In a quiet voice, one tinged with hurt, she asked, “Why didn’t my family tell me?”
“I suspect they didn’t want you to worry.”
“She’s my sister,” Emma said.
“But you aren’t here anymore.”
Her voice now a whisper, she said, “So I no longer matter.”
“That is not at all what I meant.”
“But it’s true. I don’t belong. Not here. Not anywhere.”