Chapter 22
Thomas sat in the hallway with his back against the wall, a worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo open across his knees.
They’d had three long days of this so far.
The door to Kate’s room stood cracked just enough to carry his voice through—close enough to feel like a presence, far enough to honor the doctor’s strict instructions.
“‘All human wisdom is contained in these two words—Wait and Hope.’” He let the final line settle before closing the book. “That’s where Dumas ends it. Though I’ve always thought it was a bit convenient, wrapping everything up so neatly.”
“You don’t believe in hope?” Kate’s voice drifted through the gap.
“I believe in it.” He traced the book’s worn spine with his thumb. “I just think hope works better when you’re doing something while you wait. Sitting still never suited me much.”
A soft sound came from the other side—almost a laugh. “I’ve noticed.”
The afternoon light slanted through the window at the end of the hall, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Somewhere below, Mrs. Wang moved about in the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of sounds signaling the meal preparation that had marked every day of his life on this ranch.
Three days of this. Three days sitting outside the door of Kate’s temporary bed chamber, of reading until his voice went rough, of telling stories about ornery horses and Montana winters and the time James accidentally set fire to the wood shed—burning up their entire supply of firewood.
Three days of learning that Kate had a laugh like bells when she forgot about her worries, and a way of asking questions that made him dig deeper than he would have preferred.
Three days of wanting to push that door open and close the distance between them.
But the doctor had been clear. Scarlet fever spread through touch, through breath, through the invisible threads that connected people in close quarters. Kate might already be carrying it in her blood, waiting for symptoms to bloom. Until they knew for certain, she had to stay apart.
It seemed their conversations always existed with a barrier between them. Before it had been the darkness of night. Now a wooden door. What would it be like to look into her eyes and say what he really thought?
“Tell me another story.” Her voice came quieter. “Something from when you were young.”
He shifted against the wall, searching his memory. The happy ones were harder to find these days—buried beneath layers of frustration and that constant itch to be somewhere else.
But for Kate, he would dig.
“There was this one summer.” He cleared a rasp from his throat.
“I must have been seven or eight. James convinced me that if we built a raft, we could float down the creek all the way to town.” He smiled at the memory.
“Never mind that particular creek is about three feet deep in most places and town is twenty miles east.”
“What happened?”
“We spent two weeks gathering logs and rope. Worked on it every spare moment, hiding our project in a spot by the water where we thought no one would find us.” How important it had all seemed. “The night before we planned to launch, Father showed up at the creek.”
“Your father was here? In Montana?”
“One of his rare visits.” The words carried an edge he hadn’t intended. He softened his tone. “We thought we were in trouble. We weren’t allowed to go to town by ourselves yet.”
“But?”
He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see it. “He didn’t scold us. Just stood there looking at our pitiful pile of logs and asked if we’d considered the rapids just before the sawmill. We hadn’t, of course. Hadn’t even known they existed.”
The memory sharpened—his father crouching down to their level, pointing out the flaws in their construction with the same critical eye he brought to everything. Except this time, he hadn’t stopped there.
“He spent the rest of his visit helping us rebuild it properly. Showed us how to lash the logs so they wouldn’t come apart.
Even helped us test it in the shallows.” He swallowed against the tightness in his throat.
“We never did float to town. But James and I spent the rest of that summer on that raft, fishing and swimming and pretending we were explorers.”
Silence from the other side of the door.
Then, quietly, “That’s a good memory.”
“It is.” He didn’t add that those were the memories that hurt most now—the rare moments when his father had been present. When he felt like a real father instead of a distant monarch in England who oversaw their lives from the far side of the world.
“Thomas?”
“Yes?”
A pause. “What’s your earliest memory? The very first thing you can recall?”
He closed his eyes to wander back through the fog of early childhood.
“Light,” he said finally. “Sunlight through a window, I think. And the smell of lavender. My mother’s scent, I think. I remember feeling warm. Safe.”
Before he’d learned that warm and safe didn’t last.
“That’s beautiful.” Her voice came barely more than a whisper. So much softer than the Kate she showed the rest of the world.
His Kate.
Silence settled like it had often, but something felt different this time. Tighter. Heavier.
He straightened, pressing his palm flat against the door as if he could reach through the wood to touch her.
“Kate? Are you all right?”
No answer. But then came a soft, hitching sound. The barely audible catch of breath that meant she was crying and trying to hide it.
His chest constricted. Three days of distracting her, of filling the silence with stories and questions and the sound of his voice. Three days of doing everything he could, but knowing it probably helped so little.
And Clara still lay in that sickroom, fighting for her life, while Kate sat alone with nothing but worry and a cracked door.
He shut the book and stared at the crack of light beneath her door.
Lord, I don’t know how to do this.
Not the waiting. Not the helplessness. Not watching Kate drown in fear with nothing to offer but words.
If You’re there—and I know You are—help me be what she needs. Help Clara live. Show me what to do for Kate.
He rose to his feet. The doctor’s warnings rang in his mind—the risks of infection, the possibility that Kate was already carrying the fever without knowing it. If he went in there, if he touched her, he might end up sick himself.
But three days had passed. No fever. No rash. No sign that Clara’s sickness had spread to her sister.
And Kate was crying alone in the dark while he sat uselessly in the hall.
He pushed the door open.
The room beyond was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. Kate sat against the wall beside the door, her knees drawn up and her face turned away. She didn’t look at him when he entered—just went still, like a deer caught in an open meadow.
“You shouldn’t be in here.” Her voice came out thick. “The doctor said—”
“I know what the doctor said.” He crouched in front of her. “I don’t care.”
She lifted her head then, and the sight of her face nearly undid him. Red-rimmed eyes. Tear tracks cutting down her cheeks.
She looked exhausted, fragile in a way he’d never seen—this woman who would change her entire life to protect her sister, who faced down every challenge with that stubborn lift of her chin.
“Thomas—”
“Three days without a single symptom.” He settled beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. “You’re not sick, Kate. You told me so a few minutes ago. And I’m done pretending a wooden door can protect either of us from anything.”
A sound escaped her—half laugh, half sob. “What if you’re wrong? What if I’m—”
“Then I’ll be sick with you.” He slipped one hand around her shoulders and used his other thumb to brush a tear from her cheek. “But I’m not leaving you alone in here. Not anymore.”
The careful control she’d been maintaining shattered like ice beneath the blow of an ax head. A sob tore from her throat, raw and ragged, and then she was reaching for him, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as if he were the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.
He pulled her into his arms as something inside him broke too.
She came willingly, pressing hard against his chest. He gathered her close, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapped around her waist.
She shook against him—great, wracking tremors that seemed to come from her deepest parts.
“I can’t lose her.” The words were muffled against his shoulder. “Thomas, I can’t—she’s all I have—”
He tightened his hold. If only he could absorb her fear into himself. “Robert’s with her. He hasn’t left her side. Mrs. Wang is making sure she gets everything she needs.”
“But what if it’s not enough? What if she’s already too sick? What if I brought her all this way just to—”
“Don’t.” His voice came out fierce. “Don’t finish that thought.”
“I have to face it.” Her voice cracked, and another shudder vibrated her body. “I have to be ready—”
“No, you don’t.” He pulled her tighter, willing her to believe his words. “Not today. Not yet. Clara is still fighting, and as long as she’s fighting, so are we. Do you hear me?”
Something in her quieted, though her back still rose and fell with hard breaths.
Then she lifted her face to him. The movement brought her so close, the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes shimmered up at him.
“Thank you.” Her voice came barely above a whisper. “For these past days. For sitting outside that door. For reading to me. For...” Her words caught. “For not leaving me alone.”
His throat tightened. How did he tell her that those hours had been as much for him as for her? That her voice through the crack in the door had been the only thing keeping him tethered when everything else felt like it was slipping away?
He cupped her face in his hands, traced his thumbs over the delicate line of her cheekbones. “Kate—”