12. Chapter 12
Rain pounded against the infirmary windows as Claudine bent over six-year-old Emma Peterson, pressing a cool cloth to the child's feverish forehead.
Three days had passed since the fever officially reached Pine Creek, bringing with it a steady stream of new cases.
The Wilkins house, hastily converted to a treatment center, now held eleven patients in various stages of illness.
"How is she?" Doc Miller asked, approaching Emma's bedside with shoulders stooped from exhaustion.
"The fever persists," Claudine replied, dipping the cloth in fresh water. "But her breathing seems slightly easier this morning."
The elderly physician nodded, placing gnarled fingers against the child's wrist to check her pulse. "Your mustard plasters appear to be helping. The congestion in her lungs has lessened."
Small victories sustained them through long hours of fighting an enemy they couldn't see. Claudine had barely left the infirmary since arriving in town, snatching moments of sleep on a cot in the back room while Doc Miller took watch, then relieving him so he could rest his aging body.
"Any word from the ranch?" Claudine asked, straightening to ease the ache in her back.
"Your husband stopped by before dawn," Doc Miller replied. "No cases there yet. He left supplies and arranged for your latest list to be sent to Helena."
Relief washed through Claudine at this news. Michael had divided his time between managing the ranch and supporting her work in town, bringing provisions and assisting with the heavier tasks of patient care. His steady presence anchored her through the chaos of the growing epidemic.
"Mrs. Spencer arrived an hour ago," Doc Miller continued, moving toward his medicine chest. "Her husband and eldest son are showing symptoms. I've put them in the back room for now."
Claudine suppressed a grimace. Mr. Spencer, who had questioned her qualifications at the town meeting, would now be under her care. Such ironies had no place in a sickroom, however. Every patient deserved her best efforts, regardless of personal feelings.
"I'll examine them after I finish with Emma," she promised.
The doctor nodded approvingly. "Your hospital training shows in how you manage multiple patients. Without your help, this situation would be far worse."
Doc Miller's praise cut through her weariness. She moved methodically through the ward, checking each patient, adjusting treatments, and offering comforting words to those conscious enough to understand.
When Michael returned that evening, Claudine met him on the infirmary porch, grateful for the moment of fresh air after hours in the stuffy rooms.
"You look tired," he observed, concern evident in his eyes as he handed her a basket of food from the ranch kitchen.
"I am," Claudine admitted. "But we're making progress. Emma Peterson is responding to treatment, and Mrs. Winters has turned the corner toward recovery."
"And you?" Michael asked quietly. "How are you holding up?"
"Well enough." Claudine accepted the flask of coffee he offered. "Any word from Lucy?"
"A letter arrived yesterday. She's settled in with the Hendersons and making friends with their daughter." Michael smiled slightly. "She mentioned teaching the girl how to make proper flower chains, apparently a skill her new friend lacked."
The image of Lucy instructing another child in her solemn, precise way brought unexpected tears to Claudine's eyes. The separation, necessary though it was, ached like a raw wound.
"She sends her love," Michael continued, pulling a folded paper from his pocket. "And this drawing for you."
Claudine accepted the crude sketch of three stick figures—clearly meant to be Michael, Lucy, and herself—standing before what resembled their ranch house. Above the figures, Lucy had written in careful letters: "My Family."
"My family," Claudine whispered, tracing the childish handwriting with her fingertip. The words felt more precious than any formal claim.
Michael's hand covered hers, warm and steady. "How much longer will you need to stay in town?"
"Until the worst cases stabilize," Claudine replied. "Another day or two at least."
He nodded, accepting her commitment without question. "I've prepared the old cabin as we discussed. If cases appear at the ranch, we'll have an isolation facility ready."
Their conversation was interrupted by Doc Miller calling from inside. "Mrs. Crawford! Mr. Spencer's fever is spiking!"
Claudine handed the drawing back to Michael. "Keep this safe for me."
"Always," he promised. "I'll return tomorrow with more supplies."
Inside, Claudine found the banker thrashing against his sheets, his face flushed crimson with fever. His wife hovered nearby, wringing her hands in distress.
"He's burning up," Mrs. Spencer cried. "Please help him!"
Claudine moved with brisk precision, preparing willow bark tea while directing Doc Miller to apply cold compresses. Mr. Spencer barely acknowledged their presence, his eyes glassy and unfocused as they worked.
"The fever must break soon," Doc Miller murmured, concern evident in his voice. "His heart can't sustain this temperature for long."
Throughout the night, Claudine battled for Mr. Spencer's life, employing every technique learned during her nursing career. Dawn was breaking when the fever finally began to recede, leaving the proud banker weak but alive.
"You saved him," Mrs. Spencer whispered, clutching Claudine's hand. "After he questioned you so rudely at the council meeting. Why would you work so hard for someone who doubted you?"
"Every life deserves our best efforts," Claudine replied simply. "Your husband needed care, not judgment."
Mrs. Spencer studied her face with new respect. "Crawford Ranch is fortunate to have you, Mrs. Crawford. As is Pine Creek."
The days blurred together as more cases arrived. Claudine lost track of time, marking its passage only by Michael's daily visits. Each day he brought fresh supplies, each night he departed with obvious reluctance to leave her in the midst of contagion.
"Jeb's been exposed," he reported on his fifth visit. "His brother in town has the fever. I've isolated him in the cabin as a precaution."
"Any symptoms yet?" Claudine asked, immediately alert.
"None, but Tom's watching him closely." Michael hesitated. "If he falls ill, would you—"
"Of course I'll treat him," Claudine assured him. "Send word immediately if he shows any signs."
Michael nodded, relief evident in his expression. "This outbreak is different from others I've seen. Moves faster, hits harder."
"Doc Miller says the same." Claudine glanced toward the infirmary door, beyond which lay patients fighting for every breath. "We've lost three already. All elderly with existing weaknesses, but still..."
"You can't save everyone," Michael reminded her gently. "Though you try harder than anyone I've ever known."
His faith in her abilities sustained Claudine through the darkest moments of the crisis.
When young Timothy Wilkins died despite their best efforts, Michael held her while she wept from exhaustion and disappointment.
When the Peterson children finally showed improvement, he shared her relief and cautious optimism.
On the seventh day, Jeb developed symptoms. Michael himself brought the ranch hand to town, where Claudine established him in a corner of the infirmary away from the most vulnerable patients.
"I'll stay to help tonight," Michael decided, hanging his hat by the door. "You need rest."
Claudine started to protest but recognized the wisdom in his suggestion. Her own exhaustion had reached dangerous levels, clouding her judgment and slowing her responses.
"Just for a few hours," she conceded. "Wake me if any patient takes a turn for the worse."
In the small back room that served as her temporary quarters, Claudine collapsed onto the narrow cot without bothering to remove her apron. Sleep claimed her instantly, deep and dreamless until Michael's voice penetrated her exhaustion.
"Claudine, wake up. It's Jeb."
She blinked awake to find Michael standing over her, concern etched on his features. "What's happened?"
"His fever's spiking, and he's struggling to breathe. Doc Miller is with the Peterson children. They've both relapsed."
Claudine rose immediately, swaying slightly as blood rushed from her head. Michael steadied her with a hand at her elbow, his touch grounding her as she gathered her composure.
"How long was I asleep?"
"About three hours." Michael guided her toward the door. "It's just past midnight."
The main ward was dimly lit by oil lamps, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Most patients slept fitfully, but from Jeb's corner came the unmistakable sound of labored breathing.
Claudine found the ranch hand burning with fever, his powerful body weakened by the illness that had swept through the community. His eyes opened as she approached, recognition briefly clearing the fever-induced confusion.
"Mrs. Crawford," he rasped. "Sorry to be... such trouble."
"No trouble at all," Claudine assured him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. "We'll have you back with the herd in no time."
Michael stood at the foot of the bed, his expression grave as Claudine examined Jeb's lungs with her stethoscope.
"Significant congestion," she reported quietly. "We need to clear his airways before pneumonia sets in fully."
For the next hour, they worked together preparing mustard plasters and steam inhalations. Michael followed Claudine's instructions precisely, his hands steady even as worry for his longtime employee showed in his eyes.
"Will he recover?" he asked when they had done all they could for the moment.
"His youth and strength favor him," Claudine replied. "But this illness is unpredictable. We'll know more by morning."
As dawn approached, Jeb's fever finally broke. Claudine sagged with relief, accepting the cup of coffee Michael pressed into her hands.
"You should rest again," he urged. "I can manage for a while."