Chapter 13 #3
I took a deep breath and paused, studying her face before my eyes tracked down to the curve of her belly—just barely showing at nine weeks. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t lose them. Not after all this. Not baby too.
“But I got attached,” I said after a while.
“I fell in love with you. With how smart you are, how quick and sharp. With the way you look when your curls are loose and disheveled in the morning. With the way you talk about the sunset and the owls and even the cacti like they’re some kind of invaluable gift.
With that little scrunch between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating.
With the way you smell when you sleep on my chest. And I’m so sorry it took me so long to say it.
And you had every right to wait as long as you did to forgive me.
But you did. And we’re gonna be okay now. Right, love?”
Sorcha didn’t respond. Of course she didn’t.
So I just pulled her closer and felt the tiny movement, barely stirring, of our baby against my hand.
And for a heartbeat, everything froze—the river, the night, even the fear.
I could have imagined it. I definitely imagined it.
I didn’t care. Because that tiny movement was the only sign of life I had, and I clung to it.
“So you can’t die on me,” I choked out, fighting tears. “You won’t.”
I was still holding her like that when Ansel strode back into camp, followed closely by a young man in uniform carrying a medical satchel bigger than his entire torso.
“He can help?” I asked.
“I bloody hope so,” Ansel muttered. “Pass Sorcha here. Out of the river. Can’t do anything more to help with her in there.”
Ansel took Sorcha’s limp, burning body and started back toward camp.
Letting Sorcha out of my arms hit like a physical blow.
The sudden cold of the river water felt like a corpse against my chest after all that time spent clutching her feverish warmth.
I told myself it was just the contrast, reminded myself she’d still been breathing when I put her in Ansel’s arms, and fought back the urge to vomit as my gut protested at letting her out of my sight, even for a fleeting moment.
It took a conscious effort to keep the panic out of my voice as I climbed out of the river and hurried after.
Ansel settled Sorcha on a blanket near the fire, and I watched as he deftly tucked Sorcha’s hair over the pointed tips of her ears before waving the young medic over.
“I’m gonna stoke the fire,” Ansel said. “Have a go at it.”
I swallowed hard as the boy knelt by my wife’s unconscious body.
“Tick bite a few days ago,” I told him. “We got it out, but she already had a rash. Fever’s been getting worse by the day. We can’t get her to rouse now.”
The young man gave a nervous, sympathetic smile then rested the back of his hand against Sorcha’s forehead. He pulled away quickly, like he’d touched a hot coal.
“Too high,” he muttered, not looking at me. “She should be dead.”
I swallowed hard, my jaw clenching.
“She’s pregnant,” I managed.
The young man just nodded.
“We had half a dozen in our company bitten and ill on the trek out from Missouri,” the young man said. “I’ve had luck with cactus paddles then yarrow. But we’ll need hot water for the tea.”
“I’ll fetch it,” I replied, casting another quick glance at Sorcha before fetching our kettle and heading to the fire.
Ansel and I stood on the other side of camp, waiting for the water to boil while surreptitiously keeping an eye on Sorcha and the soldier. The young man had pulled off the last of Sorcha’s clothes then pressed the pulverized flesh of cactus paddles to her neck, armpits, and groin.
“He says the fever’s too high,” I said, “that Sorcha shouldn’t be alive.”
“If she were a human she’d have been dead hours ago,” Ansel replied.
“Even young as she is she can still take more than a mortal body,” I agreed.
A long moment passed with no sound but for the crackling of the fire.
“And do we think that—what, cactus and yarrow is going to be enough to help her?” I felt myself spiraling, but Ansel cut me short.
“Listen, lad.” Ansel’s voice dropped, steadier now, quieter, almost reassuring.
“The medic’s doing his work. He swears up and down he’s nursed at least half a dozen humans through tick-borne fevers in the last few months.
Not to mention dysentery, typhus. Unless you’ve got magic I don’t know about, this is our best chance at saving them.
So shut your mouth. Brew the tea. And be bloody grateful.
Now sit. You stand and you’re gonna start pacing. No need to fray my nerves more, boy.”
I reluctantly obeyed and settled down on a log Ansel had pulled up near the fire.
“What do we do now?” I asked. The panic was wearing off. Desperation setting in.
“We get her better,” Ansel answered simply. “And then we keep going for Houston.”
“How?” I pressed. “Relapsing fever—it relapses. She’s gonna get sick again. Ansel, she was already sick enough from the baby before this.”
“We get her on a horse. We get her into a town. And we hole up there until she’s better,” Ansel said.
“And if she’s too sick to ride?” I asked.
“We carry her,” Ansel replied. “Water’s boiling. Better take it to our healer. Yarrow takes a long time to steep.”
“Brew the tea,” I repeated to myself. “That’ll help. Just make the tea and we’ll see where this takes us.”
Ansel patted my shoulder and steered me back toward Sorcha and the medic.
Sorcha was still unconscious.
“Cactus won’t bring it down anymore,” the young man said. “You have to wake her up and give her the tea. If she keeps drinking that she’ll sweat it out in a few hours and pull through. If not . . .”
Ansel knelt beside Sorcha’s still-shivering body and took her hand.
I stroked my fingers through her hair and repeated her name, hoping somehow it would work.
Then Ansel dug his finger into Sorcha’s nailbed.
Hard. Sorcha grimaced, and her hand tensed and twitched like she was trying to pull away. I froze. What the hell?
“She’s still with us,” Ansel murmured. “But we’re gonna have to try harder to bring her around.”
“What are you doing?” I tried to ask, but before I’d even gotten the words out, Ansel took Sorcha’s ear between his fingers and twisted. She stirred, grimaced harder, tried to pull away. But still her eyes stayed closed.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, batting Ansel’s hand away.
“Waking her up,” he replied. “Like the healer said.”
“You don’t have to hurt her,” I insisted.
“I’m sorry. But I do, son,” Ansel snapped. “You want her to live? Or you want to head back to Scotland to tell your dad and the Courts you let the new High Lady—not to mention your own damn wife—die on your watch? Eh? Unborn heir gone right along with her?”
I took a deep, shuddering breath. The medic watched us both from the edge of camp.
“Hurry,” was all he said.
I stepped back, sat down, clasped my hands tight in front of me.
“Go ahead.”
Ansel tried again with her fingers and then with her ear. It hurt her. That much I could see. But she wasn’t waking up.
“Stubborn girl,” Ansel huffed. “Even half dead she’s not making this easy on me. I’m surprised she hasn’t summoned a bear to come chase me away for hurting her.”
I tried to take solace in Ansel’s levity. I failed. And settled instead for digging my nails into my palms to try and steady myself.
“Do you have to be so rough?” I finally bit out.
“Rough gets results, son,” Ansel said. “Speaking of—this one might make her yelp. But it’ll work.”
Ansel didn’t wait for a response before he dug his knuckles into Sorcha’s sternum.
She arched her back, whimpered, and, blessedly, opened her eyes.
I leapt from my seat and cradled her head on my knees, letting Ansel’s steadier hands coax her to drink the tea.
She wasn’t focusing, wasn’t really with us, but as Ansel tipped the liquid into her mouth then ran gentle fingers along the side of her neck, she swallowed.
Once. Again. A third time. I looked up to the medic, whose face had relaxed just a fraction.