Lyn Cote - Heartland Courtship

Her cousin knelt on the man’s other side. “We can’t leave him.”

“Of course we can’t,” Sunny agreed, holding her little girl back from going to her father.

Rachel rose with new purpose. “I’ll help thee carry him, Noah.” She bent and lifted the man’s ankles and Noah quickly grasped his shoulders. They carried him to the wagon and managed to arrange him on a blanket Sunny kept under the wagon seat. Rachel should have had a harder time carrying a man’s weight, but he must have lost pounds already, not a good sign.

Some of the shopkeepers and customers had come out to watch and a few helped wedge Rachel’s luggage on the other side of the wagon bed along with the man’s knapsack. They kept a safe distance from the feverish, unconscious man, evidently fearing contagion.

A man whom Sunny addressed as Mr. Ashford said, “He doesn’t look good. Be sure you don’t catch this from him.”

Rachel understood this sentiment, but didn’t let it sway her. Her father hadn’t raised a coward.

Noah voiced what she was thinking, “We’ll do what we can for him. It’s shameful to just drop a man off to die.”

“Irresponsible,” Ashford agreed, though he backed away. “But not every river man is to be trusted.”

Rachel couldn’t decide if the man was speaking of the captain who’d abandoned the man or warning them that this man might do them harm—if he lived. Indignation stirred within her.

Noah helped Rachel up onto the wagon bench to sit beside Sunny. Rachel accepted Sunny’s sweet little girl to sit on her lap. Noah turned the wagon and headed them home.

Rachel’s attention was torn between the beautiful thick forest they drove into and the man moaning softly behind her. As they rolled into and over each rut and bump, she hurt for him. After traveling alone for weeks, she was moved by the man’s plight. If she had become sick, would this have happened to her? “What does thee think he might be ill with?” she asked Sunny.

“I don’t know. I have some skill in nursing the sick, but he might be...” Sunny’s voice faltered.

Beyond our help, Rachel finished silently. A pall hung over them and the miles to Noah’s homestead crawled by. Rachel mentally went over the medicines she’d brought with her and where they were packed. She questioned Sunny and found that her stock of medicines was meager, too.

Rachel closed her eyes, praying for this stranger, for all traveling strangers. The man’s dire situation overlaid her joy at arriving here. Pepin was her new beginning. Would it be this man’s ending?

* * *

Brennan Merriday groaned and the sound wakened him. He heard footsteps. Someone knelt beside him. A cool hand touched his brow. “I have broth and medicine. Open thy mouth, please.” A woman’s voice.

His every joint ached, excruciating. His body burned with fever. He couldn’t speak, didn’t have the strength to shake his head no. A spoon touched his lips. The only act he could manage was letting his mouth fall open. Warm, salty broth moistened his dry throat. Then something bitter. And then more broth. He let it flow into his mouth and swallowed.

He moaned, trying to lift his eyelids. Couldn’t. Swallowed. He began to drift again. A face flickered in his mind—Lorena’s oval face, beautiful as ever with black ringlets around it, a painful memory that lanced his heart. He groaned again.

The same firm voice summoned him back. “A few more mouthfuls, that’s all I ask.”

The gentle words fell soft on his ears. He made the effort to swallow again. Again. And then he felt himself slipping away.

* * *

Half asleep, Rachel sat in the rocking chair, the fire very low on the hearth, keeping a small pot of chicken broth warm. Every time the stranger surfaced, she spooned as much into him as she could, along with willow bark tea for his fever. She was trying to keep him alive till his fever broke.

Still he looked emaciated and beneath his eyes dark patches showed signs of his decline. Would she succeed? Or would they bury him without a name? The thought lowered her spirits.

She had cared for him around the clock for nearly a week. Weariness had seeped in as deep as her bones, but her overall worry, that they might bury this man never knowing his name, pressed in on her more. Noah had gone through the man’s knapsack but had found nothing marked with a name.

Even sick, the stranger beckoned. Something about him drew her—more than merely the handsome face obscured by a wild, newly grown beard and mustache and the ravages of the fever. He looked lost somehow. Would he remain a mystery? Who was he? Why had he boarded the same riverboat as she? Was some woman pacing, worrying about him?

She’d thought she would quickly put her plans for her business into motion. But once again the needs of others took precedence. Just a little longer. I don’t begrudge helping this man, Father. Her chin lowered and she slipped into that fuzzy world of half sleep.

A loud groan woke her fully. Pushing away the dregs of a dream about home, she sat up straighter and looked down. In the light from the hearth, she saw that the stranger was awake. And this time he opened his eyes. She quickly moved into her routine. She knelt by his pallet and felt his forehead. She pressed her hand there again. Was she imagining that he seemed cooler?

With the top of her wrist, she touched her own forehead and then his. She stared down into his dull eyes. “The fever has finally broken.” Cold relief coursed through her.

The man tried to talk, his dry lips stuck together.

She held up a hand. “I’ll get the broth.” Soon she spooned more into his mouth. This time he didn’t fall asleep while she was feeding him. His dark eyes followed her and for the first time she knew he was seeing her. This made her uncomfortable, being so close to a man, a stranger, performing an intimate task for him. Finally, the bowl was empty. “More?”

His head shook yes fractionally.

She quickly fetched more and fed him a second bowl, very aware of her disheveled appearance—though in his state he wouldn’t have noticed even crossed eyes. And their being very much alone, even though Noah and Sunny slept in the next room, affected her oddly, too.

When done drinking, he closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. “How long have I been delirious?” A Southern accent slurred the words.

“Nearly a week.”

“Where am I?” His voice sounded rusty, forced. His I sounded like Ah.

“In the home of my cousin Noah Whitmore in Pepin, Wisconsin.”

His face screwed up as if the news were unwelcome. Then it relaxed as if he’d given up some struggle.

He might still die. She must know who he was. She couldn’t explain the urgency, but she couldn’t deny it. “What is thy name?”

His eyelids fluttered open. He had the thickest dark lashes she’d ever seen on a man. She held back a finger that errantly wanted to stroke their lush upward curve. “I’m Brennan Merriday.”

She smiled down at him, relieved.

“What’s your name, miss?”

“I am Rachel Woolsey,” she said.

“Rachel,” he murmured, rolling her name around his tongue. “You’re a good woman, Miss Rachel.”

Words of praise, so rare, warmed her with satisfaction.

She thought again of a woman, looking for him, a hitch in her breath. “Does thee have family we can contact?”

“No.”

The way he said the word saddened her. She’d been without family since her mother died and her father had remarried.

She touched his forehead again, more to connect with him than out of necessity. Was her compassion carrying her off to more than it should?

“Miss Rachel,” he repeated. Then he closed his eyes.

She didn’t think he had fallen back to sleep. He’d closed his eyes to shut her out. Was it her question that prompted this or was he too weak to talk further? Though his fever had broken, he would need careful nursing before he recovered fully. She sighed long, not letting herself dwell on her own plans, already much delayed.