Chasing the Sunset

chapter FIVE



Maggie squinted down at the piece of cotton in her hands, muttering under her breath. She hated sewing. The finished results always pleased her, but the tedious up-close work tired her out worse than if she were working as a field hand. After she had ripped the stitches out of the very same spot five times, she threw the light lavender material onto a chair in disgust. She was just going to ruin the cloth. It was getting too dark for this. Kathleen had put the last stitch into Tommy’s clothes this morning, and she had promised to help her finish hers up tomorrow, anyway.

Maggie crossed her arms over her chest and flopped backwards down onto her bed, rubbing her bare feet back and forth against the coverlet, enjoying the way the soft, well-used material felt against her bare flesh. This whole week she had brooded over what she had overheard from those two malicious young women in the store.

Kathleen knew that something was wrong with Maggie, but she could not bring herself to pry. Maggie had seen her start to ask at least a half-dozen times, then bite the words back. She’d had an excuse all ready to give the other woman, but she was glad that she had not had to use it. Maggie did not want to lie to her, and she could not ask her about Nick’s wife. She wanted to know ... and she did not want to know, all at the same time.

Nick knew that something was wrong with her, too. Maggie was now the one who avoided his company and made excuses not to be alone with him. Even Tommy, that sweet little boy, could sense her tension. He had been especially nice to her these last few days, bringing her wildflowers that he had picked and nearly driving her wild by asking a hundred times a day if he could do something for her. He was only trying to help, but his constant presence was irritating to her right now. Maggie felt guilty about that; she knew that the boy was starved for affection, but she only wanted to be alone right now. She needed to think.

Maggie scowled and rubbed her forehead. Things were so very much easier when she did not trust anybody; she did not have to wonder what other’s motivations were, or worry about hurting their feelings. When everyone was suspect, they were automatically guilty. It made things so much clearer; if everyone was guilty, she did not have to choose.

She could not believe Kathleen would work here if Nick had really killed his wife. She was too honest for that, and she had too much respect for human life, and if her parents, who were moral, god-fearing people, even suspected that Nick had something to do with his wife’s death, they would not let her come here, either. Maggie also had a hard time believing that Ned would lie for Nick. He would defend to his dying breath an innocent person, but her father used to say that if he wanted the plain, bold truth, he would go to Ned. She knew in her heart that Nick was not capable of doing what those women had said, so what was her problem?

It was hard to trust when you had spent the better part of three years lying and being lied to. Once, she would have taken it all at face value, believing whatever she was told, but no more. That way of thinking had participated in her complete subjugation to her husband in her marriage. She could not go back to that earlier habit now, even if she had wanted to.

Maggie rolled onto her side and brought her knees up, pulling the pins from her silky hair and flinging them carelessly onto the bed beside her. She would find them later. She rubbed her fingers across her aching scalp, sighing in pleasure at the sensation. She rolled her neck around, trying to ease some of the tightness in her muscles, concentrating only on the way she felt. She felt the soreness ease just a little, and she sighed again and rolled onto her stomach, pillowing her

head on her arms.

She was going to have to ask Nick about it. There was no way around it. She had brooded over this all week, not talking about it, not talking at all if the truth be known, and she just could not do it any longer. She did not want to look at Nick and wonder, deep in her heart, if he was capable of such things. She had to know for sure, and she refused to go behind his back and ask other people.It had to do with Nick, and Nick alone could answer the questions that she had. She would ask him right now, as a matter of fact.

Maggie felt energized by her decision, and she jumped from the bed and rushed down the stairs barefoot, hair flying everywhere. She knew Nick was in the library, and she flung open the door. Nick looked up in surprise from his book, a lock of his dark hair falling over his forehead, and smiled absently at her.

“Hello,” he said. “Come to get a book to read? I just got some new ones in this morning from my cousins in Boston, and I am going through them now. Care to look at one?”

“No,” Maggie said breathlessly. “I want to talk to you.” She took a deep breath and blurted it out. “I heard some ... ladies talking in town while we were in the store. They said that you killed your wife by throwing her down the stairs.”

Nick stared at her a moment, then shut the book he was holding. “So that is what has been bothering you. You have been . . . different ever since we took the trip to Geddes. So you heard someone in the store said something . . . not Mrs. Jenkins, was it? I did not think she believed all that. She has never acted as if she did.”

“No, it was not. I overheard two women talking.”

Nick stood up, and Maggie curbed a desire to back up a step. That was an old behavior, and she had vowed to leave that old life with its limiting fears behind. His dark eyes were fastened on her face, and he took a step closer, and closer still. Maggie started to tremble, and she

shivered when he stopped right before her and raised a hand to tuck a long wisp of hair behind her ear.

“What do you think, sweet Maggie?” he murmured. “Do you think I pushed her down, or was it an accident?” His lean brown hand caressed her face, and Maggie knew it was not fear that made her breath come so rapidly, made her heart thrum and vibrate. Nick’s hand slipped to her slim white throat, closed gently around her neck. She could feel his breath on her face; he stood so close that she had to tilt her head back to see his face. His thighs touched hers, and Maggie ached suddenly at the contact. She felt liquid at the core of her; the heat from his body was melting her.

“Well?” he whispered. “What is the verdict, Maggie? Did I do it? Did I snap her neck and throw her down those stairs, or did she fall?” He pulled her closer with a hand on the small of her back and she went willingly, her body melting and contouring itself to his. He smiled devilishly and Maggie felt a need to put a finger in the deep dimple in his cheek, and so she did. He was hot to the touch, the skin underneath her fingers burning, and she let them trail away from his face, slowly.

“I do not think you could do something like that,” she breathed throatily, tilting her head back farther in anticipation of his kiss. She arched her back to bring her aching breasts to his attention, and he obliged her by cupping one rounded globe in his hand and gently squeezing the nipple between forefinger and thumb.

Maggie moaned, and the sound seemed to snap his control. He crashed his mouth down on hers, and Maggie opened immediately to him, their tongues dueling in a dark battle for

dominance. They drank from each other, Maggie’s arms going up around his neck, his locked tightly around her back. They could not get close enough. Nick ripped his mouth from hers to lave a trail of hot kisses down the sensitive skin of her neck. Maggie’s breath came in short, sharp pants now. She could feel his erection against her, and she squirmed and raised herself onto tiptoe to bring him into better contact. She groaned when his hands went to her buttocks and pulled her into place.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, Nick . . . “

He nuzzled her nightrail aside until the creamy flesh of her breast was available to his mouth, then took a nipple in to suck avidly. Maggie nearly screamed her pleasure, and Nick carried her to the nearest table, sweeping books out of his way with one violent motion. He lowered himself onto her, and Maggie wrapped her legs around him while he rocked against her, her nightrail riding up nearly to her waist. Nick’s hands found her naked flesh, and the friction of his trousers against the core of her had her crying out wildly.

“Maggie,” he breathed. “Maggie . . . “

Suddenly he lifted his head, then swiftly pulled her from the table. It took Maggie a moment to understand what had happened. She stared at him, still in a haze of desire.

“What . . . “

”Shh.” Nick put one finger to his lips, and Maggie could hear it now. There were footsteps in the hall, coming closer.

“Mr. Nick?” The tremulous tones belonged to Tommy. “I heard loud noises. Is everything okay?”

“I am fine, Tommy,” Nick called. “I just dropped a box of books. I will walk you back to your room, wait right there.”

Nick turned to look at Maggie. She hurt in the pit of her stomach, desire clenching there still, clutching her insides like a fist.

“Go to bed,” he said softly. “Do not be here when I get back, Maggie. I did not kill my wife.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “Nick, I . . . “

He put a hand up to the side of his head, his eyes hard as granite.

“Please, Maggie. Please go back to your room.”

Shakily, she nodded her head, and Nick turned on his heel and left. She could hear him talking to Tommy on the way up the stairs, and when she peeked out, Nick’s arm was around Tommy’s too-thin shoulders, his dark head lowered close to Tommy’s blond one. He was listening intently to whatever Tommy was saying. She smiled to herself at the two of them, one so light and the other so dark, their very posture telling a story about the affection each held for the other. Nick was a good man. Even if his wife had given him reason, he would not have hurt her. Something inside of her had always known that. The murmur of their conversation got farther and farther away, and Maggie slipped up the stairs. There was one other thing she wished she had asked Nick, though. Maggie grinned broadly as she crawled into her bed.

What was it about the library that made him feel so amorous?



Kathleen held up the lavender dress and admired her work. She had just finished bordering the low, square neckline with dozens of purple lace rosettes, putting tiny stitches in the delicate lace with infinite patience. Maggie thought that they looked beautiful. She had picked a simple, austere pattern for her dresses; they were all plain and functional, falling straight from the bodice to the floor, their only concession to fashion a ruffle around the bottom, and Kathleen had kicked up a fuss when she saw what Maggie intended. She had brought a collection of lace and furbelows from home, and practically forced Maggie to add them to her new dresses. Maggie picked up the blue that reminded her of cornflowers and hugged it to her, scarcely able to believe that it was hers.

“This is going to be somewhat cooler than that horrible thing you are wearing right now,” Kathleen said matter-of-factly. “I would put it on if I were you. It is hot, and we are going to roast in the kitchen today.”

“Oh, I could not,” Maggie protested. “It is too pretty to wear for everyday.”

Kathleen looked at her in exasperation, and put her hands on ample hips. “Put it on, Maggie. What is the point of denying yourself? This one has short sleeves and a lowered neckline, and you know you are dying in this unseasonal heat. It is September, for heaven’s sake, it is supposed to be cooler now. I know that I am dying from the heat, and my dress is a lot cooler than yours.” She cast a disparaging glance at Maggie’s attire. “And a whole lot prettier, too.”

Maggie dimpled at her. “You make me sound silly, Kathleen, when you put it like that. I will wear it.”

She shucked her clothes easily, naturally in front of Kathleen and pulled the light purple dress over her head, doing up the buttons hurriedly. She tied the sash behind her as she stood in front of the ornate, full-length mirror Kathleen had moved into her room when they had begun their sewing.

The simple lines of the dress suited her, and the small touches Kathleen had added to each one, though just little things, made the dresses beautiful. Maggie could remember vividly the last time she’d had a new dress; it had been when her parents were still alive. The dress had been a beautiful brown velvet with lace cuffs, and she had loved the way the velvet felt when she touched it, like the warm living pelt of some small animal.

Kathleen smiled at her from over her shoulder. Maggie felt a smile come bursting out from deep inside her.

“I look . . . pretty, do I not?”

Kathleen laughed, a deep, throaty, from-the-belly laugh that made Maggie’s smile stretch even broader.

“You look beautiful, Maggie. You have put on a little weight since you got here, you are not wearing some awful dark color that washes all the color from your skin, and you are happy. You are beautiful.” She shook Maggie by the shoulders for emphasis as she said the words.

“I am,” Maggie said wonderingly. “I am beautiful.” She twirled around suddenly, the material of her dress making a bell around her slender figure. She curtseyed, dropping her eyes demurely. “No, sir, I cannot dance with you. My dance card is full. Perhaps the next time you see me out. Pardon me? You are dying with love for me? Oh, well, in that case . . . “She dipped and twirled with her imaginary partner, Kathleen leaning against a dresser in paroxysms of laughter. “Da dadum, da deedum, dada . . . .”

“Let’s get lunch started before your lover takes you away,” Kathleen said, grinning. “I

do not want to have to feed all those hungry men alone.”

They started down the stairs, still laughing, arms hooked together. Nick watched from his study, eyes brooding. The breath seemed to stop in his chest when he saw Maggie in a full frontal view.

She was so beautiful, good Lord, she was beautiful. She made him ache. Lavender muslin hugged the curves of her lush figure, as he had longed to and couldn’t, and the pastel of her dress emphasized the shining brown of her hair. She had it twisted up in some kind of chignon, a complicated thing that he remembered seeing on some of the women in Geddes, but it had not looked as good on them. Her hair seemed to have a life of its own; tendrils had come undone and swirled around her face, little wispy strands that caressed the sweet curve of her cheek. Light shimmered on the silky strands and seemed to hang there, as if it could not bear to leave. She seemed to glow; the sunlight loved her and betrayed its devotion by lingering on her finely cut features. Her pert little nose and full sensuous lips drew his gaze, and he remembered how sweet it had been to drink from the beautiful curve of those lips. She looked feminine, and lovely, and soft, and he wanted to go to her and haul her against him right now; he wanted to drag her into the nearest room and love her the way the sunlight did. All over. He felt his stomach clench with the force of his desire.

Nick cursed himself silently, and escaped back into the study, taking care to shut the door noiselessly. She was like a fever in his blood. He took a deliberately slow, deep breath, trying to ignore the pounding of his pulse. He hated this wanting; hated this heat that struck him like a blow whenever he saw her. One glimpse of her, even sweaty and rumpled after working in the kitchen all morning, made him hard. He had seen her that way yesterday, and he’d had a sudden urge to lick the salty sweat from her whole body. He’d had visions of stripping the gown from

her body and laving every salty-sweet inch of her with his tongue. He’d had to leave the room when she smiled at him.

He raised a hand to his brow, and frowned at the heat he felt there. He felt dizzy all of sudden, and sat down in the heavy, carved chair behind his cluttered desk. Just what I need, he thought savagely. On top of it all, I am coming down with the ague. He frowned blackly. He did not feel that bad. He would just take it easy for the day, and he would feel better tomorrow.

He was not better the next day. He was worse, his stomach rolling and tossing all morning, as a matter of fact, and Kathleen and Maggie had taken one look at him as he sat down for lunch at the long table with the rest of the help, and ordered him to bed. He had protested, and they had shooed him up the stairs as if he were ten.

By that night, Tommy was complaining of a headache, and when Maggie put a hand to his forehead, the heat of him seemed to sear through her palm. In two hours, he was delirious, vomiting, and trying to get out of bed, and an hour later Nick was just as sick and just as delirious. She had Ned help her move another bed into Nick’s room, and moved Tommy in for convenience. She was wearing herself out running from room to room, and they were both sick with the same illness, anyway.

Maggie sent Ned for the doctor with white-hot fear burning a hole in her heart. Their fever was climbing despite the cool water she was bathing them with. She had thought for a while that she was going to have to tie Tommy into the bed, but she’d finally got him to stop trying to crawl out, and both her patients had dropped off to sleep. Both were fretful, tossing and turning, and Maggie did not know how long her respite was going to last.

Nick moaned softly, and Maggie was right there with her cool cloth.

“Ssshhh,” she murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

Nick felt her slender fingers stroking the hair back away from his forehead. Everything was hazy to him; it seemed as if her voice came from a long way away. His eyelashes fluttered, and her hands stroked down his chest and arms, lulling him with the cool and pleasing texture of the towel she had soaked in water. The fragrance of eucalyptus drifted up and tickled his nose.

“Just go back to sleep,” she whispered. “Just keep on sleeping . . . I found some herbs in the pantry and I made an infusion from them. They must have been your mother’s. I remember my mother using some of them. This one’s good for lung fever and it will make it easier for you to breathe. Just sleep now, go back to sleep and rest. You need to rest, Nick. It is very important.”

He struggled to open his eyes, then gave up the fight. He did not really want to wake up; he wanted those soothing strokes to keep on happening. The sensation of her hands on his skin and the smell of the herbs was the last thing he remembered before falling into a fretful sleep.

***********************************************

The doctor frowned as he leaned close to Tommy’s chest and listened to him breathe. Maggie caught her breath when the small line appeared between his bushy, gray eyebrows. He pried Tommy’s eyelids up and made a small hmming noise as he stared at the boy’s red, bloodshot eyes. Tommy’s skin was flushed and he shivered occasionally despite the blankets that covered him. When the doctor finished with Tommy and propped Nick’s mouth open to look at his tongue, the small frown had become a large one, and Maggie’s heart thudded with terror as he watched the labored rise and fall of Nick’s chest.

The only sound in the room was the twin rasp of breath as both Tommy and Nick struggled to draw air into their lungs. Maggie was afraid to speak, afraid to ask questions, because she was afraid she did not want to hear the answer. When Doctor Fell closed his black bag with a definite snap, he looked at her gravely and she followed him into the hallway. As she walked behind him, she noticed how slowly he was moving, as if every step was a hardship, and she wondered how long he had gone without sleep. He was in his late sixties, at least, and he was too old to doctor this whole county alone. Maggie had heard, through Kathleen, that Doctor Fell had someone coming from back east to help him with his patients; she wished that whoever he was would get here now.

Maggie pulled the door shut behind her.

“Mrs. Reynolds, have you ever had yellow fever?” Doctor Fell asked bluntly, rubbing a calloused hand through his disordered, thinning hair. “Because I am very much afraid that is what they both have, and half of the county with them.”

Maggie swayed and put a hand on the wall to steady herself. The other hand crept to her throat in sudden, paralyzing fear.

Yellow jack!

People died with yellow jack, many, many people. She remembered her mother telling her how she herself had contracted it when she was only a toddler, and how they had been frantic with worry, thinking that she might die. But she had been blessed with a strong constitution, even as a young child and she had pulled through, though it had been a close thing.

“Yes, when I was a child,” she said very quietly.

“That is very good,” said the doctor grimly. “That means that you probably will not get it again. Keep everyone else out of this room, indeed out of this house if possible, unless they’ve already had the fever. Yellow fever is highly contagious, and if we can quarantine enough of the sick, perhaps it will pass quickly.” He looked at her from underneath his shaggy brows. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Maggie said faintly. “Yes, I am fine. Tell me what to do.”

“They are both in the second stage of the disease. They are going to vomit up everything they take in, but you must keep forcing liquids down them. Diarrhea is inevitable, and they need the fluid, and every drop of water you get them to drink is helping to keep them from dehydrating. They are going to have, if they do not already, tremendous pain in their backs and their limbs, a headache, and a stomach ache.”

“Yes,” Maggie murmured. “Tommy said that he had a headache.”

“It is going to last for a day or two, then they will be a little better, except for maybe the vomiting. Their stomachs will be sensitive for quite a while."

He put his hand on her arm. “This part is very important, Mrs. Reynolds. You must keep them in bed at least two more days after the symptoms cease. If the symptoms return, the rapid breathing, the headaches, then you have to prepare yourself for their death. They will get the black vomit, their temperatures will go tremendously lower . . . and they will get weak. There is one blessing, if you can call it that. It will go quickly for them, then.”

Maggie nodded, her face white. “Do I need to give them anything? Can you leave me any medicines to help them?”

He handed her two small bottles. “Keep a small fire going in their room and a big pot of water boiling on it all times. The moisture from the boiling water will help them to breathe more easily. This is quinine, and this other is laudanum, for the pain. They can both be mixed into water. Do not mix them with too much, just a tablespoon or two, or you might not get all the medicine down them. Both are bitter, especially the quinine, and they might fight you, so have someone here to help you when you dispense it. It is very important that they take it all.” Maggie listened intently as he explained to her exactly how much of the medicines to administer and when.

“I have to go now,” he told her. “I have a lot more places to go. If you think that you are starting to get sick, get someone immediately, because yellow fever moves fast. You will not have much time.” He put a hand on her arm again, and Maggie felt no menace from him, no desire to run away from his touch. That she felt no fear of the doctor was due partly to the two lying sick in the other room, and she made a sudden, fierce vow to herself. They were not going to die, not if she had anything to do with it.

“They both have a strong constitution, and that is in their favor. Keep them comfortable, and give them lots of fluids, even if you must dribble it down their throats a drop at a time. Good luck,” he told her, and Maggie saw him out. She sent Ned, who had also had yellow fever before, to tell Kathleen and the others to stay away for the next couple of days.

She lost count after that of how many times she sponged Tommy and Nick off, dripped water down their throats one agonizing drop at a time. She cleaned up diarrhea, mopped up after sick stomachs, soothed their anguished apologies as one or the other of them regained consciousness for brief moments. Late that night, aching from exhaustion, worried near to tears,

she pulled a pillow and blanket in between their beds and tried to catch a few minutes of sleep. She was afraid to go to her own room and sleep for fear of one of them worsening, so she curled up on the hard floor and tried to get comfortable.

She was up and down all night, dozing briefly between caring for them. Sometime early in the morning Ned came back and tried to urge her to go and get a real rest. She refused, saying that she had slept a little bit while he had been on the back of a horse all night.

“Go sleep for a few hours in one of the bedrooms,” she told him. “You are going to have plenty to do around here, with no other help coming to the stables. You can spell me for a while in the morning after you tend the horses.”

He was hesitant, but she insisted and sent him on his way, then she went back to sponging and pouring water down reluctant throats. Ned relieved her for three hours later in the morning, and Maggie used the time to eat and prepare some broth to feed her patients with, and some other food that she and Ned could grab quickly. She got a small nap, then grimly went back to the sickroom. Nick seemed a little better, his breathing not so rapid. He was able to sit up and drink some of the lemonade she had made while she was downstairs.

“Cold,” he whispered as he gulped from the cup she held for him. “Good.”

“I went and got some of the ice from the icehouse,” Maggie said quietly. “I figured as hot as you were, it would taste good to you.”

He smiled at her, then laid his head back down on the pillow and went to sleep, his lashes fanning out across the black circles that ringed his eyes. Maggie spent another interminable night, an unspoken prayer in her heart. She could not lose these two, she could not.

By noon of the next day, Nick and Tommy were well enough to sip some broth. They kept

it down, too, and drank all of the water that Maggie provided. They were just weak now, a little nauseated, but Maggie refused to let them up beyond using the chamber pot. She remembered what the Doctor had said, and she did not want them to relapse.

The next morning, Nick tried to get out of bed, and Maggie forced him back, grinning at him as she put her hands on her hips. Tommy giggled from the other bed, and Nick glared at him before turning his disturbed gaze on Maggie.

“What are you so happy about?” he grumbled. “Glad you have got me weak and can order me around?”

“If you are well enough to start complaining, you are going to be all right,” she said tartly. “In the meantime, do as you are told. I have worked hard to get you well, and I do not want you sick again.”

Kathleen came over in a buggy, and Maggie opened a downstairs window to talk to her from a safe distance. Nobody had come down with anything at her house, and even though she knew she should stay away, she told Maggie that she just had to come and see how everybody was faring over here. Doctor Fell had told her that two of the men who worked for Nick were sick as well, she said gravely, and one of them had already lost two children to the yellow jack. Maggie cried a little bit at that, then waved an equally teary-eyed Kathleen off home, and went to nap while Ned took her place in the sickroom. She was on the edge of exhaustion; she knew she had lost weight these last two days because her clothes were hanging on her, loose in places they had not been before.

She heated some water and washed herself, thinking absently that she would wash Tommy and Nick’s hair for them this afternoon. She had just finished braiding her hair and pinning it up when Ned came to tell her that Tommy had diarrhea again and was complaining of another headache.

Maggie leaned her head down and rested it on the coverlet, letting herself dissolve into easy tears. Tommy had worsened quickly. Maggie had Nick, who was still feeling better, moved to another room and told Ned to take care of him; then she took over the sole care of Tommy. Doctor Fell came again and stood at Tommy’s bedside and stared somberly down at him after a cursory examination.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Reynolds,” he said heavily. “There is nothing else to do. Keep him as comfortable as possible, keep putting liquids down him and giving him the quinine, and pray. It is in God’s hands now.”

Maggie did not sleep at all that night; she was too busy sponging Tommy down, giving him sips of lemonade and apple cider, and talking to him. All night, she kept up a running one-sided conversation, until her voice was little more than a cracked whisper.

“You are going to get better, Tommy,” she told him over and over. “I want you to concentrate. You can hear me, I know that you can. You are going to get better, you listen to me now. Do as I say.”

It was morning now, and Tommy was still tossing and turning, moaning in his sleep and curling up into a ball as he tried to escape the pain in his joints. he black vomit had not come yet, and Maggie was heartened by that. Surely that meant he was on the mend, surely if he was going to die, he would be showing these other symptoms. She told herself that over and over, and she told it to Tommy, too.

She knelt now beside his bed. She was tired, so tired. She wiped away the weak tears that coursed down her face and turned her head as she heard the door creak open. Nick stood silently in the doorway.

“Go back to bed,” she told him wearily. “You are not better yet and you should not be here.”

“Doctor Fell told me that I could get up for short periods, and I wanted to see how you were.” He crossed the room to stand at her side. “He also told me that Tommy is not any better,” he said quietly.

Maggie refused to look at him. “He is not any worse, either.”

Nick put a hand on her shoulder. “Go and take a break, Maggie. Ned can watch Tommy for you. There is no sense in killing yourself.”

“No,” she said, and set her lips together mulishly. “I will not.”

She heard his gentle sigh.

“Maggie.”

She cut her eyes toward him. Nick had seen eyes like that once on a mountain lion he had cornered by mistake. He wanted to back slowly away, just like he had done that time. He would not have been surprised to see a tail behind her that twitched slowly and dangerously, just like the one that had been on the cat.

“You cannot keep him from dying singlehandedly,” he said anyway, knowing as soon as the words left his mouth that they were a mistake. Maggie surged to her feet and faced him defiantly, trembling.

“Do not say that,” she warned between clenched teeth.

“Say what?" he persevered despite his instincts. "That Tommy is sick enough to die?” He scrubbed a hand over his face, and Maggie noted dispassionately that he needed a shave badly. “He is, Maggie, and pretending that he is not is not doing anybody any good, least of all you.”

Maggie felt something give way in her chest. The days without sleep, the dreadful fear that she had lived with for days, her own inability to do anything for Tommy all rose up in her and combined to form the purest, hottest rage she had ever felt. Her heart pounded and her hands shook with the force of the wrath that snaked through her whole body. She had not felt this angry in years, not even when she had her whole life stripped from her by that worm who had called himself her husband. She had not had a temper tantrum since she was a small child.

But she was about to have one now.

She reached blindly for the closest object and hurled it at him. Nick ducked, and the pitcher exploded into a hundred shards as it hit the door behind him. The bowl that had been beside it was destined for the same fate, only it hit the wall as Nick moved and she adjusted her aim. At any other time, Maggie would have laughed at the comical expression on his face.

“He is not going to die! He is not!” she screamed. “Don’t you tell me that, you . . . you . . .” and Maggie screamed the dirtiest, vilest word that she knew at him, her fury a palpable thing.

“Maggie,” shouted Nick, and then they both turned incredulously as a small voice spoke behind them.

“Miss Maggie, you threatened to wash my mouth out with soap when you heard me say that after that horse stomped on my foot.”

The voice was hoarse, and weak. Tommy’s eyes shone at her from the bed, glassy and crusted with sleep, but they were open, and he was coherent. Maggie ran for the bed, putting a shaking hand on Tommy’s forehead. He was warm, not hot, and he was sweating.

“Do you feel sick to your stomach?” she asked anxiously. “Does your head hurt?”

“No,” he said, and smiled wanly up at her. "I heard you, Miss Maggie," he whispered. I heard you talkin’ to me all night. I heard you the whole time, telling me to get better."

Maggie sank to her knees, feeling her energy run out of her like water from the pump. She began to cry, great, wrenching sobs that shook her whole body with their force. She lay her head on Tommy’s stomach, her hands clutching great fistfuls of the blanket, his small hands awkwardly patting her back and stroking her hair, his weak voice entreating her not to cry. That only made her cry harder, and she did not stop crying even when Nick lifted her to her feet and escorted her to her room.

She cried when he ordered her to go to sleep. She cried as she took off her clothes and put on her nightrail. She cried as she crawled underneath the coverlet and laid her head upon the pillow. Even after her exhausted body had succumbed to sleep, her chest jerked with occasional spasms and more tears spilled down her cheeks.