Heartland Courtship. Lyn Cote
straight to her lonesome heart. “Cousin!” She could say no more without tears.
Then he released her and his pretty blonde wife handed their little son to him and hugged her close. “We’re so happy you have come. It’s good to have family near.”
Rachel sensed a breath of hesitation in Sunny’s welcome. And Rachel guessed it must be because she knew of Sunny’s unhappy past. How could she let Sunny know she would never, never reveal what she knew? She wouldn’t tell anyone here that before marrying Noah, Sunny had borne a child out of wedlock.
“I’m so happy, Cousin Sunny,” she said with heartfelt sincerity. “I’m so happy thee and Noah look...good together.”
And they did. The two children looked happy and well fed. Noah looked healed, content and Sunny touched his arm with obvious affection. Then tears did come.
Maybe this place would be good for her, too. She realized that she did feel welcome, more than in her stepmother’s home where she’d been an unpaid servant instead of a beloved daughter. She tried to shake off the bittering thought.
At sounds behind Rachel, Noah looked up and frowned. Speaking past her, he asked sharply, “What are you men doing?”
“The captain say bring this man on shore to the doctor,” the black porter said.
Rachel swung around and saw that two porters were carrying an unconscious man, one holding his shoulders and one his ankles. A third porter followed with what looked like a bulging soldier’s knapsack.
“We don’t have a doctor here,” Sunny said, sounding worried.
“Well, then we suppose to leave him anyway,” the porter said, appearing abashed. “We got no one to nurse or doctor him and his fare run out two stops south.”
Rachel’s sense of right balked. “So thee’s just going to abandon him?”
The porters looked ashamed, helpless. “That’s what the captain order us to do.”
Rachel struggled with herself. She couldn’t take out her umbrage on these innocent men. She would tell the captain what she thought—
The boat whistle squealed. The porters gently laid down the shabby man and his travel-worn knapsack and then hustled onto the boat, which was already being cast free.
Within moments the boat was far from shore, heading north, the paddle wheel turning again. Rachel fumed at the departing craft as she dropped to her knees beside the man.
Thin, with a new beard and shaggy chestnut hair, he appeared around Noah’s age, in his thirties, and would have been handsome if not so haggard looking. Drawn to help him, Rachel touched his perspiring forehead. Anxiety prodded her. “He’s burning up, Noah.”
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