Hanna’s head lolled like a broken doll’s, but he had to get the tea down her. Cradling her in a sitting position with one arm around her shoulders, he lifted the cup to her lips. But she made no effort to drink it. Desperation surged in him. She had to help herself. If not, he was going to lose her.
“Blast it, Hanna, if you won’t drink this for yourself, then do it for your baby. He’s all right now. But he won’t be if you don’t help him.”
Something flickered in her eyes—determination, maybe, or at least understanding. She took a sip of the tea, grimaced, then took more until most of it was gone. Then he held her and waited.
“Bring her in here. We’re ready,” Sarah’s voice called from the kitchen. Leaving the blankets on the couch, he lifted Hanna in his arms. She whimpered as he carried her through the swinging door. Tendrils of golden hair clung to her face. Her hair was damp, but her skin was hot and dry from fever.
His mother and sister had fashioned a makeshift tent by laying some blankets and a canvas tarpaulin over a framework of high-backed kitchen chairs. Pots of water were steaming on the stove. Blake knew what had to be done. As a boy, he’d gone with his mother to treat patients who were suffering from fever and congestion. The improvised tent would be filled with steam from boiling hot water. The patient would stay inside, breathing the moist vapor, until the fever broke and the congestion cleared, a process that could take hours, or even overnight.
If the patient was a child, or too weak to sit in the tent alone, someone else, usually a parent or spouse, would have to sit with them.
Blake didn’t wait to be asked. “I’ll hold her,” he said. “You two can keep the steam coming.”
* * *
Shirtless, his skin beaded with sweat, Blake sat on the low stool that had been placed under the makeshift tent. Hanna rested sideways across his knees, her damp head resting in the hollow of his throat. On the floor around them, pans of boiling hot water filled the cramped space with steam.
Outside the tent, in the kitchen, Sarah and Kristin rotated the pans, reheating the water and passing it under the quilts.
Where his hands supported her, Blake could feel Hanna’s heart beating. He could hear the congestion in her lungs when she breathed and coughed. Steaming like this, to loosen the phlegm, was a last-resort measure. More often than not, it saved lives. But Blake could remember times with his mother when it hadn’t. He didn’t want to think about those times now.
Hanna’s nightgown was soaked from the steam. Her wet hair clung to her scalp, but her skin was still dry and feverish. If she were to start sweating, that would be the best of signs. It would mean the fever had broken. Blake had given her more tea that his mother had passed to him. But so far, nothing had helped.
He had long since lost track of how much time had elapsed. More than once, he’d heard his father come into the kitchen and ask, “How is she doing?” Blake hadn’t heard his mother’s reply, but he could picture her shaking her head.
Even Shep, the crotchety part-time cook and housekeeper, had stopped by to ask after her. In her time here, Hanna had managed to charm the old curmudgeon—something no one else in the family had succeeded in doing.
Sitting here in the steamy darkness, his mind knotted with worry, it was all too easy to forget that tonight was Christmas Eve. In the parlor, the fresh-cut pine tree, decorated with tinsel and handmade ornaments, wafted its fragrance through the house. Wrapped presents were piled beneath it, including little toys and garments for the baby. Pies, breads, and cookies, baked earlier in the day, sat on the counter, ready for tomorrow’s feast.
Blake had looked forward to bringing Hanna home to celebrate with his family and letting her open the presents they’d chosen for her and the baby, some of them ordered from the Sears catalog and shipped by train. He knew she’d felt out of place here, but maybe the gifts would help bring her a sense of belonging.
But now she was battling for her life and her baby’s. If she lost that battle, there would be no keeping Christmas. Instead, they would be planning a funeral.
And my life would be empty, with a hole in my heart that would never heal.
“I’m sorry, Blake.” Her raw voice, straining with every word, startled him. “I didn’t mean to cause you so much trouble. But Alvar loves that old mare . . . I couldn’t let the wolves get to her.”
“Hush.” Blake kissed her burning forehead. “Just get well. That’s all that matters now.”
“No, listen . . . I need to say this.” She pushed away and sat upright to face him. In the dim light, the shadows below her eyes were dark pools. “If I don’t make it, I want to thank you. You saved me and my family from dishonor. You gave me a beautiful wedding and a fine home.” She paused, coughing. The sound of her ravaged throat and lungs tore at Blake’s heart. Moments passed before she was able to speak again. “I can’t fault you for not loving me. It makes what you did even more of a kindness. . . .” Her voice faded.
“Blast it, Hanna, you mustn’t talk like that.” Blake reined back the impulse to shake her. “You’re strong. You can fight this.”
“I want to believe you . . . but I’m so tired.” She settled back against him with a sigh. “Talk to me. Give me something to listen to—a story.”
He waited while Kristin’s hands pushed a pan of steaming water under the edge of the quilt. “What kind of story would you like?”
She nestled her head beneath his chin. “Tell me about your family,” she said.
So he told her the story as he’d heard it growing up—how young Joe Dollarhide, working as a wrangler for Benteen Calder’s cattle drive, had met a pretty girl in Dodge City and promised to see her again; how he’d narrowly escaped death in a stampede, joined the outlaws who’d saved him; and how a bullet and the kindness of old friends had brought him back to Sarah; then how he’d left her again, not knowing she was pregnant with his child.
Hanna lay against him, her eyes closed, the sound of her labored breath growing fainter. Was she giving up? Was he about to lose her?
“Hanna?” His heart slammed. “Are you all right? Say something.”
She stirred with a faint murmur. Her hand found his and lifted it to her face. Her skin was cool and damp with perspiration. The fever had broken.
Two months later
After a frigid winter, the land was experiencing its first mid-season thaw. Nobody doubted that the storms would return, but the sound of water dripping from the eaves was as sweet as music to the ear.
People who’d been shut in since Christmas hitched up their buggies and headed to town or to visit friends. Flocks of blackbirds fed on the newly exposed fields of wheat stubble. Coyotes and buzzards fed on the carcasses of the cattle that had perished in the snow. Ranchers rode out to check on their herds and count their losses.
Hanna stood at the parlor window, gazing out at the melting snow. She was alone in the room. Blake was with the cattle. Kristin was upstairs. Sarah and Joe had taken the buggy to town. Hanna would have enjoyed a trip to town herself, but nowadays, that was out of the question. Now that her pregnancy was showing, there were too many prying eyes and wagging tongues.
Hanna’s recovery had been long and slow, her congested lungs taking weeks to clear. But as Blake had said, she was strong. Once the fever had broken, she had been eager to return to life and look ahead to the birth of her baby.