His gaze rested on the woman on the bed, who seemed to be sleeping blissfully through their quiet conversation. “She taught us all, saying a man should know how to care for himself.”
Catherine couldn’t argue with that. “My father had a similar philosophy. He said a woman should be able to fend for herself if needed.”
“Yet he never taught you to shoot?”
He seemed generally puzzled by that. Catherine smiled. “There’s not much call for hunting near Boston, at least not for food. I suppose parents try to teach their children what they need to survive in their own environment. I wouldn’t expect your mother to teach you how to dance.”
“There you would be wrong.” Even in the dim light she could see his smile. “Pa used to play the fiddle, and Ma said if she didn’t teach us boys to dance, she’d never have a partner.” His smile faded. “Not that she needs one now.”
Catherine had never been one to offer false hope, yet she couldn’t help rushing to assure him. “We’ll make sure she gets well.”
Her words must have sounded as baseless to him as they did to her, for he said nothing as he pushed off from the hearth. He gathered up the dishes and disappeared down the stairs once more.
Catherine sighed. That exchange was simply a reminder of why it was better to stay focused on her task of nursing the patient, not on the emotional needs of the patient’s family. She had found ways to comfort grieving loved ones before her father and brother had been killed. Now she felt hurts too keenly.
She tried to listen to Mrs. Wallin’s breathing, which seemed far more regular than her own, but from downstairs came the sounds of dishes clanking, the chink of wood on metal, the splash of water. It seemed Mrs. Wallin had taught her sons to wash up, as well. Their future wives would be pleasantly surprised.
She expected him to return when he was finished, but the house fell quiet again. She added another log to the fire, then checked her patient once more. All was as it should be. The wooden chair didn’t seem so hard; her body sank into it. The warmth of the room wrapped about her like a blanket. She closed her weary eyes.
Only to snap them open as someone picked her up and held her close.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as Drew’s face came into focus.
He was already starting for the stairs, head ducked so that it was only a few inches from hers. “You fell asleep.”
Catherine shifted in his arms. “I’m fine. Put me down. I have work to do.”
Beth had sat up in bed and was regarding them wide-eyed as he started down the stairs. “Let Beth watch Ma for a while. I’ll spell her shortly. We’ll send for you if anything changes.”
He reached the bottom of the stairs and started across the room as if she were no more than a basket of laundry destined for the line. “I can walk, sir,” she informed him.
He twisted to open the door. “That you can. I’ve seen you do it.” He paused on the porch to nod out into the darkness, where the only light was the glow from a few stars peeking through the clouds. “But our clearing isn’t a city street. There are tree roots and rocks that can trip you up in broad daylight. I know the hazards. Best you let me do the walking.”
She hadn’t noticed that the space was so bumpy when they’d arrived. Indeed, it had seemed surprisingly level; the grass neat and trim. Very likely the goats cropped it. Still, she didn’t relish tripping over a rock and twisting her ankle. She hardly wanted to stay at Wallin Landing a moment more than necessary, and certainly not long enough to heal a sprain.
So she remained where she was, warm against his chest, cradled in his arms, as Drew ferried her across the clearing to another cabin hidden among the trees. Her legs were decidedly unsteady as he set her down on the wide front porch and swung open the door to enter ahead of her. She heard the scrape of flint as he lit a lantern.
The golden light chased the darkness to the far corners of the room, and she could see a round planked table in the center, set over a braided rug and flanked by two tall solid-backed chairs. A little small for a knight of the round table, but cozy. As if he thought so, too, Drew’s cheeks were darkening again, and he seemed to be stuffing something white and lacy into the pocket of his trousers.
“There’s a washstand and water jug in the corner,” he said, voice gruff. “The necessity’s between the two cabins.”
In a moment, he’d leave her. Perhaps it was the strange surroundings or the lateness of the day, but she found herself unwilling to see him go. Catherine moved into the room, glanced at the fire simmering in the grate of the stone hearth. As if he was watching her, expecting her to find things wanting, he hurried to lay on another piece of wood.
“Should be enough to see you through the night,” he said, straightening. “But I can fetch more from the woodpile if you’d like.”
Was he so eager to leave her? “No need,” Catherine said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. You could answer one question, though.”
She thought he stiffened. “Oh? What would that be?”
“Who’s Mary?”
Now she waited, some part of her fearing to hear the answer. His face sagged. “My little sister. The one who died. Ever since Ma took ill, she’s been asking after her. We think maybe she’s forgotten Mary’s gone.”
His pain cut into her. She wanted to gather him close, caress the sadness from his face.
What was she thinking?
“She’s delirious,” Catherine told him. “It’s not uncommon with high fevers.
He nodded as if he understood, but she could see the explanation hadn’t eased his mind. She should think of something else to say, something else for him to consider, if only for a moment. She glanced around the room again. Her gaze lit on the ladder rising into the loft. Oh, dear. Her hand gripped her wide blue skirts.
“Is that how you reach the sleeping area?” she asked, hoping for another answer.
“There’s a loft upstairs,” he said, “but the main bed’s there.” He pointed toward the fire.
What she’d taken for a large cupboard turned out to be a box bed set deep in one wall. The weathered wood encircled it like the rings of a tree. Catherine wandered over and fingered the thick flannel quilt that covered the tick. Blues and reds and greens were sprinkled in different-size blocks, fitted together like a child’s puzzle and stitched with yellow embroidery as carefully as her father’s sutures.
“Ma made that when I turned eighteen,” he explained, a solid presence behind her. “Those are pieces of every shirt she ever sewed for me. Waste not, want not.”
How could she possibly sleep under something so personal? Catherine pulled back her hand and turned. “Perhaps I should stay with my patient.”
He took a step away from her as if to block the door. “Beth and I can handle things. You deserve your rest.” He nodded toward the bed. “She left you one of Ma’s clean nightgowns, I see. If you need anything else, just holler.”
Yell, and have nearly a half dozen men appear to help her? Some women
