So many questions assaulted her, yet she focused on praying as her spirit guided. No, not her spirit. The Father’s Spirit. The One who knew, even now, where Micah was and what he needed.

  Bring him back to me, Lord. Safely.

  Micah forced his puffy eyelids open, but all he saw was darkness. He reached out, and his hand brushed the dried underside of an animal skin. No wonder he couldn’t even find the stars; he was still in the cocoon of furs he’d made for himself.

  When had he finally fallen asleep? It seemed like he’d lain awake for hours, his body convulsing with cold as his mind wandered through his past, sometimes skipping forward to Ingrid. Were she and the others safe? He had to push on today. Had to deliver the vaccines and send people back to help them.

  When he peeled the covering off, a blast of cold air hit him, and he pulled the furs tight around his shoulders. He had to force himself. Grit his teeth and push as hard as he had to.

  Moving was excruciating. And by the time he rolled his blankets and strapped on his pack, he’d begun sweating, his head lighter than it should be. He reached for a tree to steady himself as the world seemed to sway. He’d have to find a stick to use for support as he walked.

  He made it the first hour on the trail by sheer determination. Perhaps he should have tried to eat, but his stomach felt like it would cast back up anything he tried to swallow down. He needed to drink more water, though.

  He’d been traveling mostly downhill, and when he reached the valley at the bottom, he allowed himself to stop and rest on a fallen log. He didn’t dare drop the pack from his back, because he might not get it back on. But he did scoop snow and press some to his forehead. The rest he stuffed in his mouth for water.

  Sweat ran in rivulets down his face, and he could feel more streams inside his coat. They didn’t stop the shivers, though. Maybe his convulsions were made even worse by being wet inside. Not that he could do anything about it.

  He propped an elbow on his knee and dropped his forehead into his hand. Oh, God. I can’t do this.

  His strength seeped out of him with every passing minute. How would he make it for days more? He had no idea whether it would be one day or five. Or maybe longer. The thought made him want to sink to the ground and curl into a ball.

  What were the chances another traveler would come along and find him? Someone with a sled and team? Not as likely as his chance that a mountain lion would track him. Or maybe wolves in need of a fresh meal. Or maybe the smallpox would take over, consume him like it had consumed every good part of his life.

  Every part except Ingrid.

  He couldn’t let that happen. People were counting on him. The town needed the vaccines. And the woman he loved needed him to return for her.

  Yes, loved. The certainty in his chest flooded a peace through him that eased some of the ache. Faced with the possibility of death, his thoughts were so much clearer now.

  He did love Ingrid Chastain. If he recovered and if she’d have him, he’d take care of her for the rest of their days—however long or short they be, whether in Boston, Settler’s Fort, or somewhere in between.

  If she’d have him. When she was back in the safety of her normal life, she might regain her senses.

  He pushed to his feet. Still, she was counting on him. And so were the people of Settler’s Fort.

  He wouldn’t let either of them down. Not while there was one ounce of fight left in his body.

  twenty-five

  By the time darkness fell, Micah’s focus had narrowed to his next step and his next breath. Just one more. Then another.

  Pain and convulsive shivers flooded his body, but there was no way to escape. Blackness circled his vision, and his body dripped with sweat.

  He should stop for the night. Every part of him begged to sink to the ground. But if he did, he may never rise. Could he push on through the night? His body would give out eventually, and he would have less chance of surviving at that point.

  I don’t know what to do, God. Help.

  Help. He’d offered up that single word to the Lord more times than he could count today. Maybe that’s why he was still on his feet. Still able to move one foot, then the next. Pretty sure each step would be the last.

  A dark shape appeared at the edge of his focus, just off the side of the road. A shelter? He paused, sucking in another icy breath. A few strides off the road sat a deserted branch lean-to, covered with snow. Yet it’d been built deep enough that a patch of ground inside was dry.

  He stumbled toward the structure. Was this God’s way of telling him to stop for the night? The shelter was better than he’d expected. A stack of wood sat inside, probably damp from the elements, but at least not covered with snow. He needed a fire desperately to warm himself.

  He also needed to get out of these sweat-soaked clothes, but there wasn’t much help for it. He’d brought nothing else with him.

  After easing the pack to the dry ground, he unrolled his furs and laid them out. Then he took some dried meat from the pack and let himself sink to the bed pallet. He had to eat, no matter how much his body resisted the food. No matter how tired he was.

  In truth, he was too weary for anything. As the last of his strength slipped out of him, he curled up on one fur and pulled the others over him.

  Was this the same agony Rachel and Ella had suffered? And his other patients? Maybe God had truly made the best choice by taking them on to heaven. Finally bringing them peace from this torment. He could almost imagine Rachel skipping down those streets of gold. Swimming like a beaver in the crystal lakes of heaven. Her red curls drying like a halo as she sat at the Lord’s feet. Happy once again.

  His throat worked, swallowing down the lump that formed.

  God had done what was best for his girls. But he must have something more for Micah here on earth.

  He could only pray that included Ingrid by his side. Lord, protect her and the others. And please make me well so I can help them.

  There was more he wanted to ask. So much more on his heart, but before he could summon the words, exhaustion took over.

  “What is it, Ingrid?”

  Ingrid pulled her gaze from the fire to look at her friend but tucked her arms tighter around herself. For the second morning in a row, she’d awakened with a knot churning in her middle, a weight on her chest so heavy she had to work to draw breath. “Something’s wrong with Micah. I don’t know what to do.”

  Joanna dropped to her knees beside her. “Do you have any idea what’s happened?”

  Her friend probably thought she’d lost her senses. Or thought she was just worrying overmuch. Was this merely lovesick concern?

  No, her spirit craved prayer. A sense of danger still lingered from when she’d awakened two nights before. This had to be God’s insight.

  “I don’t know what’s happened. I just feel this urgency to pray. Or should we pack up and go to him? Do you think he needs our help?”

  Joanna regarded her with the expression she wore when she was thinking deeply. “You think this feeling is from God?”

  “I do. I just don’t know what to do about it.” And the weight of her fears were enough to drive her to distraction.

  “If God’s leading you to pray for him, then that’s what you should be doing.” She spoke with such a matter-of-fact tone, but the words didn’t penetrate Ingrid’s muddled thinking at first.

  “It seems like I should do something. Maybe he needs us to come?” She squeezed her eyes shut against the image that had assaulted her when she awoke that morning. “What if he’s lying somewhere in pain? Unable to help himself. Freezing to death.”

  “Do you think God’s directing us to go to him?” Joanna’s tone remained so calm.

  Ingrid pinched her lips. She couldn’t say that urging was from the Lord. It felt too much like her own desperation. She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But . . . I don’t know.” How could she leave Micah to die? Surely God would want her to help him.

  “Then let’s proceed with what we do know. We’ll pray for Micah. Until he returns or God tells us differently, we’ll lift him up to God’s care. Perhaps there’s someone else God wants to send to him.” She turned to her son. “Samuel, come pray with us. Mr. Bradley needs God’s help.”

  Someone else? The thought slugged Ingrid in her already-queasy middle. But that was fine. However God chose to accomplish the job, she would be thankful.

  As long as Micah lived.

  “Fella, you need to wake up. I’m not so sure I can hoist ya in the saddle.”

  Micah struggled to obey the man’s words, to push his eyes open. They felt swollen shut. His mouth was as dry as a rock in the summer sun, and he struggled to work up some saliva.

  Hands shook his shoulder, making him realize that wasn’t the first time they’d jostled him. He had to wake up. Shivers no longer racked his body, but every part of him ached, even his eyelids. Focusing on that pain helped pull himself fully awake.

  “There ya are. Fine now. Let’s git ya on the mule and on home. From there, we can take the wagon in to see the doc.” The blurry outline of a man hovered over him.

  Home. A wagon. A doctor. The words settled through him like warm coffee. Did that mean he would live?

  The man gripped his arm again and pulled. The movement shifted his muscles, making his body scream.

  He gritted his teeth against the agony and forced himself upright. The already fuzzy world spun, sending bright flashes through his vision. He couldn’t hold in a groan as he worked to contain his roiling stomach. What little he had left in his belly worked itself up to his throat. He breathed deep to keep it down.

  “I know yer awful sick, son. That’s why we gotta get movin’.”

  Squeezing his eyes shut against the spinning, he rolled onto his hands and knees. With the old timer’s help, he found his feet, then stumbled forward. His vision didn’t spin so much now, and he could make out a chestnut-colored mule.

  They reached the animal, and Micah clutched the saddle to keep himself upright. Why was he so weak? And the dizziness still had his world askew.

  “Sure wish Isaac was here.” The man’s mumbled words were almost too low to hear, but his next came out louder. “All right, fella. Let’s git you up in the saddle. On the count of three.”

  While the stranger hoisted, Micah clawed at the leather, fighting to pull himself up.

  At last, he draped his right leg over the horse, clutching the saddle to hold himself in place. The spinning resumed with fresh fury, and a dark circle edged his vision. His head seemed to wobble, and he gripped the seat tighter to keep from falling.

  “Hold on there, boy.” The man seized his arm with a hold firm enough to anchor him. “You are in a mess, aren’t ya?”

  “I’m fine.” He had to speak through gritted teeth, but it was time he recovered himself.

  “I reckon’ it’ll be fine to leave yer pack an’ furs here. One of us’ll come back for ’em later.”

  Pack. Urgency pressed through him, and he shook his head. They had to bring those vaccines. He was no good without them.

  “It’ll be fine, son. I’ll come back fer the stuff.”

  The saddle shifted as though the man was about to climb up behind him.

  “Wait.” The word wasn’t much more than a grunt, but the movement beside him stilled.

  “What is it?” The man’s voice seemed friendly, curious.

  “The pack. We have to bring it.”

  The saddle shifted again, this time like the man was letting loose of it.

  “Let me take a look an’ see how we can carry it. Anything in particular you need from it?”

  “The box.” He should get off and retrieve it himself, but his muscles had lost most of their strength.

  “Stay put, then.” The sounds of crunching snow signaled the man’s departure, and Micah let his eyes drift shut again.

  He could relax a little now without feeling like he would topple over. Good thing this mule wasn’t the nervous sort.

  “You think you can sit up there without fallin’ off?”

  The old-timer’s voice jerked Micah from a fog, and he clutched the saddle tighter as his body shook. He must have started to doze.

  “I can stay up.” Despite his actions thus far, he’d make sure he didn’t come off this animal. Even if he had to lash himself to it.

  The man was quiet for a minute, then he said, “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, if’n yer set on bringin’ this pack.”

  Micah forced a nod. “Yes.”

  The man hoisted the bundle up behind the saddle and tied it on. “All right, then. Hold on tight.”

  The mule started forward, and Micah gritted his teeth as he clung to the saddle. The natural rocking of the animal made him feel like he was pitching side to side, a sensation that might actually make him topple. He forced his eyes open to make sure he stayed upright.

  After a few minutes, his vision settled a bit, and he took the chance to study the man who led the mule. He couldn’t see much, just the back of his buckskin coat and fur cap. A queue of brown hair hung below the fur, mixed with enough gray to prove he wasn’t a youth, but not as much as Micah expected from the gravel in his voice. Pipe tobacco may have added the extra sludge in his tone.

  He had so many questions for the man, but his fading strength only allowed for one. “How far to town?”

  The fellow turned and sent him a glance without breaking stride. “About half a day’s ride at this speed. To our place, that is. Then a little over an hour to the settlement.”

  Today. They’d be there today. Then he could hand over the vaccines and get help for Ingrid and the others.

  Thank you, God. Against all odds, the Lord had brought him to the end. A miracle as sure as Gideon defeating an army with three hundred men.

  ———

  Strong hands gripped his arms, pulling him sideways.

  Micah clutched at the saddle, powerless to resist the grasp. The shivers had taken over again, convulsing his body and stealing his strength.

  “Careful there. He’s awful weak.”

  Arms hoisted him, dangled him. He forced his eyes open, struggled to work his mouth, but his jaw trembled so much he couldn’t get words to form.

  They swung him onto something hard. Wood. A floor? It must have been a wagon, because it surged forward, landing him against his side so hard he couldn’t contain a moan.

  The bouncing seemed to last for hours, agony surged through him in wave after wave. Death would be a welcome relief from the torture raging inside him.

  Except he couldn’t leave Ingrid. Her face appeared in his mind, and he clung to it. Her gentle expression. Those caramel eyes. Every part of her so beautiful it made him ache—the kind of ache he longed for. That ache could swallow him whole, stilling the torment inside.

  Keep her, Lord. Save her, and give her the wonderful life you’re preparing for her. He wanted to be part of it, more than his body wanted relief from this inferno. But a coolness settled in his chest, easing the blaze inside him, settling a bit of peace over the misery coursing through his body.

  Even if that wasn’t God’s plan . . . if He meant only for Micah to deliver these life-saving vaccines, then slip away, so be it. I’ll do what you want, Lord. My life is in your hands. He’d meant those words from that night before the fever took hold of him. Live or die, God could take the lead.

  Take me, Lord. Do with me what you will.

  twenty-six

  The hum of voices called to Micah, pulling him from the fog. Tugging him back to awareness. Back to the misery that leeched his strength.

  But those voices. The low timbre of men. He had to know who they were.

  His eyelids felt so puffy, he struggled to push them open. Finally, he forced a slit, then cringed against the blinding light. He turned away from the glare, groaning as he raised his hand to shield his eyes.

  “Looks like he’s awake.” One of the voices moved closer.

  The light was still too bright to focus on the man, but he opened his mouth to ask who the fellow was. Where they’d brought him. But so dry was the inside of his mouth that his tongue wouldn’t move the way he told it.

  “Here’s a sip of water. I’m gonna raise your head so you can drink.”

  A strong hand gripped the back of his scalp, lifting him. Cool tin touched his mouth. The man didn’t seem to have harmful intentions, so Micah sipped the liquid.

  Water slid over his tongue, cooling the parched areas, clearing away the cobwebs. He drank more, letting the liquid soothe him all the way down.

  “That’s probably enough for now. Don’t want it to come back up.” The man lowered his head back to the bed.

  Micah lifted his hand away from his eyes, still holding it overhead like a shield from the light. He could make out the man’s form now.

  He worked his mouth to form words, and this time his tongue cooperated. “Who are you?” His voice rasped as though his throat was clogged with sand.

  “Name’s Isaac Bowen. My pa found you on the road, and we brought you into town for the doc.”

  The words pulled a memory of him huddling in his furs, racking chills tormenting his body so much he felt halfway to the grave.

  But he was alive. And a glance around showed he was in some kind of bedchamber, nicer than any doctor’s clinic he’d seen. “Where am I now?”

  “The doctor’s place. He put you in one of his private rooms to keep you away from the smallpox patients. They’re lined up all over his clinic. Pa went to let Doc Stanley know you’re awake, but I’m not sure when the doc will be free to come.”

  A flood of thoughts surged through him with the man’s words. Did the doctor not think he was a victim of smallpox, too? The man must have been certain if he put him in private quarters. He brushed the side of his tongue against his gums. Where was the sore he’d felt before?

 

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