He shook his head, resting his forearms on his knees. “No food. We’ll stop at noon to eat. I’ll keep ’til then.” Leaning over the side of the stone, he scooped white snow into his drinking pouch. “I didn’t mean to drink all the water. This was supposed to be for us both.” Corking the top, he held it out to her. “If you’ll keep this near you, the snow will melt into drinking water.”

  She followed his instructions, and within minutes, he lifted the poles to raise her up in the air again. Her splint jarred against a rod, sending a shooting pain through her leg. Clenching her jaw, she pulled the braced leg away from the pole and tucked a fur between the two.

  But as they progressed, the steady bumping and sudden jolts ate away at her fortitude, and the pain began radiating through her body again. Especially through her skull.

  Micah didn’t stop for hours. And as much as she wanted to ask for a break, if she unclenched her jaw to speak, the moans wouldn’t stay inside any longer. Her pain built up inside, pressing hard until she might explode. She’d stopped fighting the tears and let them stream down her face, as long as she could keep quiet.

  They’d been traveling downhill for a while, a condition that tilted her rearward in a way that felt as if she’d tumble back on her head. One more reason to cling to the rails.

  At last, Micah slowed to a weary halt.

  The travois jolted and dropped, and she clenched her jaw tighter to hold in a squeal. Had he stumbled?

  “Are you hurt?” She twisted to see him.

  He’d dropped to his knees, his head bowed, even though the straps binding him to the poles held him upright.

  “Oh, Micah.” This was too much for him. How could she have forced him into this torture? Like the ancient Egyptians forced the Israelites into backbreaking slavery, she’d insisted this man haul her over countless mountains to accomplish her mission.

  Her whim would save many lives, but would that be worth the cost of his own? As he knelt in the snow, his breath coming in hoarse gasps, his head lolling forward, she could believe he would work to his last breath to accomplish this journey to which he’d committed.

  “Micah, come take a drink. Then stretch out on this fur and rest.” She struggled to gather one of the pelts covering her and spread it out on the ground.

  The contraption under her shifted again, jostling, then lowered to the snow. He struggled to his feet, then trudged around to her and sank onto the fur she laid out.

  His handsome face flushed red, with lines of sweat streaking the sides. His damp locks curled in a mass of unusual angles where he’d probably attempted to swipe sweat and hair out of his face. He stretched out on his back, the manly scent of hard work drifting from him.

  “Drink some water.” She offered the pouch, its leather sides warm from where she’d held it against her shirtwaist.

  He didn’t open his eyes, just took the canteen, uncorked the top, and raised it to his lips. He lay within reach of her—so close she couldn’t help but notice the strong contours of his face. His countenance wasn’t angular and rough in the way of many men. Even with his beard, each part of the whole seemed like a piece of artwork, coming together to form an appearance so attractive, she’d need to protect her heart from becoming enamored with him.

  He was her physician. A savior who appeared in her darkest hour and now performed his professional duty to treat her wounds . . . and carry her to a distant mountain settlement to save the lives of people he didn’t know.

  So, maybe he was a bit of a hero, too.

  Micah’s legs ached, yet he forced one step, then another, as he gathered firewood that evening. Surely his body would adapt to the extra load after a day or two, and the entire trip wouldn’t be as hard as today.

  He’d first thought to eat cold meat and leftover corncakes he’d brought with them, but a stew would be better. Warmer for Ingrid, who couldn’t seem to shake her shivers as the evening chill settled over them, and more nourishing for them both.

  As he reached for another rotting log, a bit of gray appeared underneath it. Mushrooms this late in the season? Probably the log had kept the spores protected. He carefully scooped the largest of them. This was definitely the variety he ate through the summer, and they’d been a good source of energy. An excellent addition to the stew pot.

  One more log finished his load, and he headed back to where he’d left Ingrid in their camp at the edge of the woods. She’d not complained once today, but her pallor and bloodshot eyes proved the ride had been painful.

  He should brew some willow tea with the evening meal, and extra for her to drink through the day tomorrow.

  She cracked her eyelids when he approached, and he tried to ease his load down quietly so he didn’t startle her with the clatter.

  “What can I do to help?” Her words seemed to issue through clenched teeth, as though she were biting down on her pain.

  “Just rest. I’ll have the fire going soon, then I’ll start supper.” As he knelt beside the area he’d cleared for the blaze, the little dog rose from Ingrid’s side, stretched each hind leg in turn, then ambled toward him.

  As Micah laid out the tinder, the dog sniffed his hand. “You wanna help with the fire?” The pup licked him, then stared up into his face while wagging that curly tail.

  Micah raised a brow at him. “I don’t think you’re old enough to play with fire.”

  The dog cocked his head, as though trying to make sense of Micah’s words. He might be a perfectly useless little shadow, but he was kind of cute.

  When he had a decent fire blazing, he pulled the pot from the supplies he’d strapped to the poles beside Ingrid.

  “If you bring your pack here, I’ll make the stew.” Ingrid’s eyes were open and she struggled to sit up. She still looked so weak, but lying there all the time was probably frustrating for her. She could cut ingredients into the pot and stir without injuring herself further. And he still needed to gather more firewood—enough for the night and a few pieces to carry with them in case he couldn’t find dry wood tomorrow night.

  By the time he finished the evening chores, Ingrid had the food ready. He sank onto a dry fur and took the mug she handed him. “Thanks. Sorry I don’t have a second cup.” Maybe he could carve one out of wood. But after they reached Settler’s Fort, he’d no longer need it, so that seemed like a waste of energy.

  And just now, he had no energy to spare.

  ten

  Micah woke to the sound of retching.

  His shoulders ached, his own stomach churning as the miserable noises continued. “I’m sorry.” He ached to take Ella’s pain on himself. Relieve her of her awful symptoms.

  Turning over in bed, he reached for her. But his fingers found only dirt. Cold, frozen ground.

  Jerking his eyes open, he sat upright as the sound of heaving filled the air again. He strained to see in the dim light. He was outside. A figure bent over, emptying her stomach a short distance away. Not Ella. Awareness washed over him.

  Ingrid. Was the pain from her broken leg so bad her stomach had to purge itself?

  Pushing the covers aside, he struggled to his feet, ignoring the sharp ache in every part of his body. His own stomach churned, leftover remnants from his memories, but he forced that aside, too.

  “What’s wrong, Ingrid?” His voice was groggy from sleep, but he stepped toward her and dropped to his knees beside her bed. Loose tendrils had escaped her braid, and he reached to hold the locks out of the way of her heaving.

  At last she stilled. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her back rising in rapid succession.

  He had no handkerchief to hand her. “It may help to wipe your face with clean snow,” he murmured. “I’ll go fill the pot if you like.”

  She shook her head and reached for a clean patch of white to follow his suggestion, then sank back against her blankets. Her face glowed white in the dim light of the moon, her eyes dark pools.

  A strand of hair covered one of her cheeks, and he brushed it away. Her skin was damp, clammy. Probably from the effort she’d just put forth, and maybe from the pain she endured, too. He rested the back of his fingers on her forehead. Not overly warm. At least there was no fever.

  He could feel the strength of her gaze while he’d touched her, and finally he looked into the deep recesses of her eyes, shadowed by the weak moonlight. “I’ll get some tea to help with your pain.”

  She shook her head, a bit of wildness in the act. Her hands moved to her midsection. “No. It’s not the pain that made me sick.”

  “What then?” Could this be a common illness?

  “I started feeling the discomfort not long after I ate.”

  His muddled thoughts came into focus with a clarity that made his own stomach churn. Could the meat in the stew have gone bad? He used the beaver he trapped the morning before. He’d taken every precaution, adding plenty of salt to the meat, keeping it packed in snow until he was ready to roast it.

  The roiling in his gut surged, sending a pang so uncomfortable he jerked upright. This was more than worry churning his middle. He had to get to the woods posthaste. “I’ll be back.”

  And as he sprinted through the trees, jumping a fallen log, the thought flitted through his mind. Could it be the mushrooms?

  The night lasted forever.

  Between his own trips to the woods, he sat beside Ingrid to help ease her misery. If only he had some ginger to settle her stomach, or black cohosh to remove the poisons he’d inadvertently fed her. When the vomiting came the second time, he rubbed gentle circles on her back while she heaved.

  That gentle stroking had soothed Ella in those last awful days. So much of this horrible night felt like he’d fallen back five years. He’d not meant to feed Ingrid toxic mushrooms. Just like he’d not meant to bring smallpox home to his wife and daughter. And now Ingrid had succumbed in the same way his family had before. All he could do was sit by her side and offer water. Let her body cleanse itself. What kind of doctor was he? This was exactly why he’d given up the work all those years ago.

  At least this episode didn’t look to be deadly. For that, the relief sank through every one of his bones.

  Another fact that brought him a sordid relief? This time, he partook, just a little, in the suffering. His own gut-churnings that sent him to the woods weren’t as painful as Ingrid’s, but at least she didn’t have to bear the full weight of his misdeeds alone.

  The effects of the mushrooms seemed to have subsided by the time dawn lightened the sky. After making sure they both downed another cupful of water, he crawled back to his bedroll and tucked inside. He’d need to get them moving again soon, but he wouldn’t last a day of pulling without a few hours of sleep.

  The sun peaked at the noon zenith by the time he helped Ingrid onto the travois. She sent him a smile that lit her weary face and thawed something inside him. Through all she’d endured—this last bit at his own hand—it was a wonder she could still muster a look that hopeful.

  He slipped off his buffalo skin coat before strapping on the poles and raising Ingrid into the air.

  “Do you think it will snow?” Her muffled words drifted over his shoulder.

  Lifting his gaze to the low-hanging clouds, he searched for the sun. Only a spot of light brightened the clouds through the thick cover. The air seemed colder than it had in the night, too. “Probably.”

  And it turned out he was right. The icy flakes that drifted down several hours later were a cooling relief from the sweat rolling down his face. He pulled another hour or so while the snow thickened. The sky turned ominous as early evening neared.

  He had to find a place where they could camp under the shelter of trees, but he’d been climbing the face of a mountain for a while now, and nothing larger than bushes and boulders poked above the snowy expanse.

  A half hour later, he crested the slope and spotted a cluster of three trees ahead. That would have to do. The snow had risen almost to his knees, and still fell in a thick curtain. Tomorrow he’d need to strap on his snowshoes. The well-padded ground probably made Ingrid’s ride smoother, so he couldn’t be sorry for the extra depth—not much, anyway.

  When he reached the downward side of the trees, he sank to his knees, lowering the travois to the snow. “This looks like the best spot to camp.”

  She didn’t answer, and he worked his way out of the straps so he could turn and check on her. The buffalo hide was pulled up to cover her face completely, sending a jolt of fear through him. “Ingrid? What’s wrong?” The fear rang in his voice as he scrambled back to her side.

  The fur lowered to reveal her eyes. “Nothing. I’m just c-cold.” Her teeth chattered, making the words stutter.

  What little that showed of her face was pale, and her eyes seemed drained of life. He reached for the covering and pulled it down so he could see the rest of her features. Even in the dimming light, he could see the bluish tint of her lips. “Oh, Ingrid.”

  He pulled the fur back up to cover her nose, then reached for his own coat laying on the supplies above her head. After tucking it around her as much as possible, he placed both his hands where her arms should be and rubbed. He had to get a fire going, then he could work to encourage her circulation.

  Even after he cleared snow from the area, the wet ground made building a fire achingly hard. They were high enough on the mountain that a steady wind cut through the area, dousing his flame every time he managed a spark with his flint and steel.

  By the time he finally had a small blaze licking at the dry tinder he’d packed, darkness shrouded them like a thick fog. He cleared more snow for Ingrid’s bed, then helped her move to the spot.

  Her entire body trembled with cold, and he thought for a moment of pulling her close, trying to use his own body heat to warm her. It might come to that, but first he needed to find the right-sized stones to place in the fire to heat as bedwarmers, then he’d work to get her blood flowing through all her limbs.

  While pushing aside the snow, he’d found a couple of fallen limbs that would make decent firewood once they dried out. He used his hatchet to cut the wood into smaller pieces, then placed them around the fire to dry. The logs he’d carried with them would last until these new pieces were ready to burn. Hopefully. By the time he had everything ready, Ingrid may well be frozen stiff.

  At last, he settled himself beside her. Her face peeked out the side of the furs, buried in shadows. “Are you feeling warmth from the fire?” He settled his hand on the bump of fur that must be her shoulder and arm.

  “A little.”

  “I’m going to work on getting your blood flowing better.”

  The fur shifted as she nodded. “G-Good.”

  He rubbed her arms through the furs for a few minutes, then took one of her gloved hands out from the cover to knead and stroke, forcing the blood to her fingertips. After tucking the fur tight again around her upper body, he moved down to her feet.

  She still wore leather boots, and he removed the one from her good foot. The leather was thin, and she only wore a simple woolen stocking underneath. No wonder she was freezing. The wind blowing in from all sides as she hung suspended on the travois would make the chill worse, especially with the dropping temperature and snow. Thankfully, the falling flakes had ebbed to a few drifting down every now and then.

  He wrapped his hands around her stockinged foot, feeling the intimacy of the touch more than he should. Her feet were slender and fine-boned, as was the rest of her. Underneath the wool, they were likely elegant—as much as any foot could be.

  Forcing the image from his mind, he focused on working his fingers through the muscle to draw blood down to her extremities.

  She sucked in a breath when his thumb worked up to her toes. He softened his touch. Surely she hadn’t contracted frostbite. Not this soon. He’d need to check for that later. And she needed much better protection on her feet than those thin leather boots. They were clearly more helpful for fashion than protection against the elements.

  Little by little, he worked his fingers over the appendage, pressing into her arch with his thumbs, working each toe by turn. After several minutes, she seemed to relax, her muscles softening.

  “I never thought I would enjoy someone touching my foot.” Her words held a relaxed sound. Not the stammering produced by chattering teeth. Finally.

  As he worked, her words wove their way through his mind. She enjoyed this touch? Something about the thought warmed him—maybe more than it should. But at least he wasn’t bringing her pain now.

  After another minute or two, he cupped her foot in both hands and gave a final gentle squeeze, then pulled the fur over her again. He gathered two of the blankets he’d retrieved from the site of the wagon crash, then toed a rock from the fire. These blankets had been too flimsy to use in place of the thicker furs, but they’d do nicely for wrapping her feet.

  He swathed the limb he’d rubbed in the thick layers of fabric, then tucked the hot stone beside her where the blanket would protect her skin.

  “That feels . . . wonderful.”

  “Good.” Because what he did next would likely make her forget all the pleasant sensations.

  Turning to her left foot—the injured leg—he carefully unfastened the buttons and eased off the shoe. She didn’t make a sound, but he could feel the tension in her.

  “I’ll be as gentle as I can, but we need to get the blood flowing through this leg.” I can’t let you lose toes. He clamped his jaw to hold in that last thought.

  As careful as he was not to shift the position of her foot while he kneaded her muscles and worked her toes, he had no doubt he was causing pain. For that, he hated every second of his ministrations, even though this was for her good.

  Finally, he wrapped her foot in the second blanket, then stood and kicked another stone from the fire to tuck beside this foot.

  With that done, he straightened, his gaze roaming the length of her. She needed warm food now, and maybe some willow tea. He was running low on his supply, but he had enough for tonight and tomorrow morning. Hopefully, he’d find a creek with a willow growing alongside as they traveled tomorrow, so he could replenish their stock.

 

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