Chapter
8
What do you mean, she won’t see me?” Pieter glared at the matronly woman barring his path into the Harper’s Station clinic.
After his conversation with Claire yesterday, he’d believed she was going to give him a chance to win back her trust, to prove his dedication. He couldn’t believe she’d shut him out less than twelve hours later. It wasn’t her nature to be so mercurial.
“She’s quarantined herself in her room,” Maybelle Curtis explained. Circles darkened her eyes, and her hair frizzed out around her bun as if she hadn’t seen her bed in days. “Won’t let me in, just shoved this letter under the door and out into the hall where I could find it.”
The midwife pulled two folded pages from her apron pocket and handed them to him. Pieter scanned the familiar handwriting, his heart aching and then pounding in concern. Claire had been exposed to the measles and was taking precautions to contain the spread of the disease.
She mentioned a family called Clark, outlining the care she’d given them and instructing Maybelle to inform Emma Shaw of the danger so the town could be warned. All people not previously exposed to the measles should avoid the Clark house for at least three weeks until the fever and rash had fully dissipated.
Then his gaze caught on his own name.
Tell Pieter I can’t see him. If complications arise, I might not be able to care for Liam. The lad will need his uncle.
Pieter glanced up at the healer. “What complications?”
Mrs. Curtis sighed and took the letter back from him. “Measles is considered a childhood disease. Usually nonfatal.”
Usually. Pieter’s jaw clenched. He recalled having the measles as a boy. The fever, the rash, the itching. The disease had swept through the tenement the year before Claire’s family arrived. Hundreds of people had fallen ill. Many had died, including a little girl who lived two doors down from his family.
“Most adults are immune after having measles in childhood,” Mrs. Curtis continued, “but children under age five and adults not previously exposed run a higher risk of complications.”
“Like death.” The word nearly choked him.
“Unfortunately, yes. Lung fever can develop, or even a swelling of the brain. Claire is still young, though,” the healer hurried to reassure, “only eighteen. Usually the worst cases afflict those much older. She’s just taking precautions. In a few weeks this will be past, and all will be well.”
In a few weeks . . . Pieter frowned, his mind spinning with all that would need to be done. Claire might have quarantined herself, but there was no way he was going to leave her to fight this battle alone.
He hated to keep the weary midwife from the bed she obviously longed to find, but he needed one more thing before he could go. “Can I borrow some paper and a pen?”
Claire sat at the small writing desk in her room, penning a letter to her sister. She told Polly that Liam had arrived safely and gave her promise to care for him with all the love in her heart. She made no mention of measles, not wanting to cause undue concern. After all, there was a tiny chance she wouldn’t contract the disease.
Ten days. That was how long she had to wait, locked up in this room. If she had no fever, no ulcers in her mouth after that time, she could break the quarantine. Until then, she’d have to find a way to stay busy in this tiny room without going crazy.
At least she’d have plenty of time to finish Bertie’s bread cover. She glanced up at the dresser where she’d stuffed the bit of embroidery into the top drawer. A pang hit her chest at the thought of undoing the knots. Of cutting the threads—threads Pieter had likened to the ties that bound the two of them together.
She couldn’t snip those strings as if they meant nothing. They’d become a symbol, a talisman, almost.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty of time on her hands to start over on a new cloth. Bertie would still have her gift, and Claire would have her knots.
“Whist! Ye silly goose. Savin’ knots. Yer turnin’ into a sentimental fool, ye are.” And talking to herself, too. Goodness. The craziness had started already.
A knock on her door brought her head around. “Yes?”
“I’m headed to bed,” Maybelle announced through the door. The poor woman had been up all night with the birthing.
Claire dearly wished she could do more to help her mentor, but she dared not risk leaving her room for anything but the outhouse. And even then, she intended to wear a scarf over her mouth and nose. Thank heavens the Clarks were already isolated from the rest of town by a good two miles. She trusted Emma to get the word out and Malachi to enforce the quarantine. Harper’s Station would not fall prey to an epidemic on her watch.
The sound of paper sliding against wood brought Claire’s attention to the floor, where a white sheet was being pushed under her door.
“Your man left a note for you. Didn’t like me turning him away.” A soft chuckle filtered in from the hall. “Left here like a man on a mission, he did. All fired up, energy vibrating the very air. If I were a betting woman, which I ain’t, I’d lay good odds on him bein’ back sooner rather than later.”
Not knowing how to respond to Maybelle’s prediction, Claire remained mute. Slowly, she stood and collected the paper from the floor.
“Good ones are hard to find, Claire,” Maybelle said in a quiet voice. “If you’re blessed enough to find one, don’t let fear steal him from you. Hold on for all you’re worth.”
Claire’s grip on the folded page tightened without her even realizing it, crinkling it into creases.
“All right. Well . . . enough meddling. These old bones need rest. I’ll bring you a supper tray later this evening.”
“Thank you,” Claire finally managed.
She waited until Maybelle’s footsteps faded, then sat on the edge of her bed and unfolded the letter. A smile curved her lips as she saw only four short lines. Ah, Pieter. Never one to draw a conversation out with unnecessary words.
I’ll make sure Liam has everything he needs. Mrs. Curtis told me you won’t know right away if you have the measles, so I’m going to tend to some business in Snyder, then be back for you. We’ll fight this together, Claire. You’re not alone.
Pieter
A poet he wasn’t, but no amount of fancy verse could have touched her heart as deeply as those last few words. We’ll fight this together. You’re not alone.
He was knotting the threads again, and heaven preserve her, she longed to pull them tight.
Seven days later, the first ulcer appeared in Claire’s mouth. Two days after that, fever arrived, and with it, one stubborn Dutchman. No woman wanted her man to see her sweaty and ill or covered with a blotchy red rash, but Pieter would not be deterred. He barged into her private quarters and quarantined himself inside with her.
“Ye can’t be in here,” Claire protested weakly from beneath the thick pile of quilts that couldn’t seem to keep her warm. “Ye need to tend to Liam.”
Pieter crossed his arms over his chest and braced his legs apart as if he expected her to jump from the bed and physically push him out the door. As if she could move that solid oak of a man even when she wasn’t shaking with chills.
“We’re in a town full of women,” he stated as if she were the daft one, not him. “The boy has at least a dozen caregivers lining up to take turns with him. He’s fine. You’re the one I need to be tending.”
“But I’m miserable and grumpy and ugly as a speckled toad.” A coughing spasm interrupted her pitiful whining.
A strong arm supported her back and raised her to a sitting position. A glass of water appeared in front of her pouting, rash-covered face. After her chest stopped seizing, she lifted her gaze to his. Those golden-brown eyes. So serious, so intent. So full of compassion and love. She accepted the glass. And him.
“I can handle miserable and grumpy,” he said as she sipped the water, his eyes dancing slightly. “And while those spots do clash with your hair and hide the freckles I love so much, I can look past that.” He smiled. That sweet half-smile that lit up his eyes and made her heart melt.
When a bout of shivers wracked her body and set her teeth to chattering, he stretched out beside her on top of the covers, fit his body against her back, and curled an arm around her, tucking her close to his wonderfully warm frame. A sigh of pure pleasure escaped her as his heat seeped into her fever-chilled bones. She relaxed against him, the shivers slowing, then stopping altogether.
As sleep claimed her, only one thought penetrated her fevered mind—this was where she belonged.
A week later, Pieter stood with arms braced on Claire’s dresser, trying to dredge up the energy to shave. Mrs. Curtis had pestered him again this morning to get out of the sickroom and take in some fresh air. He’d refused, of course. Nothing was going to take him from Claire’s side while she was so ill. The midwife had dubbed him a muleheaded clodhopper, but she’d left, so he hadn’t thought any more about it. Until she barged in with a basin full of hot water and a demand that he clean himself up.
He bent down to peek in the oval mirror above the dresser. Thick, blond stubble covered his sunken cheeks. Dull, haggard eyes stared back at him. No wonder Mrs. Curtis had been harping. He looked like one of the disreputable fellows who loitered in alleyways behind saloons. Undernourished, unbathed, and beaten down by life.
How was he supposed to encourage Claire to fight for their future together, for her very life, when he looked half dead himself?
After a quick scowl at his reflection, he turned away and stripped out of his shirt. He soaped up a washrag in the basin, then scoured his skin, determined to be clean and fresh when Claire awoke. It might seem a small thing, but at this point, he’d take any advantage he could find.
She’d been growing steadily weaker and spent more of each day asleep, when she wasn’t coughing or scratching at her rash. Mrs. Curtis bathed her once a day and used talc to help battle the itch, but Claire still suffered.
Those beautiful blue eyes of hers had gone bloodshot and lost their spark. Her face had grown thin and pale, and her arms had weakened to the point that she couldn’t even hold up a book to read any longer. He read aloud to her, silently mourning the loss of the unflagging vigor and vitality that had always been her hallmark. The red spots on her skin were turning brown, which Mrs. Curtis claimed was a sign that the disease had nearly run its course, yet Claire’s cough only seemed to worsen.
Pieter prayed while he shaved, begging the Lord with every stroke of the razor to heal the woman he loved, to strengthen her body and her spirit. Please. I can’t lose her again.
“This fever is playin’ interestin’ tricks with me mind,” a voice rasped from behind him, “for I swear I see Pieter van Duren half dressed in me bedchamber.”
He turned, reaching for a towel to wipe the last of the shaving soap from his jaw, an embarrassed flush heating his neck. Where was his shirt? He scanned the floor, found the discarded piece of clothing, and held it up in front of him.
“Don’t go coverin’ up on my account.” She wagged a hand as she scooted around to lay on her side. On a diagonal. Facing him. Was she . . . trying to get a better view? “’Tis the best thing to happen to me since this dratted sickness started.”
Apparently so.
Pieter couldn’t quite tame the smile that crept onto his face. He’d never been a vain man, but he had to admit that knowing Claire admired his physique was rather invigorating.
Claire eyed him up and down, then her brow puckered into a small frown. “Why aren’t ye in Snyder? I thought ye had dairy cows comin’ in.”
Tossing the old shirt into a corner, Pieter let her look a little longer as he rummaged through his satchel for a clean one. “They came in last week.”
“Last week!” she screeched, then immediately started coughing. Hard.
Pieter ran to the bed and helped her sit up, alarmed at the way she grabbed at her chest. “Easy,” he crooned. He cradled her cheek against his torso, wrapped his arms around her, and rocked. “Don’t try to talk.”
As soon as the spasm relaxed, she pushed away from him and glared. “Don’t ye be tellin’ me not to talk, ye daft man. I’ll say me piece, and ye won’t be stoppin’ me.” The glare softened, and her hand clutched at his arm. “Please, Pieter, don’t throw away all ye’ve worked to build. I’ll be fine. Go to Snyder. Get yer cows. Set up yer dairy. I’ll bring Liam to see ye when I’m back on me feet again. I swear it.”
Her hand on his arm was warm. Too warm. He frowned. “I spent a few days in Snyder before your fever hit, remember?”
“I met a family at the church there who live just a mile down the road from my place. They got a boy, fifteen, who agreed to tend my cows and milk them twice a day. Told him he could sell the milk and keep the money as recompense.”
“Ye’re trusting complete strangers?” She sounded incredulous.
He couldn’t blame her. He’d never been one to delegate responsibility to others. He preferred doing things himself to ensure they were done right. This situation was far from ideal, but God had provided neighbors with a heart to help, and he’d stepped out in faith. He’d had no choice, really. He couldn’t be in two places at once, and he had to be here.
“The Muellers are good folks,” he said. “Their own farm is in fine repair, barn clean, animals well tended. My girls will be fine.”
Claire fell silent, and a tear rolled from the corner of one red-rimmed eye. “Ye chose me over yer future,” she whispered.
“You are my future, Claire. Nothing is more important to me than you.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been such a stubborn fool, Pieter. I’ve wasted so much—” Another spasm of coughing hit her. Harder this time. So fierce she doubled over and moaned at the pain.
Nothing Pieter did seemed to help. Holding. Rocking. He even tried lifting her arms above her head like his moeder had done for him when he was a boy. It did no good. She kept coughing, spitting up yellow phlegm, then started to wheeze. His heart pounded. Something was seriously wrong.
Suddenly her hand grasped his arm again. Nails biting into his skin. “Can’t . . . breathe . . .”
Pieter set her away from him and ran out of the room. “Mrs. Curtis!” he yelled at the top of his voice, praying she wasn’t out on a house call.
The sound of hurried steps shot relief through him. He headed toward the sound and nearly ran the healer down outside the kitchen. She jerked backward, blinked once at the sight of his bare chest, then moved around him.
“She can’t breathe,” Pieter said as he followed her back to Claire’s room.
“The fever’s moved to her lungs.” Her pronouncement shot terror into Pieter’s heart. Complications. “Bring the kettle from the stove. We’ll fill the basin and prop her head over it. Inhaling the steam should help calm the spasms.”
Pieter dashed back to the kitchen to fetch the kettle. Within minutes, Mrs. Curtis had Claire bent over the steaming basin, a towel covering her head and draping down over the bowl.
Gradually Claire’s breathing calmed, and with it, Pieter’s pulse.
“I’ll make a garlic paste to rub on her chest,” Mrs. Curtis said, more to herself than to Pieter. “I’ll fix a tonic of water, lemon, and cayenne pepper, too. If you can get her to drink a dose four to five times a day, it might help clear her lungs.”
Pieter nodded. He’d see it done. “What else can I do?”
She met his gaze over Claire’s bent head. “Pray, Mr. van Duren. Pray.”