Page 17 of The Love Knot

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.”