Page 18 of The Love Knot

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?”

Her brow crinkled again.

“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.”

Chapter