By the fourth hour of Gidrick’s fever, Adelaide understood that she was fighting two battles.
Cold had nearly taken him outside.
Now infection was trying to finish the job.
His head wound worried her most.
The gash itself was not enormous, but the skin around it had swollen, and the crash beneath the pine could have caused injuries she could not see.
There was no doctor.
No road.
No way down the mountain.
Only Adelaide.
She stood beside the table with her uncle’s apothecary book open beneath the lantern.
Her hands shook.
“Stop.”
She said the word aloud.
Not to Gidrick.
To herself.
Fear made people careless.
Her uncle had taught her that.
You panic after the patient is safe, Addie. Never before.
She inhaled.
Then began.
Clean wound.
Reduce fever.
Hydrate.
Warm slowly.
Watch breathing.
She boiled water.
Crushed willow bark.
Prepared a mild tea.
Added dried elderflower and peppermint.
When Gidrick could not swallow easily, Adelaide dipped cloth into the liquid and dampened his lips.
Hours passed.
The storm continued.
Wind battered the cabin so hard the walls groaned.
At noon, Gidrick stirred.
“Abigail.”
Adelaide froze.
His eyes remained closed.
“Abigail…”
The name hurt more than she expected.
She told herself fever made men speak nonsense.
He had loved Abigail.
Of course his mind would return to her.
Adelaide leaned close.
“Gidrick.”
His brow furrowed.
“Cold…”
“I know.”
He tried turning his head.
Adelaide steadied him.
“You’re inside.”
His eyes opened slightly.
For one second, he appeared to see her.
Then confusion returned.
“Abigail?”
Adelaide swallowed.
“No.”
His eyelids fell.
“It’s Adelaide.”
He was unconscious again.
She sat back.
The cabin suddenly felt enormous.
For weeks she had convinced herself she no longer cared what Gidrick thought of her.
That was a lie.
She cared.
Somewhere between the water buckets, the repaired hairbrush, his awkward apology, and the evenings beside the fire, she had begun caring far too much.
Adelaide looked toward the frost-covered window.
“Fine.”
She wiped her eyes.
“You can call me whatever you want. Just stay alive.”
She returned to work.
By evening, the fever worsened.
Gidrick refused liquid even while unconscious.
Adelaide needed calories in him.
Something salty.
Something nourishing.
Something he could swallow.
She remembered a broth her uncle used for influenza patients.
Chicken stock.
Onion.
Garlic.
Carrot.
Barley.
A small amount of dried thyme.
Willow infusion separately for fever.
Adelaide had one chicken she could spare.
She killed it herself.
Cleaned it.
Cooked it for hours until the meat fell apart.
She skimmed fat.
Added vegetables.
Crushed herbs.
The smell filled the cabin.
By midnight, Gidrick stirred again.
Adelaide lifted his head.
“Drink.”
He turned away.
“Gidrick.”
“No.”
The word was weak.
“You have two choices.”
His eyes barely opened.
“What?”
“Drink the broth or I pour it down your throat.”
A faint crease appeared between his eyebrows.
“You wouldn’t.”
Adelaide nearly laughed.
“There you are.”
She touched the spoon to his lips.
“Open.”
He swallowed one spoonful.
Then another.
After six, he stopped.
Adelaide lowered his head.
“That’s enough.”
He murmured something.
She leaned closer.
“What?”
“Sorry.”
Her chest tightened.
“For what?”
No answer.
He had fallen asleep.
The next day became a blur.
Adelaide measured time by firewood and spoonfuls.
Every thirty minutes, she checked him.
Every hour, she offered water.
Every few hours, broth.
She cleaned the wound.
Changed the bandage.
Wiped sweat from his chest.
Changed blankets.
When his fever spiked, she used cool cloths.
When chills came, she added blankets.
She never slept longer than minutes.
By the third night, Adelaide’s eyes burned.
The storm finally began weakening.
But Gidrick did not.
His breathing became shallow.
His lips cracked.
The fever remained.
Adelaide sat beside him holding the bowl.
“Please.”
He did not respond.
She looked toward the door.
If the storm ended tomorrow, reaching town would still take hours.
Maybe longer with deep snow.
Gidrick might not have hours.
Adelaide gripped his hand.
“You listen to me.”
His fingers lay limp in hers.
“I did not cross Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, Wyoming, and half of Montana just so you could die after insulting me for a month.”
Her voice broke.
“I dragged your miserable two-hundred-pound body through a blizzard.”
A tear rolled down her cheek.
“So you are going to open your eyes.”
Nothing.
Adelaide leaned closer.
“You’re not dying on this mountain too.”
Gidrick’s fingers twitched.
Adelaide froze.
“Gidrick?”
His hand weakly closed around her wrist.
His eyes opened a fraction.
“Addie?”
She stared at him.
It was the first time he had called her that.
“Yes.”
His lips moved.
“Water.”
Adelaide nearly sobbed with relief.
She lifted the cup.
“Slowly.”
He drank.
Half a cup.
Then rested.
Adelaide touched his forehead.
Still hot.
But not as hot.
She waited another hour.
Checked again.
The fever had dropped slightly.
By sunrise, it dropped more.
Adelaide rested her forehead against the edge of the bed.
“Thank God.”
She fell asleep sitting upright.
When she woke, daylight filled the cabin.
For the first time in four days, the wind had stopped.
Gidrick was awake.
He lay watching her.
Adelaide straightened quickly.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough.”
His voice was weak.
She touched his forehead automatically.
He smiled faintly.
“Am I alive?”
“Unfortunately.”
His smile widened.
Adelaide withdrew her hand.
“You scared ten years off my life.”
“What happened?”
“You went outside.”
“I remember the barn.”
“Tree came down.”
He frowned.
“You found me?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I followed the rope.”
“You dragged me back?”
“Yes.”
Gidrick stared at her.
“All the way?”
“No. A team of angels appeared and carried you halfway.”
He almost laughed but winced.
Adelaide immediately became serious.
“Don’t.”
He touched the bandage on his head.
“How long?”
“Four days.”
His eyes widened.
“Four?”
“Your fever broke this morning.”
Gidrick looked around.
Bowls.
Herbs.
Wet cloths.
Medicine jars.
Then he looked at Adelaide.
She must have looked terrible.
Hair tangled.
Dress wrinkled.
Dark circles beneath her eyes.
Hands red and cracked.
“You did this?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“There was no one else.”
Gidrick swallowed.
“Addie.”
She looked away.
“You kept saying Abigail’s name.”
His face changed.
“I did?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
“No.”
“Adelaide.”
She stood.
“You need food.”
He caught her wrist.
Not hard.
Barely enough strength remained.
But she stopped.
Gidrick looked up at her.
“When I said Abigail’s name…”
Adelaide stared at the floor.
“I know she was your wife.”
“I wasn’t asking for her.”
She looked at him.
“I dreamed about the night she died.”
His grip loosened.
“I kept thinking I was back there.”
Adelaide said nothing.
“I heard someone telling me not to die.”
His eyes held hers.
“It wasn’t Abigail.”
The room became very quiet.
“It was you.”
Adelaide’s throat tightened.
Gidrick continued.
“I remember your voice.”
She pulled her wrist gently free.
“You had a fever.”
“I still remember.”
“You need soup.”
“Addie.”
This time, she did not correct the nickname.
Gidrick’s face became serious.
“I’m sorry.”
She stood still.
“For Silas?”
“For the station.”
Her breath caught.
“For the first night.”
He looked ashamed.
“For every day I made you think you had to earn the right to be here.”
Adelaide’s eyes filled.
Gidrick continued.
“I was cruel.”
She had waited weeks to hear those words.
Now she did not know what to do with them.
“You were afraid.”
“That doesn’t excuse it.”
“No.”
“I looked at you and decided who you were before I knew anything about you.”
Adelaide wiped one tear away angrily.
Gidrick’s voice softened.
“You were stronger than me from the moment you stepped off that train.”
“Don’t say things because you’re sick.”
“I’m saying them because I nearly died before I had the courage.”
Adelaide stared at him.
Gidrick looked toward the bowl.
“That soup save me?”
“The soup helped.”
“Then I owe my life to soup.”
“You owe it to me.”
A weak smile appeared.
“That too.”
She handed him the bowl.
“Drink.”
He obeyed.
Over the next week, Gidrick regained strength slowly.
Adelaide did not let him stand alone for two days.
He complained.
She ignored him.
On the third day, he tried walking to the table.
His knees buckled.
Adelaide caught him.
For one ridiculous moment, he ended up half across her lap.
They stared at each other.
Gidrick’s face colored.
Adelaide laughed.
He looked offended.
“You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
“I was hit by a tree.”
“And defeated by six feet of floor.”
He began laughing too.
It turned into coughing.
Adelaide rubbed his back.
When it stopped, Gidrick looked at her.
They were close.
Too close.
His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.
Adelaide noticed.
Neither moved.
Then she stood.
“Back to bed.”
Gidrick obeyed.
But that night Adelaide lay on her cot unable to sleep.
Because for the first time since arriving in Montana, Gidrick Cole had looked at her without disappointment.
And she had no idea what would happen if he continued.
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