Chapter Eleven
Amy’s eyes flickered open in the pitch darkness, a wave of heat washing over her. Her nightgown clung to her damp skin as she shivered beneath the quilts. With a weak hand, she shook Tim’s shoulder, her voice but a hoarse whisper. “Tim...I feel awful.”
Tim stirred. “What is it?” he murmured as he reached for the matches on the bedside table.
“Feels like I’m burning up,” Amy said, trying to sit up but managing only to prop herself against the pillows.
With swift movements, Tim struck a match and the lamp flickered to life. He leaned in close, pressing the back of his hand to Amy’s forehead. “You’re burning up” he noted with concern etched into his brow.
“Please, can you get Brenda?” Amy asked. Brenda could be prickly as a cactus, but her adeptness with ailments was impressive.
“Of course, sweetheart.” Tim kissed her forehead, already moving to pull on his boots. “Just lie back and rest. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
Amy watched Tim stride through the doorway before sinking back onto the pillows. She trusted him implicitly, and she was pleased he was taking her illness—whatever it was—seriously.
Tim ran the entire way to Brenda’s house. Moonlight draped over the rolling fields, guiding him to the porch where he didn’t bother with a polite knock.
“Brenda!” His voice was urgent(he sends her husband for the doctor). The door creaked open, and a sleepy-eyed Brenda appeared, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“Tim? What’s wrong?” Her voice was sharp with sleep but edged with concern.
“It’s Amy,” he said, catching his breath. “She’s got a terrible fever.”
Brenda’s eyes snapped fully open,. “I’m coming.” She turned back into the house, calling over her shoulder, “Get Seth to ride for Doc Stanton!”
“Already planning on it,” Tim answered, nodding as he saw Seth, bare-chested with suspenders hanging loose, grab his hat and stride out the door toward the stables.
“Let’s go,” Brenda said, now with boots laced and determination set in her brow.
Inside the ranch house, Amy tried to keep her mind on happier things — the scent of fresh bread in the oven, the laughter of children playing. But worry crept in like unwelcome shadows. Her breathing came in shallow bursts as she clutched the quilt tighter, her body slick with sweat.
“Come on, Amy, stay strong,” she whispered to herself. Her thoughts wandered to the garden she nurtured, the comfort of the kitchen, the joy of feeding those she loved. They needed her, and she wouldn’t let them down.
“Tim will be back soon,” she murmured, the sound of her voice a small comfort in the dim room. “And Brenda...Brenda never lets anything beat her.” She clutched a hand to her chest as a wave of deep, heavy coughing racked her body.
She closed her eyes, envisioning the hearty meals she’d cook once this fever passed, the cakes she’d bake, and the smiles they’d bring. With each image, her breathing steadied, the warmth of imagined ovens fighting the chill that had nothing todo with the night air. She was supposed to start on Beatrice’s dresses tomorrow. The girl would be so disappointed.
“Family,” she breathed out. Her family would see her through.
Tim burst through the bedroom door, the small medical kit in hand. He set it down on the bedside table with a reassuring thud.
“Let’s take a look at you,” he said as he leaned over Amy to feel her forehead. She managed a weak smile, bolstered by his presence.
“Feels like a furnace in here,” Brenda remarked. “ Why are you sick? You’re never sick! Only you would get sick in the middle of the night with a whole family counting on you. You’re burning up.” Brenda shook her head.
“Could be anything out here,” Tim mused, pulling a cloth from the kit and dampening it with cool water. “We’ll figure it out, though.” His hands were gentle as he placed the compress on Amy’s forehead.
“Mrs. Jackson used to swear by this herbal concoction for fevers,” Brenda said. “Might do the trick until Doc gets here.”
“Sounds like something we should try,” Tim said, standing up. “What did it have in it again?”
“Willow bark, I think...and some peppermint,” Brenda replied, tucking a strand of Amy’s hair behind her ear. “And wasn’t there honey?”
“Yes, honey,” Amy said, her voice weak.
“Right,” Tim nodded, already moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll whip it up. Keep her company for me?”
“Of course,” Brenda answered, her voice soft as she took Amy’s hand. “Remember when we all came down with the chickenpox? You made that oatmeal bath that had us all laughing ‘cause we looked like breakfast.”
