“Good man,” said the doctor, tipping his hat to Brenda before making his way out.
An hour later, Amy’s fever seemed to be gone entirely. “Look at you, fighting back,” Brenda said, a smile breaking through her usually stern demeanor.
“Seems I’ve baked hotter things than this fever,” Amy joked, her voice still frail but laced with her usual spunk.
“Your strength is showing,” Tim chimed in, relief washing over him as he took Amy’s hand gently. “You’re one tough cookie.”
“Cookie,” Amy chuckled, the sound weak but genuine. “I could go for one of those.”
“First thing you’ll bake when you’re up,” Brenda promised her sassy tone back in play.
“Sounds good,” Amy agreed, her eyelids fluttering with fatigue but her spirit undeniably brighter.
“Rest now,” Tim said softly. “We got this, Amy. You just focus on getting better.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, allowing sleep to claim her once more.
TIM MOVED QUIETLY AROUNDthe kitchen, the early morning light casting soft shadows on the wooden countertops. He was no cook, not like Amy, but he could manage a simple breakfast. Oatmeal simmered in a pot, and he sliced a ripe peach to add some sweetness to it.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Tim called over his shoulder, not sure which of the children had joined him in the kitchen.
Beatrice frowned. “Why are you cooking? Where’s Amy? We’re supposed to make my dress today.”
Tim shook his head. “Amy’s sick, and the doctor fears it may be tuberculosis. It’s going to be your job to keep the girls out of our bedroom. I worry this will last a while, and I can’t deal with more than one sick person at a time.”
She opened her eyes wide, and he knew Beatrice was afraid for Amy. “Is she going to die?”
“We won’t know for a while. She’s fighting hard, and the doc isn’t sure that’s what it is, but we’re going to find out. Doctor is coming back this afternoon to check on her.” He squeezed Beatrice’s shoulder. “I’m going to take her some breakfast. You stay here.”
He knocked softly on the bedroom door before opening it with the bowl of oatmeal in his hand. “Nothing fancy, just something to keep your strength up.” Tim carried the bowl carefully to her bedside. “We need to talk about what’s next for you.”
Amy accepted the bowl with a small nod, cradling it in her hands. “I don’t want any more fuss,” she said after a spoonful
“Stubborn as ever,” he remarked with a fond smile. “But we can’t take chances with your health.”
“More medicine?” she asked, her brow knotting with concern.
“Maybe. Dr. Stanton is going to take another look at you. Just to be sure.”
Amy nodded, then sighed. “All right, Tim. If you think it’s best.”
“I am going to need to milk the cows and gather eggs. I’ve told Beatrice to keep the little girls out, and Brenda is still here.” Tim’s hand lingered on hers.
“Thank you,” she whispered, a grateful smile touching her lips as she took another spoonful of oatmeal, the loving care of her family shining through even in the simplest of gestures.
As the day wore on, Tim continued working but checking on Amy every chance he got. Brenda perched at her bedside. The gentle brush of a cool cloth across Amy’s forehead was soothing, as Brenda hummed an old tune, the notes dancing lightly around the room.
“Can’t say I find much joy in the kitchen,” Brenda quipped with a smirk, “but I’d bake you a hundred pies if it’d make you better faster.”
Amy chuckled weakly. “I’d get better faster if you could cook lunch and supper. From what I’ve heard, Tim isn’t much of a cook,” she said.
“Rest now,” Brenda said. “I’ll feed them. No need for them catching what you’ve got.”
“Miss their laughter,” Amy said.
“Laughter will fill these walls again soon enough,” Brenda assured her, squeezing her hand gently.
Hours passed, the room filled with nothing but shared silence and the rustle of pages as Brenda read from a well-worn book.
