Page 68 of Mail-Order Viscountess

“I promise.” Robert’s voice came from the doorway.

There he stood, flanked by Thomas and others.

Robert—the quiet brother, the one who kept the ranch’s books and rarely spoke unless he had something important to say. His blue eyes met hers with a steadiness that reminded her of Enoch.

“I’ll take care of her, Kate.” He moved into the room with that same careful deliberation he brought to everything. “You have my word.”

Her throat closed around any response she might have given. She looked down at Clara one more time—at her too-pale face and the angry rash.

She forced herself to lean down, then pressed a kiss to her sister’s burning forehead. “I love you. Fight this. Please fight this.”

Clara’s only response was another shallow breath.

Dr. Morrison touched Kate’s elbow. “Come. We need to get you settled in another room. Away from everyone else until we know whether you’ve been infected.”

She let him guide her toward the door, though every step felt like tearing away a piece of herself. At the threshold, she turned back one last time.

Robert had already taken her place, standing at Clara’s bedside. His large hands were surprisingly gentle as he adjusted the ice pack at her neck. He looked up and met Kate’s gaze with a single, firm nod.

She turned away before the tears could fall.

CHAPTER 22

Thomas sat in the hallway with his back against the wall, a worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo open across his knees. They’d had three long days of this so far. The door to Kate’s room stood cracked just enough to carry his voice through—close enough to feel like a presence, far enough to honor the doctor’s strict instructions.

“‘All human wisdom is contained in these two words—Wait and Hope.’” He let the final line settle before closing the book. “That’s where Dumas ends it. Though I’ve always thought it was a bit convenient, wrapping everything up so neatly.”

“You don’t believe in hope?” Kate’s voice drifted through the gap.

“I believe in it.” He traced the book’s worn spine with his thumb. “I just think hope works better when you’re doing something while you wait. Sitting still never suited me much.”

A soft sound came from the other side—almost a laugh. “I’ve noticed.”

The afternoon light slanted through the window at the end of the hall, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Somewhere below, Mrs. Wang moved about in the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of sounds signaling the meal preparation that had marked every day of his life on this ranch.

Three days of this. Three days sitting outside the door of Kate’s temporary bed chamber, of reading until his voice went rough, of telling stories about ornery horses and Montana winters and the time James accidentally set fire to the wood shed—burning up their entire supply of firewood.

Three days of learning that Kate had a laugh like bells when she forgot about her worries, and a way of asking questions that made him dig deeper than he would have preferred.

Three days of wanting to push that door open and close the distance between them.

But the doctor had been clear. Scarlet fever spread through touch, through breath, through the invisible threads that connected people in close quarters. Kate might already be carrying it in her blood, waiting for symptoms to bloom. Until they knew for certain, she had to stay apart.

It seemed their conversations always existed with a barrier between them. Before it had been the darkness of night. Now a wooden door. What would it be like to look into her eyes and say what he really thought?

“Tell me another story.” Her voice came quieter. “Something from when you were young.”

He shifted against the wall, searching his memory. The happy ones were harder to find these days—buried beneath layers of frustration and that constant itch to be somewhere else.

But for Kate, he would dig.

“There was this one summer.” He cleared a rasp from his throat. “I must have been seven or eight. James convinced me that if we built a raft, we could float down the creek all the way to town.” He smiled at the memory. “Never mind that particular creek is about three feet deep in most places and town is twenty miles east.”

“What happened?”

“We spent two weeks gathering logs and rope. Worked on it every spare moment, hiding our project in a spot by the water where we thought no one would find us.” How important it had all seemed. “The night before we planned to launch, Father showed up at the creek.”

“Your father was here? In Montana?”