Page 133 of The Formation of Us

Possibly his life.

And if he died, dear God, how could she live without him, without his love and passion that illuminated her life? She would live in darkness. But she would owe it to him to go on.

She choked back her tears and tightened her resolve. She would nurse him back to health. She would apply everything she’d ever learned in those books she’d read. She would not give up.

She spent frantic hours mixing herbal remedies to keep Duke’s temperature down. Her aunts helped and offered advice, but his body grew warmer through the night and was burning by morning.

“What does the fever mean?” Boyd asked, his voice hoarse from talking all night. He’d sat at Duke’s side, rambling about their childhood, and the mill, and anything that might allow Duke to hear his voice.

“I don’t know,” Faith said. It could mean anything, including the onset of infection, but it was too soon to tell.

Radford came later that morning to take his turn at Duke’s bedside, and Faith learned about the brothers and their lives as mischievous boys and struggling young men. She saw them as Duke’s friends and his strength. And she saw that without him they were incomplete.

Duke’s mother pulled herself together and stayed at Faith’s side, lending her strength as they nursed Duke through another day and night of a fever that wasn’t breaking.

Another night passed, and this time Kyle kept Duke and Faith company, his low voice soothing and reassuring as he talked into the wee hours of the morning.

And Faith lost track of time.

Evelyn and Claire and Amelia took turns stopping to see Duke and to offer Faith and their mother-in-law a helping hand. Even Anna and Millie stopped to offer their help. The house was full of people cleaning and cooking and lending a hand when needed, but there was nothing they could do for Duke but add their prayers to Faith’s.

Cora had settled down and was sleeping in her own bed now that Adam was staying with her. It allowed Faith more time with Duke, but nothing seemed to be helping him. Dr. Milton stayed nearly around the clock, wearing a worried scowl that filled her stomach with dread. They cleaned Duke’s wound and sponged his body and did everything possible to give him comfort and help him survive. His brothers pushed him to fight, cajoling then demanding, then one by one they would break down and bury their face in their hands and beg him to wake up.

As the days turned into a week then stretched toward two, an ominous hush filled the house. The only sounds were whispered prayers and the unceasing murmur of his brothers’ hoarse, exhausted voices as they sat at his bedside.

Duke mumbled and groaned and thrashed in restless fits, his big brawny body struggling against the fevers but shrinking with their heat. Then he would lie so still that Faith’s heart would stop and she would check to see if he was still breathing. By the end of the twelfth night, the whole family was hollow-eyed and exhausted.

Faith sat in a chair with her head and arms resting on the bed beside Duke. Radford sat on the other side of him talking to Duke about some sort of dungeon they had dug in the field when they were boys.

“Boyd was our robber-prisoner, and you were the guard,” he said.

Faith smiled. Of course Duke was the lawman. He would never be the bad guy.

She fell asleep to the sound of Radford’s hoarse voice, and woke to the feel of someone’s hand stroking her hair. Thinking it was one of her aunts, Faith wearily lifted her head and found herself looking into Duke’s dark eyes.

“I’m starving,” he said.

She blinked, thinking her sleep-deprived brain was playing tricks on her, but it really was Duke stroking her hair.

“I want a dozen eggs. A loaf of toasted bread . . .” He paused, out of breath, his poor body ravaged and weak.

Shock silenced her, but Radford laughed with relief and shot to his feet. “It’s about damned time you woke up. I was running out of stories.”

“The hell with stories. I want food.”

“I’ll go raid the kitchen for you,” Radford said, wearing a wide smile as he left the room.

Stunned, almost afraid to move for fear she’d wake up and find she’d been dreaming, Faith clasped her husband’s hand, her gaze roving his face, looking into the dark eyes that she’d feared she would never see again. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

He glanced at the window where weak winter daylight touched the pane. “How long have I been in bed?”

“Nearly two weeks.”

He closed his eyes. “I thought I would do better.”

She laughed at his absurd comment. “Only a man would say something so foolish.” She sat beside him and cradled his drawn, whisker-covered face in her palms. “I missed you.”

He slid his right hand up her forearm, his eyes dark and questioning. “Did I dream that you said you love me?”