Page 39 of The Lady of Red River Valley (Ladies of the Wilderness #2)

Chapter Seventeen

A cold, steady drizzle fell against the colonists as they made their way in eight canoes down the Red River toward Lake Winnipeg. Assiniboia had disappeared from sight hours ago, yet not one of the evacuees had looked back.

Eleanor sat in the lead canoe with Arran, shivering.

Her head pounded and her teeth chattered.

For two days, she had battled whatever ailment had befallen her and Miriam, trying desperately to help where possible.

When she learned that everyone must inventory their property, she had spent hours going from one tent to another, writing endless lists.

“Only a few more hours,” Arran said to Eleanor, “and we’ll make camp. Mayhap the rain will stop and I will build you a fire to take away your chill.”

Eleanor tried to smile for him, but she could not find enough energy for such a small task.

Miriam lay in her arms, listless and dull.

Her fever still raged, but there was nothing they could do.

Cuthbert Grant had come into the fort the day after the massacre and overtaken Semple’s house.

Eleanor, Miriam, Nicolette, and Arran had removed to the main hall, where they had slept on the hard floor for two nights before all was ready for their departure.

“Let me hold Miriam.” Arran reached for the baby, concern tightening his voice. “You should rest upon my shoulder.”

If they had been back in England, it would not be possible for Eleanor to lie upon a man’s shoulder in public—but here, where they were fighting for their lives and freedom, no one would look at her twice.

Miriam didn’t protest as Arran took her into his arms, holding her in a way to shelter her from the rain under his jacket. She looked up at him with her glossed-over blue eyes.

“Here,” he said to the baby, “try to drink some water.” Arran took a canteen and put it up to her lips. She fussed and turned her head. “You must drink, Miriam, my love.” He tried again. Water dribbled from her lips, down her cheeks.

Eleanor had no more tears in her. All she could do was watch helplessly as Miriam suffered. Her head pounded and her throat felt as if she’d swallowed fire. It was so raw and sore, she could not swallow. If Miriam felt the same, no wonder she didn’t want to drink the water.

Arran set down the canteen and put his free arm around Eleanor, drawing her into his warmth. “I feel so helpless,” he said, pressing a kiss to her head. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

“There is nothing.”

Voyageurs paddled the canoes, while the miserable settlers sat huddled together.

Tears fell down the cheeks of several. Fiona sat in one of the canoes with her four children around her, including her newest arrival, who was not yet three months old.

Her grief was so intense, Eleanor struggled to know what to say to her friend.

Though Eleanor had experienced loss, she could not fathom being alone in the world with four children depending upon her.

Eleanor must have fallen asleep, because when next she opened her eyes, the rain had stopped and the humidity had risen. The air was thick and sticky, and the mosquitoes began to swarm. Arran worked to keep them off Miriam, who was sleeping in his arms.

“You’re awake.” He placed his hand on her forehead, his eyebrows coming together. “You’re still burning.”

All Eleanor could think about was a cool bath and a soft bed.

Never had she missed Edgewood Manor and her previous life as much as she did in this moment.

As a child, there had been an endless number of servants to see to her needs when she was ill.

She had been treated by a country doctor with a gentle touch and a kind smile.

Her bed had been plush and her baths had been drawn whenever she so wished.

She struggled to keep her eyes open and the constant push-pull of the canoes as the oars moved them forward made her dizzy and sick to her stomach.

“Eleanor?” Arran’s voice seemed to be calling to her through a fog. It was thick and hard to push through.

The next thing she knew, she was in a tent, on a hard cot. It was dark outside, but a single candle flickered nearby. Nicolette was there, on her own cot, with Miriam nestled in the crook of her arm. Both were sleeping.

The only sound was the call of a loon somewhere beyond the camp—and Arran, moving about as he bled her.

She came to awareness with a start and he held her down with a gentle pressure on her shoulder. “Dinna fash,” he said tenderly, his words just above a whisper. “I’m bleeding you again.”

“Again?” Her voice was weak and all she had the energy to do was turn her head.

“Aye. I bled you when we made camp this afternoon.”

“Afternoon?” She felt stupid as she kept repeating his words.

“You were unconscious. I told the others we needed to make camp so I could tend to you. Nicolette has been helping.” He nodded at her and Miriam. “I bled Miriam earlier.”

“How is she?” Eleanor whispered, afraid of what he might say.

He didn’t answer immediately but finished bleeding her and put a tincture of friar’s balsam on a piece of lint, which he pressed against her inner arm. “She isna doing much better than you.”

Eleanor allowed her head to loll back against the cot. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t let her die.”

Arran put the fleam and lint into the medicine chest, all while applying pressure to her cut. The chest was one of the items Arran had insisted on taking from the governor’s house, and since there were several others in the fort, Grant had allowed it.

“We are doing everything we can to make sure you both live.” He sat on the floor beside her cot and took one of her hands into his. He brought it to his lips. “We’ve lost so much already, my love. I canna lose you, too.”

She tried to smile, but a tear slipped past her eyelid instead.

“Dinna cry, lass.” He wiped the tear away. “You’ll be well again. Here.” He took the canteen and helped her sit up enough to take a sip.

Her throat felt as if she was swallowing broken glass, but she forced herself to drink the water. She had to push the canteen away when it became too painful.

“You should rest.” He put the canteen down and then checked the lint on her arm. “I will wake you again to take another sip of water in a couple hours.”

“When will it be morning?” she asked, conscious of each word and how much it cost her to speak.

“In a few hours.”

“And will we . . . break . . . camp?”

“We will stay here until you and Miriam are better.”

She shook her head, frowning. “But the Fort . . . William men.”

“We will take our chances. I canna let you travel until you are better.”

“They’ll over—take us.”

“Shh.” He caressed her cheek. “Dinna worry about the Fort William men, or anything else. Just get better.”

Her eyelids grew heavy again and she began to drift off into sleep. But all she could think about was the danger she was placing everyone in. She was the one who was supposed to be helpful when there was a need. And, right now, the need was great.

Eleanor blinked. Bright sunshine blinded her, forcing her to turn her face away from the light. Her eyesight was blurry, but it soon cleared and she was able to survey her surroundings.

The canvas tent was musty and warm. Nicolette and Miriam were no longer on the next cot, and Arran was nowhere to be seen. The medicine chest was still between the cots, but there was no other sign of anyone.

Outside the tent, the sounds of the camp came to her awareness. Fires popped and sizzled, people spoke in low tones, children ran and played, happily oblivious to their current situation.

Eleanor was covered in sweat, but she no longer shivered. Placing a hand to her forehead, she was relieved to feel it was much cooler than it had been. Hopefully her fever had broken.

Slowly, she sat up, but the world spun and she had to take her time. She couldn’t ever remember being this weak before. Her head still hurt, but the pounding was now a dull ache. And her throat didn’t hurt nearly as much.

“Thank God,” she breathed. They could continue with their journey to Jack River House. She would insist upon it.

“You’re awake.” Arran appeared at the open flap, a steaming tin bowl in one hand and a cup in the other. “I was hoping you could sit up and eat something.”

“Where is Miriam?” It was the only thing she needed to know.

“She’s with Nicolette. Her fever broke and she’s finally eating and drinking again.”

Eleanor briefly closed her eyes, tears stinging the backs. But she wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t. She needed to be strong. There had been enough tears. It was time to focus on recovering.

“I brought you hominy and tea.” He entered the tent and took a seat on the opposite cot. The space was small and he sat close.

She was suddenly self-conscious of her appearance. She must look—and smell—

dreadful. Her hair was stiff from dried sweat, her mouth tasted awful and felt like she’d been chewing on wool, and she was wearing the same gown she’d been wearing since the day of the massacre. It was covered in mud, sweat, and tears.

Eleanor ran a hand over her disheveled hair. “I look awful.”

“Nay.” His eyes shone. “I’ve never seen a bonnier sight than you, sitting up on your own.”

Embarrassment warmed her cheeks and she took the bowl he offered.

He was more handsome than ever, his dark brown hair curly and wild, though he tried to contain it in a queue. He hadn’t shaved in several days and his facial hair only made him look more masculine and powerful.

“Thank you,” she said after she swallowed her first bit of hominy. “For taking care of us.”

A smile softened his lips. “’Tis my pleasure. I thank God He gave me the chance.”

She was as weak as a newborn kitten, but she would rally so they could move on. “When will we break camp?”

“Are you ready?” he asked, searching her face.

She nodded. “After I clean up a bit.” She had brought one trunk of her personal items, and one of her books.