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He pointed his sister to the corn-tassel broom leaning against one wall. “If you think the cabin needs more work, feel free to lend a hand.”
He busied himself with shaking out the quilt his mother had made for him.
Beth hummed to herself as she set down the basket and began sweeping dried mud off the floor. “I like her,” she announced, and Drew knew she had to be talking about Catherine. “She knows a lot. And did you see that dress? There was one just like it in Godey’s.”
His sister devoured the ladies’ magazine, which generally arrived in Seattle months after its publication back East. The editor of Godey’s, Drew was convinced, had never laid eyes on a frontier settlement, or she’d never have suggested some of the outlandish fashions. What woman needed skirts so wide they couldn’t fit through the door of a cabin or allow her to climb to the loft of her bed?
“I’m sure Miss Stanway was all the rage back home,” Drew said, hauling the table back into place in the center of the room from where James and John had shoved it during a friendly wrestling match a few days ago.
“Here, too.” Beth giggled as she paused. “I think Simon is smitten.”
“Simon can go soak his head in the lake.” The vehemence of his words surprised him, and so did the emotions riding on them. The first thought that had popped into his head at his sister’s teasing was the word mine.
Beth must have noticed the change in his tone as well, for she turned to regard him wide-eyed. “You like her!”
Drew shoved the chairs into place with enough force to set the table to rocking on its wooden legs. “I like the fact that she can help Ma. That’s what’s important—not the rest of this tomfoolery.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She resumed her sweeping, angling the pile of dust toward the doorway. “Still, I hope she’ll let me talk to her about how they’re wearing their hair back East. Every time I try the curling iron, I get it so hot I can hardly touch it. I bet she’ll know how to do it right.”
Hand on the wooden bucket to fill it with fresh water from the pump outside, Drew paused. “You think she curls her hair?”
“And irons her dresses.” Beth nodded with great confidence. “She might even use rouge to get that glow in her cheeks.”
What was he doing? This wasn’t the sort of thing a man discussed, even with his little sister. He hefted the bucket and headed for the door. “You’re too young to rouge your cheeks or curl your hair, Beth. And Miss Stanway is here to help Ma, not teach you things you don’t need to know.”
Beth made a face at him as he opened the door. “You don’t get to decide what I need to know. You couldn’t possibly understand. You’re a man.” When he turned to argue, she swept the dirt up into the air in a cloud of dust that nearly choked him.
Drew waved his hand, backing away. “I’m your brother, and the last time I checked, I’m responsible for your upbringing. If you can’t leave Miss Stanway be on such matters, I’ll make sure you have other things to do elsewhere.”
“You would, too,” Beth declared, lowering the broom. “But you’re right. We should be thinking about Ma.” Her face crumpled. “Oh, I sure hope Miss Stanway knows what’s she’s doing. I just can’t lose Ma!”
Cold pierced him. Drew went to enfold his sister in his arms, getting a broom handle on the chin for his trouble. “We won’t lose her, Beth. We won’t let her go.”
Beth nodded against his chest, and he heard her sniff. When she pushed back, she wiped her face with her fingers, leaving two tracks of mud across her cheeks. This from the girl who admired rouge, of all things.
As Drew smiled, she turned to glance back into the cabin. “The place is looking better already. You go check on Ma, and I’ll add a few finishing touches.”
Drew cocked his head. “Like what? I’ll have none of those doilies you’re so fond of.”
Beth turned to him, eyes wide. “Who could hate an innocent doily? They’re so dainty and cultured.”
Everything he was not, he realized, and trying to pretend otherwise served no one. “Just remember, this is a man’s house,” he told his sister as he stepped out onto the porch. “Miss Stanway may be staying awhile, but I’m the one who lives here.”
With a feeling he was talking to the air, he left Beth humming to herself.
Rouge. He shook his head again. His mother had complained about the stuff from time to time.
A lady makes the most of what the good Lord gave her, she’d said after they’d visited Seattle a few weeks ago. She doesn’t need to paint herself or squeeze herself into a shape she wasn’t born with.
He had never considered the matter, but the thought of his sister prettying herself up made his stomach churn.
A few strides across the clearing brought him to their parents’ house. Once, they had all lived there, his brothers curled up on beds on one side of the upstairs room, and Beth with their parents on the other. When he’d laid claim to the land next to his father’s, he’d built his own house. Simon had done the same on the opposite side, clearing the land there. Now James was in the process of outfitting his cabin on the next set of acreage he had claimed. Tracts were already platted for John and Levi, as well. When they managed a town site, their father’s name would go on even if he hadn’t.
Simon, James and John had retired for the night, and Levi was still spread in front of the fire, rereading one of the adventure novels their father had brought with him across the plains. Drew could barely make out the words The Last of the Mohicans on the worn leather spine. Why his father and brothers wanted to read about the frontier when they lived on it Drew had never understood. He climbed the stairs to his mother’s room.
At the top, he paused, almost afraid of what he might find. His mother lay asleep on the bed, her chest rising and falling under the quilt. He had not seen her so peaceful in days, and something inside him thawed at the sight. Beside her on the chair, Catherine Stanway put a finger to her lips before rising to join him at the stairwell.
His first thought on seeing her up close was that she was tired. A few tendrils of her pale hair had come undone and hung in soft curls about her face. Her blue eyes seemed to sag at the corners. But the smile she gave him was encouraging.
“Her fever appears to be coming down,” she whispered. “But it’s still higher than I’d like. The next two days will be very important in determining her recovery. Someone must be with her every moment.”
Drew nodded. “We can take turns.”
She gazed up at him, and he wondered what she was thinking. “I was under the impression you and your brothers had an important task to undertake tomorrow.”
“Captain Collings’s spar,” Drew confirmed. “His ship, the Merry Maid, was damaged in a storm crossing the mouth of the Columbia River. She managed to limp into Puget Sound, but she can’t continue her journey to China without a new mast.”
She stuck out her lower lip as if impressed, but the movement made his gaze stop at the soft pink of her mouth. Drew swallowed and looked away.
“I thought all trees felled around Seattle were destined for Mr. Yesler’s mill,” he heard her say.
“Most,” Drew agreed, mentally counting the number of logs that made up the top story of the house. “My brothers and I specialize in filling orders for masts and yard arms for sailing ships. Simon’s located the perfect tree not too far from the water, so it will be easy to transport, but it will take all of us to bring it down safely and haul it to the bay.”
“If you should be working, sir, your sister and I can take care of things here.”
He could hear the frown in her voice. She was probably used to being self-sufficient. Yet Drew had a hard time imagining her standing by to protect a frontier farm. She’d come on the bride ship, which meant she’d lived in Seattle for less than a month. By her own admission, she’d lived in larger towns back East. What could she know about surviving in the wilderness?
“Can you shoot?” he asked, gaze coming back to her.
She was indeed frowning, golden brows drawn over her nose. He had a strange urge to feather his fingers across her brow. “No,” she said. “Do you expect me to need to shoot?”
“Very likely,” Drew assured her, trying to master his feelings. “Pa made sure all of us knew how to protect each other and the farm. Ma can pick a heart from an ace at thirty paces, and Beth can hold her own. But if Beth is helping Ma, there will be no one left to protect you.”
Her lips quirked as if she found it annoying that she needed such protection. And of course, his gaze latched on to the movement. He forced his eyes up.
“Is it truly so dangerous?” she asked. “You aren’t living among the natives. You have homes, a garden, stock.”
She needed to understand that the veneer of civilization was only as thick as the walls of the house. “James spotted a cougar while he was working on his cabin last week. We surprised a bear at the spring only yesterday.”
She raised her head. “Well, then, we’ll simply stay in the house until you return.”
The silk of her hair tickled his chin, and he caught the scent of lemon and lavender, tart and clean. He needed to end this conversation and leave before he did or said something they’d both regret.
“You can’t promise to remain indoors,” he told her. “Even if we lay in a stock of wood and water, it might run out. Like it or not, Miss Stanway, you need me.”
And she didn’t like it. He could tell by the way her blue eyes narrowed, her chin firmed. This was a woman used to getting her own way.
And that could be trouble. He could only wonder: Over the next two days, which would prevail, her will or his determination?
Chapter Five (#ulink_1c398771-301a-5a0c-b33c-b9e578b35d5f)
Two days. Surely she could survive two days. She’d sat longer vigils in the wards in Boston, taking breaks only for short naps, determined to cheat death. Two days was child’s play.
Of course, normally, when she sat with a patient, she was either alone in the ward or a doctor or other nurse was nearby. This was the first time she’d served as a nurse in someone’s home.
She found it decidedly unnerving.
For one thing, the Wallin house was anything but quiet. Levi had pounded up the stairs and thrown himself in bed on the other side of the loft. The buzz a short while later confirmed that Simon wasn’t the only brother who snored. Beth crept up the stairs more quietly before slipping into a darker corner and emerging in her nightgown, then climbing into her own bed. The logs popped as the house cooled with the night. Wood settled in the small fire she’d had Drew rekindle. Something with tiny claws scampered across the roof over Catherine’s head. Mournful calls echoed from the woods, as if all nature worried with the Wallins.
But worse was her awareness of Drew. He had agreed to take turns with her during the night, then left to finish some chores. She felt as if the entire house breathed a sigh of relief when he entered it again. His boots were soft on the stairs, and the boards whispered a welcome as he crossed to her side. He laid a hand on her shoulder, the pressure assuring, supportive. Then he turned and disappeared downstairs again.
Her pulse was too fast. She took a breath and leaned forward to adjust the covers over her patient again.
She had barely managed to restore her calm when he returned carrying a wooden platter and a large steaming pink-and-white china bowl with a spoon sticking from it.
“You’ve had nothing to eat,” he reminded her. “You’ll need your strength.” He set the platter across her lap. On it rested a bowl of stew, a crusty loaf of bread, a bone-handled knife and a pat of creamy butter.
Catherine’s stomach growled its answer. “Thank you,” she said. She bowed her head and asked a blessing, then scooped up a spoonful of Beth’s stew. The thick sauce warmed her almost as much as his gesture.
As she ate, he reached down, sliced off a hunk of the bread and set about eating it. Crumbs sprinkled the front of his cotton shirt, and he brushed them away, fingers long and quick. She wondered how they’d feel cradling her hand.
A hunk of venison must have gone down wrong, for she found herself coughing. He hurried to pour water from the jug by the bed into a tin cup, but she waved him back.
“I’m fine,” she managed. Swallowing the last of the stew, she set the bowl on the platter. “Thank you. That was very good. Beth is a talented cook.”
“Ma taught her.” He went to lean against the fireplace, the only spot in the room where he could stand completely upright. His gaze rested on the woman on the bed, who seemed to be sleeping blissfully through their quiet conversation. “She taught us all, saying a man should know how to care for himself.”
Catherine couldn’t argue with that. “My father had a similar philosophy. He said a woman should be able to fend for herself if needed.”
“Yet he never taught you to shoot?”
He seemed generally puzzled by that. Catherine smiled. “There’s not much call for hunting near Boston, at least not for food. I suppose parents try to teach their children what they need to survive in their own environment. I wouldn’t expect your mother to teach you how to dance.”
“There you would be wrong.” Even in the dim light she could see his smile. “Pa used to play the fiddle, and Ma said if she didn’t teach us boys to dance, she’d never have a partner.” His smile faded. “Not that she needs one now.”
Catherine had never been one to offer false hope, yet she couldn’t help rushing to assure him. “We’ll make sure she gets well.”
Her words must have sounded as baseless to him as they did to her, for he said nothing as he pushed off from the hearth. He gathered up the dishes and disappeared down the stairs once more.
Catherine sighed. That exchange was simply a reminder of why it was better to stay focused on her task of nursing the patient, not on the emotional needs of the patient’s family. She had found ways to comfort grieving loved ones before her father and brother had been killed. Now she felt hurts too keenly.
She tried to listen to Mrs. Wallin’s breathing, which seemed far more regular than her own, but from downstairs came the sounds of dishes clanking, the chink of wood on metal, the splash of water. It seemed Mrs. Wallin had taught her sons to wash up, as well. Their future wives would be pleasantly surprised.
She expected him to return when he was finished, but the house fell quiet again. She added another log to the fire, then checked her patient once more. All was as it should be. The wooden chair didn’t seem so hard; her body sank into it. The warmth of the room wrapped about her like a blanket. She closed her weary eyes.
Only to snap them open as someone picked her up and held her close.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as Drew’s face came into focus.
He was already starting for the stairs, head ducked so that it was only a few inches from hers. “You fell asleep.”
Catherine shifted in his arms. “I’m fine. Put me down. I have work to do.”
Beth had sat up in bed and was regarding them wide-eyed as he started down the stairs. “Let Beth watch Ma for a while. I’ll spell her shortly. We’ll send for you if anything changes.”
He reached the bottom of the stairs and started across the room as if she were no more than a basket of laundry destined for the line. “I can walk, sir,” she informed him.
He twisted to open the door. “That you can. I’ve seen you do it.” He paused on the porch to nod out into the darkness, where the only light was the glow from a few stars peeking through the clouds. “But our clearing isn’t a city street. There are tree roots and rocks that can trip you up in broad daylight. I know the hazards. Best you let me do the walking.”
She hadn’t noticed that the space was so bumpy when they’d arrived. Indeed, it had seemed surprisingly level; the grass neat and trim. Very likely the goats cropped it. Still, she didn’t relish tripping over a rock and twisting her ankle. She hardly wanted to stay at Wallin Landing a moment more than necessary, and certainly not long enough to heal a sprain.
So she remained where she was, warm against his chest, cradled in his arms, as Drew ferried her across the clearing to another cabin hidden among the trees. Her legs were decidedly unsteady as he set her down on the wide front porch and swung open the door to enter ahead of her. She heard the scrape of flint as he lit a lantern.
The golden light chased the darkness to the far corners of the room, and she could see a round planked table in the center, set over a braided rug and flanked by two tall solid-backed chairs. A little small for a knight of the round table, but cozy. As if he thought so, too, Drew’s cheeks were darkening again, and he seemed to be stuffing something white and lacy into the pocket of his trousers.
“There’s a washstand and water jug in the corner,” he said, voice gruff. “The necessity’s between the two cabins.”
In a moment, he’d leave her. Perhaps it was the strange surroundings or the lateness of the day, but she found herself unwilling to see him go. Catherine moved into the room, glanced at the fire simmering in the grate of the stone hearth. As if he was watching her, expecting her to find things wanting, he hurried to lay on another piece of wood.
“Should be enough to see you through the night,” he said, straightening. “But I can fetch more from the woodpile if you’d like.”
Was he so eager to leave her? “No need,” Catherine said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. You could answer one question, though.”
She thought he stiffened. “Oh? What would that be?”
“Who’s Mary?”
Now she waited, some part of her fearing to hear the answer. His face sagged. “My little sister. The one who died. Ever since Ma took ill, she’s been asking after her. We think maybe she’s forgotten Mary’s gone.”
His pain cut into her. She wanted to gather him close, caress the sadness from his face.
What was she thinking?
“She’s delirious,” Catherine told him. “It’s not uncommon with high fevers.
He nodded as if he understood, but she could see the explanation hadn’t eased his mind. She should think of something else to say, something else for him to consider, if only for a moment. She glanced around the room again. Her gaze lit on the ladder rising into the loft. Oh, dear. Her hand gripped her wide blue skirts.
“Is that how you reach the sleeping area?” she asked, hoping for another answer.
“There’s a loft upstairs,” he said, “but the main bed’s there.” He pointed toward the fire.
What she’d taken for a large cupboard turned out to be a box bed set deep in one wall. The weathered wood encircled it like the rings of a tree. Catherine wandered over and fingered the thick flannel quilt that covered the tick. Blues and reds and greens were sprinkled in different-size blocks, fitted together like a child’s puzzle and stitched with yellow embroidery as carefully as her father’s sutures.
“Ma made that when I turned eighteen,” he explained, a solid presence behind her. “Those are pieces of every shirt she ever sewed for me. Waste not, want not.”
How could she possibly sleep under something so personal? Catherine pulled back her hand and turned. “Perhaps I should stay with my patient.”
He took a step away from her as if to block the door. “Beth and I can handle things. You deserve your rest.” He nodded toward the bed. “She left you one of Ma’s clean nightgowns, I see. If you need anything else, just holler.”
