She opened the door the next morning.
The blacksmith, Theodore, stood there with his arm in a sling. "Morning, Mrs. Johnson. The Doc said to come in today for a check. There was no answer at the clinic, so I wasn't sure if he's here. I can come back another time."
"Oh actually, he needed emergency surgery himself, so I'm taking over in his stead for a few days."
"Sorry to hear that ma'am. It's nothing urgent, so I can return in a week if your hands are full." He snatched his cap off, as if remembering himself.
"Nonsense. We'll go over to the clinic." She led the way through the main room to the connecting door of the clinic. "Have a seat on the table."
The exam wasn't quite as embarrassing to perform this time, perhaps because he only took one arm out of the shirt and offered some wit as a distraction.
"Well, it appears to be coming along well, Mr. Theodore. Keep icing it for any swelling and only do the exercises twice a day. The incision is coming along nicely. Stop in if you have any trouble, but I'd say you're good for another week until those stitches need to come out."
He buttoned up his shirt with more dexterity at using one hand this time, but his cheeks flamed. "Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. Um, may I pay half now and the rest when I'm back at work?"
Helping ease his arm back into the sling, she glanced up at his kind eyes. "Of course. Perhaps it's none of my business, but are you alright for meals in the meantime?"
The man fidgeted and wouldn't look her in the eyes. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you." He stood to his substantial height and gave a nod.
Something made her follow him out to the porch. "Mr. Theodore?"
He turned in surprise at the bottom of the steps. "Yes, ma'am?"
"I can't help but feel your burden is heavier than you admit. You're welcome to our table." She trotted down the stairs. Despite not even coming up to his shoulder and his arms being as thick as her waist, there wasn't anything the least bit threatening about the man.
Clearing his throat, he seemed to have an inner debate for a moment. "If I may, do you know where I could find a wet nurse nearby?"
"A wet nurse?"
With a nod, his cheeks turned red. "I had a few too many drinks at a saloon one night and the saloon girl..."
"Oh." Her cheeks burned. He must mean the American equivalent of a brothel.
"She passed away during childbirth. I brought the baby north in hopes of better pay, and there was a woman who served as a wet nurse on our travels here. But since arriving...the baby isn't taking well to cow's milk. I know nothing of babies. It doesn't even matter that I don't have funds for a wet nurse right now because I can't even find one," he fretted as it all came pouring out.
"Oh dear. That's generous of you to take her in—I don't know of many men who even acknowledge their children born of unusual circumstances. I don't know of any women who have had a babe recently to even be a wet nurse. I'm afraid my own daughter is mostly weaned now."
"Oh no, ma'am, I wouldn't ask it of you yourself, ma'am." He pulled off his hat and crushed it in his hands, his cheeks burning red.
"Who is with your daughter now?"
"The merchant's wife. Please don't tell anyone of her mama, ma'am. I don't want her growing up shamed because of it."
"Of course not, but it'd probably be good for Dr. Johnson to have a peek at her being she isn't eating much. Go fetch her while I ask him what can be fed to a newborn."
That quiet look returned to his eyes—identifiable now as worry of a new father. "I can't pay you, ma'am."
Setting her hands on her hips, she raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Theodore, if you don't fetch that babe right now, you'll have to endure my company at dinner for the next week. I assure you that I can be as unpleasant as Mr. Johnson."
He cringed. "Yes, ma'am. I hear he has a hot temper. Thank you, ma'am."
"I take it she's young?"
"Three weeks, ma'am."
When she turned to go up the steps, he turned the same way to go the opposite direction. Bouncing into a hard muscled chest sent the world flying backwards.
Wide eyes met hers as an arm wrapped around and cradled the back of her head, jerking her to a halt.
Clutching his shirt tight in reaction to pitching backwards, she blinked as he slowly straightened. A look over her shoulder gave a chilling shiver—the edge of the porch would've split her head in two.
"Are you alright, ma'am?"
"Hm?" She blinked at him. Her hands still clung to his shirt, with her body still pressed to his from the rescue. "Oh!" Stepping back, her face burned in embarrassment. "Yes, thank you. I think you saved me from bashing my head wide open."
"Apologies, my mother used to say I'm a bull in a china shop. I didn't mean to run you over."
"I'm fine. Oh, your shoulder! Did it get hurt catching me?" Instinct made it automatic to touch his giant arm in the sling.
He smiled. "No, ma'am, you're a slip of a thing. I'll fetch the babe and be right back."
She trotted up the steps.
Mark sat in his hospital bed with the divider pushed aside and his eyebrows raised. "So he ensures that you fall into his arms at every encounter. Convenient."
"He caught me when I slipped and saved you from becoming a widower." Cocking an eyebrow, she hurried over.
The man snorted in disgust. "Remind him that if you get hurt, a bullet will land in his heart."
"He's bringing his babe—"
"Oh, so he cheats on his wife," Mark smirked.
Rolling her eyes, she sat on the edge of his bed. The man could be incorrigible at times of jealousy. "She was a saloon girl and passed away in childbirth. The babe hasn't had a wet nurse in nearly a week and isn't taking to cow's milk."
His eyebrows rose to the sky. "Oh, I see. He's going to have you nurse his babe and then bed you," he snapped.
A long, silent glare made him bite his tongue. Two could play this game. "Actually, I'm going to nurse his babe and then if you could babysit all the children while I make wild love with him, that would be perfect."
His jaw dropped. "That's not the remotest bit comical!"
She picked up the stethoscope and suppressed a smile.
He batted her hands away. "Don't go falling in his arms and then treat me like an invalid, woman!"
"Then stop acting like an idiot." Setting aside the stethoscope, she gave him a look. "I'm the one who should be offended by you insinuating that I'm flirting with him."
"I'm not insinuating that you're doing anything; I'm stating that he is doing everything! Big muscles and now an orphaned infant! Isn't that perfect?!"
A small laugh escaped. "Would you listen to yourself? For one, Della is practically weaned and I can't nurse a newborn. For another, you're acting like a crazy, lunatic husband over a patient. I'm wed to you, Mark."
The man snorted. Then he pulled on reading glasses and picked up the medical journal she'd left for him earlier. "Tell him to give her goat milk, and then he can fall off the nearest cliff."
"You can tell him that. He's bringing the babe over any minute for you to check her."
"What?!" He shot upright in bed and ripped off the glasses with a dark glare.
"If she hasn't eaten much for a week, she could be malnourished or ill. I haven't worked that much with newborns, so you need to check her."
A very irritated sigh filled the air. "You bring her back here. He does not step foot back here and learn about my leg. And you will be an obedient wife so he believes my bite can be as fierce as my bark, understood? Does a bastard well to have the fear of God put in him now and then," he muttered, jammed on the glasses, and shoved his nose in the journal
"Am I to act all frightened of you too?" A small smile tugged. She eased a finger over the top of the journal and lowered it.
"Are you daft, woman?! He'll get the moronic notion of needing to rescue you from a brute! No, you're to be a properly doting wife but quiet enough to not let him know you aren't afraid of my growls! Dammit woman, there are times it'd serve you well to be as meek as when we first wed!" He snapped up the journal.
"Yes, Mark," she purred.
He jerked her down for a satisfying kiss and then set her upright on the side of the bed. A haughty smile touched his lips as grabbing his arm was the only way to still the world. "Good. You look properly kissed senseless, woman. He's welcome to walk in at any time."
Her jaw dropped. "You kissed me to prove a point to him?! Well, I never! You're a scoundrel, Doctor Johnson!"
The man dropped the journal and dipped her back in his arms, giving the most scandalous kiss yet. He broke the kiss, his eyes just as dilated with desire as her body felt. "That, Mrs. Johnson, was a kiss to prove a point. Do you know what point?"
Her bosom heaved against the high-necked dress, and her hands clung to his nightshirt because the world kept spinning. A weak shake of the head answered. The evil rake had too much power in his kiss.
"To make it clear to him that you're mine, Mrs. Johnson." He sat her upright, with a naughty, self-satisfied chuckle. "It doesn't hurt if it reminds you too. Do not forget, my dear, that although I may not be capable of being bedded right now, I am perfectly capable of satisfying you very well in other ways."
The room was far too hot and too unsteady. Patting her hair into place, she hissed, "You're a rake and a cad, husband." Only, it came out too breathless to be of any threat.
With a grin, he sat back against the pillow and picked up the journal. "Apologies, my dear, you sound a bit breathless. I didn't hear what you said." Except his grin said otherwise. "Now the blacksmith can come."
"Mrs. Johnson?" Mr. Theodore's voice came right on cue.
And Mark looked highly pleased with himself.
Snatching the journal away, she tossed it on the next bed out of reach. "You can suffer of boredom for the next few minutes for your behavior."
A laugh served as his nonchalant answer. "I like you fiery, wife. I shall await my full punishment with a baited breath when you return," he whispered with a wink.
Straightening her skirts with a final glare, she stepped around the divider.
The bundled babe almost fit in Mr. Theodore's massive hand.
"You're back. Let's have a look." She pulled away the blanket as he set the babe on the exam table. The little darling was far too skinny and much too tiny. "Was she born early?"
"I don't know how long babies should take. It was eight months yesterday since her mother and I..."
It was a miracle the babe survived birth, much less no wet nurse. "She must've come two months early. Does she always sleep this soundly?"
"She's doing better at sleeping the past four days."
Not better but conserving every bit of energy to not starve.
"Go to the farm down the road. They have a goat. Tell him you need one bottle of fresh goat milk right away for a newborn orphan." She pressed coins into his hand.
"Is she dying?" Tears welled in his eyes.
"She's very ill. Go. Hurry!" Scooping up the babe, she darted to Mark. "She's—"
"I heard. Grab my OB bag." He laid the babe in his lap and stripped away the blanket. "Oh god," he whispered from behind the divider.
Darting back in, she pulled out all of the newborn tools. "We make a feeding tube—"
"With what? She's too tiny for any kind of tube I've ever seen." He listened to her heart. "Tanya, she has an irregular beat," he whispered. "She's already starting to go."
Shaking her head, she took the babe from him. "I had it too by the time you came. She just needs food." Tears welled as she yanked open her bodice.
"Tanya, you don't have the right kind of milk for a newborn, and it's almost dried up." Pain filled his voice, as if it hurt to witness her try to breastfeed a babe beyond hope.
"You have a better idea?" she snapped. "Come on, love." Even finding a little bit left to express into the babe's mouth didn't trigger a nursing response.
"Tanya, she's too young to have the sucking reflex," he said in a thick voice.
She shook her head. "She's just weak." But no amount of coaxing made the babe latch on. "She had a wet nurse."
"And likely did more choking than actual drinking, sweetheart." He set a hand on her shoulder and eased the bodice back together.
"No, she'll eat!" Shaking him off, she tried nursing again. Tears fell.
The babe choked.
Mark slid her free and turned the tiny babe over to help stop the choking. He looked up with grief in his eyes. "Sweetheart, she's not ours and can't nurse. The more you try to feed her from your own breast, the harder it'll be."
"You can't just do nothing! She'll die!" More tears fell and she cradled the babe. "She didn't have a mother or anyone who knew what to do. She'll be alright now."
Mark's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he rested a hand on her knee. "Tanya, she's already close to death. Even if we had a way to feed her, it's too late. I know that as a mother this is very hard to see, but our job is to be the physician and nothing more."
"Just try. What if we can save her?" More tears fell. "Just try."
With a sad sigh, he peeled off his shirt and laid the delicate babe on his chest and covered her with blankets like he did with Della and Charles as babes to stimulate breathing. "Dig in the storage room and see if you can figure out anything as a feeding tube. We can't surgically put one in because it'll be too much when she's this weak."
An idea dawned. "A feeding tube. Melt one feeding tube into another to make a smaller one. Peel off the outer one, and use a coat hanger cast through the center as the inner hole." Buttoning her dress, she ran for the supply room and then to the man standing in for the blacksmith.
Minutes later, Mark kept trying to thread the tube into the babe's tiny throat.
"Tanya, it was ingenious to create a tube like this, but it's still quite large for her."
She held the babe's head and he tried to thread the tube down. "But you can do it?" Hope hung on his next words.
"Yes, but it could harm her vocal chords...which I suppose she wouldn't need anyways if the alternative..." He guided the tube in so slowly.
The babe finally responded and started crying as Mark got it down her throat.
Theodore could be heard pacing beyond the divider.
"Alright, it's in." He wrapped the end of the tube with a bandage and tied it to her small chest. "Tanya, I don't know that anyone has ever done this on a babe," he whispered, his eyes full of as much uncertainty as she felt.
"Then it's a good thing Dr. Debonairo is doing it," she whispered and injected some goat milk into the tube.
"Give her back to her father, and we'll wait a bit to see if that sits."
Her eyes flew to him. "But—"
"Give her back," he ordered. "The less you hold her, the better."
So he still thought the babe would die.
He leaned back against the pillow, looking completely exhausted himself. His eyes squinted in pain too.
She set a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I forgot you're still not well. I'll return her and bring you some tree bark."
The man gave a small nod. "Tree bark would be good."
Theodore sat in a nearby bed with the babe as she gave more goat milk every half hour. The rest of her time was spent with Mark as he grew quiet and started to run a fever.
"Does it hurt worse? I can't find signs of an infection." Carefully rewrapping Hero, she glanced up.
"It could be a delayed reaction to surgery," he said weakly and peeled off his nightshirt that he'd perspired through. "There's no swelling?"
"Not much."
"Tree bark helps with fevers. There shouldn't be one. Tanya, I'm so hot I can't stand it." He ran a rag from the basin over the back of his neck.
By dinnertime, Mark grew so hot that he insisted on being moved to the bedchamber and away from the babe. Grandfather and Brigands helped get him settled.
The infant seemed to tolerate the goat's milk well enough, so she alternated between peeking in on the babe and staying with Mark. Brigands kept vigil through the night, helping bathe Mark as the fever kept climbing.
"Tanya," Mark rasped, his voice terribly hoarse, "my neck hurts so much."
"Your throat is red. Perhaps it's strep throat." She set down the tongue depressor.
He captured her hand. "The fever is too high. You and the children must get out," he croaked. "Send the children to stay with Theresa for two weeks. Quarantine your grandfather, Brigands, and you in our house. You can't let any patients into the clinic and risk an epidemic."
With a nod, she got up. "I'll go close the clinic. The blacksmith and babe are there. She's doing better, so I'll send them to stay at their home and call only if she gets worse. She's opening her eyes now. I think maybe we caught her just in time."
He nodded. "You sleep in the children's room."
"I'm not leaving you."
"I have to be quarantined."
"No! You're just days post-surgery and have a terrible fever! I—"
"And am a physician to know enough to tell you if I'm too ill to look out for myself. Leave food at the door and do not touch the plate. We don't know what this is and have to avoid this from reaching anyone else."
"Mark, I had many illnesses as a child. I'll be careful. We'll send the children away and—"
"I'm not risking you," he rasped.
"No, I—"
"Would you fetch water? My throat hurts."
Heaving a sigh, she stood. "Fine. I'll fetch your water and then send the children away, but I'm coming back."
He simply looked up with feverish eyes.
Going into the kitchen, she pulled a glass down from the cupboard and started to pump water.
A noise came from the bedroom, almost like a floorboard creaking.
Pausing with the pump, she looked toward the bedchamber.
Click.
Panic and rage surged as she marched to the door. It wouldn't open. "Damn you, Mark, open the door!"
"Go see to the children," he panted and the sheets rustled.
"You're so damn stubborn! How am I to get in if you need help?"
"I won't." He coughed yet again this morning.
"I'll break down the door! You need someone to check your lungs and make sure you don't get pneumonia too!"
"I can do it." There was little bark in his words, which portrayed how ill he was.
"Mark, please. I promise to stay out, just leave the door unlocked."
"But you won't."
Slamming the cup down on the table, she marched outside to the back of the house. If he was going to be a stupid idiot, he'd have to do better than just locking the door. The window wouldn't budge. Neither would the other.
He laid in bed and didn't bat an eyelash as he watched.
"You locked the windows?!" Pounding the side of the house in frustration, she stormed back inside.
Leaning against the doorframe, she snapped, "I'll tan your hide, Mark! You're being an idiot and this isn't even safe!"
"Go see to the children." He coughed again.
"Mama?"
She spun around to Charles standing there holding Della's hand. Both of them looked up with wide eyes.
"Why are you mad at Papa?"
Kneeling down, she kissed their heads. "Papa's very sick, and he locked the door because he doesn't want us to catch it. I'm just worried and want to take care of him. You and Della haven't had this sickness, so it's important that you go stay with Mrs. Brigands and Grandmama for a few days."
Della burst into tears. "Mama come."
Tears welled in Charles's eyes. "Is Papa going to die?"
"No, dears, Papa will be alright. But I have to stay and help make him better. I need you both to be good children and do as I say. I can't come visit until we know I don't have Papa's germs."
"Are you going to die?" Charles wept.
"No, love. No one is going to die." Holding onto them tight, a silent tear slipped down.
Mark's cough grew worse all day.
"Mark, I'm serious. You need medicine and food and water. Open the door, please."
"You'll...catch...it," he panted.
"I've had many illnesses. Even if I do catch it, you'll be able to treat me. You can't just be stubborn and will the infections away. Please, Mark. The children left in tears that you're going to die, and I'm getting scared that it's a real possibility. You need medicine."
Grandfather and Brigands appeared in the kitchen, both of their faces filled with worry. Grandfather walked over to the door. "Mark, I can tell by the cough that you have pneumonia. You can either keep the door locked and make your wife ill with lack of sleep and too much worry, or you can let us in and try to help. She's been awake for thirty-six hours and doesn't look well, and I guarantee she won't sleep much tonight either with you in there approaching your deathbed. There are medicines we can use to treat you, but you're the only medicine for her."
Click.
She burst through the door to see Mark settling back into bed. The entire bed trembled with his shivers, yet he was bathed in sweat.
Grandfather opened the windows for the fall air to flow in. "The more air, the less risk of all of us catching it."
"Brigands, bring vinegar. We'll draw the fever from his head." She pulled back the sheets to expose his leg. Then she grabbed the stethoscope and listened to his chest. "Roll over, love. Your breathing is wet."
While she pounded on his chest and helped him cough out infection, Grandfather mixed some medicine, and Brigands vigorously rubbed Mark's foot with vinegar.
Once Mark caught his breath, he rolled onto his back as she started rubbing vinegar on his palms. "Didn't know...a platoon would...come in," he panted.
Brigands stilled and looked at Mark. "That's what family does, sir." A soft, fatherly smile touched his lips.
Mark gave a weak smile. "Just a few...minutes so everyone...doesn't catch it." Then he went into another coughing fit. Grandfather got some medicine in him.
Once all that was left to do was get soup into him, Brigands and Grandfather left.
"You need...to go," he whispered, his energy visibly draining away.
"I'll go once we have you fed. I don't understand why your fever is this high." She mopped his brow again and pushed another glass of water on him.
He grew silent and looked completely miserable, but he accepted each spoonful of soup with a wince every time he swallowed.
"I have some tea on the stove. Honey will help soothe your throat, and it's good for helping with infection."
"No, it's my head...that hurts...to move. Tanya?"
"Yes, love?" She mopped his wet brow again.
"Pneumonia will...get worse being...in bed...My leg is healed...enough that I...have to walk."
The spoon stilled half way to his mouth. "The risk of dying from pneumonia outweighs the risk of your vessel breaking open again at this point, you mean."
He gave a slight nod. "The pneumonia...is advanced...it's hard to...breathe."
Shoving back tears, she nodded. "Let's get you walking."
Within four days, his ribs began to show as the illness ravaged his body. He ate every bit of food she shoved at him, but his appetite waned to wanting nothing on his own. It still wasn't enough nutrition with how the fever raged and sucked everything from him. Moving him risked screams from neck pain. He kept trying to say something, but his words slurred and semi-conscious muttering took over as the fever took over his mind.
"Granddaughter, you must sleep to keep up your strength." Grandfather entered at midnight. "I'll sit watch with him."
Mark slept more and more, this time for nearly twelve hours.
"His cheeks are sinking in. His eyes are sunken..." Her voice broke. "He's getting that look of someone right before death. This isn't good that he sleeps so much. I can't help but think it's the fever trying to pull him under."
Grandfather sank into the chair on the other side of the bed. "He's very ill. I know the look you speak of, but I've had patients reach that point and come back."
"You have?" She sniffled and held Mark's hand tighter.
"We keep giving him different medicines, and you keep shoving food at him. It's the fever that is draining him faster than anything. We continue the ice packs and baths to keep his brain cool. The fever will burn itself out soon."
"How do you know?"
"It has to." He held her eyes. "Our very last option is to try bleeding him—"
"No."
"Let me finish," he said patiently, "Bleeding him in reverse."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Remember when influenza hit the ship? He gave us all some of his blood because he'd had it before."
Her eyes widened. "If it's something one of us has had, it might help fight it off!"
The candle burned long into the night. Waiting and praying that the blood would quickly do something for him did little to stop the grief that grew with every passing hour.
She awoke on the settee at sunset. Shooting up, she ran into the bedroom. Mark laid in bed asleep. "How long was I out?"
Brigands and Grandfather both sat watch, but a small smile touched their lips. "You've been out since sunrise. He opened his eyes for a few moments today."
"He did?! Is the transfusion working?" Sinking onto the edge of the bed, she listened with a stethoscope to his chest.
"He didn't make much sense—he kept muttering 'brain,' but he opened his eyes." Brigands said. "That has to be good."
Her heart fell. "That's it? He didn't take food or anything?"
"Tanya, it may be progress. Patience," Grandfather urged.
