Arthur was gone all night and morning, searching for the herbs. He turned over every rock and twig, coming up with nothing. That afternoon he finally decided to head back to camp to see how Annabelle's illness had progressed.
When he approached camp, he saw that people were going about their business as usual, and something was off about it. They were even smiling, and he noticed the stress and tension had been replaced with relief.
While he was still on his horse, Hosea came running to greet him. "She got it! She got the medicine!"
"Who did?" Arthur asked.
"Mary. She got it. Stole it from the doctor's office. Snuck it in past the law, nursed Annabelle back to health. All while you were gone."
Arthur was stunned. "What?" He dismounted and rushed with Hosea towards the tent.
"She risked life, limb, and good name," Hosea said to him as they ducked into the tent.
Annabelle was sitting up in bed, slowly nursing a mug of broth, Dutch at her bedside. Arthur was relieved to see the color had returned to her face. He watched, amazed at her recovery.
"Her fever broke this morning, after Mary administered the herbs," Hosea said.
"She…stayed to do that?" Arthur said.
"Oh, yes," Hosea said. "Insisted she be the one to nurse her. She left a little while after the fever started coming down, said she wanted to make sure it was successful. Said she wanted to make sure there was nothing more she could do."
When Dutch noticed Arthur, he smiled. "Oh, Arthur!" he said as he came over to him. "Can you believe it?" He shook Arthur's hand as he said, "You thank her, again, from me."
Arthur nodded. As he looked into Dutch's eyes, he noticed how red they had been and the darkness that rimmed them from lack of sleep. And yet, a bright smile rested beneath them.
Dutch returned to Annabelle's bedside. But he pointed at Arthur. "You secure that woman, Arthur. Be good to her; don't you ever let her get away." Looking back at Annabelle and taking her hand in both of his, his voice broke as he whispered, "She's an angel."
Arthur tried to take it all in. One thing he knew: he had to find Mary.
He looked at Hosea, who immediately smiled and nodded. "Go," he said.
Arthur knew just where she would be.
.
Once at the barn, he hitched his horse to the post and dismounted, taking his hat in his hand. He ran inside to find Mary leaning against a beam, reading. She looked up and set her book aside. Immediately their eyes locked.
What had she done? For Annabelle. For Dutch. What could bring her to risk herself like that? What had she done?
He searched for an answer in the eyes of the woman who stood before him, this awe-inspiring, selfless woman. And he saw it. The risk she had taken for a practical stranger. The love he couldn't understand. It was for him. It was all for him. And it was more than he could've asked for.
In a hazy cloud of emotions he set his hat on a post and stepped towards her, never taking his eyes off hers. What have you done? was all he could think.
He gently touched the gap at the base of her neck. She looked at him with an expression that made him ache. He rested his forehead on hers and closed his eyes, breathing her in—the fragrance of honeysuckle and lilac—so different from anyone else in his life. He felt her feather-light breath hitch as he gently kissed her on the mouth once, twice. Slowly and quietly he brushed his lips against hers, waiting for her breathing to return to normal. When she raised her chin in response to him, he deepened the kiss.
It didn't take long and she had her hands in his hair. His lips traveled down to her neck and back up to her mouth. With his left hand he unbuttoned the top few buttons of her frock and traced the top of her breast. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and her mouth was unwavering. She was returning his passion in kind. He brought his hand back up to her neck and kissed her with renewed resolve. Everything else in the world vanished. If he let himself, he could stay with her like this forever.
He reached down and gathered the fabric of her skirt, his fingers trailing up the soft cotton pantaloons in pursuit of their destination. He reached the hem of the opening in her breeches and felt the course tumble of hair. Just as the tip of his finger met with wetness and her mouth broke away to let out a breath, a pigeon flew out from the rafters and startled the two of them apart.
He immediately looked up in indignation at the god-forsaken foul. He was about to curse, but remembered who he was with. As the atmosphere settled, he turned back to Mary. Her face was redder than he could've thought natural for a human. Even so, with the afternoon sun breaking through the slats of the barn and through the particles of dust in the air, he could see that the flush on her face was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.
But she wouldn't look at him. Everywhere else. She was looking everywhere else but at him. He stepped closer and finally she glanced in his direction. But just as quickly her eyes darted away. "Mary," he whispered. At his voice forming her name, her eyes met his. And he understood. Whereas just moments ago these eyes had been brimming with adoration, now they were flooded with a turbulent whirlpool of emotions, and he could see each one flicker across her eyes: shame, guilt, horrified embarrassment, fear. "Mary…" he said and reached out a hand. But she briskly left the barn.