She blinked at the food and her face flushed. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to cook your own supper.”
“It wasn’t any problem. Collie helped.”
“But—”
“Eat.” Rye guided her to a chair.
She sat down and picked up her fork but didn’t attempt to do anything with it.
“It don’t taste bad,” Collie said, misunderstanding her hesitation.
She smiled at the boy. “I’m sure it’s good. I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t. You have to eat,” Rye said firmly. “Madeline is depending on you.”
His words seemed to penetrate her preoccupation, and Dulcie tried some of the creamed peas and potatoes. Her eyes widened. “This is good.”
Rye grinned inwardly as he feigned a glare. “You didn’t think a man could fix something that tasted good?”
Her cheeks flushed. “To be honest, I never knew a man who cooked.”
“I thought it was woman’s work,” Collie piped up and shoveled another spoonful into his mouth.
Rye winked at Collie. “If that were the case, a man who isn’t married would likely starve.”
“That why you can cook, ’cause you ain’t married?”
Pain arrowed through Rye, but it wasn’t as sharp as it would’ve been a month ago. “That’s partly right. But the fact is, I even cooked for my wife a time or two.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died.” Rye forced a smile. “But not from my food. Now eat before it gets cold.”
Collie stared at him a moment longer, then dug into his food. Rye’s gaze caught Dulcie’s sympathetic eyes and he quickly looked away. It’d been nearly two years since he lost Mary. Sometimes it seemed forever, and other times it felt like it was only yesterday.
He cleaned off his plate, but tasted little of the fresh vegetables and salty meat. Glancing at Dulcie’s plate, he was pleased to see she’d finished her meal, too. However, her face was too wan and her eyes red and puffy.
She pushed back her chair and stood. “I’ll wash the dishes.”
Rye rose and grasped the plate in her hand. “Collie and I will take care of them. Sit down and rest.”
Familiar impatience flashed in her features. “All I’ve done today is sit around. You and Collie are the ones who’ve been working all day.”
She tried to pull the plate from his hold, but he wouldn’t release it.
“Worrying is harder on a person than honest labor,” he said gently. He studied the stiff set of her shoulders and stubbornness in her face. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, Dulcie.”
For a moment, it didn’t seem as if she’d heard him, then she crumpled in front of him. “I-I’m not used to depending on other folks.”
Not even your husband? But even as he thought it, he knew the answer. Jerry McDaniel was a poor excuse for a husband and father. And it said a lot about Rye that he’d considered the son of a bitch his friend.
Shaking the regrets aside, Rye tugged the plate from Dulcie’s hand. “Go on, Dulcie.”
She nodded and returned to the bedroom to continue her vigil over her daughter.
“I can help,” Collie said, standing beside Rye’s elbow.
Rye reined in his thoughts about Dulcie and her husband. He smiled at the boy. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Rye washed the dishes and Collie dried them. Fifteen minutes later, they had everything cleaned up.
Collie stood by the door awkwardly, his hands in his pockets. “We gonna stay in here tonight?”
Dulcie appeared in the bedroom doorway. “You can both sleep in the loft. That’s where Madeline and I usually sleep.”
Startled she’d allow him to stay in the cabin overnight, Rye asked, “Are you sure?”
Although her face was pale, her nod was firm. “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I trust you.”
Instead of satisfaction, Rye felt only guilt. If she knew the truth, she would never give him her trust.
DULCIE jerked out of her slumber. Her neck twinged sharply and she pressed a hand to it. Disoriented, she took a few moments to determine where she was and why she’d been sleeping in a chair. A single candle burned, filling the bedroom with various shades of light and dark.
A small snuffle startled her and she rose, moving to Madeline’s side. She gently rested her palm against the girl’s brow. Hot. Too hot. Madeline coughed, a weak but jagged sound.
Renewed fear constricted Dulcie’s throat and a hiccupped sob slipped out. She pressed her fist to her mouth, felt her teeth digging into her lower lip but welcomed the pain. It was easier to bear than the thought of her daughter dying.
Hating herself for her momentary lapse into despair, Dulcie gathered her composure. She picked up the pan of now lukewarm water and carried it to the door. Tossing it out beyond the porch, she paused a moment, gazing at the star-filled sky. Although it was a warm night, a chill chased across her skin and goose bumps rose on her arms.
If she lost Madeline . . .
A tear rolled down her cheek.
“Dulcie?”
She spun around. Rye stood just inside the door, wearing only trousers and a partially buttoned shirt. Her heart pounded with startled fright even as she remembered she’d allowed him and Collie to sleep in the loft.
“Are you all right?” Rye asked, stepping onto the porch.
She nodded and cleared her throat. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.” He frowned and stretched out his hand, his fingers brushing her cheek. “You’re crying.”
She retreated from his touch and dashed her hand across her damp face. “I got some dirt in my eye.”
“How’s Madeline?” Rye obviously saw through her lie.
“Her fever’s worse.” She slipped past him into the cabin and hurried over to the pump to fill the basin with fresh, cold water.
Rye, his bare feet silent on the wood floor and his body a murky shadow in the dim cabin, joined her.
Caught in her anguish, Dulcie worked the pump handle until water overflowed the basin, shocking her back to the present. She stopped pumping and leaned over the handle, hanging her head. “She’s burning up, and she’s coughing more, too.”
Silence greeted her words but she sensed Rye moving closer. Then a gentle hand settled on her bowed back. “Did he tell you what to do for the coughing?”
Dulcie forced herself to think, not feel. “To put hot cloths on her chest.”
He grasped her shoulders and drew her to an upright position with a firm hold. “Go sit with Madeline. I’ll heat some water.”
Dulcie nodded, too worried and tired to care that Rye was giving her orders. In the bedroom, she dampened a cloth and laid the wet rag on Madeline’s forehead. Perching on the mattress, Dulcie swept back her daughter’s fine hair from her face and tried not to think.
Madeline coughed raggedly.
“Shhh, it’s okay, honey,” Dulcie reassured, even as she battled the panic that crawled up her throat.
The fit continued and Madeline’s face reddened as tears escaped her closed eyes. Dulcie pulled Madeline into her arms and patted her back, her own heart threatening to shatter. Finally, Madeline quieted, but Dulcie continued to hold her, rocking her.
“She’s all right, Dulcie,” Rye said from her side. “You can lay her back down now.”
She couldn’t unlock her arms. Fear like she’d never known filled every part of her. As frightened as she was after Jerry died, leaving her alone to raise their daughter, it didn’t come close to the abject terror she now felt. Madeline was the only person in the world she loved and who loved her in return.
“We need to put warm cloths on her chest, Dulcie,” Rye said. “Please, let her go.”
Rye’s voice sounded strained, as if he, too, were fighting his emotions. Dulcie concentrated and finally loosened her muscles to ease Madeline down to the propped-up pillows. It took every ounce of willpower she posse
ssed to release her.
And it was a shock to see Madeline’s fever-bright eyes open and staring at her.
“How’re you feeling, honey?” Dulcie asked, hoping her daughter didn’t hear the tremor in her voice.
Madeline whimpered. “Hot. Hurts.”
Dulcie bent close. “I know, sweetheart, but we’re going to make you all better.”
The girl shoved off her blankets and grumbled. “Too hot.”
Dulcie tugged the muslin sheet back over her. “Just this one cover, okay?”
“No.” Her plaintive moan was followed by a kick to remove the sheet.
Dulcie’s fear made her impatient. “Please, honey, you have to stay covered.”
“Don’t wanna.”
Tears threatened Dulcie’s precarious control.
“Let me try,” Rye said.
She glanced at him, gauged his intentions, then reluctantly rose to allow him to take her place.
“Hey, Miss Madeline,” Rye cajoled. “You seem to be a bit under the weather.”
The girl pouted. “Don’t like being sick.”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” Rye leaned close. “I hate being sick, too,” he said in a loud whisper.
“You’re never sick.”
“Maybe not since I came here, but before I used to get sick a lot.”
Intrigued, Dulcie stepped closer.
“You’re lying,” Madeline said, crabby.
Rye drew an X on his chest. “I promise you I’m not lying.”
Madeline stared at him. “Were you sick like me?”
“One time I was. But I used to get stomachaches a lot.”
“Ma gives me licorice when I have a tummyache.”
Rye smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Next time I get a tummyache, I’ll ask her for some.” His smile faded. “Do you want to feel better?”
She nodded, her lips pressed into a line of stubbornness.
“Then you have to keep covered up even though I know you’re hot,” Rye said.
She opened her mouth as if to argue, but a cough erupted. Dulcie reached for her, but Rye pulled the girl up against his chest. He rubbed her back, his voice calm and steady. “Easy, Maddy. I’ve got you.”
Moisture stung Dulcie’s eyes. Her experience with men had taught her that they weren’t capable of tenderness or compassion. Yet here was Rye, again forcing her to reevaluate her opinion.
He crooned softly to Madeline until she stopped coughing and was able to draw a deep breath. He laid her back down, and Dulcie set the cool, wet cloth back on Madeline’s brow.
“How’re you doing, sweetheart?” Dulcie asked, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.
Madeline managed a little nod and her eyelids slid closed. Her breathing grew steady.
Rye stood and heaved a shaky sigh. “We should put those hot towels on her while she’s sleeping.”
Working together, Dulcie and Rye unbuttoned Madeline’s gown and placed the hot compress on her chest, then re-covered her. Madeline continued to sleep restlessly.
Even with Madeline so ill, Dulcie couldn’t help but notice how small the bedroom seemed with Rye sharing it. He’d buttoned his shirt, tucked the tails into his trousers, and pulled on his boots at some point, yet she couldn’t deny her body’s reaction to his nearness. She cursed her weak nature and tried to ignore the restlessness that settled deep in her belly.
Maybe Madeline’s deathly illness was Dulcie’s punishment for her sins. First for lying with Jerry before they were married, then for whoring herself with Virgil Lamont.
Please, God, don’t punish my daughter for what I’ve done.
SIXTEEN
DULCIE studied Rye’s shadow-shrouded features, seeing pain that went beyond Madeline’s illness. She averted her gaze. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Rye cleared his throat. “I am, too.”
He took the chair Dulcie had awakened in, in what seemed hours ago. Although she was overly aware of him, she couldn’t deny his presence was appreciated. She didn’t feel so alone, solely responsible for her child’s life. It didn’t make sense since Rye wasn’t kin, but then a lot of things didn’t make sense when it came to the mysterious man.
Caught in the fever’s clutches, Madeline murmured nonsensical phrases and occasionally cried out. Dulcie’s stomach twisted with dread. She rewet the cloth and laid it on Madeline’s too-hot brow. As she stroked her daughter’s hair, she hummed a nearly forgotten lullaby.
From the day Madeline was born, Dulcie had rarely been separated from her daughter. Madeline gave her hope. Madeline gave her love. Madeline gave her a reason to believe life would be good once more. However, there’d been countless times that Dulcie had reason to doubt the future, and this was the most crushing. If her daughter died, Dulcie would be left with no hope, no reason to believe, and no love.
A hundred memories, from Madeline’s birth to the day she and Madeline capered in the water, ambushed her thoughts, and she stopped her soft lulling. They were too swift and too numerous to pick out individual images—she tried to focus on a specific memory, the day Madeline was born.
The need to share her thoughts overcame her, and, keeping her gaze on her daughter, she spoke. “Jerry was on patrol the day Madeline was born. We’d just moved to the fort, so I only knew our neighbors, a sergeant and his wife who were at least ten years older than me.”
Dulcie knew Rye was listening and silently thanked him for not interrupting. “When my water broke, I was terrified. No one had bothered to tell me that would happen. I thought I was losing my baby.” She paused, her heart pounded, reliving the moment. After regaining her composure, Dulcie continued. “I ran over to the neighbors’ and pounded on the door. The sergeant’s wife took one look at me and knew what happened. I don’t think I was the first young wife to come to her for help. Everything from then on is a blur, up until she put Madeline in my arms.”
Dulcie smiled, recalling the joy she’d felt, and a tear slid down her cheek and dripped onto the blanket covering her daughter. She brushed the moisture away. “Do you know what I remember most when I looked at Madeline for the first time?”
“No. What?” Rye asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I thought she was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen in my life. She had all this wrinkled skin and a funny-shaped head. But the sergeant’s wife told me all babies started out looking that way. I didn’t believe her until Madeline was a few weeks old.”
She chanced a look at Rye and saw his understanding smile, but also the poignant sadness in his eyes. He never had a chance to see his child. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s all right, Dulcie. It was their time, and I’ve finally made peace with their passing.” His gaze strayed to Madeline and determination filled his eyes. “But it’s not Madeline’s. Not yet.”
Rye’s conviction gave Dulcie strength and she nodded stubbornly. “Damned right, it’s not.”
He smiled. “You just hang onto that, Dulcie.”
And she did.
RYE stood and stretched his stiff muscles. For the last two hours, Dulcie had been making certain the rag on Madeline’s forehead stayed cool and the cloth on her chest warm.
“I’ll get some more hot water,” he said, leaning over Dulcie.
She blinked in surprise, as if she’d forgotten he was in the room. After a moment, she handed him the basin. Her fingers brushed his, and he felt a slight ripple of arousal then cursed himself for his unseemly reaction.
He slipped out of the bedroom with the basin. After tossing the old water out, he refilled the basin from a steaming kettle on the stovetop.
“Thanks,” Dulcie mumbled.
Rye placed his hand on her stiff shoulder. “I can do that for a while so you can sleep.”
She stared at him, as if trying to figure out his words. As exhausted as she was, he doubted she was thinking straight. She blinked and nodded. “All right.” She stretched out on the bed alongside Madeline. “I’m just
going to rest my eyes, but I won’t sleep.”
Rye brushed the ponytail that flowed down her back. “That’s fine.”
Dulcie closed her eyes . . . and was asleep in less than a minute.
Rye drew the chair nearer to the bed and gazed down at mother and daughter. In the candle’s flickering light he could see the resemblance in the cheekbones, nose, mouth, and chin. He hoped she would grow up to be as strong-willed as her mother instead of possessing her father’s weaknesses.
Despite knowing Dulcie and Madeline for less than a month, Rye’s emotions were entangled with them. Just the thought of the little girl losing her battle brought the sting of tears. He angrily swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He knew firsthand what it was like to lose loved ones, and he didn’t want Dulcie to have to go through the hell he had.
The night swept by, but time held little meaning for Rye. His world narrowed to Madeline and her feverish ramblings and restless movements. He did his best to keep her quiet so she didn’t wake Dulcie, who needed the sleep.
As the rising sun peeked in the window, Rye stretched cramped muscles. Muted footsteps approached the bedroom, alerting Rye to Collie’s arrival. He met the boy outside the bedroom.
“You weren’t in your bedroll,” Collie said accusingly.
“I was helping Mrs. McDaniel with Madeline.”
Collie peeked around Rye. “Is she better?”
“She’s got a fever.”
Fearful eyes met his. “Folks die from fever.”
Rye hunkered down in front of the boy and rested his hands on his slender shoulders. “That may be so, but we’re not going to let Madeline die, you hear me?”
Collie’s expression twisted into anger. “If someone’s gonna die of fever, ain’t nothing you or me or no one can do about it.”
“We can fight the fever,” Dulcie said.
Rye and Collie turned to see her standing in the doorway.
“Madeline will not die,” she said, her tone no less fierce than her expression.
Collie seemed to shrink before her. “I-I didn’t mean nothin’, Miz McDaniel.”
Before Rye could reassure the boy, Dulcie dropped to a knee in front of Collie, who stared at the floor. Her intense expression was replaced by sympathy and concern. “I know you didn’t, Collie. I understand how hard it must be after you lost your mother and father. But I’m not going to let Madeline go without a fight.” She paused and used a crooked finger to raise his chin. “I hope I can count on you to help me.”
A Reason to Believe Page 19
