Sleep would help. If she mentioned the crate again, he would ask more questions. Right now, he had much more pressing matters to attend to.
Matters of life and death.
five
Miss Chastain didn’t wake again that day.
A fact that brought him relief for many reasons. Maybe after a solid half day of sleep, she’d be more lucid. Less likely to fixate on crates of medicine or perfumes or whatever filled the vials she’d been so insistent about.
Micah left the camp before sunrise the next morning to check his traps. Part of him craved the solitude. He’d been away from other people for so long, but at times the utter aloneness had brought him to his knees, tearing him from the inside out. Yet that pain was nothing compared to what he’d brought upon his family.
Still, he’d expected himself to be glad for another person’s company in his lonely camp, even though the pain kept her nearly unconscious. Why did her presence weigh so heavily on him? Maybe it was simply that she was a woman, and clearly from the civilized portion of the country. Not only that, she was in desperate straits, and her life depended almost solely on him.
Because of that, he couldn’t linger overlong on the trail.
If the woman woke, she wouldn’t be able to get up without hurting herself. Hopefully she wouldn’t try. The more still she stayed, the better her leg would heal. He needed to make that point clear the next time she was coherent.
Only two traps were full, so he reset them, then skinned the beaver and marten before bringing the meat and furs back to camp for preparation. It was always better to leave the remains as far away as possible so the smell of blood didn’t attract mountain lions or wolves.
He eyed the lump of furs under the shelter as he stepped into the campsite. Her brown hair bunched around one end of the furs, as though her face was buried underneath, away from the cold. Her silky strands had a grayish-brown shimmer, a unique shade that contrasted with the white-and-gray mottled fur of the wolf skin underneath her.
Turning away, he added more logs to the fire. She needed warm food in her belly. Maybe corncakes with the fresh meat.
As he worked on the meal, his mind turned back to the supplies scattered around the wrecked wagon. He’d be a fool not to return for the foodstuffs. And he should probably ask Miss Chastain if there were belongings important to her. The doctoring supplies may be useful, too, but he may not be able to carry much. At least he could bring back the things that mattered.
At times like this, it would be nice to have a horse. But feeding an animal through the mountain winter was no easy task. He’d long ago decided fending for himself was the only way he could carry on. Bearing responsibility for another person or animal was too much. He’d proven himself incapable.
A moan sounded from behind him, and he turned as the uppermost fur on the pallet shifted. The pelt wrinkled as though an animal had crawled inside, scurrying to find a way out.
Miss Chastain’s forehead peeked out at the edge, then her eyes, scanning the world around her. Her gaze widened, as though what she’d thought was a bad dream might actually be true.
How awful that this was her new reality, but he would do his best to make it bearable for her. “Sleep well?”
Her eyes jerked to him, and she pulled the fur tighter over the lower half of her face. The morning air nipped with a sharp cold, probably uncomfortable after her cocoon under the pelts.
She didn’t answer, so he settled on his heels. “Not sure how much you remember from yesterday, but I’m Micah Bradley. I found you on the side of a mountain and brought you back here for your wounds to heal.” He motioned toward her leg. “You have a break in the distal region of your femoral shaft. Also a cracked rib. When you’re well enough, I’ll take you back to Fort Benton where you can get a ride home.” That would be in the spring when the winter thawed, but he was trying to ease her fears with the summary, not stir them anew.
Her eyes grew cloudy with his words. Moist. She was likely remembering the fate of the others in her party.
He turned back to the pan where the morning meal cooked. “I’ve some food here. It’d be good if you could eat.” The effort would likely distract her.
After scooping a small helping onto his tin plate, he reached for the mug of willow tea he’d been steeping, then shifted to kneel at the woman’s side.
Her eyes were red, but at least tears didn’t flow down her face. She lowered the covers and pulled a hand out from underneath, then reached to take the plate.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a utensil. Sorry.” How barbaric he must seem to her. Only a single dented tin plate and cup. No eating fork or serviette. But it was only him, and he’d long since stopped caring about such things.
Thankfully, her gaze was on the food, a hungry glimmer now touching her eyes. It had likely been at least a day since she’d eaten, and her body needed sustenance to heal and keep itself warm.
She positioned the plate on her chest. “Thank you.”
He stayed beside her as she took up a corncake and bit, her eyelids dipping low as she appeared to relish the simple fare. She must be accustomed to French pastries and all manner of breakfast meats, much grander than his simple cornmeal, salt, and water.
After she finished the corncake, he raised the cup. “Drink this.”
She took the mug from him, steadier than she’d been the day before. After downing half, she sank back against the furs with a long exhale. Her eyes lifted to his for the first time since she’d seen the food. “Thank you. That was . . . divine.”
He couldn’t bite back a snort. “You’re welcome. Eat the other if you can.”
He took the cup as she turned her attention to the slab of roasted beaver meat on the plate. Her gloved fingers reached for the food, and she raised it to her mouth, taking a dainty bite. Every movement fluid and very, very feminine.
He swallowed. Ella had been like that. Graceful and delicate, with her pale skin and fiery red hair. Not accustomed to life in the prairie town where her family brought her. It was a wonder she’d married him, a country doctor, instead of returning east for a husband.
Still, he’d done his best to make her thankful for her choice. Had she been? Did she ever regret marrying him? On her deathbed, surely.
He regretted so many things. Keeping her in Indiana instead of taking her back to Boston where she belonged. The long hours he spent with patients instead of devoting himself to his wife and daughter. They’d both deserved so much better from him.
Especially at the end.
But the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to regret was his choice to pursue Ella that very first day. She—and then Rachel, too—had been everything to him. His lone source of light and joy. Even if his world was now darker for their loss, he couldn’t regret those few bright years.
“Thank you.”
He jerked his focus back to the present as his patient handed over an empty plate. “Oh . . . you’re welcome.” He started to rise, but almost knocked over the cup, still half-full. “Here, finish this. It’ll help with the pain.” And help you sleep. But he didn’t say that last part aloud. No need to tell her outright he’d rather have her asleep than lying here, grieving.
She took the cup from him but didn’t raise it to her lips. Her gaze found his. “Did you find the box?”