Chapter Thirteen
Deborah's heart hammeredagainst her chest as she laid her palm on Aaron's forehead. It was hot to the touch. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his strong frame now shivering under the thin blanket.
Deborah hurried to the door. "Adam," she called out, her voice steady despite the panic that knotted her stomach. "Fetch the doctor, quick."
Adam, who had been tending to the horses, dashed into the room, his boots thudding against the wooden floorboards. One glance at Aaron, and he needed no further urging. "On my way," he said with a nod, tipping his hat before hurrying back out into the growing light.
Deborah smoothed back Aaron's hair, murmuring words meant to comfort them both. Her hands, usually so sure when tending the garden or mending clothes, trembled slightly as she adjusted the damp cloth on his brow.
It wasn't long before the doctor arrived, his bag of instruments clinking softly as he stepped through the door. He was a man of few words but sharp eyes that missed nothing. He examined Aaron with practiced hands, lifting an eyelid, checking his pulse, looking at the wound, and then finally standing straight with a serious look on his weathered face.
"Mrs. Tudor," the doctor began, his voice as gruff as the dry Texas land, "Aaron needs to be in the hospital. This infection is beyond what home care can manage."
A protest formed on Deborah's lips. She wanted to argue, to claim she could nurse him back to health herself. But then she met the doctor's gaze, saw the unspoken gravity there, and she knew better.
"All right," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I trust you, Doctor. We'll do whatever it takes."
"Good," the doctor replied with a small nod. "I'll arrange for the transport. He's in good hands."
As the men prepared to move Aaron, Deborah stood by, her heart aching with worry. Yet, even amid the fear, she clung to a flicker of hope. Love and companionship were the cornerstones of this community, and with their support, she believed they would weather this storm too.
*****
DEBORAH PACED THE HOSPITALcorridor, her footsteps echoing off the sterile walls. With each pass by the ward's door, she stole a glance at Aaron, lying still on the cot, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Days turned into weeks, yet she remained by his side.
"Ma'am, visiting hours are over," the duty nurse reminded her gently one evening, her eyes soft with understanding.
"But I can't leave him," Deborah whispered, her voice laced with desperation.
"Come now, you need your rest too," the nurse urged, guiding Deborah away from the ward.
Reluctantly, Deborah allowed herself to be led to the front entrance. She stepped out into the warm Texas night, the air heavy with the scent of wildflowers and dust. Lantern in hand, she made her way to the nearby boarding house, its windows aglow with welcoming light.
Mrs. Garvey, the boarding house owner, met her at the door. "You look all tuckered out, dear," she said, her voice a comforting drawl. "I saved you some supper if you’re hungry."
"Thank you," Deborah managed, her exhaustion evident. “I’m not hungry, but I think I need to eat so I can keep visiting Aaron.”
"We're all rootin' for your Aaron."
Deborah was back at Aaron's side as soon as visiting hours started. She caught snippets of conversation from the other ranch hands in the ward, their familiar banter a strange contrast to the sterile environment.
"Hey, Deb," called out Sam, one of the hands, from his cot. "Is Aaron getting any better? We’re all worried about him."
"That bullet had bad manners," Deborah replied, attempting a smile. “It gave him an infection, and he’s just not doing well. I have faith though.”
"Bullet don't stand a chance against The Gentle Giant," chimed in another hand, Pete.
"Sure don't," agreed the third, Billy, his voice weak but spirited. "Aaron's too stubborn to let a little fever beat him."
Their words were meant to buoy her spirits, and in some small way, they did. The days blurred into one another, but the ranch hands' encouragement never waned, nor did Deborah’s resolve. As she sat knitting beside Aaron's bed, her fingers worked the yarn into patterns of hope and strength, a tangible representation of the community's bond.
"Deborah," Aaron murmured one afternoon, his voice raspy but clear.
She nearly dropped her knitting in surprise. "Yes, Aaron?"
"Thank you," he said, his brown eyes locking onto hers. "For being here."
"Always," she promised, squeezing his hand with a tenderness that spoke volumes.
