Page 30 of When the Sky Breaks

“She’s sick,” Ansel said curtly.

“That’s not news, Ansel,” I protested. “Bring her back here and let her sleep.”

“She’s burning up. How did you sleep through that?”

“What?” That brought me fully awake. I was on my feet and moving closer in an instant.

“Tick bite,” Ansel said. “Awful rash. Fever’s spiked. Don’t know when. Colorado River’s close—get her there. Now!”

“So the tick was carrying something?” I asked, voice flat, crouching beside Sorcha and going to brush stray wisps of hair back from her forehead, before recoiling at the heat.

That was bad.

“Most likely,” Ansel snapped, slicing through the front of Sorcha’s dress then her corset. “Before you say anything? Yes. I know. You were right. I was wrong and stubborn.”

“I was right, and your stubbornness might kill our sovereign,” I retorted.

“Get her to the water,” Ansel urged, pushing Sorcha’s limp form into my arms. “There’s an army encampment probably twenty miles east. I’ll head there and see if I can get a medic with proper supplies. It’ll take a few hours though. So water. Now.”

“Will that bring her temperature down?” I asked, pulling Sorcha against my chest and getting back to my feet. She was dead weight in my arms. Her skin felt like fire. Panic lanced through me, so intense that it made it hard to breathe.

“Just go!” Ansel barked.

I reached the riverbank and stumbled into the water, lowering Sorcha into the current. She stirred a little as she hit the water, and a spark of hope lit up within me before flaring out again. She didn’t rouse. It was likely just an automatic reaction to the painful contrast of the snow-fed water on her burning skin. One hundred and twenty-three years I had lived on this earth and I’d never felt a fever that high. I settled on a boulder along the shoreline and held Sorcha’s body against me, wondering vaguely if I should be getting her farther away from my own body heat as I tilted her head carefully to make sure she didn’t choke. The last thing we needed tonight was a near drowning.

“You’ll be okay,” I murmured, over and over, cupping water in my palm and dousing her hair, the flushed skin of her face. She stirred a bit but again, didn’t rouse. My heart clenched.

“You’ll be okay,” I repeated, voice breaking. “You’re not gonna die on me.”

I swallowed hard.

“Not here,” I said, carding my free hand through her wet hair. “Not now. You’re not gonna die on me.”

I pulled her closer until my lips brushed her forehead. My hands were shaking, from cold, yes, and fear. But love too—so much love for her.

“I wasn’t supposed to feel like this,” I murmured into her forehead. “I just needed to protect you. Take care of you.”

I went back to methodically pouring handfuls of water over her burning skin, not sure if it was doing anything against the fever but convinced it would ground me enough to get the words out. My fingers were going numb. My toes felt frozen. She should have been freezing too. But the waves of heat kept radiating off her skin.

“I didn’t need to get attached.”

I took a deep breath and paused, studying her face before my eyes tracked down to the curve of her belly—just barely showing at nine weeks. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t lose them. Not after all this. Not baby too.

“But I got attached,” I said after a while. “I fell in love with you. With how smart you are, how quick and sharp. With the way you look when your curls are loose and disheveled in the morning. With the way you talk about the sunset and the owls and even the cacti like they’re some kind of invaluable gift. With that little scrunch between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating. With the way you smell when you sleep on my chest. And I’m so sorry it took me so long to say it. And you had every right to wait as long as you did to forgive me. But you did. And we’re gonna be okay now. Right, love?”

Sorcha didn’t respond. Of course she didn’t. So I just pulled her closer and felt the tiny movement, barely stirring, of our baby against my hand. And for a heartbeat, everything froze—the river, the night, even the fear. I could have imagined it. I definitely imagined it. I didn’t care. Because that tiny movement was the only sign of life I had, and I clung to it.

“So you can’t die on me,” I choked out, fighting tears. “You won’t.”

I was still holding her like that when Ansel strode back into camp, followed closely by a young man in uniform carrying a medical satchel bigger than his entire torso.

“He can help?” I asked.

“I bloody hope so,” Ansel muttered. “Pass Sorcha here. Out of the river. Can’t do anything more to help with her in there.”

Ansel took Sorcha’s limp, burning body and started back toward camp. Letting Sorcha out of my arms hit like a physical blow. The sudden cold of the river water felt like a corpse against my chest after all that time spent clutching her feverish warmth. I told myself it was just the contrast, reminded myself she’d still been breathing when I put her in Ansel’s arms, and fought back the urge to vomit as my gut protested at letting her out of my sight, even for a fleeting moment. It took a conscious effort to keep the panic out of my voice as I climbed out of the river and hurried after.

Ansel settled Sorcha on a blanket near the fire, and I watched as he deftly tucked Sorcha’s hair over the pointed tips of her ears before waving the young medic over.