Page 31 of When the Sky Breaks

“I’m gonna stoke the fire,” Ansel said. “Have a go at it.”

I swallowed hard as the boy knelt by my wife’s unconscious body.

“Tick bite a few days ago,” I told him. “We got it out, but she already had a rash. Fever’s been getting worse by the day. We can’t get her to rouse now.”

The young man gave a nervous, sympathetic smile then rested the back of his hand against Sorcha’s forehead. He pulled away quickly, like he’d touched a hot coal.

“Too high,” he muttered, not looking at me. “She should be dead.”

I swallowed hard, my jaw clenching.

“She’s pregnant,” I managed.

The young man just nodded.

“We had half a dozen in our company bitten and ill on the trek out from Missouri,” the young man said. “I’ve had luck with cactus paddles then yarrow. But we’ll need hot water for the tea.”

“I’ll fetch it,” I replied, casting another quick glance at Sorcha before fetching our kettle and heading to the fire.

Ansel and I stood on the other side of camp, waiting for the water to boil while surreptitiously keeping an eye on Sorcha and the soldier. The young man had pulled off the last of Sorcha’s clothes then pressed the pulverized flesh of cactus paddles to her neck, armpits, and groin.

“He says the fever’s too high,” I said, “that Sorcha shouldn’t be alive.”

“If she were a human she’d have been dead hours ago,” Ansel replied.

“Even young as she is she can still take more than a mortal body,” I agreed.

A long moment passed with no sound but for the crackling of the fire.

“And do we think that—what, cactus and yarrow is going to be enough to help her?” I felt myself spiraling, but Ansel cut me short.

“Listen, lad.” Ansel’s voice dropped, steadier now, quieter, almost reassuring. “The medic’s doing his work. He swears up and down he’s nursed at least half a dozen humans through tick-borne fevers in the last few months. Not to mention dysentery, typhus. Unless you’ve got magic I don’t know about, this is our best chance at saving them. So shut your mouth. Brew the tea. And be bloody grateful. Now sit. You stand and you’re gonna start pacing. No need to fray my nerves more, boy.”

I reluctantly obeyed and settled down on a log Ansel had pulled up near the fire.

“What do we do now?” I asked. The panic was wearing off. Desperation setting in.

“We get her better,” Ansel answered simply. “And then we keep going for Houston.”

“How?” I pressed. “Relapsing fever—it relapses. She’s gonna get sick again. Ansel, she was already sick enough from the baby before this.”

“We get her on a horse. We get her into a town. And we hole up there until she’s better,” Ansel said.

“And if she’s too sick to ride?” I asked.

“We carry her,” Ansel replied. “Water’s boiling. Better take it to our healer. Yarrow takes a long time to steep.”

“Brew the tea,” I repeated to myself. “That’ll help. Just make the tea and we’ll see where this takes us.”

Ansel patted my shoulder and steered me back toward Sorcha and the medic.

Sorcha was still unconscious.

“Cactus won’t bring it down anymore,” the young man said. “You have to wake her up and give her the tea. If she keeps drinking that she’ll sweat it out in a few hours and pull through. If not . . .”

Ansel knelt beside Sorcha’s still-shivering body and took her hand. I stroked my fingers through her hair and repeated her name, hoping somehow it would work. Then Ansel dug his finger into Sorcha’s nailbed. Hard. Sorcha grimaced, and her hand tensed and twitched like she was trying to pull away. I froze. What the hell?

“She’s still with us,” Ansel murmured. “But we’re gonna have to try harder to bring her around.”