Page 33 of When the Sky Breaks

“Now I’m sure you’re tired,” Ansel said. “I’ll get you when she needs more of the medicine. Get some rest. She’ll need you steady when she wakes up.”

The sun was just breaking over the horizon, dark clouds gathering in the sky above and casting dramatic purple shadows over the hills and the brush. I had changed into clean clothes and, with Ansel’s help, gotten Sorcha out of her dripping, ruined shift. I’d slept for a few hours, waking regularly to keep giving her the yarrow tea. My mind was fogged with a mixture of relief and pure exhaustion. She was easier to rouse each time, and Ansel hadn’t had to gouge his knuckles into her sternum again. By five o’clock she’d responded to shaking and calling her name. Now it was nearing six thirty. And as the first rays of golden sunlight melded with the warmth of our dying fire, Sorcha woke up, unprompted. She stirred in my arms, clumsy fingers grasping onto the collar of my shirt as she nuzzled into my chest.

That was new. But not unwelcome. So I reciprocated, tucking her close, kissing her head.

“Maima?” Sorcha murmured, pressing her face harder into my chest. “Limu sahla?”

I’d never heard her speak Elvish except when reading aloud from texts and certainly never to me. Never in a context like this. I supposed it still wasn’t to me . . . that now, scared and in pain, she was seeking her family for comfort, not her husband. Guilt twisted in my gut.

“Mom?” Sorcha had pleaded. “Why do I feel sick?”

“It’s okay, love,” I murmured, sticking with Elvish, even though my own was broken at best. “I’m here. You’re okay, love.”

In spite of everything I’d done, she’d finally, finally forgiven me, and I had to try and live up to that reconciliation.

“Neal?” Sorcha woke fully then, eyes flying open as she tried to push me away.

“You’re okay,” I assured her, still in Elvish. “I’ve got you.”

“What happened?” Sorcha mumbled. “Why am I . . . all wet?”

“We were right about the tick,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “You have relapsing fever. It caught you in the middle of the night. I took you into the river to try to get the fever to break, but it just wouldn’t. We got you nopales and yarrow, and you’re gonna be fine. But I thought you were dying in my arms. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sorcha. I promised I’d take care of you and . . .”

I trailed off. I wasn’t sure what else I was supposed to say. And, for once in her life, Sorcha just stared, dead silent.

Fourteen

Sorcha

This was an arranged marriage. This man had refused to kiss me on our wedding day. And I knew he’d come around, changed his mind, decided he was in it for real. But waking up in his arms—to Neal stumbling along in Elvish to try and comfort me, his hands in my hair—was the most surreal and incomprehensible moment in my life.

And so I stayed quiet—not sure what would even come close to being the right thing to say. My head was pounding and I was too hot and too cold all at once. My mouth was dry and tasted like licorice and bile. But Neal’s warmth was comforting—his arms around me and his fingers stroking the back of my neck felt like they somehow made everything just marginally more bearable. After what felt like an eternity of letting Neal coddle me, Ansel got back to camp.

“Look who’s up,” he said, his cheerful, nonplussed tone a jarring contrast to what little I could remember from the last eighteen hours. “We gotta get a move on before that storm hits. Next town’s half a day’s ride and all in here is a wash. Don’t want us flooded out.”

“I need clothes,” I said, looking down and finding myself clad only in one of Neal’s shirts.

“Let me help,” Neal said quickly as I tried to push away from him and get up.

I froze for a moment, then let him. And soon I found myself dry and dressed and standing next to Chuckles, both hands gripping the bottom edge of the saddle, trying to convince myself that I could actually get on and ride.

“I can get you up,” Neal offered. I tried to nod.

But before he could intervene, my head swam, and I found myself once again puking in the dust. Again Neal’s hand went to my back, rubbing slow, calming circles. Again he gave me water and wiped my face and kissed my forehead. Again my brain screamed at the incongruity. Screamed how I’d barely forgiven him. It was too much—his hand on my back and his soothing voice cutting past the sound of my own pulse ringing in my ears, the damp handkerchief wiping vomit from my face.

Against every thought in my rational mind still screaming at me to be grown up and hold it together, I started to sob. I felt Neal pull me into his lap, soothing and comforting. And while I was so indescribably grateful for the help. While I was so indescribably grateful he actually returned my affection. None of that undid the confusion. The trauma.

I tried to make sense of it, but the attempt only made me cry harder.

And then frayed nerves gave up and my brain and body pulled me back into sleep.

I woke up with my face pressed into Neal’s back, behind him in the saddle. My mind spent a moment playing catch up—taking in the steady rhythm of the horse’s gait, Neal’s warmth against me, the way his hand rested protectively over my own, holding my arms around his waist.

Suddenly, everything snapped into focus. He loved me. He wanted me. He’d said as much. Shown as much. And what’s more, I’d admitted my own feelings. At first I’d wanted him purely for the comfort, a crutch to deal with my own grief and abandonment. But as the days after my father’s death had stretched into weeks, I’d come to want him for himself. I’d come to love his particular brand of steadiness, the way he listened, the exact tone he used to give instructions around the ranch. I’d come to appreciate his gentleness, meticulousness, patient dedication. I’d started to wait all day for the particular way my breathing relaxed when I could smell his scent, feel his touch. I’d come to anticipate the gentle butterflies in my low belly when I saw how the light played off his red-brown hair. And even our inexpressibly disastrous honeymoon and early marriage hadn’t been able to override it.

And now it was all out in the open. Feelings, apologies, regrets. Now we could just—be married.

Maybe almost dying wasn’t so bad after all.