Page 38 of When the Sky Breaks

“What is it, love?” I prompted.

“I like it when you call me that.” She blushed and avoided my eyes.

“What is it?” I repeated.

“Sleep with me again,” she blurted out. “I want to wake up in your arms. Tomorrow and . . . the next day . . .”

“Every night,” I murmured. “Every night you ask—forever.”

My hands traced down the bare skin of her back, dipping below the water line and settling onto her hips. I paused, eyes fixed on her shoulder blades, her clavicle.

“You’re too thin.”

“Ansel says the puking is normal,” she deflected.

“I can count your ribs,” I insisted, hand tracing back up and dragging droplets along her skin.

“I can’t keep anything down,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.”

“You can’t keep going like this.” I hated the frantic edge I could hear in my own voice. I sat back on my heels. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll stop more often. Less time on a horse. More time sleeping and eating. We’ll get you healthy.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible, Neal.”

“We’ll get you healthy,” I repeated, as if somehow that would make it more feasible.

“I want a big healthy baby.”

“We’ll get there,” I said. “You’re not in this alone. Not anymore. And, Sorcha? Thank you for letting me in.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Even if you wasted a good few months being an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.” I chuckled.

“Mine.”

Sixteen

Sorcha

Our journey from the abandoned mission proved largely uneventful. No more portals or tick bites or major storms. My fever spiked again a few nights, but yarrow and creosote reliably brought it back down. We camped ten miles from Austin our last night before heading into town.

“I need you to look more pitiable,” Ansel said as I got dressed at camp that morning. I’d taken to sleeping in just my shift—the linen we could scrub and bleach in the sun on a horse’s rump while we rode, which meant it didn’t cling to the fever smell like the cotton of my dress. Ansel had destroyed my only wool one, along with my corset, that first night I’d gotten sick back at the Colorado River. I’d chewed him out about it, repeatedly, on the trail. My belly had barely started to grow, but the change in weight distribution and countless hours in the saddle were destroying my back without support. And I was doubtful I’d be able to find a decent replacement in a backwater frontier town like Austin.

“She’s sweat out a fever, what? Eight times now? Including last night,” Neal replied. “And she hasn’t kept down real food in weeks. How much sicker do you need her to look?”

I rolled my eyes at Ansel and turned so Neal could fasten up the back of my dress.

“Perfect!” Ansel crowed. “Yes. That is the level of helplessness we are looking for.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Neal muttered.

“My options are limited here,” Ansel defended himself, tone growing sober. “We need to resupply. A warm welcome in town will help.”

Soon I was dressed and Ansel was fussing with my apron.

“Okay,” Ansel said. “You definitely look pale enough I can see why you don’t wear that color very often.”

Neal elbowed Ansel in the ribs.