She awoke to a murderous headache and a deafening roar in her ear, the warmth of the flickering fire beckoning her. Pulling herself to her feet by clinging to a table leg, she made her way toward it. As she turned to warm her backside, she caught sight of the baby girl on the bed.
From deep in her battered brain, love for her baby sister nudged her. Drawn to the bedside, she studied the baby, hardly cognizant of the other child. Dropping to the edge of the bed, she tenderly touched the child’s burning cheek and tried to gather her to her bosom.
Unaware of the man who’d entered the room, her last thought was of her lost baby sister as she slid back into the darkness, barely aware of being ministered to.
She held little memory of the next few days, though her headache dulled and the roaring in her ear became less demanding. When she could stay awake, she focused on the baby, a blue-eyed blonde, so much like her sister. A small boy trailed the man constantly. Thinking still made her head ache, especially when she had the nightmare about a pistol and a man. The Dream always slipped away like dark silk as shuddered awake, but left her in a cold sweat. In her dream, she was always trying to get away.
The man was busy but quiet. He and the boy were rarely in the house, except to bring in milk, do chores, and eat. He did nothing to threaten or disturb her, but she wanted nothing to do with him or any other man. Had she been able to think more clearly, she’d have wondered about the mother of the children, but that was too onerous a task for her addled brain.
He checked on the woman and children several times always finding them asleep. The children’s breathing was regular and less shallow. The pink of their cheeks faded as the fever dropped. Twice more he fed and diapered them and assisted the woman to the pot. The next two days were much the same, more feeding, more dosing with Dr. Marvel, more changing, and always, more washing. The little boy rallied first, trailing Joe. From time to time, he called for Mama, but overall seemed contented. Joe looked forward to the woman regaining her strength and assuming her responsibilities. She was attentive to the baby girl who still lay abed with her. Thankfully, the baby finally got hungry enough to accept the bottle after a few tries. It made it easier to get the Dr. Marvel’s in her, anyway. The woman could barely stay awake long enough to feed the baby but kept it at her side. On the fourth day, the woman began to eat regular food, though she mashed it first. One day, she coughed and spit a cracked molar into her palm, increasing Joe’s guilt about burying her alive, though he still didn’t remember hitting her with the shovel. Joe had hopes when she’d learn some English soon, since he didn’t understand a word she said when she did speak to the baby or cry out in pain upon moving. She had picked up on coffee, milk, baby, hurt, boy, pot, and a few other words, but there was no conversation yet. She never called him “Joe.”
By the time Joe pulled his mules to the door to unload his wagon, it was sleeting. His life had never looked more hopeless as he brushed the icy hay from the tattered quilt covering the children’s burning faces. Though it was unchristian, he’d half-hoped to find them already dead from the fever, solving the problem of their care.
Nutsrok 