* * *
The days and nights blended together in a montage of pain, suffering, exhaustion, and despair. Isabela died the afternoon of the second day. Lauren tried valiantly to spoon sweetened tea through the tiny lips, but the swollen, red tongue and obstructed throat strangled on it, and the baby couldn’t get the fluids essential for her life.
Lauren watched the tiny chest as it shuddered one final time and, without so much as a cry, Isabela ended her short sojourn on earth. Lauren wanted to grieve the loss, but she needed to focus her attention on saving Elena.
Lauren spooned gallons of tea into her patient despite Elena’s unwillingness to accept it. Her tongue was covered with painful red blisters that made it look like a strawberry. Her fever rose drastically each night. Rosa and Lauren would strip her and bathe her body with cool water. They didn’t tell her about Isabela, and she was too delirious to ask.
Pepe made a tiny coffin, and the infant’s grandmother laid her out for burial. Carlos was summoned, but he remained in the stables in compliance with Lauren’s orders. It was not only for his protection, but also for those she loved at Keypoint. Pepe ran messages back and forth to the anxious young man who mourned the death of his daughter and feared for the life of his wife.
Lauren never left the sickroom. She sent Rosa to her room for fresh clothing, but barely had time to change into it during her vigil over the sufferer. At night, after they managed to keep Elena’s fever from rising further, she would sleep fitfully in a chair near the bed. She prayed constantly for the life of her friend and for continued strength. She prayed, too, that Jared would not contract the disease. The words had formed on her lips, coming straight from her soul before she gave them conscious thought.
The fever literally burned the skin off of Elena’s palms and fingers and the soles of her feet. While the girl slept, Lauren gently peeled it away so Elena would not be frightened if she should see the dead tissue hanging like cobwebs from her hands.
Five days after Lauren had gone into the stifling room, she woke from a cramped position in the chair to hear regular breathing instead of the labored, shallow respiration she had listened to for long days and nights. She hurried to Elena’s bed and put her hand on a cool forehead. Forcing apart the relaxed lips, she saw that the tongue was less swollen and the blisters had all but disappeared. The rash was fading. She could have laughed aloud. Instead, she sank back into the chair and offered a prayer of thanksgiving.
The next morning, when she told Rosa the news, the old woman wept openly. For the rest of that day, they allowed Elena to sleep a healing sleep. They changed her linens and, at noon, spoonfed her some beef broth until she slipped once again into slumber. Lauren stayed with her to make sure the fever wasn’t going to return.
She was exhausted but happy and relieved when she stumbled into the kitchen late that evening. She was surprised to find Jared standing at the back door, staring out over the yard through the window. Rosa had informed him of Elena’s recovery earlier.
He turned when he heard her enter. “Lauren, this has gone on long enough,” he said without preamble. “I will not let you quarantine yourself in that room one more minute without some rest.”
“I’m fine, really I am,” Lauren sighed. “I don’t think Elena needs me anymore, though. Only plenty of liquids and sleep. I’ll let Carlos see her in the morning.”
“Si, señora.” Rosa came to Lauren and took both of her hands in hers, kissing them in turn. “Señor Jared, she is an angel.”
“Yeah, she’s an angel all right, but she looks like hell right now,” he said grimly.
Through her fatigue-muddled mind Lauren noted absently that he didn’t look all that wonderful himself. Stubble covered his chin and upper lip. His cheeks were gaunt and sunken under red-rimmed eyes.
Rosa could have told her that for days he had paced, cursed, threatened, and pleaded. He was like a wild man in his worry. His only source of nourishment was a shot of whiskey taken at regul
ar intervals.
Lauren tried to focus her eyes, but images began to blur, recede infinitesimally, then loom hugely. The kitchen was spinning crazily. “Jared—” she cried hoarsely before she collapsed into the strong arms reaching out for her.
“She’s unconscious,” he said. “And hungry, from the feel of her. I’ll bet she’s lost ten pounds. First thing in the morning, Rosa, fix her a big breakfast and serve it to her in her room. Stay with her until she eats every bite. I think she needs rest first.”
He swept the inert figure into his arms and carried her upstairs to her room, kicking the door shut behind him. He stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness, then moved toward the bed. There was just enough light coming in through the windows for him to see without lighting the lamp.
Lauren murmured unintelligibly as he put her feet back on the floor, supporting her with his body. She leaned heavily against him and he muttered imprecations at her foolishness for totally exhausting herself like this. He tried to keep his mind off the body pressed close to his. How could she stay in a sickroom for a week and come out smelling like lavender? He didn’t know that Lauren had asked Rosa to fetch a bottle of cologne from her room which she added to the water she washed with each day.
Well, I can’t just dump her on the bed, Jared reasoned. With trembling fingers, he began unfastening the buttons on the back of her shirtwaist. Her head lolled against his chest. It took a long time for him to get to the last button because he used only one hand, supporting her with the other. His trembling fingers lacked their usual dexterity.
He pulled the blouse out of the waistband of her skirt and then began undoing the fastener. He untied the ribbons of several petticoats, cursing as they knotted in his fingers. Why do women wear so damned many clothes anyway? he thought. Finally he was able to push the skirt and petticoats down over her hips and they fell to the floor in a ruffled froth at her ankles.
He paused, drawing deep breaths in an effort to supply oxygen to his brain, which was whirling like a maelstrom. If she woke up now, he thought ruefully, she would probably scream the house down.
With meticulous care, he supported her against one of his arms and, leaning her back, slowly pulled the shirtwaist from her shoulders and slid the sleeves down her arms.
It was off. She still slept. He was perspiring and trembling. He pressed her against him, postponing the moment when he would look at her, savoring the anticipation.
He reached up and began hunting for the pins that held her hair, removing them gently as he found them among the thick tresses. Her hair tumbled down her back and over her shoulders, spilling into his hands. Then, as he had wanted to do ever since he had first seen her, he ran his hands through the black silk, caressing each strand, rubbing the smooth curls between his fingers, delighting in the feel of them the way a miser loves the feel of gold. He buried his face in her hair and whispered accolades to its glory.
Jared lowered her gently onto the bed, slipping the skirt and petticoats from around her ankles. She lay on the pillow and sighed contentedly, her hair fanning out behind her on the snowy linen.
Jared sat on the side of the bed, easing himself down in order not to wake her. God! She was exquisite. Even the lines of fatigue around her mouth and the hollows in her cheeks added to her beauty. Long black lashes rested on alabaster cheeks. He followed the column of her neck to the base of her throat, where he saw the flutter of her pulse. Her shoulders were white and sloped into a flawless bosom.
He hesitated, but his fingers moved of their own volition and reached out to the top of her camisole. He untied the blue satin ribbon that was threaded through the eyelet lace and slowly, leisurely unbuttoned the first few buttons. Again he wanted to prolong the anticipation.