barely make out the words The Last of the Mohicans on the worn leather spine. Why his father and brothers wanted to read about the frontier when they lived on it Drew had never understood. He climbed the stairs to his mother’s room.
At the top, he paused, almost afraid of what he might find. His mother lay asleep on the bed, her chest rising and falling under the quilt. He had not seen her so peaceful in days, and something inside him thawed at the sight. Beside her on the chair, Catherine Stanway put a finger to her lips before rising to join him at the stairwell.
His first thought on seeing her up close was that she was tired. A few tendrils of her pale hair had come undone and hung in soft curls about her face. Her blue eyes seemed to sag at the corners. But the smile she gave him was encouraging.
“Her fever appears to be coming down,” she whispered. “But it’s still higher than I’d like. The next two days will be very important in determining her recovery. Someone must be with her every moment.”
Drew nodded. “We can take turns.”
She gazed up at him, and he wondered what she was thinking. “I was under the impression you and your brothers had an important task to undertake tomorrow.”
“Captain Collings’s spar,” Drew confirmed. “His ship, the Merry Maid, was damaged in a storm crossing the mouth of the Columbia River. She managed to limp into Puget Sound, but she can’t continue her journey to China without a new mast.”
She stuck out her lower lip as if impressed, but the movement made his gaze stop at the soft pink of her mouth. Drew swallowed and looked away.
“I thought all trees felled around Seattle were destined for Mr. Yesler’s mill,” he heard her say.
“Most,” Drew agreed, mentally counting the number of logs that made up the top story of the house. “My brothers and I specialize in filling orders for masts and yard arms for sailing ships. Simon’s located the perfect tree not too far from the water, so it will be easy to transport, but it will take all of us to bring it down safely and haul it to the bay.”
“If you should be working, sir, your sister and I can take care of things here.”
He could hear the frown in her voice. She was probably used to being self-sufficient. Yet Drew had a hard time imagining her standing by to protect a frontier farm. She’d come on the bride ship, which meant she’d lived in Seattle for less than a month. By her own admission, she’d lived in larger towns back East. What could she know about surviving in the wilderness?
“Can you shoot?” he asked, gaze coming back to her.
She was indeed frowning, golden brows drawn over her nose. He had a strange urge to feather his fingers across her brow. “No,” she said. “Do you expect me to need to shoot?”
“Very likely,” Drew assured her, trying to master his feelings. “Pa made sure all of us knew how to protect each other and the farm. Ma can pick a heart from an ace at thirty paces, and Beth can hold her own. But if Beth is helping Ma, there will be no one left to protect you.”
Her lips quirked as if she found it annoying that she needed such protection. And of course, his gaze latched on to the movement. He forced his eyes up.
“Is it truly so dangerous?” she asked. “You aren’t living among the natives. You have homes, a garden, stock.”
She needed to understand that the veneer of civilization was only as thick as the walls of the house. “James spotted a cougar while he was working on his cabin last week. We surprised a bear at the spring only yesterday.”
She raised her head. “Well, then, we’ll simply stay in the house until you return.”
The silk of her hair tickled his chin, and he caught the scent of lemon and lavender, tart and clean. He needed to end this conversation and leave before he did or said something they’d both regret.
“You can’t promise to remain indoors,” he told her. “Even if we lay in a stock of wood and water, it might run out. Like it or not, Miss Stanway, you need me.”
And she didn’t like it. He could tell by the way her blue eyes narrowed, her chin firmed. This was a woman used to getting her own way.
And that could be trouble. He could only wonder: Over the next two days, which would prevail, her will or his determination?
Two days. Surely she could survive two days. She’d sat longer vigils in the wards in Boston, taking breaks only for short naps, determined to cheat death. Two days was child’s play.
Of course, normally, when she sat with a patient, she was either alone in the ward or a doctor or other nurse was nearby. This was the first time she’d served as a nurse in someone’s home.
She found it decidedly unnerving.
For one thing, the Wallin house was anything but quiet. Levi had pounded up the stairs and thrown himself in bed on the other side of the loft. The buzz a short while later confirmed that Simon wasn’t the only brother who snored. Beth crept up the stairs more quietly before slipping into a darker corner and emerging in her nightgown, then climbing into her own bed. The logs popped as the house cooled with the night. Wood settled in the small fire she’d had Drew rekindle. Something with tiny claws scampered across the roof over Catherine’s head. Mournful calls echoed from the woods, as if all nature worried with the Wallins.
But worse was her awareness of Drew. He had agreed to take turns with her during the night, then left to finish some chores. She felt as if the entire house breathed a sigh of relief when he entered it again. His boots were soft on the stairs, and the boards whispered a welcome as he crossed to her side. He laid a hand on her shoulder, the pressure assuring, supportive. Then he turned and disappeared downstairs again.
Her pulse was too fast. She took a breath and leaned forward to adjust the covers over her patient again.
She had barely managed to restore her calm when he returned carrying a wooden platter and a large steaming pink-and-white china bowl with a spoon sticking from it.
“You’ve had nothing to eat,” he reminded her. “You’ll need your strength.” He set the platter across her lap. On it rested a bowl of stew, a crusty loaf of bread, a bone-handled knife and a pat of creamy butter.
Catherine’s stomach growled its answer. “Thank you,” she said. She bowed her head and asked a blessing, then scooped up a spoonful of Beth’s stew. The thick sauce warmed her almost as much as his gesture.
As she ate, he reached down, sliced off a hunk of the bread and set about eating it. Crumbs sprinkled the front of his cotton shirt, and he brushed them away, fingers long and quick. She wondered how they’d feel cradling her hand.
A hunk of venison must have gone down wrong, for she found herself coughing. He hurried to pour water from the jug by the bed into a tin cup, but she waved him back.
“I’m fine,” she managed. Swallowing the last of the stew, she set the bowl on the platter. “Thank you. That was very good. Beth is a talented cook.”
“Ma taught her.” He went to lean against the fireplace, the only spot in the room where he could stand completely upright. His gaze rested on the woman on the bed, who seemed to be sleeping blissfully through their quiet conversation. “She taught us all, saying a man should know how to care for himself.”
Catherine couldn’t argue with that. “My father had a similar philosophy. He said a woman should be able to fend for herself if needed.”
“Yet he never taught you to shoot?”
He seemed generally puzzled by that. Catherine smiled. “There’s not much call for hunting near Boston, at least not for food. I suppose parents try to teach their children what they need to survive in their own environment. I wouldn’t expect your mother to teach you how to dance.”
“There