Chapter Eleven

A my's eyes flickered open in the pitch darkness, a wave of heat washing over her. Her nightgown clung to her damp skin as she shivered beneath the quilts. With a weak hand, she shook Tim's shoulder, her voice but a hoarse whisper. "Tim...I feel awful."

Tim stirred. "What is it?" he murmured as he reached for the matches on the bedside table.

"Feels like I'm burning up," Amy said, trying to sit up but managing only to prop herself against the pillows.

With swift movements, Tim struck a match and the lamp flickered to life. He leaned in close, pressing the back of his hand to Amy's forehead. "You're burning up" he noted with concern etched into his brow.

"Please, can you get Brenda?" Amy asked. Brenda could be prickly as a cactus, but her adeptness with ailments was impressive.

"Of course, sweetheart." Tim kissed her forehead, already moving to pull on his boots. "Just lie back and rest. I'll be back as quick as I can."

Amy watched Tim stride through the doorway before sinking back onto the pillows. She trusted him implicitly, and she was pleased he was taking her illness—whatever it was—seriously.

Tim ran the entire way to Brenda's house. Moonlight draped over the rolling fields, guiding him to the porch where he didn't bother with a polite knock.

"Brenda!" His voice was urgent(he sends her husband for the doctor). The door creaked open, and a sleepy-eyed Brenda appeared, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

"Tim? What's wrong?" Her voice was sharp with sleep but edged with concern.

"It's Amy," he said, catching his breath. "She's got a terrible fever."

Brenda's eyes snapped fully open,. "I'm coming." She turned back into the house, calling over her shoulder, "Get Seth to ride for Doc Stanton!"

"Already planning on it," Tim answered, nodding as he saw Seth, bare-chested with suspenders hanging loose, grab his hat and stride out the door toward the stables.

"Let's go," Brenda said, now with boots laced and determination set in her brow.

Inside the ranch house, Amy tried to keep her mind on happier things — the scent of fresh bread in the oven, the laughter of children playing. But worry crept in like unwelcome shadows. Her breathing came in shallow bursts as she clutched the quilt tighter, her body slick with sweat.

"Come on, Amy, stay strong," she whispered to herself. Her thoughts wandered to the garden she nurtured, the comfort of the kitchen, the joy of feeding those she loved. They needed her, and she wouldn't let them down.

"Tim will be back soon," she murmured, the sound of her voice a small comfort in the dim room. "And Brenda...Brenda never lets anything beat her." She clutched a hand to her chest as a wave of deep, heavy coughing racked her body.

She closed her eyes, envisioning the hearty meals she'd cook once this fever passed, the cakes she'd bake, and the smiles they'd bring. With each image, her breathing steadied, the warmth of imagined ovens fighting the chill that had nothing to do with the night air. She was supposed to start on Beatrice's dresses tomorrow. The girl would be so disappointed.

"Family," she breathed out. Her family would see her through.

Tim burst through the bedroom door, the small medical kit in hand. He set it down on the bedside table with a reassuring thud.

"Let's take a look at you," he said as he leaned over Amy to feel her forehead. She managed a weak smile, bolstered by his presence.

"Feels like a furnace in here," Brenda remarked. " Why are you sick? You're never sick! Only you would get sick in the middle of the night with a whole family counting on you. You're burning up." Brenda shook her head.

"Could be anything out here," Tim mused, pulling a cloth from the kit and dampening it with cool water. "We'll figure it out, though." His hands were gentle as he placed the compress on Amy's forehead.

"Mrs. Jackson used to swear by this herbal concoction for fevers," Brenda said. "Might do the trick until Doc gets here."

"Sounds like something we should try," Tim said, standing up. "What did it have in it again?"

"Willow bark, I think...and some peppermint," Brenda replied, tucking a strand of Amy's hair behind her ear. "And wasn't there honey?"

"Yes, honey," Amy said, her voice weak.

"Right," Tim nodded, already moving toward the kitchen. "I'll whip it up. Keep her company for me?"

"Of course," Brenda answered, her voice soft as she took Amy's hand. "Remember when we all came down with the chickenpox? You made that oatmeal bath that had us all laughing ‘cause we looked like breakfast."

Amy's lips quirked into a faint smile at the memory.

"Seems I'm always taking care of all of you," she whispered, her voice hoarse but tinged with warmth.

"Hey, it's our turn now. Don't you worry," Brenda reassured her. "Just focus on getting better. Imagine all those hungry mouths waiting for your food."

"Can't disappoint the children," Amy agreed.

"That's the spirit," Brenda said with a grin. "Now, let's get you fixed up so you can go back to bossing everyone around."

Tim returned with a steaming mug. "Here we go," he said, handing the remedy to Amy.

Amy's hands shook slightly as she took the mug. She sipped carefully, the sweet and minty concoction soothing her raw throat and warming her from the inside out. A sigh escaped her lips.

"Thank you, Tim," Amy said. "And Brenda, for being here."

"Family looks after family," Brenda chimed in, brushing a comforting hand across Amy's forehead. "It's no more than what you'd do for us."

"Very true," Tim added, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "You rest now. We're right here."

The night stretched on, a silent sentinel over the isolated ranch. Tim and Brenda settled into a rhythm, one watching Amy while the other (it's June in Texas so I doubt they needed a fire) fetched fresh water for her to drink. They spoke in hushed tones, snippets of stories from their childhood together spilling into the quiet room.

"Remember when we tried to bake that apple pie?" Brenda asked. "I thought for sure we'd burnt down the kitchen."

"And yet," Amy rasped, a faint chuckle accompanying her words, "it was the best-tasting charcoal we ever did eat."

"Your pies are much better now," Tim said, enjoying the story immensely. "Children'll be missing those if you don't get well soon."

"I can't let them down," said Amy, determination threading through her weakening voice. They'd already lost their mother. They didn't need to lose a second person in their lives.

"Of course not," Brenda reassured her. "You're too stubborn to let a little fever keep you from your duties."

"Stubborn and caring," Tim added, his tone affectionate. "A mighty combination."

As dawn broke, Amy's fever seemed to wane, the cool touch of Brenda's hand on her brow confirming it. The three of them were all relieved, but they needed the doctor to determine what was truly wrong.

"Looks like you're turning the corner," Tim observed, pouring Amy another cup of water.

"Thanks to you both," Amy said, her voice stronger now. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Let's not find out," Brenda replied, her bluntness softened by the warmth in her eyes. "Now, how about trying to get some more sleep?"

"Best idea I've heard all night," Amy agreed, closing her eyes and sinking deeper into her pillows, surrounded by the love and care of her dearest companions.

The latch clicked and the door creaked open, letting in a sliver of daylight that cut through the dimness of the room. Dr. Stanton stepped inside, his bag of instruments in hand, his face etched with concern. Tim hovered in the background as the doctor approached Amy's bedside.

"Morning, Amy," the doctor greeted, his voice a low rumble. He leaned over her, his hands practiced and efficient as he checked her pulse and listened to her breathing.

"Feels like fire's been burning through my bones," Amy said weakly.

"Let's have a look then," Dr. Stanton murmured, peering into her eyes, then down her throat. After a few moments, he straightened up, his brows knitted together. "Symptoms are worrisome. Could be Tuberculosis."

Tim's heart clenched at the word, and he exchanged a worried glance with Brenda who stood rigid, her hands clasped tightly.

"Is it...?" Brenda began, but her voice trailed off.

"Can't say for certain," the doctor continued. "For now, rest and take these medicines." He laid out bottles on the nightstand. "Keep her hydrated and isolated from the children."

"Of course, Doctor," Tim assured him, determination setting his jaw. "We'll do whatever it takes." He wasn't sure what they would do if she didn't get better. Beatrice was just warming up to Amy, and he was sure the girl would lose her mind if they lost her.

"Good man," said the doctor, tipping his hat to Brenda before making his way out.

An hour later, Amy's fever seemed to be gone entirely. "Look at you, fighting back," Brenda said, a smile breaking through her usually stern demeanor.

"Seems I've baked hotter things than this fever," Amy joked, her voice still frail but laced with her usual spunk.

"Your strength is showing," Tim chimed in, relief washing over him as he took Amy's hand gently. "You're one tough cookie."

"Cookie," Amy chuckled, the sound weak but genuine. "I could go for one of those."

"First thing you'll bake when you're up," Brenda promised her sassy tone back in play.

"Sounds good," Amy agreed, her eyelids fluttering with fatigue but her spirit undeniably brighter.

"Rest now," Tim said softly. "We got this, Amy. You just focus on getting better."

"Thank you," she whispered, allowing sleep to claim her once more.

TIM MOVED QUIETLY AROUND the kitchen, the early morning light casting soft shadows on the wooden countertops. He was no cook, not like Amy, but he could manage a simple breakfast. Oatmeal simmered in a pot, and he sliced a ripe peach to add some sweetness to it.

"Breakfast is almost ready," Tim called over his shoulder, not sure which of the children had joined him in the kitchen.

Beatrice frowned. "Why are you cooking? Where's Amy? We're supposed to make my dress today."

Tim shook his head. "Amy's sick, and the doctor fears it may be tuberculosis. It's going to be your job to keep the girls out of our bedroom. I worry this will last a while, and I can't deal with more than one sick person at a time."

She opened her eyes wide, and he knew Beatrice was afraid for Amy. "Is she going to die?"

"We won't know for a while. She's fighting hard, and the doc isn't sure that's what it is, but we're going to find out. Doctor is coming back this afternoon to check on her." He squeezed Beatrice's shoulder. "I'm going to take her some breakfast. You stay here."

He knocked softly on the bedroom door before opening it with the bowl of oatmeal in his hand. "Nothing fancy, just something to keep your strength up." Tim carried the bowl carefully to her bedside. "We need to talk about what's next for you."

Amy accepted the bowl with a small nod, cradling it in her hands. "I don't want any more fuss," she said after a spoonful

"Stubborn as ever," he remarked with a fond smile. "But we can't take chances with your health."

"More medicine?" she asked, her brow knotting with concern.

"Maybe. Dr. Stanton is going to take another look at you. Just to be sure."

Amy nodded, then sighed. "All right, Tim. If you think it's best."

"I am going to need to milk the cows and gather eggs. I've told Beatrice to keep the little girls out, and Brenda is still here." Tim's hand lingered on hers.

"Thank you," she whispered, a grateful smile touching her lips as she took another spoonful of oatmeal, the loving care of her family shining through even in the simplest of gestures.

As the day wore on, Tim continued working but checking on Amy every chance he got. Brenda perched at her bedside. The gentle brush of a cool cloth across Amy's forehead was soothing, as Brenda hummed an old tune, the notes dancing lightly around the room.

"Can't say I find much joy in the kitchen," Brenda quipped with a smirk, "but I'd bake you a hundred pies if it'd make you better faster."

Amy chuckled weakly. "I'd get better faster if you could cook lunch and supper. From what I've heard, Tim isn't much of a cook," she said.

"Rest now," Brenda said. "I'll feed them. No need for them catching what you've got."

"Miss their laughter," Amy said.

"Laughter will fill these walls again soon enough," Brenda assured her, squeezing her hand gently.

Hours passed, the room filled with nothing but shared silence and the rustle of pages as Brenda read from a well-worn book.

The creak of the door signaled Tim's return, his boots tapping a steady rhythm on the wooden floor. Behind him, Dr. Stanton, his bag in hand, offered a nod of greeting. Amy watched as they approached.

"Good news," Dr. Stanton said softly. "It's only bronchitis, which doesn't compare to Tuberculosis. You're going to be fine."

"Bronchitis?" Amy repeated, the word foreign yet somehow less frightening than the alternatives.

"Yes," the doctor confirmed, stowing his stethoscope. "Keep up with the remedies. They seem to be doing the trick."

A wave of relief washed over Amy, leaving behind a sense of hope as warm and comforting as the morning sun. "Thank you, both of you," she said, finding strength in their presence.

"Nothing to thank us for," Tim replied. "You're my wife, and I need you healthy."

"Get some rest," Brenda said, standing to stretch. "You'll need your strength for all those pies you'll be baking."

"But you're cooking tonight," Amy settled back against the pillows.

Brenda made a face as she nodded. "I'll cook supper."

BEATRICE APPROACHED Brenda in the kitchen. "Where's Amy?"

Brenda frowned. "Didn't your father tell you she was sick?"

"Too sick to cook?" Beatrice asked, looking belligerent.

"For a while, yes. But she will get better. At least the doctor says she will."

"Can I take her supper to her?" Beatrice asked.

Brenda shook her head. "No, we're still keeping you away from her. She'll be back to cooking soon."

Beatrice sighed. "I want to help her."

"Then let's make supper together! That's a way you can help."

"I guess..."

Beatrice followed Brenda's instructions on what to do and thought about how much she preferred cooking with Amy. She was ready for her to be well again.