Page 30 of Calder Country

He stood on the threshold, dark hair disheveled, clothes rumpled, as if hastily pulled on. His four-year-old daughter, Marissa, lay like a golden-haired doll against his chest. She was wrapped in a light cotton blanket, her breathing labored, her eyes closed. “She’s burning up with fever,” he said. “I can’t reach the doctor, and I don’t know what to do. You were the first person I thought of.”

One look at the child and Britta forgot her awkward past relationship with Jake. She forgot that she was wearing nothing but her thin cotton nightgown. There was nothing on her mind but a sick little girl who needed help.

“Bring her in. Lay her on the bed. I’ll have a look.” Britta had no medical training except her own practical experience. But right now, there appeared to be no one else available.

Blue Moon’s only doctor was Blake Dollarhide’s sister, Kristin. She lived on a ranch with her family, nearly an hour’s distance on a rough road. She came into town three days a week to see patients. But now she was out of reach, and this child needed help.

“I tried to telephone the doctor.” Jake followed Britta into the bedroom. “There was no answer. Either she’s away, or the phone line’s down.”

Britta turned down the coverlet on her narrow single bed, grateful that she’d changed the sheets that morning. Marissa’s sky-blue eyes fluttered open, then closed again as her father laid her on the pillow. Britta filled a basin with cool water, unwrapped the cotton blanket, raised the child’s nightgown, and began sponging her hot skin with a washcloth in an effort to make her more comfortable.

Resting her ear against the small, hot chest, Britta could hear the rasp of congested breathing. It could be bronchitis or even pneumonia. Whatever it was, it was serious and might be deadly.

Jake laid his hand on his daughter’s forehead to check her fever. “There has to be something we can do.”

Britta could understand the anguish in his voice. He’d lost his wife two years ago. This precious little girl was all he had left.

“I’m no doctor,” she said. “But I was raised on a dirt farm by a mother who doctored us with whatever she had. Willow bark tea was the thing for fevers. I’ve got aspirin—it’s the same thing, salicylic acid. But I don’t know how much is all right to give her. We could start with a small dose. But maybe the tea would be safer. Our mother used to give us all we’d take, and it never harmed us. We’ll need some fresh bark.”

Jake smoothed his daughter’s hair back from her face. She whimpered at his touch. “There are willows growing behind the jail. If you’ve got a knife, I’ll cut some bark.”

“There’s a knife in the kitchen. I’ll get some water boiling. Meanwhile, I’ll break up an aspirin tablet and crush a piece with some sugar. Maybe she’ll take that—and maybe we can steam her for the congestion.”

Jake was already on his way out. Britta fired up the stove and put a pan of water on to heat. Then she tried getting Marissa to swallow a bit of the crushed aspirin and sugar mix. It was a struggle, with the little girl pushing away and trying to spit it out. Britta had no idea whether she’d swallowed enough to help. At least she was familiar with the tea and how her mother had used it. But would scant knowledge, based on childhood memories, be enough?

She was sponging the feverish little girl again when Jake reappeared with his hands full of bark strips. “I tried phoning the doctor again. No answer.” He laid the bark and the knife on the kitchen counter.

“Here.” She handed him the cool, damp washcloth. “You can do this while I brew the tea. Talk to her, or even sing to her. She’ll be less frightened if she knows you’re close by.”

“You didn’t have much cut wood. I brought some from my place. It’s piled outside the back door in case you need it.”

“Thank you.” It would be like Jake to notice that something was needed.

On her way to the kitchen, Britta passed her flannel robe, which hung on its hook by the bathroom door. She slipped it on over her nightgown and tied it at the waist. At least now she’d be covered. Not that modesty mattered much at a time like this.

The water had begun to boil. Britta rinsed a handful of bark and dropped it into the pot, then added more. Would it be strong enough? She remembered the bitter taste of it. That would tell her she’d made it the way her mother used to. She raised a spoonful of the boiling liquid, gave it a moment to cool, and tasted it cautiously. Still too mild. She added more bark.

From the bedroom, she could hear Jake singing an old-time lullaby to his little girl. His muffled voice was gruff and slightly off-key. She still loved the sound of that voice. For a time, back when she’d hoped that he would wait, she’d imagined him tucking their children into bed and singing them to sleep.

But she was a fool to think of that now. Jake had been looking for a wife. Buried in grief for her family and the burden of responsibility, Britta had turned him away. So he’d wed pretty, loving, Cora, who had filled his heart and given him this beautiful child.

She dipped another spoonful of tea, blowing on the surface to cool it. This time the taste was as strong and bitter as she remembered. She might want to add some honey, something her mother wouldn’t have done. Inga Anderson hadn’t believed in making anything easier for her children. Life wasn’t like that, she’d always said.

Inga had been right, especially about her own hard life. But this was different, Britta told herself as she poured some tea into a cup, stirred in a few drops of honey, and gave the mixture a moment to cool. She said a silent prayer before carrying it into the bedroom. If Marissa didn’t take it willingly, she would have to be forced, and even then, the tea might not be enough to help her.

Jake sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his daughter in his arms. His worried expression tore at her heart—a painful reminder that she still had feelings for him. But that was water under the bridge, as her mother used to say. Nothing mattered now except saving this little girl.

“Hold her steady. Let’s hope she’ll take this.” Britta waited until Jake had cupped his daughter’s chin in his palm, his free arm cradling her body. The little girl’s face was flushed, her skin dry and feverish. Her eyes opened wide as the spoonful of tea neared her mouth. She pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“This medicine is to make you better, Marissa,” Jake said. “You need to swallow it.”

She pulled a face. “No,” she muttered. “Medicine is nasty.”

“It’s fine. Look, I’ll show you.” Glancing up at Britta, he nodded. Understanding, Britta spooned the tea into his mouth. He hid a grimace as he forced himself to swallow. “See, it’s all right. And it will make you feel better. Now be a brave girl and drink it.”

Her eyes closed, then opened again, their look drowsy and feverish. “Sing to me some more,” she murmured.

“Will you drink the tea if I sing to you?”

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