Page 81 of A Rugged Beauty
Owen hadn't spoken one word to Hollis since he and Alice and Braddock and the soldiers had ridden into the camp. Hollis glanced several yards away, to where Abigail's head and shoulders were visible above a blanket strung between two wagons. She was helping a tired and weak Rachel take a bath.
Abigail hadn't spoken to Hollis since their arrival either.
Possibly because he'd been avoiding her at every turn. It was easy. There was much work to be done, and even with the soldiers’ help, the work never ceased. Finally, after another couple of days, the tide was turning.
Many pioneers were recovering. Like Abigail, who'd been very ill for twenty-four hours and then recovered quickly. With the improvements, spirits had grown more positive.
Hollis had been adamant that she not overdo it. Including sending someone to insist she go to bed last night. He'd beenpleased and relieved when he'd walked past their makeshift camp, and seen her asleep in her bedroll.
He didn't know why God had granted him a reprieve, why God had allowed her to live. But Hollis intended to keep his distance. The farther he stayed from Abigail, the safer she'd be.
Tired of waiting for the stubborn Owen to move, Hollis nudged his arm.
Owen grunted, then reluctantly rolled off of the pallet and onto his knees. He weaved a bit, even though he wasn't standing. Probably lightheaded, though he'd hate to admit to such weakness to Hollis.
Whatever patching up Alice had hoped for hadn't happened. At least not between Hollis and Owen.
Fine. Neither of them had to like this. Just endure it.
Hollis pulled away the old bedding and quickly spread a new quilt. Owen must've been watching from the corner of his eye, because he laid back down as soon as Hollis finished. He must've twisted wrong, because he pushed a hand into his stomach, grimacing.
Still tender. But at least he'd held down some of a mash Alice had made this morning. His fever was lower. At least that's what the doc said.
The baby cried from where she'd been laid in a long wooden crate padded with a quilt. Owen looked like he was going to push up off his pallet, no matter if he felt like death, to get to her.
Hollis clamped his shoulder. "Stay there. I'll bring her to you."
Something twisted up inside him when he cradled the bit of baby in his hands. What might it have been like if his child had lived…?
He didn't have time to dwell on it, not when the three steps to Owen had been crossed and he was handing her over.
As soon as the baby was nuzzled against Owen's shoulder, her little body relaxed and she made a soft sound. Owen patted her shoulder.
Hollis had to look away. He picked up the bowl of broth one of the soldiers had given him. Sat it beside Owen on the pallet.
"Eat." If Owen wanted to speak to him in grunts, Hollis could do that too.
Owen ignored the bowl.
Hollis felt his temper spark, but tamped it down.
"Eat," he ordered. "You need your strength back."
Owen shook his head.
"You're a stubborn man," Hollis muttered, picking up the old bedding. It needed a good wash. Or maybe to be burned.
"I'm not the stubborn one," Owen growled suddenly. "You're the one who can't accept help. No matter how well intentioned."
Hollis shook his head. That wasn't true.
But apparently now that Owen had spoken, the dam was broken. He wasn't finished. "You push everyone away. Leo. Me. August."
Hollis turned his face from Owen's intent scrutiny.
And found himself watching Abigail.
He could only see one of her ears, her upper cheek, her eye, the top of her head, her hair pulled back into a bun. But she was smiling.
