'I brewed some tea,' she whispered to Andy, slumped by the fire, face buried in his hands.
The young man looked up, tears in his eyes. Exhaustion and worry saddened his face. Just back from fetching the reverend, he was too troubled to remember to be frightened of her. 'I'm much obliged, Mistress Tessa.'
' 'Tis just tea.' Boiling water was easy work next to the dilemma poor Andy faced. And yet, he could not see what she saw. Could not begin to appreciate that the years he'd already had with his father were a treasure greater than money or a fine home.
Her own father had died when she was a small girl. His face and even the sound of his voice had faded from her memory. But his happiness, the tenderness she'd felt when he cradled her in his lap before the fire and read to her from the great books he brought all the way from England, those memories remained. Faded by time, now they seemed no more than dreams.
No matter how hard her life had been since, Tessa always knew her father loved her. Losing him to a simple injury, aye, it never should have taken his life, changed hers forever. A broken arm wasn't so dangerous, yet there had been no one trained to set bones properly, to apply poultices to help the swelling and the bleeding. No one who knew more than mere home remedies for battling fever.
'My, that smells wonderful,' the reverend hinted.
Tessa carried the fine silver tray across the room and held it steady while the silver-haired man poured milk into a steaming cup of tea.
'And biscuits too,' he tried to smile.
That wobbly smile made Tessa's heart hurt all the more. She'd seen death more times than she could count and knew the signs, the feel of it in the room. She feared there would be no mercy this night.
'Jonah, you must eat,' Thomas' voice boomed. Only the fire crackling in the hearth and ice tapping the glass window dared to make a sound.
'I am not hungry.' Jonah did not turn from his place at the foot of his father's bed. Nor did he lift his solemn gaze from the old man's fevered face.
'Starving yourself will not change his condition.'
Thomas' eyes warmed, the grief ebbing just enough for Tessa to see the gleam inside-a sight that made her throat close entirely.
Respect. Admiration. Love for his brother. She knew she shouldn't be observing a family's intimate warmth. Tessa ducked her chin as Thomas poured tea from the pot and handed it to Jonah.
There was no way she could get out of the pending marriage. The image of Horace Walling's face swirled before her. Her head spun. Pain cracked in her chest. Tessa set the tray on a small table, blinking hard, surprised such thoughts would intrude here, in this sick room where they did not belong. She had the surgeon to assist and, when he was gone, a patient to tend.
'Tessa.' Jonah's hand reached out. Big fingers engulfed hers.
'Y-yes?' Fire from his touch streaked along her skin.
'I ought to thank you for the tea.' Grief-darkened eyes that searched hers. 'And for your help. 'Tis good to be home again. In a place where neighbors help one another.'
She did not want him seeing her with tears in her eyes. She took a step back, and anger speared through her. He was such a stupid man. What did he think? She was here because they were neighbors? 'I am not here to help you, Hunter. You are not the reason I am up for the second straight night without sleep.'
'Of course not. My father-'
'That is right I am here for your father. For a man who is old and sick and who needs care.'
'And I thank you for it.'
So, even a man who thought himself heroic was as daft as the rest of them. 'Don't you understand?'
'I know nothing of herbs.'
'Herbs have naught to do with it.' She fisted both hands and vowed not to give him a good smack that might knock some sense into him. 'Mayhap you should have stayed home these last years to help your father, and he would not be in bed right now fighting for his life.'
'Wait one minute.' Danger glinted in his eyes. He strode forward, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath and the bunched tension in his powerful body. 'Are you accusing me-'
'I am saying that some people do not have a father. And they would have gladly stayed and worked a farm alongside him. Just to have him in her life.' She blinked hard, biting her lip to keep from saying more. Did she have to let him see her heart?
Jonah only stared at her, his mouth open. A muscle jumped along his jaw. 'You dare to judge me?'
'Why not? Some of us stayed.' And at a greater cost. 'Of course it is more difficult to impress hero- worshipping boys with homey little tales. No one calls a son who stays home a hero. Nor one who makes his ill father's life more comfortable.'
'I did not leave home to make myself into a hero. No such animal exists.' His hands fisted. Fury gleamed in eyes as dark as night. 'I despise the word. Why do you keep saying I am one? Mayhap that is the way you see me?'
'Nay.' But it was. Bigger than a man had a right to be, so handsome he could stop the moon from shining. Look at the way her hand still tingled where his fingers had touched her. Her heart thudded fast and hard at his nearness.
'You are the outsider here,' he pointed out, 'you and your unwanted opinions.'
His anger glowed like an ember, changing his face, tangible like radiating heat.
An outsider. She felt as if he'd pared her with a knife and lay open her heart. Pain turned into anger, but she could only stare at him. What could she say? She'd lost the argument to this big, arrogant man who made her feel small and inadequate. Too short Too thin. Too plain.
That was the true reason no man had married her, despite her age, despite her circumstance. All those years fighting to keep a roof over her ill mother's head and enduring heartless relatives' scorn had forced a wall so thick around her heart even a marauding Indian could not breach it.
She never once truly resented caring for her mother, or missed too terribly the lost chances for fun other girls her age had enjoyed. But no, her life had not been easy. Maybe if she'd had more patience, or more faith, or more beauty…
But the truth was she'd become an outsider. The kind of woman only Horace Walling would marry.
Tessa ducked her chin and strode from the room.
'You were harsh with her.'
Jonah rubbed his brow. His head throbbed with exhaustion; his heart ached with worry. 'I know. She just made me angry. Probably because she was right.'
'All I know is that she has been tending Father as if he were her own.' Thomas paused to study the old man lying so still and the surgeon bleeding him with studious caution. 'I don't see anyone else volunteering to stoke fires and change bedding and haul snow up a flight of stairs, then clean up the mess. Do you?'
'Not one of those young females hoping to marry me,' Jonah added wryly.
Thomas' eyes crinkled, unable to manage a smile. 'Mistress Tessa may be a man's worst nightmare, but I tell you, there is no one else I would rather have with Father right now. She's skilled, and she's got a gentle hand with the infirm.'
'Too bad she doesn't have a gentle tongue to match.' Jonah studied the tray Tessa had brought. Fresh biscuits and untouched corn pudding. She'd tended them, although no one had asked it of her. 'I suppose I just like a woman who's biddable and pleasing.'
'I could not agree with you more.' Thomas reached for the teapot. 'If you make her angry, she will leave. The surgeon says he can stay, but only as long as he can help.'
'Aye.' Wearily, Jonah sighed, so damn tired he couldn't focus his blurring eyes. 'Mayhap I can repair the damage.'
Hell, there was so much he couldn't repair. Like his father's illness. It killed him to think the old man was suffering so.
He left the room, his burden greater for having left the bedside. What if his father died while he was away? Jonah hesitated in the dark hallway, blending with the shadows.
