“The steam will be good for her, too, though I’m sure you already tried that.” Adam held one of the lamps close to examine Sophie’s face and chest. No bluish tint to her lips or nail beds, and while her nostrils flared slightly with each breath, he didn’t see chest retractions, nor was she consistently wheezing, only sporadically.
“I’d like you to stay here overnight so I can monitor Sofie. But the worst seems to be over—of this attack, at least.”
“I should go home and let the others know. You stay, Sythia.” Lark headed for the door, then turned back. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Of course. I haven’t done much.” But he heard the stiffness creep back into his voice.
Larkspur left without another word. Forsythia stood with her face averted from him, rubbing Sofie’s back.
Finally yielding to the holy prompting within him, Adam stepped away from the examining table. “I’ll be right back.” He hurried to the door and opened it. “Larkspur—Miss Nielsen?”
She looked down from the wagon seat. “Yes?”
He closed the door behind him and stepped up to the wagon. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very kind in my behavior lately.”
“I understand why you’re upset. I just wish you wouldn’t blame Forsythia for it.”
“I don’t—not really.” He ran a hand through his hair. How to explain the mix of emotions tumbling through him lately? “I understand why you did what you did also. I just wish you had told me about it sooner.”
“I’m sorry.” Lark met his gaze.
He extended a hand up to her. “How about I’ll forgive you, if you’ll forgive me?”
She shook it, her grip strong. “Agreed.”
Adam watched the wagon rumble away in the moonlight, the weight in his chest finally lightening. Except he still needed to speak with Forsythia. Lord, give me the words.
She looked up when he stepped back into the office. She’d drawn a chair near the stove so Sofie could breathe the steam puffing from the kettle. She sat bent over the little girl in her arms, and the lamplight flickered on her hair like sparks in the night.
Adam swallowed. He cared for her. He might even love her. But . . . he wasn’t ready. Not yet. He’d realized that, in times of prayer these recent days. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than he’d already done. But he needed time.
“How is she doing?” He crouched down to Sofie’s level and touched the little girl’s forehead. Cool to his touch but not clammy. A good sign.
“She’s getting sleepy, but I’d like to get some liquid in her. Do you have chamomile? I should have brought my herbs with me.”
“I don’t know many herbal remedies, but I do have that one.” Adam rose and fetched it from his cabinet. He put a pinch of the herb in a small cup, then added water from the kettle and set it aside to steep. He drew a chair close to Forsythia’s while they waited.
“Miss Nielsen . . . Forsythia. May I call you that?”
She nodded, some emotion flitting across her face.
“I want to tell you that I spoke with your sister. And we have mended the breach, as it were.”
Forsythia closed her eyes. “I’m so glad.”
“I want to ask your forgiveness, if I’ve hurt you by my behavior in recent days.” He paused. “No, please erase that if. I know I have hurt you. I’ve seen it in your eyes.”
“I’ve wanted to speak to you . . . Adam.” She seemed to taste his name, her eyes asking permission, which he gave with a nod. “I just wasn’t sure how to make this right.”
“That wasn’t your responsibility, not really. I understand what you did, though I may not agree with it. But I think we must put this behind us, perhaps having all learned something from it.”
She nodded, and a tear fell on Sofie’s nightgowned arm.
“And I’ve learned something else.” He hesitated, then reached for her hand and folded it in his.
Only her faint intake of breath told him what he already suspected. Lord, this is hard.
“I care for you, Forsythia.” His heart thudded as if he were a schoolboy again. “I care deeply. And I would consider it . . . a privilege and an honor if someday you would give consent for me to court you.” Her fingers tensed, slender and warm within his. “But not yet.”
She looked up, and the question in her eyes smote him in the chest.
“I’ve realized I’m not ready. I still . . .” He cleared his throat from a sudden clogging. “I still miss Elizabeth. We’ve been going so hard since I joined the wagon train that I haven’t had time to properly grieve. It hasn’t even been three months since I buried her.”
“Of course.” She pressed his hand, compassion melting the hurt in her eyes.
“And I’ll understand if—if you don’t want to wait for me.” These words came hard, but he pressed them forth. “I know there are plenty of eligible men in these parts who might be eager to win your hand. And I can’t say for certain when I’ll be ready.”
Forsythia shook her head, and another tear slipped down her cheek. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“Well.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling it warm. “If you’re sure.”
Forsythia nodded and sniffed, then withdrew her hand with a small smile. “Perhaps we should see if Sofie’s tea is ready.”
“Perhaps.” Or the nearness and sweetness of this woman might just make him throw all caution and wisdom to the wind. “At least I have some honey here.” He dipped out a spoonful and stirred it into the steaming tea.
“You know, there are things you don’t know about me,” Forsythia said some moments later, after getting several small sips into Sofie.
“What do you mean?” Adam sat back down, leaning his elbow on the examining table.
“I haven’t told you this, but . . . I killed a man on our journey here. Shortly after
