She worked quickly. Cool cloths for Emma's forehead. A lighter blanket, a few drops of sugar water to keep her drinking. The baby fussed but accepted the ministrations, eyes already drooping. Within an hour, the fever had broken.
Emma slept peacefully, skin cool, breathing even. Jonathan hadn't moved from the chair. He stared at his daughter like a man who'd seen a ghost depart. "She's fine," Cara said softly. "I told you she was strong.
You shouldn't have had to. I should have been able. Stop. She knelt in front of him, forcing him to meet her eyes. You've been doing this alone for 6 months.
No sleep, no help. No one to tell you it's going to be all right. Of course, you're afraid. Fear is the price of love. Something flickered in his expression, then shuddered away.
He stood abruptly, nearly knocking her backward. I need to check on the animals. Jonathan, thank you for your help. His voice had gone formal, distant, a door slamming shut. I can manage from here.
He pulled on his coat and disappeared into the storm. Leaving Cara kneeling on the floor with a sleeping baby and the cold realization that she'd seen something. He never meant to show her. The rest of the day passed in careful distance. Jonathan returned, stomped snow from his boots, and busied himself with tasks that kept him on the opposite side of the house when their paths crossed.
He was polite, courteous, remote. Carara recognized the walls. She'd built identical ones herself that evening. She sat by the window, watching the storm weaken. Gaps appeared in the clouds.
The snow fell lighter now, almost gentle. By morning, the roads might clear. She could leave. Maybe she should leave. Whatever fragile thing had been building between them, he'd made clear he wanted it torn down.
She was a stranger who'd stumbled into his grief, useful for a crisis, nothing more. Her bag sat in the corner, barely unpacked. It wouldn't take long to gather her things, but the child knows night settled heavy on the farmhouse. The storm had faded to occasional gusts, and the silence felt loud after 3 days of constant wind. Cara folded her spare dress into her bag, rolled her stockings, checked that her small purse of coins remained tucked in the inside pocket, mechanical movements performed by a body that had learned not to feel while it worked.
She would leave at first light, thank Jonathan for his hospitality, wish him and Emma well right away before anyone had to acknowledge what had almost grown between them. It was the sensible thing to do. From the bedroom, Emma began to cry. Cara paused, listened to Jonathan's footsteps, heard his voice, low and soothing, attempting the comfort that didn't come naturally to him. The crying continued, escalated, became the sharp, desperate whale of an infant who wanted something specific and wasn't getting it.
Cara pressed her hands against her thighs, counted breaths, reminded herself that this wasn't her child. This wasn't her house. This wasn't her life. The crying went on. And then she heard Jonathan's voice cracked with exhaustion and despair.
Please, Emma, please, sweetheart. What do you need? I don't know what you need. Cara was moving before she made the decision. In the bedroom, Jonathan stood in the center of the floor.