Caleb boiled water.
Cleaned the woman’s wounds.
Wrapped her in his warmest blankets.
He rode through weather that should have kept any sensible man indoors to the Larson farm three miles south because Mrs. Larson kept goats.
He returned with milk, feeding cloths, and a lecture from Martha Larson about exactly how little the babies should receive at once.
Martha offered to come.
Caleb refused.
“The storm’s worsening.”
“So?”
“You’ve got three children at home.”
“I also have a conscience.”
“I can manage.”
Martha had stared at him.
“You?”
Caleb looked down at the jar of milk.
“I found them. I’ll manage.”
Martha’s expression softened.
“Who is she?”
“Don't know.”
“Where did she come from?”
“Don't know.”
“Who hurt her?”
Caleb looked toward the storm.
“That one I intend to find out.”
He left before Martha could ask anything else.
For three days he barely slept.
The woman burned with fever.
Sometimes she called for the babies.
Sometimes she whispered a name.
Caleb could not understand it.
At other times she seemed to believe she was still outside.
“No.”
she murmured once.
“Please.”
Caleb sat beside the bed.
“No one’s here.”
She flinched anyway.
“Don’t take them.”
“No one’s taking them.”
“They said girls don't inherit.”
Caleb frowned.
“What?”
Her eyes remained closed.
“Please.”
Caleb leaned closer.
“Who said that?”
She sank back into fever.
He remembered the sentence.
Girls don't inherit.
By the fourth morning the storm weakened.
So did her fever.
Caleb was sitting beside the stove feeding the smaller infant when the woman suddenly gasped awake.
Her eyes flew open.
She tried to sit.
Pain forced her back.
“Easy.”
Caleb stood.
She looked around wildly.
“The babies.”
He pointed.
Both girls slept in the box beside the stove.
The woman’s face collapsed.
She covered her mouth.
“They’re alive.”
“Yes.”
She began crying.
Caleb did not know what to do with that.
He moved toward the coffee pot.
“Both eat.”
She stared at him through tears.
“You fed them?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
Caleb looked offended.
“They’re not exactly cooking their own breakfast.”
A strange sound escaped her.
Half laugh.
Half sob.
Then she winced.
“Don’t move too much.”
she said.
Caleb looked at her.
“You’re giving me medical advice?”
“I was speaking to myself.”
“Good.”
She studied him.
“Where am I?”
“My cabin.”
“Whose cabin?”
“Mine.”
She seemed to consider whether that answer should frighten her.
Caleb added:
“Cedar Ridge is six miles south.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Cedar Ridge?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She tried to rise again.
“Absolutely not.”
Caleb crossed the room.
“You can barely sit.”
“I have to go.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere else.”
“Storm buried road.”
“I’ll walk.”
“You nearly died lying fifty yards from timber.”
“I cannot stay near Cedar Ridge.”
Caleb stopped.
“Why?”
She looked toward babies.
Then at him.
“I need my daughters.”
“They’re there.”
“I need to leave.”
“With what strength?”
She stared at him.
Caleb remained between her and door.
Not threatening.
Immovable.
The woman’s fear slowly turned to anger.
“Move.”
“No.”