She placed warm compresses.
Kept him sipping broth.
Changed sweat-damp bedding.
Made Ruth sleep.
Argued with Elias when he refused rest.
At two in the morning, Nathaniel found Clara in the small kitchen crushing dried herbs.
“What is that?”
“Mullein.”
“Does it work?”
“It helps some people cough easier.”
“Doctor approve?”
Clara looked at him.
“He left powders containing enough opium to sleep a mule.”
Nathaniel frowned.
“That's bad?”
“Not necessarily.”
“But I'm not giving a four-year-old more than prescribed.”
She prepared steam.
Nathaniel watched.
“You're good with this.”
“I've done it.”
“Children?”
“My sister’s.”
“Cousins.”
“Neighbors.”
A pause.
Then:
“My husband.”
Nathaniel’s expression softened.
“He got sick?”
“Winter before he died.”
“Lung fever.”
“He recovered.”
Nathaniel waited.
Clara continued.
“The horse killed him later.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Should I stop?”
“No.”
She stared into the bowl.
“Most people stopped saying his name after a year.”
“What was it?”
“Mateo.”
Nathaniel nodded.
“What was he like?”
That question nearly broke her.
People asked how he died.
Whether they had children.
Whether she would remarry.