“Then I’ll wear it, that I will,” Mercy whispered. She slid it on her finger and held it up for Sarah to see. “But just until you’re better.”

Sarah nodded, then closed her eyes as though she had no more strength to keep them open. With the task completed, she expelled a breath and fell silent.

Joseph could almost see the girl’s spirit depart from her body. She was gone. He didn’t need to check her pulse or breathing to know.

Mercy sat quietly, unmoving, and stared at the ring. The acquiescence in her expression told him that for all her brave words, she knew the truth as well—Sarah wouldn’t be getting better. The sweet girl had left them.

Joseph waited for Mercy to say something, to unburden her sorrow, to express her disappointment. Surely her heart was overflowing with sadness. How could it not be? After pouring so much of herself into Sarah.

A moment later, Mercy stood.

Joseph rose too, still watching her face closely. He wanted to offer her comfort. In fact, his heart ached knowing how hard this was for her.

“I’ll help you with her body.” Mercy’s voice was soft but didn’t waver. “Tell me what to do.”

For a while they worked together getting the body ready. Once Sarah was bathed, dressed, and her hair combed and neatly plaited, Joseph carried her to the cabin where he was staying, called for the captain, and made the arrangements for a committal service.

Finally, having followed the proper procedures, he returned to the sick bay. Mercy was kneeling on the floor. She’d taken the sheet off the bed and was scrubbing at a stain from Sarah’s vomit. She rubbed the bar of soap across the same spot over and over, her knuckles white, the veins in her wrist beating through her skin.

Closing the door quietly, he crossed to her. “Don’t trouble yourself with the sheet.”

She found another stain, dipped the soap into the basin, and attacked it.

Helplessness seeped through him. He wanted to say or do something to show her he understood the loss. But he had no words, and there was no way to soothe such grief. He knew that all too well.

He waited for tears to begin sliding down Mercy’s cheeks, but she focused on the linen with dry eyes.

Finally, he knelt and took the sheet and the soap out of her hands.

Only then did she turn to look at him. Her sea blue eyes raged with stormy waves. But she waited with the same resignation he’d seen when the little girl she’d brought to the dispensary had died, the same resignation that filled her face when Mrs. Robb had come after her the first time she’d brought him Sarah, the same resignation when Mr. Scott had demeaned her and called her girl.