“Thank you,” she said, for that was all she could manage.

Scully went back outside for a moment, returning with a bucket of milk. He dumped out the washtub and put it away, then washed his hands and proceeded to the stove. Evangeline wondered if there was another man quite like him, anywhere in the world, and thought not. He was utterly, completely, unapologetically masculine, Scully was, and yet he didn’t mind making supper. He had tenderness in him, and a streak of poetry, and she knew he loved the land for far more than its ability to sustain him.

Evangeline turned back to her daughter, taking Abigail’s small hand between both her own. The fever was down, but only slightly, and Evangeline was at once afraid to hope and unable to do otherwise.

Presently, Scully’s meal, a hash made up of scrambled eggs, chopped onions, and canned meat, was ready. She went to the table only because he’d lifted her off the chair and sent her gently in that direction, then sat down in her place beside the bed. So she ate, and with an appetite that truly surprised her. The food was probably delicious—it smelled wonderful—but her sense of taste had gone.

When she returned to the bedside, Abigail was wakeful, though her expression was trance-like, as though she wasn’t quite sure where she was.

“Mama?” she whispered, in a tiny, heart-rending rasp.

“I’m here, darling,” Evangeline said quickly. She sat on the edge of the bed and cupped Abigail’s face in her hands, running her thumbs over the small, perfect cheekbones like a supplicant stroking holy beads. “I’m here.”

Abigail’s forehead crumpled into a pensive frown. “Did I make an angel?”

Evangeline was baffled by the question; she glanced at Scully, who was still in the chair and thus very close. So close that she could feel the heat of his body as plainly as Abigail’s fever.

Scully smiled. “Not exactly,” he said. “You were real sick, so I dipped you in a washtub full of snow to bring your fever down.”

“You did?” Abigail asked, as Hortense scrabbled up onto her pillow and butted the child’s cheek several times with her small head.

He nodded. “It was the only thing I knew to do,” he said simply.

Abigail’s mouth stretched into a yawn. “I’m awfully tired,” she said, putting both arms around the kitten, who curled up willingly against her chest. A moment later, they were both asleep.

Evangeline turned to Scully. She knew all her hope for the child showed in her face, naked and raw, but she didn’t care.

“The fever hasn’t broken, Eve,” he said quietly. “It’s down a little, but she’s still real sick and—”

He didn’t need to finish, for Evangeline knew well enough what he’d been about to say. After all, she’d seen illnesses like Abigail’s many times before. A soldier would be recovering nicely from wounds sustained on the field of battle, only to take sick all of the sudden, run a high fever, and die. Usually, when the pneumonia struck, it was fatal, and Evangeline knew, with the certainty of experience, had known all along probably, that this was indeed pneumonia.