Worry overwhelmed her. She wanted her baby home again. In her arms. She felt the lump thickening in her throat, water pooling in her eyes. Try as she might to hold it in, the tears trickled down her cheeks. Defeated, Cara put her face in her hands and let go a gush of tears. Crying was a testament to how low she’d fallen. Cara hated to cry, was embarrassed to reveal that weakness. But cry she did. Great, blubbering sobs, like a baby. She couldn’t stop.

Suddenly she felt arms encircle her. Cara choked back a cry and, looking up, saw David’s face, so close to hers for the first time in nearly a month. Her gaze devoured him, though she was still in shock. His face was pale though not sickly. His eyes were no longer glazed with fever but alert and full of concern. She sniffed and slowly reached up to wipe her eyes, then moved her hand to cup his jaw, rough with the beginnings of a pepper-and-salt beard.

“David,” she managed to get out, barely coherent, “what…”

He brought his hand to the back of her head and guided it to rest against his shoulder. He smelled fresh and soapy, like he’d just emerged from a shower.

“My darling, don’t cry.”

The feel of his hand against her skin brought her to a place of security, safety, contentment. Cara closed her eyes and let her body melt against his. Sometimes a touch, a hug, the feel of an encircling arm—more than words—had the power to restore one’s faith that all would be well.

She moved her head back to look at his face again, sure her own was blotched and swollen. She stared at him in wonder. “But what are you doing out of your room?”

David took a tissue from his pocket and gently dabbed at her face. Cara reached up to take it and quickly wiped her eyes and nose, then, feeling more composed, looked again at his face. “Tell me.”

“It’s been twenty-four hours since my last fever. And that was a low-grade fever.”

“I know. But you didn’t tell me your fever was gone.”

“I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” He smiled. “My symptoms are gone. I feel stronger, clearheaded. No headaches.”

“I can’t believe it,” she breathed out.

“I only wish I had flowers to give you, to thank you for being so good to me these past weeks. You held this family together. Cara Rutledge-Wyatt, you are the strongest woman I know. I don’t like to see you cry. Unless they’re tears of joy.”

Cara felt a fresh batch of tears building up. “Now, these are tears of joy. I can’t believe you’re standing here in front of me. Real flesh-and-blood you.”

Then, for the first time, and it still felt somehow illicit, David lowered his mouth to meet hers. The kiss was tender and brief. More a connection than passion. It was, she thought, perfect.

“Let’s get Hope,” David said.