Woman of Grace (16 page)

Sometime that evening, Devlin awoke to someone pulling off his shirt. His vision was foggy, but he could make out the form of a slender, blond woman hovering above him.

“H-Hannah?” he croaked, his throat dry and raw.

“Yes, it’s me, Devlin,” a soft voice replied.

“W-water.”

A cool hand slid beneath his neck and lifted his head. A pottery mug was pressed to his lips. “Swallow this,” a soothing voice urged. “It’s willow bark tea. It’ll help bring down your fever.”

The brew was bitter, but Hannah kept at him until he had drained it all. Then, with a shuddering sigh, Devlin fell back into a semi-stupor.

It was still night when he next awakened. Something cool and wet moved across his forehead, then down his neck and across his bare chest. He moaned, grasped blindly, and captured a hand. Ever so slowly his gaze fixed on it, then focused.

A small, delicate hand clasped a damp cloth. Confusion filled him. “E-Ella?” he rasped. “Is that you?”

“No.” The hand pulled away. There was movement, the sound of water in a pan, and then the cool cloth was pressed once again to his forehead, cheeks, neck, and chest. “It’s not Ella,” the sweet voice replied. “It’s Hannah.”

Hannah … Devlin struggled to say something—anything—but he was too weak to fight the strength-sapping illness raging through him. Darkness beckoned once more, dragging him down into the welcome oblivion of sleep.

For that night and into the next day, Devlin tossed and turned, caught up in the throes of a particularly virulent strain of influenza. When he seemed even worse the next morning, Doc Childress was called. After examining him, the doctor smiled reassuringly.

“He’s young and strong,” he informed Hannah. “Keep cooling him with the willow bark tea and cold compresses. Whenever he’s awake, get him to drink. If all goes well, he should start feeling better by tomorrow.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Anxiously, Hannah watched Doc wash his hands at the kitchen pitcher pump, then dry them and sit at the kitchen table to put his stethoscope and other equipment into his black bag. “What then?”

“Well, he could catch pneumonia. It’s always a possible complication of the influenza.” He glanced up, his dark eyes and brows a startling contrast to his silver-white hair and beard. “You’re a good nurse, though, Hannah. Devlin should do fine.”

She forced a smile. “The children are scared, especially Devlin Jr. He remembers this was how his mother got sick and died.”

Doc nodded in sympathy. “You’ve got your hands full, don’t you, what with caring not only for his children, but now Devlin, too.”

Hannah felt her cheeks redden. “Beth helps me with the children during the day, and even cooks part of the meals. She’s growing up into a wonderful young lady.”

“Yes, yes, she is,” Doc agreed with a nod. He shoved his hat on his head, picked up his bag and jacket, and stood to leave. “Well, I’d best be on my way. Take good care of our patient, will you?”

“Oh, I will. Have no doubts about that.” Hannah walked him to the door, and watched as he climbed into his buggy and drove away. Then, with a sigh, she headed back to check on Devlin.

Late that night, Devlin’s moaning roused Hannah from her spot in the rocker beside his bed. She yawned, rubbed her gritty eyes, then glanced down at him. He was bathed in sweat. Still, though his face was flushed, it had lost the hectic color of the past two days.

She moistened a cloth in the pan of water sitting nearby, wrung it loosely, then began blotting him with it. As she worked her way down to his hair-roughened chest, Devlin moaned again. His lids fluttered open. He struggled to his elbows, trying to sit up.

“Lie back down.” Hannah scooted from the chair and dropped to her knees to push gently at his chest. “You’re too weak to go anywhere. What do you need?”

“Work,” Devlin mumbled. “Time … to get … to work.” He strained against the hand still pressing against his chest.

His strength, however, wasn’t sufficient to fight Hannah for long. He soon fell back, panting. His gaze, though, never left hers.

It was anguished, confused, and Hannah knew he was still caught in the throes of his fever. “It’ll be all right,” she crooned, taking up a mug of fresh willow bark tea. She turned back to him. Sliding her hand beneath his neck, she lifted his head and brought the mug to his lips. “Here, drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

He swallowed half the mug’s contents, then lay back and closed his eyes. Hannah watched him for a few minutes. Watched his broad chest rise and fall, watched him gradually slip into a peaceful, quiet slumber. Then, once again, she wet the cloth, wrung it, and lightly wiped him with it.

Devlin was getting better. He
had
to get better. What would his children do without him? What would Conor do, if he lost his cousin and ranch foreman?

Her gaze moved to his face. His ruggedly handsome features appeared peaceful now, his mouth relaxed beneath his lush, dark mustache. As she looked at his strong if slightly irregular nose, Hannah wondered if Devlin’s father, during one of his many brutal beatings, had been the one to break it.

The consideration filled her with sadness. Devlin had suffered so much in the past, and suffered still. The more she came to know and understand him, the harder it was to hate him—and the easier it became to forgive him.

Still, Hannah knew her forgiveness of him was incomplete. Some small part of her held back, remembering the countless times he had hurt her, and fearing what he might yet do.

It was a failing she was ashamed to face, but face it she must. Face it and hope in time, with the Lord’s help, she would find some good and honorable solution.

A day later, Devlin felt well enough to sit up in bed and try his first bowl of broth. His muscles, though, were still so weak he quickly gave up hope of feeding himself, and was forced to endure yet another humiliation at Hannah’s hands—being fed by her. For her part, he had to admit as he opened his mouth for yet another spoonful of savory chicken broth, she hadn’t yet teased him about it or acted put out about squandering valuable time doing so.

He watched her as she intently scooped yet another spoonful of the liquid from the bowl. Funny, he mused, how he had never noticed before the aura of quiet dignity that surrounded Hannah, or the resolute determination and strength that lay beneath her delicate features. Perhaps in the past he had been waylaid by her glowing beauty and womanly form, and not cared to look any deeper. After all, he had never desired anything more of her but what was needed to meet his carnal desires.

The realization shamed him now, as he patiently awaited her gentle ministrations. He had never treated Hannah with the consideration and respect she deserved—not when he had used her body, and not when he had hounded her after she had come to Culdee Creek. Yet still, here she was, tenderly caring for him through his illness and recovery.

Devlin well knew he wasn’t worthy of such kindness. He never had been. Not from Hannah, or Ella, or anyone else. No, he wasn’t worthy, but he meant to try harder to be so, starting with Hannah.

“This broth,” Devlin said between mouthfuls, “is delicious. Where’d you learn to cook so well?”

She smiled. Momentarily, Devlin was caught up by how delicately the color washed her elegant cheekbones, how tenderly the corners of her mouth curved upwards. He stared, fascinated, for several seconds, then remembered himself. Hot color shot up his neck and warmed his own cheeks.

Blast, but he was acting like some love-besotted schoolboy! The influenza must have weakened more than just his body. It must have addled his brain, too.

“Abby taught me, of course,” Hannah replied before bringing another spoonful of broth to his lips. “Whatever good I have accomplished or know, I owe it all to Abby.”

Obediently, Devlin accepted the broth and swallowed it down. “Abby’s a good woman and fine example, but don’t shortchange yourself, Hannah.”

At his words, her head jerked up in surprise, and she almost dropped the spoon. “Why … why thank you, Devlin,” she managed finally to respond. “That’s very kind of you to say that.”

He gave a disparaging laugh. “After all you’ve done for me and my children, guess it’s about time I started treating you with a little more kindness.”

She scooped up yet another spoonful of soup. “I’m just thankful you don’t seem so angry at me anymore.”

“I think you deserve more than that from me, Hannah.”

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.

Devlin inwardly cursed. Now he had
really
gone and done it, tripping all over himself in his awkward attempt to make amends. “I just meant maybe we could work at being friends.”

Relief brightened her eyes. “Friends. Oh my, yes … friends.” She smiled and offered him more soup. “Ella will be so pleased.”

Frowning, Devlin put up his hand to forestall the spoon directed at him. “I see Abby’s been pushing her religious beliefs on you, too. You think Ella’s in heaven, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?” Hannah laid the spoon back in the bowl.

He shrugged. “A part of me would like to think that. Ella put a lot of store in God. But then another part of me can’t quite swallow all those well-meant, but make-believe, stories about God and heaven.”

Hannah laughed. “Can’t say as how it was all that easy for me at first either. I was hard on Abby, demanding she show me, prove to me that God existed and truly loved me.”

“What changed your mind?” In spite of himself, Devlin wanted to know. He told himself he was just curious about Hannah, but even as he did something deep within called him a liar. He quickly, savagely, quashed that tiny voice.

She smiled. “Not long after I came to Culdee Creek, Abby told me the story of the woman who was found and taken in the act of adultery, then brought before Jesus. She told me how Jesus not only silenced the woman’s accusers by daring any of them who were without sin to cast the first stone at her, but then refused even to condemn her himself. He didn’t let her off easily, though. He challenged her to a new life.”

Suddenly, Devlin didn’t care much anymore for the turn of the conversation. Talk of God and the implied need to reform his life made him uncomfortable, plucking at long-buried emotions he had no intention of ever reexamining. Why should he? What had God—if He truly
did
exist—ever given him but a bucketload of pain and problems?

“Well,” he growled, “if it makes you happy to believe all that, I wouldn’t want to be the one to take it from you. Me, though, … I reckon I’ll just go on leaning on myself to get by. That way there are no games, and no unpleasant surprises.”

She appeared to consider his pronouncement for a long moment, then sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right—about there being no surprises that way. I don’t imagine I’m the one to convince you otherwise at any rate. One thing I do know, though. You’ve got to meet God halfway, and if you don’t ever try, you won’t ever find Him.”

“So, you’ve found Him then, have you, Hannah?”

“Yes,” she murmured, her eyes glowing now with a quiet joy, “I think I’m beginning to.”

10

Being reviled, we bless; being persecuted, we suffer it.