Once Upon A Texas Christmas

“How’s Mr. Reynolds doing?” she asked.

“Dr. Pratt is with him now. We won’t know anything until his examination is complete. In the meantime, I need you to watch the front desk.”

Then she went to the kitchen, where she again had to answer questions on how Mr. Reynolds was doing. Once that was out of the way she got down to her reason for being there. “I know you already have today’s menu planned out, but could you please work in a chicken-and-vegetable broth? It’s what Daisy cooks when someone in the household gets ill so I figure it couldn’t hurt to do the same for Mr. Reynolds.”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll start on it right away. My ma always served it when we were feeling poorly, too.”

“Thank you, Della. I know Mr. Reynolds will appreciate it.”

By the time Abigail returned to Mr. Reynolds’s suite, Dr. Pratt had finished his examination.

She didn’t waste time on small talk. “What’s wrong with him?”

“His fever is caused by an infection he didn’t have treated properly. And added to that, he likely sustained a concussion when he fell.”

She clasped her hands together in front of her, trying not to let her anxiety show. “Is it serious?”

“It can be. I’ve treated the infection and given him a powder to help make him comfortable, but I’m afraid there’s not much else that can be done until the fever runs its course.”

“What can I do?”

“Someone needs to keep an eye on him for the next day or so. Concussions can be a tricky business.”

“I can do that.”

He gave her a stern look. “Not by yourself. You won’t do anyone any good if you make yourself ill as well. Besides, there may be some, shall we say, delicate ministrations he will require.” He rubbed his chin. “Normally my wife would be available to help you, but she burned her hand on the stove this morning and needs to take care of herself. But Mrs. Peavy has helped from time to time with folks who need looking after. If you like, I can see if she’s available to lend a hand.”

Abigail’s first instinct was to decline—she was certain she could handle the job herself. But she realized Dr. Pratt—not to mention her brother—would not allow it. So she gave in gracefully. “That would be most helpful. Thank you.”

“In the meantime, try to get him to take in some thin broth and other liquids if you can.”

“Della is already preparing a broth. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Pray, of course.” He gave Abigail’s hand a grandfatherly pat. “I’ll check back in with you this afternoon to see how he’s doing. In the meantime, if you think things are getting worse, send for me.”

Once Dr. Pratt was gone, Abigail asked Ruby to bring her a pencil and some paper. First she wrote a note to Everett explaining what had happened and that she would be staying at the hotel until Mr. Reynolds was improved. She also asked him to find someone who could help out here at the hotel for a day or two.

Then she had Ruby help her move one of the comfortable upholstered chairs from the sitting room to Mr. Reynolds’s bedside. Sending the girl back to the front desk, she prepared to keep vigil.

She’d barely settled in when the patient stirred. Abigail immediately popped up from the chair and stood at the bedside.

He blinked up at her, squinting his bleary eyes, as if he had trouble focusing. “What are you doing here?”

She smiled down at him, once more gently brushing the damp hair from his brow. “Hush now. You’ve taken ill and have had a fall as well. I’m here to take care of you.”

“Nonsense.” He struggled to sit up. “I never get sick and I don’t need a nursemaid.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, alarmed at the heat radiating through his nightshirt. “Well, it appears that has changed. Settle back down. Dr. Pratt has already had a look at you and recommends you not get up from here until you’re a good sight better.”

He tried to brush her hand away but the attempt was feeble. A moment later he finally quit struggling and settled back into an uneasy sleep.

Abigail watched him, wanting to help but feeling powerless to do so. She couldn’t resist tracing the curve of his face with a finger. His chin was rough with stubble but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. In fact, she rather liked it.

Suddenly he grabbed her hand. “Don’t leave! Please don’t leave me.”

Startled, her gaze flew to meet his, but all she saw was a feverish, glazed look. She took his hand with one of her own and patted his face with the other. “Hush now, I’m not going anywhere.”

Her touch seemed to calm him some but there was still signs of agitation. Finally, she resorted to something she’d seen Daisy do when one of her children was restless or ill—she began to sing softly. She selected the first song that came to mind—“Amazing Grace.”

That seemed to do the trick. As she sang, she continued to hold his hand and watch his face. How vulnerable he looked.

He’d already endured so much pain in his life if those scars were any indication. If he’d come back from that, then he could come back from this.

That plea he’d made—please don’t leave me—had sounded so desperate, so lost. She sensed that he hadn’t been talking to her, that it had been dredged from someplace deep inside him, and her heart ached for his loss.

Someone left him before, someone he cared deeply for.

A family member? A sweetheart?

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