SleepyHollow2BookBundle (37 page)

“He’s away at a birth,” the physician’s wife informed him when he knocked at the door and asked.

“Isn’t that usually a midwife’s affair?” he asked, surprised. He was no expert on such matters, but why would anyone send for a physician when the village boasted its own midwife, who was reputedly very skilled?

His wife nodded, shrugging simultaneously. “Usually it is, but the midwife is miles away at another birth, and Robert Van Dyck’s wife went into labor last night.”

John resisted the urge to ball his hands into fists as he glanced about, hoping for the sudden, miraculous return of the physician. “I really must see him.”

She shrugged again. “He’s at the Van Dycks’. If it’s about the bruises though, I could whip up a poultice easily enough.” She tipped her head in his direction, her gaze lingering on his cheeks, then traveling slowly below, where the ghost of a handprint was still on his neck.

“It’s not about me,” he said hastily. “Katrina – Brom’s wife – she’s fevered.” He cast a look toward Torben. “I’ll ride to the Van Dycks’. Perhaps your husband is finishing up there as we speak.” He hoped so – had to hope so, because the idea of waiting around while the physician tended to a birthing that could take hours more wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate unless it came to that. He was back in the saddle in a heartbeat, refusing the physician’s wife’s second offer for a treatment to soothe his bruises. “No, no thank you,” he called, heeling Torben in the direction of the Van Dyck farm. “They’re not as bad as they look – I hardly feel them anymore.” He didn’t, but only because his mind was too troubled with other matters to process the pain.

When he knocked at the Van Dycks’ door, he was greeted by several moments of silence. Hopefully it was a good sign – it was more heartening than screams, at any rate. Eventually the door swung open, revealing a portly, slightly harassed looking man. “Thank God,” John breathed, apparently not quite as under his breath as he’d thought.

The other man eyed him somewhat warily, his eyes surrounded by dark circles. “Have you come to fetch me, then?”

John nodded.

“If it’s about the bruises, my wife—”
 

“It’s not,” John assured him, frowning and silently cursing the marks on his face. “It’s Katrina Van Brunt; she’s taken with a fever, and growing worse by the hour.”
 

“Oh? Well, I’ve just finished here. Let me fetch my horse…”

They rode at a pace that wasn’t quite brisk, and was much too slow for John’s liking. He let Torben hurry ahead, pretending it was a struggle to keep the horse from bursting into a full-blown run. The physician reluctantly urged his stout little sorrel mare into a canter, traveling a few paces behind John. Finally, they reached the house.
 

Katrina was in bed, and Brom sitting over her protectively like a large, brooding guardian angel. The book of poetry was on the bedside table, the pages open near the halfway point. Had Brom been reading from it to her? Brom wasn’t particularly fond of poetry, but John had no doubt he’d do it for Katrina. If only he’d been there – he would have liked to see Brom reading a verse for her, his deep voice rising and falling with the cadence of one of her favorite poems.

Brom informed the physician that he thought her fever had worsened since John had left, and it was easy to believe. Despite the courteous smile she tried to show the doctor, she looked frail, as if nothing but the stacked pillows was supporting her. “She’s taken to alternating between cold chills and sweats,” Brom said, his voice rumbling with obvious worry and an edge of anger; usually that was the only sign Brom gave of fear.

The doctor conducted an examination, beginning with listening to Katrina’s heart and breathing with some sort of metal tube. When it was finally over, he reached into his bag. “An ague,” he declared. “But I’ve got just the thing…” He pulled out a small pouch. “Willow bark tea. Works wonders on fevers. I’ll need a cup of hot water.”

“I’ll fetch it.”

The physician turned, a startled expression flitting across his face when he saw John standing in the doorway.

For the first time, John realized how odd it must seem that he was there, watching and hanging on the doctor’s every word. He should have gone away, should have asked Brom afterward what the prognosis was…but he knew, even as he cursed himself, that he couldn’t have brought himself to do so. His heart beat in time with Katrina’s breathing, growing heavier as her illness grew worse. Trying to look as if his concern was simply that of a friend, he turned on his heel and went down the stairs, to the kitchen.

After heating water over the fire, he climbed the staircase again, cradling the warm cup in his palms. When he reached the bedroom doorway, he nearly dropped it.

Katrina’s sleeve was rolled up, exposing the milky underside of her arm. The physician was holding a cup, collecting the blood that streamed from the crook of her elbow. John’s stomach lurched at the sight of the wicked looking blade that lay on the bedside table, the tip gleaming red.
 

Brom was holding Katrina’s hand, grimacing fiercely as she bled. “Isn’t that enough?” he demanded.

“Just a bit more,” the doctor said. “Here, hold this while I prepare the tea.” He forced the cup into Brom’s hand, and Brom was forced to cooperate in order to keep Katrina from bleeding onto the linens.
 

John surrendered his cup of water and finally left, shooting one last apologetic glance at Katrina as he retreated through the door and across the hall to the spare bedroom he hadn’t spent even a single hour in. He didn’t want to arouse the doctor’s suspicions any more than he wanted to watch her bleed, because after she recovered – and she
would
recover – he intended to go on loving her and Brom, to keep the peace they’d found between the three of them.
 

After the physician left, John returned to the bedroom where Katrina was lying in bed, apparently asleep, and Brom was half-naked, quickly undoing the front fall of his breeches.

“What on earth are you doing?” John asked, staring perplexedly at Brom’s bare torso, then at the pile of clothing on the floor.

“Keeping her warm,” Brom said, nodding toward Katrina.

She was shivering, causing the layers of blankets Brom had placed over her to tremble.

Brom kicked off the rest of his clothes and slipped beneath the blankets, settling close beside her and urging her to curl against his body. “What did you think I meant to do?” Brom asked, shooting John a wry look of amusement.

John said nothing, though his cheeks warmed slightly.

“Help me,” Brom said, nodding toward the empty space at Katrina’s other side. “She’s freezing.”

After a half moment’s hesitation, John stripped, throwing his clothing into the pile with Brom’s, and slipped into bed, wrapping an arm around Katrina’s waist. Something dug into his shoulder – the little wooden cross that hung from Katrina’s neck. He lifted it from the pillow, but it slipped from between his fingers a moment later when Katrina was seized by a particularly vicious bout of trembling. He picked it back up, and it lay in his palm, as warm as a rock that had sat all day beneath the summer sun.

 
He pressed his fingertips against Katrina’s chest and found it cooler than the cross. His own chest seemed to burn for a moment as he remembered the way his own crucifix had heated, searing the imprint of a cross into his skin as it had defended him from the headless horseman. He laid Katrina’s gently between her breasts. Surprisingly, her tremors all but ceased just as suddenly as they had begun. He eyed the crucifix, a homely, impossibly effective charm that seemed crude against her smooth, creamy skin.
 

After a few moments spent tucked between the two men, Katrina’s tremors faded completely, and eventually she was still. That they’d been able to help her, even if only in this small way, quelled John’s fear a little, and he silently vowed to do everything within his power to see that she became well again. His determination was a small comfort against the sense of dark suspicion that had settled into his bones, forcing him to think of the frightful thing he’d witnessed the night before. It was the last thing he wanted to contemplate at the moment, but the phantom haunted his memory, rattling his confidence as surely as it had rattled the bedroom window.

CHAPTER 11

By evening, John’s fingertips were dusted with a fine powder of willow bark, held there by sticky layers of honey. He’d added that to the prescribed tea in order to make it more palatable – Katrina hadn’t complained, but he could tell by her facial expressions and the way she’d swallowed the first cup quickly while holding her breath that it tasted awful. He’d spent the better part of the day carefully brewing the tea to the physician’s specifications, but it hadn’t been enough. As the sun sank below the horizon, Katrina’s health was worse than ever.

She was asleep against the pillows, the quilt pulled up to her chin as a precaution against the cold chills that beset her at random intervals. “I thought she should have a last cup before nightfall,” John said, nodding toward the sunset that was visible beyond the bedroom window.

Brom looked up at John as he entered the room; they’d both spent the majority of the day caring for Katrina, or at least keeping her company. “I’ll see if I can wake her.”
 

Katrina did wake, her normally clear cornflower-blue eyes red-rimmed and hazy with sleep. She sipped the tea John offered, finishing half the cup before a violent bout of chills made it impossible for her to drink. As hot liquid sloshed over the side and onto the quilt, John took the cup from her hand and set it on the bedside table, eyeing the rest of its contents with regret. Clearly, the tea wasn’t very effective, but making it for her at least made him feel as if he were helping, doing
something
rather than simply watching as her health took a downward spiral.

“Never mind the tea,” Brom said, “you should rest.” He helped her out of her gown – weak as she was, it was a painstaking task. With some assistance from John, he soon had her stripped down to just her shift and the crucifix that hung around her neck, and was tucking the covers tightly around her body.

“Perhaps she’d be more comfortable if I slept on the floor tonight,” John said. She looked so delicate lying in the center of the bed that he didn’t like the idea of disturbing her rest. He couldn’t bring himself to abandon her by retreating to a spare bedroom though.

Katrina spoke before Brom could reply. “No,” she said, her tone surprisingly firm. “You’re so warm… And I want you both here with me.”

He couldn’t deny her. Stripping down to his shirt, he climbed into bed as Brom did the same. Katrina was asleep already, and Brom had settled beside her, his eyes closed. Soon, he’d be adrift in slumber too. Then, John would slip quietly away and do what had to be done.
 

Before snuffing out the candle, he took one last long look at Brom and Katrina, trying to burn the image into his mind. It wasn’t exactly how he wanted to remember them, with Katrina lying ill and Brom trying to shelter her from things he couldn’t defend against, but it would have to do. At least they were both wearing the crucifix necklaces he’d given them – the fact offered a little reassurance.
 

There was a certain feeling in the air, as the moon replaced the sun – one that settled into John’s bones, allowing him to hear soft whispers of
tonight, tonight
on the light wind that blew outside, rushing against the house and causing the window to rattle ever so slightly in its casement. He was sure that no one else could hear it, not even Brom as he fell asleep – the sound was meant for him. It had always been meant for him, and he’d be damned if he let Katrina take his place.

* * * * *

Torben seemed to sense the strangeness in the air, the sense of foreboding. John stroked the stallion’s neck, making soothing sounds as he stood by him in the dark stall, ready to place a saddle on his back. It was a shame that he’d have to subject Torben to this, but he’d need a fast mount. What would Brom think tomorrow morning when he discovered what John had done with his prized horse? For that matter, what he’d done with himself? He refused to think about it. Brom would be outraged, but there was no other way. So he saddled Torben, trying to keep his hands from trembling as he pulled the girth tight and adjusted the stirrups.

Torben nickered as John led him from the stable, and John shot a guilty glance at the farmhouse, praying fervently that the sound hadn’t woken anyone inside. If Brom knew what John was doing, he’d surely try to stop him. Attempting to explain the matter to Brom would be futile. Brom believed in the headless horseman – after all, what choice did he have? – but John knew that this matter would be beyond the other man’s threshold of acceptance. Especially since he’d decided not to tell Brom and Katrina that he’d seen the headless horseman ride by their bedroom window the night before. So he went alone, a whispered goodnight the only goodbye he dared to give.

Torben danced beneath John when he swung into the saddle, and John let him charge ahead at a brisk trot. He needed to leave the farmhouse behind as quickly as possible, before he succumbed to the urge to lay eyes on Brom and Katrina once again, to touch them, even if it was only as they slept. He also needed to escape before Torben made some sound and risked waking them. He didn’t look over his shoulder as Torben’s hooves ate up the dirt road, but at the moon. It was a full harvest moon, harbinger of October and, he couldn’t help but feel, of doom.