A Noble Groom (Michigan Brides #2)(58)

But suddenly he was exhausted and couldn’t keep his eyes open a second longer. As he slipped back into a deep sleep, this time he knew he wasn’t in hell.

He was on the very brink of heaven itself.



Carl wavered in and out of sleep. Every time he awoke, Annalisa was nearby. She forced him to drink tea and sugary medicine and tried to get him to sip broth.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, whether hours or days. All he knew was that God had spared his life. He’d survived the worst of the fever, and now he needed to get better.

A sweet fruitiness wafted in the air, beckoning him to wakefulness. He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. His stomach rumbled with the pangs of hunger.

A quick glance around the cabin and he found what he wanted more than anything . . .

Annalisa.

She hadn’t kissed him again—at least that he’d been aware of. But that hadn’t stopped him from dreaming of her lips upon his flesh and wishing he’d awaken to her kisses once more.

He shifted so that he could watch her without her knowing it.

She bent over the hearth and removed what appeared to be a pie. She placed it on the table, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath of the steam bubbling through slits in a golden crust.

His mouth watered, and for the first time in days he wanted to eat, especially the pie.



Outside, the cluck of the hens and the squeals of the piglets indicated that farm life had gone on just fine without him.

Except . . .

He strained to hear the familiar yip and the echoing girlish giggles that had become part of the daily noises he’d come to expect. But the sweet sounds were strangely absent.

He pushed himself up to his elbow, and at the exertion beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Where’s Gretchen?”

Annalisa gave a start. The sadness that filled her eyes at the mention of Gretchen’s name sent a slice of fear through his chest.

“Is she . . . ?” He couldn’t make himself say the word.

“She’s gone.”

He groaned and fell back against the straw-filled tick.

“Nein,” Annalisa rushed to explain. “She’s not gone gone. I only meant she’s not here. She’s staying with Frau Pastor.”

He sat back up, hardly daring to breathe. “Then she’s safe?”

Annalisa nodded, fighting back tears. “Herr Pastor rode by several days ago to let me know she is in good health, and that besides missing us, she’s happy.”

Missing us? The words reached out to soothe and torture him at the same time.

“Herr Pastor said that Uri and Eleanor are doing better, but now Mutter is sick.” Annalisa turned her back to him, but not before he saw her swipe at the tears that had escaped.

“How long have I been ill?” How long had she been forced to be away from her daughter because of him?

“Two weeks.”

He stifled a moan of protest. Two weeks was too long.

They had too much work to do. What about the corn? They’d only planted half, and he needed to get up and finish the rest. How would Annalisa be able to pay off her farm loan if she only had half a corn crop?



He swung his legs over the edge of the bedstead and hefted himself to a sitting position. “I’ve been in bed far too long. I need to get up and work.” With all the strength he could muster, he rose to his feet.

She glanced at him and gasped. “Nein. Don’t stand!”

But he’d already managed to stand to a wobbly and somewhat hunched position. “I’ve wasted too much time lying around.”

“You aren’t strong enough yet.” She started toward him.

“I’m fine.” He took a step forward. More sweat formed on his forehead and trickled down his cheek. Even though the slant of the light told him it was early morning, the cabin was still stifling.

Two weeks meant that they were well into June and into summer. The heat certainly attested to it.

He took another shaky step and the room began to spin. His knees buckled, and before he could catch himself, he found himself falling forward.

She screamed and lurched for him.

But she was too late. He slipped down, hit his head on the edge of the chair, and crashed to the floor.

Pain seared his temple, and for a long moment he wavered on the brink of darkness. He fought off the unconsciousness. Now that he was awake and alive, he didn’t want to return to oblivion.

In an instant she was beside him, her hands upon his face and head. Her breath came in labored gasps. “Nein, nein, nein . . .” Her fingers made contact with a painful slick spot on his forehead.

He fought another dizzying wave.

“Ach.” She pressed the edge of her apron against the injury and smoothed her other hand against his cheek.

She bent close enough that her full belly pressed against him, and he could catch the sweet tangy scent of whatever fruit she’d put in her pie lingering in the homespun fabric of her dress.



“You’re a stubborn man,” she scolded.

Her eyes were dark with worry, and she bit her lip as she removed the bloody edge of her apron and took another look at his gash.

“You know me.” He winced and attempted a grin. “I’ll do whatever I can to get your attention.”

“There are much easier and safer ways to get my attention.” She pressed the apron back against his cut.