Twilight Crossing. Susan Krinard
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“You’ll be on Lazarus—when you’re ready to ride.” He went to saddle the horse and returned to her. “If I can’t get one by sunset, I’ll return.”
Jamie gave no sign that she wished he would stay. Timon knew what had to be done, and she wouldn’t be any more of a burden on him than she had to be. If she didn’t want him to “heal” her with his bite, she had to do everything else possible to make sure they could move on a soon as possible.
She only wished her leg wasn’t hurting quite so much.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he said, peering into her face.
“I’ll just sleep,” she said with a smile. “Good luck.”
He accepted her reassurance with a brief nod. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Soon” proved to be much longer than Jamie had hoped. As the minutes passed, she began to feel warmer, and her leg continued to grow more painful. When she touched the bandage, it felt warm, as well.
An infection, she thought. That was no surprise, even with the antibiotics. The drugs hadn’t really had enough time to work. Undoubtedly the fever and pain would pass in good time.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Sometime later, she woke herself with shivering and pulled the blanket higher up to her chin. She drank from the canteen Timon had left for her and tried to go back to sleep.
The next time, she found herself in darkness. The steady clop of hooves approached from the north.
Timon, she thought, lost in a fog. The rider dismounted, and she heard him kneel beside her. A cool hand touched her forehead and then her bandages.
Jamie screamed.
“Jamie, can you hear me?” Timon asked.
She tried to turn her head toward him, gasped and whimpered like a child. Timon couldn’t tell if she could see him, let alone hear him; her eyes were blank, and the tremors racking her body made it impossible for him to keep her still.
You’re delirious,” he said, cupping his palm over her burning forehead. “Jamie, why didn’t you tell me you were feeling worse?”
She blinked, tears leaking from her eyes. For a moment they focused on his.
“I’m...sorry,” she whispered.
“It isn’t your fault,” he said, stroking her wet hair.
It was his misjudgment to leave her alone even for a few hours. Because he knew that she might have an infection coursing through her body, and without full medical treatment it could kill her.
He could think of only one answer. And he knew that she would fight it.
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