Healer (Shifter Island Book 5) by Carol Davis

awkwardly, she turned her ankle a little and gasped in pain. Shaking his head, Aaron guided her over to a rock and helped her sit down. She tried telling him that nothing was wrong, but he knelt in front of her and tested her ankle with a light touch.
    “It’s not broken,” she told him. “Just twisted a little.”
    “You really should rest.”
    She tried not to look at the ground. The dirt there might be soft, and if it wasn’t, Aaron could guide her over to some moss, or a bed of pine needles. He was certainly strong enough to carry her home, but that was the last place she wanted to see.
    Her son wasn’t there. No one was there. It would be far too quiet for her to bear.
    “Let me bring you to my parents’ house,” Aaron offered. “My mother will make you some tea and sit with you.” When she didn’t answer, he said, “To Granny Sara’s, then. Or anyplace you name. Just tell me.”
    She tried mightily to stand up, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Even her eyelids were refusing to stay open.
    “Healer,” Aaron said gently.
    He was gathering her into his arms: one arm underneath her thighs, the other across her back. Her head swam as he lifted her, and she clung to him a little, sure that she was going to tumble to the ground. She’d never in her life felt so weak, so out of control.
    Then, somehow, even though she was sure only a few seconds had passed, she found herself lying on a bed, with a pillow that smelled of her dear friend Sara tucked beneath her head.
    The scent made her stomach roll.
    She groaned and pressed her hand to her mouth. Every inch of her body felt raw and abused, and for all her knowledge of cures and potions and poultices, she could think of no way to make it stop.
    Something cool touched her forehead.
    “Sshh,” Sara whispered.
    It was a damp cloth, and Sara used it to sponge the heat and sweat from Deborah’s face and neck. Then she pushed up Deborah’s sleeves and bathed her hands and arms. When she was done, she tucked a warm quilt over Deborah’s trembling form.
    “Sleep for a while,” she said. “I’ll wake you if anyone has news.”
    Sleep? No, she couldn’t sleep. Mustn’t sleep, not while Gregory was out there somewhere.
    She groaned and tried to sit up, but her head swam again and she collapsed back onto the pillow. She reached for Sara, but her friend didn’t seem to be nearby. If only she could see clearly…
    “She’ll be all right,” Sara said. Her voice was low and cautious; she seemed to be speaking to someone on the other side of the room. “I think she just needs to sleep. She’s running a little bit of a fever, but—”
    “Should I fetch something from her house? Or get one of her helpers?”
    It was Jed. His voice was thick with concern.
    “No, I don’t think so,” Sara said. “She’d be happier if you just keep looking for the boy.”
    “That tea. She has a special tea to bring down a fever.”
    “So do I. Go. Look for the boy. I’ll sit by the bed and watch her. You don’t need to worry.”
    “Of course I do,” Jed said.
    He wasn’t sick like she was. So this wasn’t the result of Isolation, those hours spent without food or drink. But Jed might well have eaten several meals and drunk his fill since then, and she’d had nothing.
    For a minute Deborah was ferociously angry at him for taking the time to eat, to drink, to do heaven knew what all else, all while she was looking for her son.
    Why wasn’t he helping? Why was he standing here with Sara?
    Why…
    “I’ll go,” Jed said. “But I’m going to send Rachel to sit with you. You’ll need someone to run for help if anything happens. She can—”
    Sara made a small noise of distress. Then the door opened and closed.
    Time seemed to jump ahead again; suddenly Rachel was there, rearranging the quilt around Deborah’s shoulders. She patted and tucked it so much that Deborah wanted to cry out to her to leave it alone, and that feeling grew stronger when Rachel leaned in