The Bewitching Twin by Donna Fletcher Page B

as well as a healer and that a woman had needs, just like a healer had needs. Fiona would warn her to reconcile the two, just as the Wolf had to do with Rogan, who was simply a man.
    She always thought of herself as a healer, nothing more.
    She was, however, a healer and a woman. How did she meld them together when the healer was the stronger of the two?

Chapter 13
    R ogan wanted to scoop Aliss up and carry her off to bed, but he was certain she would protest, argue, and dig her feet in. She would not be budged from Ivan’s bedside.
    The only thing he could do was to keep vigil with her from time to time throughout the day.
    She had remained by the old man’s side for over a full day. Ivan had been doing well when suddenly he had grown severely ill. He could keep nothing in his stomach, not even the broth Aliss had specially prepared. He could barely lift his head or move his arm. Everyone thought that this time was the end for him. His daughter Myra wept softly next to his bed until Aliss chased her away.
    Aliss refused to give up and tended Ivan like a small child, spooning liquid into his mouth and checking constantly for fever.
    “He was fine two days ago,” Myra whispered to Rogan as she drifted over to stand beside him. “He was eating like his old self. Margaret indulged him with that dark bread he favors, though I cannot stomach its bitter taste. He ate every bit of it along with my rabbit stew.”
    “He turned ill soon afterward?” Rogan asked.
    “The next day.”
    Aliss held out an empty crock. “I need more boiled water.”
    Myra hurried to fetch it.
    Rogan stepped back from the edge of the mantel he had been leaning against. He had noticed that Aliss’s shoulders had slumped. He had learned from watching her time and again that it was a sure sign of fatigue combined with the burden of deep concern. When she reached this point, she often doubted herself, questioning her skills.
    The only recourse was for her to step away, rest, and return renewed, refreshed, and ready to battle. In his eyes, Aliss was a relentless warrior, battling a foe that lurked in plain sight yet could not be seen.
    He admired and respected her courage and resolve, but she could also be stubborn. A warrior knew when to retreat and replenish his reserves for another attack.
    Aliss needed replenishing, soon, or defeat would surely claim her.
    He walked over and placed a hand on Aliss’s shoulder, and felt the knotted muscle jab at his palm. “You are tired.” He kneaded the stubborn muscle with strong fingers and she slumped back against him.
    “I cannot leave Ivan’s side until he improves.”
    Her green eyes told him differently. They were fraught with despair that this time she might not be able to save him.
    “You have done all you can.”
    She grabbed his hand on her shoulder. “There must be something I am missing. Why can I not see it?”
    “My father is grateful, as is my family, for all you have done for him,” Myra said, handing her the crock of water.
    “It is not enough,” Aliss said and took the crock to infuse with a blend of crushed leaves.
    “Is so,” came the feeble reply.
    Three pairs of eyes widened in surprise as the old man’s eyes fluttered open.
    “Let me go, my time,” he managed to say.
    “No!” Aliss snapped. “It is not your time or you would not be fighting so hard to live. I know death. He comes when it is time and not before. He is not here for you. You will fight and you will live.”
    “Stubborn,” Ivan mumbled.
    “Absolutely,” Aliss said, and spooned the fresh liquid into his mouth.
    It was after midnight when Ivan’s purging finally subsided and Aliss no longer feared leaving his side. She was grateful for Rogan’s arm around her waist as they walked to the cottage. She was so very tired, bone tired, every step an effort, every muscle taut with tension. Yet, there was no time to worry about her physical complaints.
    “Ivan cannot survive another relapse. I must find the