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Page 305
"Someone had to be here." He tried to make his tone gruff, but there was a lightness to it he could not disguise; she was awake and lucid.
"Holly could have stayed, or René."
He shrugged, then reached toward her, smoothing back the tangled, damp waves of golden hair from her forehead and placing his hand upon it. It was cool! He dared to ask, "How do you feel?"
"Like I was run over by a Mack truck, but . . . oops. Let's see . . . like I was hit by a runaway carriage."
Strange talk again that he could not understand. But now he knew why. "Is a 'Mack truck' something from the future?"
Those green eyes of hers opened wide, and her pretty mouth rounded in surprise. "Do you believe me now?"
He hesitated for only a moment. "Yes, Mariah, I believe you. Especially your story about moldy bread." He leaned forward and gathered her into his arms.

Mariah hated feeling helpless, but her body wasn't cooperating with her urge to get out of bed and do something. At least not quickly enough to suit her.
But her wounds were healing. When Holly removed the dressings, Mariah dared to glance down at the ugly, torn area that was scabbing over. Reddish, but not infected, thank heavens. She wished she had some aspirin, but the pain was a dull ache that she could tolerate.
She'd had no idea whether moldy bread could help at all, but she knew mold was the basis for penicillin. Her improvement might have had nothing to do with the "medicine" she'd prescribed for herself. Or it might have cured her.
She slept a lot. She wasn't sure how long she'd actually lain there in Thorn's bed till one morning, when she asked René.
"Not long, Mademoiselle Mariah, for such serious wounds to heal."
"How long?" she repeated grumpily, tired of being coddied.
"About six days," he said, and then he left the room.

 
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