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grief. The death was an utter waste of a life so young.
    And a mark of shame for Ben.
    If he’d been able to turn his brother around, Max might still be here.
    Ben let out a stuttering, remorse-filled sigh. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, and tried to relax his tight muscles, calm his beating heart, but it seemed useless. His entire being had been drawn into a knot of unrest and regret in hearing the news.
    He would’ve questioned her further had she not drifted off to sleep. He wanted some proof of marriage or of Max’s death, but the longer he sat here staring at her—his brother’s widow, a young woman whose brow even now furrowed in pain—the more he questioned his need for evidence.
    He didn’t know one thing about Callie. Had no reasonto trust her. Still, she didn’t strike him as someone who’d lie about something so severe.
    Ben had a volume full of unanswered questions regarding his wayward sibling. Twice as many misgivings. If he could learn even a little about what had transpired in the past seven years, then maybe, just maybe, Ben could put to rest the painful remorse.
    He doubted he’d ever find peace about certain things, though. With Max dead, there were some bitter words Ben had said that could never be taken back: that Max was good-for-nothing, a stain to the Drake family name and the worst of scoundrels. Sitting on this solitary side of things, he had no idea what kind of damage the last words he’d said to Max could’ve done.
    The shameful memory pierced Ben like buckshot, shredding his already shaky confidence. In the past six months his assurance in his work as a doctor, and his trust in God, had been dealt some rough blows.
    First, he’d been unable to help his brother Joseph after an accident that left him blind. Ben had doctored him to the point that Joseph demanded to be left alone. The sleepless nights Ben had spent worrying, praying, and reading anything that might be a key to Joseph regaining his sight had been to no end.
    He swallowed a thick knot of guilt. The inability to produce a winning outcome did something to a man who was supposed to be an instrument of healing in God’s hands.
    Then his brother Aaron had been dealt a double blow when his newborn baby and his wife died within a day of each other. Complications of childbirth. Ben had done everything he knew to change the course, but it hadn’t been enough.
    And now this.
    Surely, had he done things differently with Max, spoken some sense into him, things would’ve turned out differently.
    He blinked hard as he stared at Callie, asleep and burrowed in a thick cloud of blankets and pillows. The frown that had creased her brow had smoothed out to reveal a feminine softness. And the stern, unrelenting purse of her lips had relaxed to render a full pout that made his mouth tip in an unprovoked, tired grin.
    For a petite little thing, no more than five feet, two inches tall, she’d put up quite a fight. The bold determination he’d seen in her eyes and stubborn set to her jaw belied her small stature.
    She’d felt alarmingly thin in his arms when he’d cradled her limp body and settled her in bed last night. He’d removed her cold, damp dress, its tattered hem caked with snow, to make her more comfortable. But her lightweight undergarments did nothing to conceal the fact that this woman probably hadn’t seen a decent meal in a very long time. And they did nothing to hide her undeniable, womanly curves.
    Forcing his thoughts elsewhere, he snapped open his pocket watch, flicking a glance at the hour. It was already nine o’clock in the morning, and though he’d dozed a time or two in the chair beside her bed, Callie’s ragged breathing and rattled cough had kept him on the alert.
    While he switched out the warm oil of camphor–soaked compress at her chest, he realized that as much as he didn’t trust her, he felt