He Ordered a Wife — She Arrived Determined to Be Nothing He Expected

Chapter 3

The fever came in December.

Alma woke shivering, her nightgown soaked through, her teeth chattering against a cold that came from inside her bones. She tried to rise, to reach the stove, but her legs would not hold her. She collapsed on the floor, and the last thing she heard before the darkness took her was the sound of Henrik’s boots crossing the room.

She woke sometime later—hours, days, she could not tell—to find herself in bed. The fire was roaring. The room was warm. And Henrik was sitting in the chair beside her, a book open on his chest.

He was asleep.

She lay still, watching him. The firelight carved his face into planes of gold and shadow, and she saw that he was younger than she had thought. That there were lines around his eyes that spoke of loneliness, not age. That his hands, resting on the edges of her blanket, were close enough to feel her warmth but not touching her.

He had not touched her once in three months.

She had thought it was coldness. She had thought he was incapable of tenderness. She had packed her bag on a Tuesday in October, ready to leave, ready to admit defeat.

But she had seen him plant the birch tree.

And now she saw him sleeping in a chair, having read to her through a fever, having boiled broth and kept the fire going and done everything a husband should do without once asking for gratitude.

She lay there, looking at his face, and thought:

*I came here expecting a transaction. I found a person.*

She did not wake him. She let him sleep. And when he finally stirred, hours later, he found her awake, her eyes clear, her color returning.

He said: “The fever broke.”

She said: “You read to me.”

He looked away. “It was the only book in English I could follow.”

“What was it?”

“Tennyson.”

She laughed—a weak, rasping sound, but real. “You read Tennyson to me while I was delirious?”

His jaw tightened, the way it did when he was embarrassed. “You were not supposed to be awake for it.”

“Henrik.”

He looked at her.

“That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then his mouth moved—not quite a smile, but close. “It was not intended to be romantic. It was the only book I could reach without moving the chair.”

But she saw the carved edge of the bookshelf in her mind. She saw the birch tree planted in the wind. She saw the wood pile restacked to let air circulate.

And she understood that Henrik Lund was a man who spoke in actions, not words. That he had been speaking to her all along. She had simply not been listening in the right language.