UNBROKEN PROMISE

~32~Feeling Better

Logan's POV

The sun had long since set, casting a peaceful stillness over the farm as I carried the tray of food back from the main house. It wasn’t just any meal—Mama Becca had gone out of her way to prepare it with care: a hearty stew, a freshly baked roll, and a steaming cup of willow bark tea to soothe Oma’s lingering pain. I glanced down at the tray, making sure nothing was spilling, as her earlier discomfort weighed heavily on my mind.

“She’ll be fine, Logan,” Mama Becca had reassured me when I left with the tray. “ she Just needs a little extra care tonight. And don’t forget—be gentle. She’s still finding her footing here, and so are you.”

Her words stuck with me as I made my way back to the house, the quiet night amplifying the sound of my boots on the gravel. I hadn’t been raised to be soft, but there was a tenderness I was learning to find when it came to Oma.

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The house was quiet when I stepped inside, the faint creak of the floorboards echoing in the stillness. I carried the tray upstairs, balancing it carefully as I knocked softly on the door to her room.

“It’s me,” I called, hesitating just a moment before pushing the door open. The sight of her sitting up in bed caught me off guard. She was propped against the pillows, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but the faint flush in her cheeks and the tired look in her eyes told me she was still recovering.

She glanced at me briefly before quickly looking away, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her blanket. I could feel the awkwardness in the room, like neither of us quite knew how to bridge the gap between us.

“I brought you somethin’,” I said softly, setting the tray down on the bedside table. “Mama Becca made sure it’s good for the cramps. Stew, bread, and some more of that tea.”

Oma nodded, her voice quiet as she said, “Thank you, sir.” That word again—sir. It didn’t sit right with me.

“You don’t have to call me that,” I muttered, pulling up the chair beside her bed. “Logan’s just fine.”

Her cheeks flushed deeper, but she gave a small nod, not quite meeting my eyes. I watched her pick up the spoon and start eating slowly. Each bite seemed to ease a bit of the tension in her shoulders, and by the time she reached for the tea, I could see the faintest hint of relief on her face.

“How’re you feelin’ now?” I asked after a moment, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.

She glanced up briefly, then down at her cup. “Better,” she said softly. “The tea helps.”

“Good,” I said, relieved. I sat back, watching as she took slow sips of the tea. I wanted to say more—to tell her I was glad she was feelin’ better, that I hated seein’ her in pain—but the words didn’t come easy. Instead, I cleared my throat and decided to focus on what I could do to help.

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When she finished her tea, I reached for the bowl of hot water and the cloth I’d prepared earlier, feeling a bit out of my depth but determined to follow through. “Uh, Mama Becca said to do the massage again,” I explained, dipping the cloth into the water and wringing it out. “It should help more with the cramps.”

Oma’s eyes widened slightly, and she fiddled with the edge of the blanket again. “You don’t have to,” she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.

“I want to,” I said simply, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Just lay back. It’ll help.”

She hesitated but eventually shifted onto her back, pulling her blanket down and lifting her nightgown just enough to expose her stomach. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the fabric, and I could see how nervous she was. I dipped the cloth again, trying to focus on what I was doing instead of the way her cheeks burned bright red.