December 16, 1857
Carson Pierce was worried. No, he was frightened, terrified, actually. Ginny was ill and with the fierce blizzard currently howling outside, going for Doc Powell wasn't an option, no matter how much he wanted to. But he still reconsidered every time one of his wife's long, painful spasms of coughing echoed throughout their small house.
"Pa?" Amos ghosted over to his father's side, looking more worried than any seven year old ever should be. "Is Ma going to be alright? She wasn't so sick back in Indiana."
It was true, Carson knew. While Ginny had never fully recovered from Grayson's birth, she hadn't given any real indication of actually being sick until they had gotten on the trail and started further west. And by then it had been too late to turn back around, though Carson had settled his family down as soon as possible, which had meant ending up in Dalton.
Now he could only hope and pray that his having done everything that he could do would be enough to keep his wife alive.
"Of course she'll be alright." Carson answered his son. "She'll get better."
But she didn't. Only two days later, Ginny Pierce passed away.
Sorry that it took me so long to get this posted, but it's here now, even if it is horridly short. Please review! Thanks! This is the end of this story. The next story in the series, "Tarryn", should be up before too long.:)