Читать книгу Loner's Lady - Lynna Banning, Lynna Banning - Страница 8

S he lay in the creek bed, the lower part of her body half in the water, her skirt rucked up to her knees. Her head rested on a lichen-covered stone, and he could see one leg was folded under her at an odd angle. Jess stumbled down the bank and splashed across to her, a rock lodged in his gut.

She looked up at him with weary eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Jess knelt beside her, his heart hammering. “A better question might be what are you doing here?”

She tried to smile. “Chasing the c-cow into the pasture, and I s-slipped on a rock.” Her voice sounded close to breaking. Her body shivered violently, and Jess reached to touch her arm. Her skin was like new snow.

“How long have you been here?”

Her eyelids fluttered closed. “Since dawn. I got up to milk…” Her voice trailed into silence.

“I milked earlier,” Jess said.

“Tiny was gone, and… Anyway, the cow…”

Jess leaned over her. “Don’t talk, Ellen. Save your strength. I’ve got to get you out of the creek, and it isn’t going to be easy.”

“Hurts when I move,” she murmured.

“Got any laudanum up at the house?”

She shook her head.

“Whiskey?”

“Just some wine. Port. In a decanter on the top shelf. It was a…” she gave a soft laugh “…wedding gift.”

“I’ll get it.”

He started to stand up, but her fingers grabbed at his arm. “No. Don’t leave. Please don’t. I will manage without it.”

Jess studied the position of her body. Looked like a broken tibia. Should he straighten her leg first? Or lift her up and let the injured limb right itself? Either way it would hurt like hell. Maybe he could pull her backward up the creek bank, see if her leg would straighten naturally.

He straddled her, one knee in the cold creek water, the other on the bank, and dug his hands into the mud beneath her armpits. As gently as he could, he hoisted her farther up the slope. Her face went white as parchment. Her breathing hitched and she balled her hands into fists, but she didn’t make a sound.

Dragging her was no good, he realized. Too painful and too slow. He needed to get her to the house, and fast.

“I’m going to be sick,” she moaned. Clamping her palm over her mouth, she stared up into his face, a desperate, trapped look in her eyes.

“It’s okay, Ellen. Listen to me. I’m going to lift you up. It’s going to hurt, but it’s the only way.”

She nodded once.

“Put your arms around my neck and hold on,” he ordered.

When her cold, shaking hands met at his nape, Jess carefully scrabbled away the wet earth under her shivering form until he could slide one hand under her shoulders. Gritting his teeth, he bent and slipped his other hand under her knees.

When he lifted her from the muddy bank, she released a strangled cry, but he stood up slowly, cradling her body in his arms. Her injured leg unfolded and she cried out again.

A choking sensation closed his throat. Trying not to jostle her any more than necessary, Jess picked his way up the slippery incline, concentrating on her jerky breathing rather than the ache in his own leg. When he reached level ground, he started toward the house. It seemed a hundred miles away.

He stepped every inch of the way with her moans of agony in his ear, his nerves twisting at every inarticulate sound she made. Jess unclamped his jaw. “You all right?”

“Of course I’m not all right,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

He kept moving. Halfway across the yard, she tugged on his shirt, and he heard her whisper, “Talk to me.”

“I can’t think of a damn thing to say,” he admitted.

“Talk to me anyway.”

His mind went blank. What could he talk about? He hadn’t had a woman in his arms since… He didn’t want to think about it.

After a long minute, he began to sing in a low, scratchy voice. “‘Whippoorwill singin’, and the owl’s asleep. I’m beggin’ you, Lord, my soul to keep.’”

Ellen pressed her ear closer to his chest. Underneath the smell of damp mud, he caught the faint scent of roses from her hair. “More,” she murmured.

“That’s all there is. Kind of a one-verse song.”

“Either you sing,” she said in a tight voice, “or I’ll start screaming.”

Jess sucked in a long breath. “That might be better than my singing.”

“Not for me,” she snapped.

It sounded as if her jaw was clenched. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t think, Mr. Flint. Sing.”

“Yes, ma’am. All right, here goes. ‘Tater has no eyes to see, sweet corn cannot hear. Beans don’t snap, date palms don’t clap, that’s why I like my beer!’”

What a choice. He was drunk when he’d made it up, and drunk when he sang it. He sure as hell wasn’t drunk now.

He reached the back porch steps, angled sideways and yanked the screen door open. It fell to one side with a clatter. He’d repair it after breakfast, he thought. With Ellen down, there would be more to do than fix screens and gates.

In spite of himself, he smiled. Now she’d be forced to have him stay on as a hired man. Things couldn’t have worked out better if he’d planned it.

Upstairs in the blue-papered bedroom, Jess stooped to lay her on the bed, but she stopped him with a sharp “No!”

“What do you mean, no? I’ve got to take a look at your leg. Might have to splint it. You’d best be lying flat.”

“My skirt is muddy.” She gestured with her hand. “My grandmother’s quilt…”

Without a word Jess dipped toward the bed and pulled the pretty blue quilt onto the floor. It smelled faintly spicy. The whole room did, he noted. Maybe a bunch of Iona Everett’s lavender…

He laid Ellen down on top of the sheet. After breakfast, there’d be a washing to do, as well.

Ellen gritted her teeth. God, oh God, it hurt! She couldn’t feel her toes, but somewhere between her thigh and her ankle, a saw was slicing into the bone. “Get the port,” she managed to gasp.

She heard his boots clump down the stairs, then back up. In his hands he held the decanter of purple-brown liquid and a water glass. She shut her eyes against the nausea sweeping over her, listened to the clink of the decanter neck on the edge of the tumbler, and the gurgle of the wine as it sloshed out. She could tell by the sound that he filled the glass to the top. She could hardly wait to swallow a big mouthful.

He steadied her hand around the glass and lifted her head off the pillow so she could drink. “Wonderful,” she breathed as the warmth of the first gulp spread down into her belly. “Tastes like melted raisins.”

“Drink some more. Then I’m going to look at your leg.”

“I don’t want to move, so can you leave my skirt on? Just pull it up?”

Jess hid a smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d tossed up a woman’s skirts. But this time sure felt less arousing.

“Ready?”

She downed another mouthful and nodded.

He unlaced her wet boots and drew them off, trying not to listen to her gasps of pain. Raising the sodden hem of her skirt and the petticoat underneath, he gently lifted the fabric up to her waist. At the first sight of her drawer-covered limb he knew what had happened. The front leg bone had snapped just below the crest.

From her undergarments rose the smell of soap and something spicy. Too bad he’d have to cut that lacy material away. He pulled the ruffled cotton petticoat to discreetly cover her bare knees. He might have traveled on the shady side of the law, but he was still a gentleman.

“Your right leg is broken,” he said carefully. “You’ve got two choices, Miz O’Brian. I can take Tiny and ride for a doctor, or I can set the bone myself.”

She groaned. “Dr. Callahan—he’s my uncle—lives in town. Too far.”

Jess bit his lower lip. “How close is your nearest neighbor?”

“Gundersen place,” she whispered. “Seven miles.”

Oh, God. He would have to do it.

In the kitchen he boiled a kettle of water, tore a clean dish towel into strips and searched for a knife. The worst part for him would be cutting her drawers off. The worst part for her would be when he explored the break.

He stuffed a sharp paring knife under his belt and turned to the back door. Outside, he strode to the front gate and snapped off two relatively straight branches to use as a splint. On his way back through the kitchen, he lifted the kettle off the stove and grabbed a china bowl from the dish shelf.

Upstairs the sun threw dappled light across the upper part of her body. She rested the wineglass on her chest, holding it with both hands. Almost empty, he noted. Good girl.

Grasping the knife, he bent and started slicing at the lacy hem of her drawers. He slit them halfway to her waist, and she didn’t make a sound until he straightened.

“How does it look?”

“Your left leg is fine.” It was the right leg that made his breath catch. Under the pale skin he could see the bulge of the bone where it had separated. “To set the break in your right leg properly, I’ll have to manipulate it.”

Jess wiped his fingers across his forehead; they came away wet with sweat, which didn’t surprise him. He’d rather rob the Ohio Central than put his hand on her leg.

“Don’t drag it out,” she muttered from the bed. “Just get it over with.”

“Don’t rush me,” he countered. “I like to take my time with some things.”

He was damn glad she didn’t ask what things. He settled one hand on her knee, then cupped the joint with his other. Watching her face, he moved both hands toward the break. The closer he got, the tighter she scrunched her eyes shut.

His belly knotted. “I’m sorry, Ellen.” Gently he eased his fingers onto the bulge of skin, then felt below her knee with his other hand. There it was, plain as pudding. He could feel how the edges of the bone fit together.

Mentally he reviewed exactly what he had to do. Before he made a move, he glanced up at her face. Hell, she was sweating worse than he was. He’d try to make it quick.

He braced himself. Holding one hand steady under the break, he pressed his palm down hard from the top. Her anguished scream sent a sharp, cold blade into his chest, but an instant later he heard the soft snap as the bone shifted back into place.

She screamed again.

“Yell if you want, just don’t move,” he ordered.

While she panted on the bed, he laid out the makeshift splints. One of the gate sticks curved just the right way along her leg; the other was straighter, but it would do. He bound them in place with strips of toweling.

“Better,” Ellen murmured. Her leg ached like a plow had hooked into it, but it wasn’t the searing pain she’d endured earlier. “How did you learn to do that?”

“Spent some time as an army surgeon during the war.”

Thank the Lord. She wouldn’t ask which army. Reb or Federal, she was grateful for the man’s skill.

He straightened suddenly, reached for the decanter of port and tipped it into his mouth.

“I’d offer you my glass,” she said, “but…oh, here.” She thrust the tumbler at him anyway. “You’ve earned it.”

He smiled for the first time in what seemed like hours. He’d shaved since supper last night, she noticed. The dimple in his cheek reappeared.

She watched him pour hot water from the kettle into her best vegetable bowl and drop in a piece of toweling. Clean, she hoped.

He bent to smooth the wet cloth over her good leg, washing off the streaks of dried mud with a surprisingly light touch. “I don’t fancy cutting you out of your skirt and petticoat. Seems like a waste of serviceable garments. Got any ideas?”

What an incredible topic of conversation! Still, it had been an unusual day, and it was still only ten o’clock, she judged, glancing at the sun outside the window.

“If you could undo the fastenings at my waist, you could just pull my skirt and petticoat off over my head.”

“Yeah, I thought of that.” Taking it slow and easy, he washed her broken limb from the ankle to the break, then started at her upper thigh and worked down as far as her knee. When he finished, he set the bowl of grimy water on the floor and leaned over her.

“The skirt button’s at the back,” she said. “Petticoat has a ribbon tie.”

“Usually does,” he answered.

Ellen’s eyebrows lifted. She felt his hands reach under her waist, fumble the skirt button through the buttonhole and then untie the ribbon of her petticoat.

He moved to the head of her bed. “Arms up,” he ordered.

Ellen obliged, grateful that she didn’t need to move her throbbing leg to rid herself of her clothes. She felt both garments slide upward, and with her arms raised she managed to shimmy free of them. He tossed them on the floor with the washcloth and caught her gaze. “You want to remove your—”

“Just my shirt,” she said quickly. “I’ll keep on my camisole and my drawers, what’s left of them.”

She unbuttoned the blue cotton shirt and he helped her shrug out of it, his hands warm and sure. He was much more than a doctor, she guessed. He seemed to know a great deal about women’s clothes fastenings.

At the moment, it was his experience as a doctor that she valued. His experience with women didn’t matter a whit.