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I went to him, and he flinched away from me. I caught his arm, and was tugging, half-dragging him with me, until he collapsed by the fire with a sigh that sounded like a groan.
“Listen—the horse has to be unsaddled, has to go in the lean-to. I can’t pass out now, you can’t…”
“Yes I can! I can do it. Do you think I’ve never unsaddled a horse before?”
I leaned over him, meaning only to tighten the bandage, and he turned white, his lips tightening with pain the moment I touched him. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done, do you hear me? You’re not to move until I come back.”
A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am, I hear you. To tell the truth, I don’t know if I can get up again or not.”
“You’re not to try,” I repeated. I made my voice sound strong and self-assured, and tried to pretend that my knees weren’t weak and trembling.
“You’re bleeding too,” he said in a strange voice.
“I’m only scratched. I’ll do something about it when I come back inside.”
I had to push against the door to get it open, and I heard it slam behind me as I staggered out into the rain and wind. His horse was well trained. He still stood there, sleek wet flesh quivering each time the lightning flashed. I led the animal—or it led me—around the side of the hut to the lean-to, which was a flimsy structure, open on two sides. My fingers were numb, making me clumsy and slow, but at last I managed to tug the saddle off the patient horse, and seizing handfuls of wet straw I did the best I could to rub him down. It took me longer to find his feed, but the lightning helped me to locate a box with a hinged lid. Now that I had done what I had come out here to do I began to shiver, feeling the water come sluicing down over me again as I stepped out of the slight shelter of the lean-to. The lightning was closer. I tried not to think about it as I fough
t my way to the door, clinging to the side of the house for guidance.
When I was back inside the small cabin again, leaning against the door with my eyes closed as I thankfully let my ice-cold body absorb some of the fire’s heat, I found myself wondering what I was doing here? Why had I come?
“Ro? Are you all right?”
“Don’t call me that!” I snapped, opening my eyes, and wondered why he didn’t snap back at me, and why his voice had sounded so muffled until I saw him shiver under the blanket he had pulled over himself. “You’re still bleeding!” I crossed the room to him, only realizing, when I bent over him, that I was dripping water everywhere.
The fire was hot, but I saw how he clenched his teeth together to keep them from chattering, his eyes half-closed. I pulled the blanket away and touched the soaked, bloody bandage and felt him wince.
“Oh, God, you’re cold!” and then, still in the same, thick voice, “You’d better get them wet clothes off you… there’s… another blanket, right there…”
“Don’t talk!” He had a fever; I could feel the heat of his body, hear his rasping breathing.
I forced myself to retreat to the far end of the small room, and forgetting modesty, I turned my back and pulled off my soaking wet, clinging garments—or what was left of them. I snatched the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around myself, turning to face him.
“Stop staring!” I said angrily, and he narrowed his eyes at me, tilting the jug that sat on the floor beside him to his mouth.
“Better have some yourself.”
Wondering why I felt so cross, I walked over to him and snatched up the jug, tilting it as he had done to let the fiery-warm liquid trickle down my throat. Almost tasteless, it burned me all the way down to my stomach, leaving me coughing and spluttering afterwards, so that I almost dropped the jug.
I looked down at him through the tears that were already forming in my eyes, and he was actually laughing, between chills that made his teeth clamped together.
“Oh! You!”
“Better save some.”
“If I dropped it on you it would serve you right!”
He started to cough, grimacing, and I was immediately contrite, kneeling beside him.
“You have a fever. And that wet bandage isn’t doing you any good. Let me look at that wound.”
“Damn you, woman!” he gasped, “Keep your hands off… ugh!” He groaned with pain and closed his eyes as I ripped the bandage away ruthlessly.
I was glad, then, that he couldn’t see my face. The knife cuts were bad enough, still oozing blood, but the bullet wound in his shoulder was an ugly cavity, with the flesh already red and mounded, almost closing it off.
“Oh God! Lucas… I’ve got to do something.”
“Know anything… about gettin’ a bullet out? It’s still in there, someplace.”
