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"Go ahead, then."
Selena forced her wobbly legs to move. At his bedside, she pulled out a chair and sat down. "Elliot, can you hear me?"
The doctor shuffled over to the bed and stood on the opposite side. "He can't hear anything, Sister. He's been sleeping on and off for almost twenty-eight hours. They brung him to me right away, but there wasn't nothing I could do except dig out the bullet. There's already a hint of inflammation. He's in God's hands now."
"God's hands." She repeated the words dully, leaning over Elliot. He lay as still as she imagined death must be, his breathing shallow and labored.
"I'm gonna go get me some buttermilk. Would you like some?"
"No."
The doctor stood by her for a minute, then turned and shuffled away.
>
She stared down at Elliot, knowing he could hear her in there. Praying he could. She began talking to him in a quiet, reassuring voice. She had no idea what the
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words meant, or if they meant anything at all. She just talked.
Finally he stirred.
She scooted forward, grabbed his big, scarred hand, and pressed it to her cold, wet cheek. "Elliot?"
His eyes fluttered open, his breath released in a ragged sigh. "Agnes."
Her relief was so sharp, so poignant, that she almost cried out. She leaned toward him, tenderly brushed the messy hair from his face, and stared into his watery, bloodshot eyes.
And saw love.
He tried to smile. "Heard Doc talking. Says I'm dying."
"I will not let you die."
Very slowly, he reached out with his good hand and touched her cheek, a feathery, gentle touch that was over too quickly. "I should have left you with him." He sighed, his hand fell back to the bed.
"Do not speak of the past, Elliot. Think of the future. You must get well."
"I don't think I want to get better, Agnes." A phlegmy cough rattled his chest. At the movement, he grimaced in pain. "If I die, go to Lethe House. Ten miles past Craigdarroch Point. Anyone . . ." He coughed again. "Anyone in Alabaster will know the way."
"Elliot-"
He squeezed her hand hard and drilled her with a pleading look. "Promise me."
She didn't know what to do, what to say. "I promise."
He breathed another heavy sigh and relaxed. "Good."
She edged off the chair and carefully sat on the side of the bed. Trying to smile, she gazed down at him, touched his scarred, puckered flesh and felt the heat from his fever. She felt sick at the thought of losing him. This big, loving man with the sad, sad eyes, who'd
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never done anything but love her. "I will not leave you, Elliot."
His eyes slid shut, his breathing melted into a slow, rhythmic tide. "I love you, Agnes," he whispered.
"Elliot?" She leaned closer, feeling the first cold brush of fear. Was this death? A quiet lapse into a restful sleep. Had the words released him? "Elliot?"
