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Chapter Twenty-One
Bridget woke in pain. She was aware of the scent of manure and hay and when she opened her eyes, she saw the slate-gray sky above her. The ground beneath her moved and she winced at a stab of pain in her arm.
“Hold! Stop the horses!” a familiar voice cried. It was Callahan. She looked about and realized she lay in the back of a wooden wagon, but before she could try to sit, Callahan had jumped into the wagon beside her. “Don’t move, lass.”
His large hand passed over her forehead and pressed to her cheek. She wanted to speak, but her throat was so dry. “You have a fever, but it’s not bad yet,” Callahan said. “How do you feel, lass?”
She swallowed. “I’m...thirsty.”
His face broke into the most beautiful smile she had ever seen. “Being shot is thirsty work, so it is.” He disappeared for a moment then returned with a bottle. Lifting her head and cradling it in his lap, he helped her drink a few sips.
“What do you mean shot?”
His brows came together. “You don’t remember? One of the pistol balls from those fools grazed you. It took some of your shoulder with it, but I bound you tight and stopped the bleeding.”
Bridget glanced at her shoulder and the source of the pain. His coat was draped over her, so she couldn’t see anything. When she tried to draw it down, he pulled her hand away. “Best to leave it be, lass. We’ll be back at The Farm in a few hours. Baron will have a surgeon tend to you then.”
“Help me sit,” she managed.
“Sure and you should get up and walk the rest of the way.” He shook his head. “You’ll lie still, lass. The faster we see Baron, the better. I’d stop at one of these towns, but how am I to explain a gunshot wound?”
She nodded. “You’re right to keep going. MacDonald?”
He closed his eyes. “Dead, lass. You needn’t worry about him. Now lie back, and we’ll be on our way.”
She grasped his hand with her good arm before he could jump down. “Where did the wagon come from?”
He grinned. “I’ve been told I’m too charming for me own good. So I used a bit o’ me charm for your good.”
“You are charming,” she murmured. “I said you were like my father, but you’re not, Callahan. I was wrong about that.”
“I know you were, lass. Don’t let it trouble you.”
“But it does because you’re a good man.”
His expression turned serious, and his eyes looked more gray than blue. “As I’m sure your da was too.”
She shook her head, holding tight to him to keep him at her side. “But he wasn’t, Callahan. Not deep down. He was charming on the outside, and everyone thought he was this wonderful man, but when we were alone with him—my mother and sister and me—he was awful. He hit my mother and taunted my sister and me—”
“Shh. Now is not the time, lass.”
“But you need to know,” she insisted, aware that he was probably right. Now was not the time for this, but her head spun and her arm ached and she needed to tell him that she had been wrong. She couldn’t tell him she loved him. But she could tell him this.
“You’re not like my father. You’re good on the inside and outside. And when you wanted to stop drinking, you did.”
“Lass, I fight it every day.”
“But you fight.” She shook his hand. “He didn’t fight it, and it made him even meaner. Callahan.” She pulled him close, so close she could see each individual lash. “I was glad when he died. I never told anyone that. But I was glad.”
“No one could blame you, sweetheart. Close your eyes now. It’s the fever talking.” She released his hand, and then he was gone.
As the wagon began to move again, she stared up at the sky and tried not to think about the gentle way he’d held her head or the concern in his gaze when he’d touched her cheek. He cared about her. Of course, he did. But she couldn’t allow herself to believe he loved her and wanted to marry her. He’d said they’d return to The Farm in a few hours. And then he’d be gone for good.
It hadn’t been the fever talking. She wanted him to know she’d misjudged him. She wanted him to know he was a good man, a good person. She didn’t think anyone had ever told him that before. But now hadn’t been the right time. He’d thought her delirious, and perhaps she was a little delirious. But when would she have the chance to say it again?
The time passed quickly because she could not seem to say awake. The movement of the wagon lulled her to sleep, and she only seemed to wake when a wheel hit a particularly deep rut. Then, like clockwork, Callahan’s concerned face would appear over the wooden frame, and she would give him a smile and a wave.
The last time she woke, she was quite warm, and the wagon’s movements seemed to have gentled. She opened her eyes and discovered the reason. She was no longer in the wagon, but Callahan carried her in his arms. The scent of tea and cloves, which she always associated with him, enveloped her, and she tilted her head to look up at him. “What are you doing?”
