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“I will not have you grow worse and need healing while I need my attention on my son,” Mara said. “Tara will help.”
Tara realized that Mercy felt useless, so she offered, “We will need someone to prepare bandages and keep the needles threaded if Trey should require stitching.”
“She’s right,” Mara said. “You can start on that now.”
The three women worked side by side, each glancing at the door time and time again until finally...
The door crashed opened.
Reeve carried Trey in his arms, and from his limp posture, Tara feared he was dead.
“Here, lay him here,” Mara instructed, standing by the table dressed in clean linens.
Tara was right at Mara’s side when she looked upon her son, and she almost gasped at the sight of so much blood. The woman didn’t hesitate; her hands were at her son, peeling away the blood-soaked blanket, trying to get to his wounds.
Tara didn’t wait for instructions. She relied on her instincts and recalled what the women in her clan would do when tending the wounded warriors. With a thick towel, she reached for the smaller of the cauldrons in the fireplace. Reeve was quickly at her side to help, and when she looked into his dark eyes, she could see that he pleaded with her to help save his brother.
For a moment, she froze. Could this be her fault?
She felt Reeve’s strong grip on her arm. “Please,” he whispered.
She could not fail him. She would not, and so she nodded.
Tara had never seen so many wounds on one person. She thought some were arrows, another could have been a sword, and another was too jagged to tell. She did not know how he would survive, for surely fever would set in and claim him. But like Mara, she wouldn’t give up. This was Reeve’s brother, and she would do all she could to save his life.
Mara had the men turn Trey on his side to examine him further, and Tara said what they both thought. “We need to stitch this wound right away.”
Tara worked alongside Mara, stitching and stitching. She allowed herself no thought, only concentration. She worked on Trey as if he were a delicate silk garment that required tender and precise stitches. She hadn’t realized that Mara had stopped and moved out of her way as she had made her way along Trey’s body. Tara only knew that she had to apply her finest stitches to his wounds, and so she continued working diligently over him, hour after hour.
She didn’t know when her back had begun to ache; she only knew when she had suddenly become aware of the dull, steady pain. She gave a stretch and then continued until she finally came to the jagged wound on his chest. She examined it carefully, the flesh torn so badly she wondered if it could be repaired. After considering what stitches would be best to apply, she decided on tight cross-stitch embroidery stitches.
She called to Mercy, “I need the embroidery needle.”
It was in her hand before she finished stretching her back, and she never looked to see who had handed it to her, never saw the anxious faces that watched her intently; she was too busy finishing her piece of embroidery.
Thirty minutes later, she was finally done. She cleansed her bloody hands in the cauldron, the water having been refreshed time and time again. She then began dressing the wounds with the bandages stacked on the table next to where Trey lay. When she finished, she cleaned his face thoroughly of all blood, having left it for last since it had been the only place he hadn’t suffered a wound.
He was handsome, but in a different way from Reeve. Reeve’s features were sculpted whereas Trey’s were more natural, as if the heavens had decided to grace him with fine features. He looked to be perhaps a couple of inches shorter than Reeve, and lean, his muscles naturally defined while Reeve’s were chiseled.
She poured some warm water over his hair until the blood rinsed out, and his color, dark auburn, shone through. Once done, she straightened with a stretch and a hand to her lower back, her backache beyond bearable.
It was then she realized that complete silence surrounded her, and she turned.
Mara and Carmag stood side by side, his arm around her. Bryce was next to them, and Duncan stood beside Mercy, where she sat at the table, and Reeve was not far from her side. Had he been the one handing her what she needed? Standing beside her through it all?
Mara stepped forward. “Your stitches proved far superior to mine, and when I saw that, I knew my son would be grateful if I allowed a skillfully elegant hand like yours to tend his wounds. I am forever grateful to you.”
Tara was not accustomed to being thanked or her stitching skills being acknowledged, let alone praised. She didn’t know how to respond, and so she stepped closer to Reeve.
His arm instantly went around her waist, and he fit her snug against him. “Thank you.”
Tara looked from Reeve to all the others. She feared that they believed she saved him, an ironic twist. Usually, it was death she brought to people. “Trey’s wounds have a long way to go before they or he heals.”
Mara stepped forward. “True, but what you have done has given him a fighting chance.”
She could only hope that she had. “He should be moved to his bedchamber before he wakes.”
Her sons stepped forward before Mara even summoned them.
