Law, Susan Kay (29 page)

She sat back on her heels for a moment, pondering her problem.
Then she dug a clean rag out of her bag and dipped it into the bucket of water.
When she'd drawn it from the well, the water had been blessedly, numbingly
cold, but in the heat of the day, it had already warmed to nearly skin
temperature.

"Now, I'm just going to put a damp cloth on your back. It
shouldn't hurt."

As if her hands could ever cause him pain. He knew he was treading
close to the edge of reality. His world was indistinct, shifting, and most of
his surroundings escaped him. He'd vaguely recognized the stables when he'd
gotten there last night. He hadn't even had enough strength left to go and call
for Beth; he'd simply pitched over on the nearest pile of hay and let the
blackness take him.

The blackness was still there, but he could focus clearly on one
thing: Beth. On the gentle, soothing stroke of her fingers, on the soft,
concerned music of her voice. Now she was doing something to his back that
cooled the burning pain that had been there since... had it only been last
night?

"There. Now I'm going to try and get the rest of this out of
the way."

She peeled the shirt away slowly, tugging it away from his damaged
shoulder. "Come on, come on," she repeated, as if she could urge it
to come away with her voice.

"There," she said again. She swallowed heavily at the
sight of his torn flesh. It wasn't that she had a weak stomach; her brothers
had cured her of that at an early age. But she couldn't forget that this was
Jon's back. Her gentle giant was incapable of hurting anyone, and he didn't
deserve this pain.

She dampened the cloth again and dabbed at his wound, sponging
away the gore and dried blood and hoping that the hole would be so shallow she
would soon see the ball.

No such luck. His back was as clean as she could manage, and there
was no sign of the ball that had torn him up. There was nothing left to do but
hunt for it.

"I have some laudanum. Will you take it?"

He barely managed to shake his head.

"You can't move, or I might cut you deeper. And I'm not
strong enough to hold you."

"No," he croaked. He really didn't think he'd feel
anything. He hadn't felt much of what she'd been doing. His back was numb, the
nerves apparently having had as much as they could take.

"All right," she agreed finally.

Catching her lower lip firmly in her teeth, she reached for a
blunt knife. She hadn't been able to find a proper probe; she would have to
manage with this. She lifted it, and her hand shook.

That wouldn't do. She wished, desperately, that there was someone,
anyone to help her.

"Beth."

That was all he said, but it was all he needed to say. With that
one word, she remembered all the times he'd believed in her, all the times he'd
looked at her with absolute approval in his eyes.

She poked at his flesh. He jerked once, then stilled.

"Jon?"

No response. But she could see his pulse, beating in the smooth
patch of skin behind his ear. He must have blacked out.

Perhaps it was better this way. She bent to her task.

"Come on, come on. Where are you?"

There. The knife hit something hard. She leaned closer, blinking
her eyes to clear them. The ball was black, misshapen, smooth. It hadn't gone
in far—perhaps two inches. Either he'd been shot from some distance, or Jon's
own heavy muscles had slowed its entrance. And she felt a new, vivid slash of
anger at whoever had been so unscrupulous as to shoot him from behind.

Now to get it out.

Five minutes later she was still probing away with little success.
"Damn, damn, damn," she swore. Giving up for the moment, she sat back
and wiped at her eyes with her forearm, trying to rub away the stinging there.

This wasn't working. Her gaze fell on the pile of things she'd
brought with her and dumped out on a square of ivory linen. What to do?

The scissors. Grabbing them, she bent over Jon's back once more.
She found the ball again with the scissors. Amazing that such a tiny piece of
metal could arouse such hatred in her. Opening the scissors just a bit, she
closed them around the ball and prayed the grip would hold. Taking a deep
breath, she tugged.

She was almost surprised when the scissors came out with the ball
firmly between the blades. She violently swung the scissors in a wide arc,
sending the ball flying against the wall, where it hit with a loud
thunk.

Tossing the scissors back on the linen, she grabbed a large strip
of cotton toweling and quickly folded it into a square pad. She laid it over
Jon's wound and held it there. Then she tore a yellowed linen sheet into long,
narrow strips, silently vowing to Brendan she'd replace the sheet she'd taken
from a chest in his rooms over the printshop. When she had a sufficient pile of
strips, she wrapped the padding securely in place.

Bennie's arms were trembling with fatigue by the time she
finished. She slumped wearily against the side of the stall and looked with
satisfaction at the neat bandage that covered Jon's upper back and chest. It
would do.

She allowed herself only a moment of rest. She had to get the
horses out to the pasture before her father came around to see why they were
still stabled. After quickly slipping a harness over Patience's head—finding
him cooperative for once—she let the other three horses out, too. They would
follow Patience.

She mounted Puffy, leading Patience behind her, and set out for
the meadow, the other three horses following behind. To her surprise, the sun
still wasn't all that high in the sky. Although it seemed as if she'd been at
it for days, it probably hadn't been more than a couple of hours since she'd
found Jon in the stables.

She couldn't help wondering what had happened to him. Such odd
clothes, and the padding around his middle. If he'd been wounded in battle,
wouldn't he have had his uniform on? Except for the night he'd rescued her in
the woods, she'd never seen him out of uniform. And if he'd been in a battle,
where was the rest of his company? Why hadn't they taken care of him?

Bennie turned the horses, their hides gleaming in the hot,
brilliant sun, free in the meadow. Lifting her skirts, she took off back to the
stables at a dead run. Though she'd removed the ball, Jon hadn't stirred again
before she'd left. There was still no guarantee that he was going to live.

She stumbled into the stable and knelt at his side.

So far, so good. He was still breathing. Spreading a blanket next
to his prostrate body, she settled into watching over him. His breathing was a
little shallow, but it was steady; she could see the expansion and contraction
of his massive chest.

Cautiously, not wanting to wake him, she laid a palm on his
forehead. Warm. Too warm? Hard to tell if the cause was from fever or the
oppressive, sweltering air.

It had been months since she'd seen him. He was injured, pale,
dirty, and sweaty, and still she marveled at the perfection of his features.
Flawlessly balanced, finely sculpted, nearly too handsome to be real. It almost
seemed as if perhaps the accident that had damaged his mental faculties had
been meant to balance things a bit; nature needed to offset his exceptional
features with a flaw or two.

But she had never really considered his slowness a flaw. It had
given him that gentleness and acceptance that was so rare, had left him quick
to offer the friendship she gratefully accepted. For although she had family in
abundance, she had never really had a friend.

The last few months mustn't have been easy for him. He looked
thinner. She let her gaze trace his length. Corded muscles still bulged from
his arms and chest which tapered abruptly to his stomach. But along his side
was a vicious, shiny pink scar.

He'd been injured. She thought back; it had been dark in the woods
when he'd carried her through it, and she hadn't gotten a close look at his
side. Had he had the scar then?

She reached out and skimmed her hand over the scar. It was smooth,
almost waxy, beneath her fingers. If she hadn't seen him that time above the
stables, she had touched him, had slid her hands over his body, again and
again. She would have felt this.

Then he'd been hurt since he'd left. So much pain, another flaw
put into that beautiful body. And she wished she'd been there to care for him
that time, too.

She couldn't have said how long she sat there, watching him. Sweat
trickled down her back, the straw scratched her legs, and the hot air was heavy
in her lungs. Still, there was an odd contentment being there with him,
knowing, at least for this brief time, that he was safe. Hearing him breathe,
and being able to reach out and occasionally touch his damp skin.

"Bennie!"

The bellow from outside the stable brought her up sharply. Da!
What was he doing here?

"What?" Jon mumbled groggily and opened his eyes a
crack.

"Shh. Quiet. Don't move," she said frantically.

"Bennie!"

"Just a minute, Da, I'm coming!" she called back. She
leaned over and spoke into Jon's ear. "Don't move. Don't make a noise.
I'll be right back."

She scrambled to her feet and hurried out of the stables, meeting
her father just as he was coming in the door.

"There you are, my girl. What was keeping you?"

"I was... in the loft. Practicing."

"Ben, it's far too hot in there to be practicin' in the
stables. Why don't you go out by the creek?"

"It's fine. Quiet. I like it there."

"Look at you! You'll be keeling over from the heat in no
time."

"I'm fine," she said, a bit too sharply.

"Well, then." He frowned at her. "Make sure you
clean up a bit before your mother sees you."

"Yes, sir. Why were you looking for me?"

"Oh, that." He brightened. "We have
customers."

"Customers?"

"Passing through on their way to Cambridge," he said happily.

"Oh. You need me to help serve?"

"No, Ben. I promised you the day off. But their horses have
to be stabled."

"Their horses? Here?" She shoved the damp curls off her
forehead. "But you can't!"

"Why not? That's why we have the bloody stables."

"But... I—I haven't mucked them out yet. Can't put customers'
horses in dirty stalls."

"Well, I guess not."

"Of course not." She turned him around and headed him
back toward the tavern. "You go give them a drink. I'll get the stables
mucked out and then I'll get their horses."

"Fine. But make sure you get them clean, mind. They'll be in
and out, checking on their horses. Right fond of their mounts, these
fellows."

"They'll be spotless."

"I know." Whistling over the prospect of paying
customers—ones who might have news, at that—he strolled back to the Dancing
Eel.

Bennie put one hand over her rapidly beating heart, willing her
pulse to return to normal. They hadn't been found out—yet.

She hurried back to the stall and stood over Jon. Where to put
him? There was always Brendan's. But she wasn't sure no one would comment on
her going there as frequently as she would need to to tend Jon. Nor could she
figure out a way to get him over there, through the middle of town, in broad
daylight.

Well, there was no hope for it. It would have to be the loft. He'd
be both close at hand and out of sight. But how on earth could she get him up
there?

She dropped to her knees. "Come on now, Jon. Time to get
up."

Eyes still closed, he smiled crookedly. "Don't want to."

She shook his shoulder. "You have to get out of here, Jon, or
they're going to find you. Jon? Come on, Jon."

He blinked his eyes open. His irises were dilated and unfocused.
"Find me?"

"Yes. We've got to get you up to the loft, do you understand
me? They won't find you there."

"Go to loft," he repeated, slurring the words.

She grabbed his right arm and tried to tug him to his feet.
"Come on, I'll help you."

"Always help me, Beth."

"Yes." Lord, he was big. He managed to get to his feet,
but he had to lean heavily on her shoulder. His movements were slow and
uncoordinated, and if she hadn't known he'd had nothing, she would have thought
that perhaps he'd been drugged after all.

"Come on. Let's get you to the ladder."

Pushing, pulling, Bennie half dragged him across the stable, where
she propped him against the wall. She stood trying to muster her strength, and
looked up at the hole in the ceiling. She'd never realized how high it was.

There was no way she was going to get him up that ladder by
herself. The morning had already sapped her strength, but even if it hadn't, he
was simply too large. He was going to have to help her.

"Jon," she said urgently. "Jon!"