The Officer and the Southerner (Historical Western Romance) (Fort Gibson Officers Series, Book 2)

by Gordon, Rose

  Jack swallowed the burning bile in his throat at the idea of what might happen next and lit the fire, then put his pail of water close so the water would boil.

  Behind him, Allison whispered something to Wes that Jack strained to hear. But he couldn’t. He stood and faced them, and immediately their voices went quiet.

  “Jack, I’m not a medic,” Wes said as he ripped apart a bed sheet. “I don’t know if this will save her or not.”

  Jack nodded, his body numb.

  “The only reason I’m agreeing to try is,” he continued, “like you, I think her chances are better if we treat it without involving the medic.”

  The unspoken final part of his statement hung between them. If Wes’ method didn’t help Ella, they’d have to take her to the medic and let him try to save her by amputation.

  When the unmistakable sound of water boiling broke the deafening silence that had settled over the room, Jack walked to the fire, grabbed the handle of the pail and plunked it on the table. “Proceed.”

  Jack watched carefully as Wes went about cleaning Ella’s infected spider bite. He tensed and winced as Wes scrubbed a rag dipped in boiling hot water over what he imagined to be tender skin. After cleaning it off initially, he dipped his knife into the hot water, then cut away at the black skin that circled the area that had been eaten away until bright red blood bubbled around it.

  Were she anyone but his wife, Jack didn’t think he could have remained in the room. The initial sight of her wound, complete with broken and decaying flesh, was bad enough, but watching his friend cut more off was not for a man with a weak stomach.

  As Wes removed more of the infected skin, Allison followed his murmured commands to pour water into one of the cups and mix something in with it. He said a few other things, but Jack couldn’t hear him very well for Wes’ voice was low and Jack’s blood was pounding in his ears at a steady pace.

  “Cup,” Wes said, taking the cup from Allison and giving her the knife.

  After she took the cup from him, she picked up two pieces of clean linen and held them on either side of Ella’s wound while Wes poured the liquid over it.

  Ella made no sound or movement, worrying Jack even more. He might have believed that she wasn’t affected by Wes’ cuts because the skin was already dead, but her lack of reaction to having a scorching liquid poured into her wound only served to rouse his fear.

  Wes finished pouring the liquid and began rubbing something from a jar on her leg.

  Jack jerked his eyes away. He knew Wes was only touching her so he could treat her, but seeing another man touch his wife didn’t sit well with him. However, if he wanted Ella to heal, he had to resist his urge to punch the man.

  “Jack!”

  Jack snapped his head up to look at a grim-faced Wes. “Yes?”

  “I’ve done what I can for her right now. I’ve cut away as much of the dead skin as I dared without making it worse, cleaned the wound, and put a thick layer of salve an inch or so outside of the worst part. I have no idea if that will help or not, but it might slow the spreading of it. You’ll need to clean it again at least twice tomorrow, but for now, leave it uncovered so the air can get to it.” He moved out of the way so Allison could position the sheet to cover Ella’s other leg and her thighs, leaving her infected calf exposed. “With any luck, she’ll recover. It doesn’t look like the bite has been there long. Just a day or two.”

  “A day or two?” Jack echoed in shock. “It looks like it’s been there a month and got infected from too much scratching.”

  Wes shook his head. “No. That looks like a bite from one of those fiddleback spiders. They’re brown with markings that look like a fiddle on their back. It only takes a day or two to get like this and three or four to make it incurable. If not treated right...” He trailed off, but everyone understood his meaning.

  A day or two. That would mean she was bitten last night or sometime during the day when she’d arrived. Either way, it had happened while she was in his care or coming to meet him and that made another round of emotion—one stronger than the last—take hold.

  Lost in his own self-loathing thoughts, he continued to idly stroke her burning forehead as if to soothe and comfort her, and possibly try to express his remorse in a way he didn’t know how. This was his fault. If she hadn’t come, she’d have never been bitten. She’d have been alive and healthy on her plantation. It wouldn’t be so grim, he supposed, if when she’d arrived she’d been excited to see him and to start their lives together. Instead, all they’d done was quarreled.

  He’d make this up to her. He would. He’d make everything right. But first, he just needed her to get well. Then, he’d do whatever it was that she asked him to do—even if he didn’t like what she asked. He had to convince her that coming here wasn’t a mistake. Unfortunately, everything as of now said that it was.

  As if sensing Jack’s thoughts and need to be alone, Wes cleaned up his utensils and softly clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Just keep it clean, if Charles has some alcohol for sale that would help the most.”

  Jack nodded. He’d be there waiting for Charles to open tomorrow.

  “As the infection clears, her fever should go down, Jack, but I’m sure you know that she’s just as likely to succumb from fever as the infection. You must continue to keep her—”

  “I know,” he said in a tone so raw with emotion he barely recognized it as his own.

  “Would you like Allison to stay and help?”

  Not trusting his voice again, he shook his head, praying they’d both see in his eyes how thankful he was for their help.

  ~Chapter Twelve~

  “What a surprise to see you twice in one week, let alone so many times in just as many days, Jack,” Charles said as he unlocked his shop.

  “I need a few more things.” What all he needed other than alcohol, he didn’t exactly know. “Do you happen to remember last summer when Wes came in here after marrying Allison and bought two crates full of items?”

  “Sure do,” the man said, nodding his gray head. “You want the same?”

  “Yes. Except double the alcohol he ordered.”

  The old man laughed in a way that made his entire body shake from his wide shoulders to his big, round belly. “Are ya havin’ trouble with her warming yer bed?”

  Jack stared at the insolent man. Ella was having no problem warming his bed right now, at least not in a literal sense. He’d tried to keep her cool throughout the night, but her skin felt no different this morning when he’d left than it had when he’d gone to get Wes and Allison last night. “Just get me the supplies, please.”

  “I’ll have them delivered to your room by three this afternoon.”

  Jack nodded. “Very well, but can I take the alcohol with me now?”

  Charles eyed him askance. “You’ve never come looking for liquor in here before.”

  “Do you make it a practice to question all of your customers?”

  “No.” Charles popped a cigar in his mouth and lit it. “Only the ones who I know will amuse me with their answers.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched. “Just give me a bottle of your strongest liquor, please.”

  “Not too strong, though,” Charles cautioned with a chuckle. “You want to still be able to—”

  “The strongest you have,” Jack cut in, staring the man down.

  Charles removed his cigar from his mouth and blew out a thick cloud of smoke just inches from Jack’s face, then handed him an amber bottle from under the counter. “There you are. I guess you won’t be needin’ a sheath then, eh?”

  Jack ignored the man’s raspy chuckle and made his way back to where Ella lay, waiting for him. Let Charles think what he wanted. Jack’s pride could care less what Charles or anyone else thought was going on between the two of them. All that mattered was Ella.

  He returned to their room and began gathering the supplies needed to clean her wound, pausing when he heard a soft sigh fill the air.

  He looked up to see
Ella fidgeting in the bed, her beautiful, unpinned, hair covering the pillow.

  “Ella?”

  Her eyes fluttered open and stared at him as if she were trying to place where she’d seen him before. She blinked her eyes a few times, then closed them again.

  Pushing away the tinge of disappointment at her not having more of a reaction to him or even recognizing him, he went about preparing to clean her wound. When he had everything laid out, he walked over to her and took a deep swallow to steady his nerves. “Ella?”

  No response.

  For the best, he supposed. At least if she was sleeping, she wouldn’t feel the pain.

  He took a deep breath and reached for the liquor he’d bought from Charles. With one last glance at Ella’s face, he began to pour the liquid over her wound.

  “Aaaaah!” Her leg kicked wildly, planting her knee right in his jaw.

  Clenching his jaw, he put his hand above her knee and used just enough pressure to keep her leg still, but not hurt her.

  “Stop!” she wailed, now kicking at his hand with her other foot.

  He repositioned his body so that his chest was leaning over her thighs, pinning her legs to the bed. “Just a bit more,” he said raggedly.

  “No. No more. Stop, you brute,” she cried as she struggled against his hold.

  Suddenly a fist hit him in the back. Then another and another.

  He chanced a glance at her but quickly turned back to avoid a fist in his eye. “I know it hurts, Ella,” he said softly, hoping his voice would soothe her, even just a little. “I’m sorry, but I have to clean it. We’re almost done.”

  He didn’t know whether she heard him or not for her cries and sobs continued, making his chest hurt just as much as he was apparently hurting her leg. But it couldn’t be helped and he continued to talk to her as he wiped away the excess alcohol around her wound.

  When he was finished, he straightened and ran his gaze from the gaping hole in her leg to the wrinkled chemise that was bunched around her waist then up to her tear-stained, bright red cheeks. Her eyes were shut now, but he wasn’t sure if she was asleep or not. She’d likely worn herself out with her cries and thrashing. He righted her chemise as best he could, then sat down beside her.

  “Ella?” he whispered quietly, brushing the hair from her forehead.

  She didn’t answer and he sighed. She might not like him at the moment, and truth be told, she didn’t seem overly enamored with him before he’d dumped alcohol on her open wound; but if it would save her life, he’d gladly take her kicks and screams and punches to the back. He mindlessly ran his hand to a spot on the back of his shoulder where she’d delivered a blow and a small smile touched his lips. It was actually tender and a small knot was forming. Good for her! She was a fighter after all.

  ***

  After their...er...incident earlier in the morning, Jack waited patiently for her to awake from her slumber so he could prove to her he wasn’t the monster she thought him to be. She might not be able to actually place who he was, and he couldn’t fault her entirely for that. They’d barely shared company before her fever. However, he was certain he didn’t want her to recover equating his image with that of great pain. Hopefully as her leg started to heal, it wouldn’t be so painful when he cleaned it.

  He picked up a piece of torn sheet and folded it into a square. He hoped his presence wouldn’t disturb her, but her skin was very warm and it might make her feel better if she was cooled off. He dunked the folded cloth into the basin of water at his side, then sparing her as much modesty as he could, he took his time running a cool cloth over her exposed skin. Her skin was so warm, it only took a few minutes for the cloth to lose its coolness, prompting him to rewet it with each part of her he covered. When he finished with her feet, he started over, making sure to spend the most time on her forehead and neck.

  After he completed his second pass over her body, she began to stir. He waited quietly a few minutes to see if she was truly awake.

  Her series of partial grunts and groans gave him hope.

  “Would you like some water?” he asked softly.

  She nodded with what might have been vigor had she more energy.

  He helped her move up in the bed and get into a position that would allow her to drink, then extended her the cup.

  She wrapped her hands over his where they were still holding the cup for her, then tipped the cup back a little too far as if she were trying to guzzle it all at once—the way someone would do if they’d just been handed water after being left in the desert without any.

  He muttered a curse. He should have offered her water earlier, before cleaning her wound. Never again, he promised them both. Never again.

  When she’d emptied the cup, half in her mouth, half on her chemise, he refilled it and offered her more. Which she took greedily before falling back asleep.

  Around noon there was a knock on the door.

  Glad for the company, Jack opened it to reveal Wes holding a plate of food. “How is she?”

  “Better. I think.” He glanced at his sleeping wife. “I cleaned her wound this morning and she’s come awake twice now to drink some water.”

  Wes nodded and handed him lunch.

  Jack ate in solitude, but not before wetting every cloth he had and laying them over her body. Midway through the meal, he soaked them all again for they’d grown quite warm, then continued eating after he’d reapplied them.

  The afternoon passed similarly to the morning. Ella woke up a few times to have a drink, but said nothing more, then went back to sleep.

  Dinner arrived in much the same manner as lunch had, but Jack couldn’t eat. He’d been watching her wound all day and had seen absolutely no significant change. Of course, that might be because he’d been staring at it and not allowing any more than a moment or two to pass before looking at it again. Had he not seen it all day, he might be able to make a better assessment. He lowered his head into his hands. He needed to clean it again, and now would be the best time since all the soldiers would be eating and unable to hear her screams.

  ***

  The second round of cleaning had been just as unbearable as the first.

  She’d kicked.

  She’d screamed.

  She’d hit.

  She’d flailed.

  She’d even tried to bite him.

  Then, she’d fallen back asleep. Exhausted.

  Covering her with wet cloths again, he left the room to go get more water.

  At least that’s where he planned to go.

  But instead, his feet took him in the direction of the fellow he saw sitting in the shade: Private Brian McGraw.

  Brian wasn’t someone that Jack was overly familiar with. He answered to Captain Cross, who was under General Ridgely. He only knew Brian because he was the sole person who’d ever survived any kind of infection under the medic’s care. Well, not exactly. The medic had wanted to amputate, and McGraw refused. Everyone was in shock when he limped out of the medic’s office and even more surprised when a week later, his limp was diminished and he reported for duty, claiming his infection was gone.

  It was. But he’d refused to explain how it had healed.

  Nobody had questioned him too much about it, likely because everyone had an assumption that they didn’t want confirmed. But Jack didn’t care what Brian had done or what he might have to do, he just wanted to know.

  “Afternoon, Private,” Jack greeted, walking up to where Brian was reclining against a tall post beam that helped to support the boardwalk of the second floor.

  “Lieutenant,” Brian said with a quick salute.

  Jack couldn’t care less about being saluted and the proper respect due him. He wanted answers. “How’s your leg doing these days?”

  Brian started. “It’s doing fine, sir.”

  Jack nodded. “It was a nasty cut, wasn’t it?”

  Now it was Brian who nodded, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Tell me,” Jack pressed. “Jus
t how did you get that cleared?”

  “Sir, I think I need—”

  “Tell me,” Jack repeated. “That’s an order, Private.”

  Private McGraw bit his lip. “I—I don’t think you really want me to say.”

  “Did you go see the Indians?” Jack asked softly, putting voice to the suspicion he believed many of the men had but didn’t want to investigate.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I saw Dark Moon.”

  Jack nodded. That was all he needed to know. Not that he could do anything about it. Venturing into the Indian Territory was so dangerous it was unheard of. The Indians, he’d learned, had a special way of doing things: their way or no way. Upset with the United States government and all who were connected to it for forcing them here, they had no qualms or remorse for acting unkind. When they wanted to be friendly, they’d come to the fort to trade or even schedule dances to show peace between them. But, that was on their terms. A soldier didn’t dare go into their land without an invitation or at the very least without some sort of warning—and even then he’d better have a good reason, such as the monthly visits they were required to make. And that was just dealing with the chief. Dark Moon was undeniably his own man.

  A legend in these parts. Not because his medicines had cured so many, but because he was thought to be a raving madman. The rumors they’d heard were that even his tribe didn’t keep company with him. He lived off by himself, mixing potions and herbs, then came around the fort every so often trying to sell them to the soldiers. The problem was, nobody knew what ailment he was trying to sell a cure for. He knew not a word of English. He just shouted at them in his native tongue while he thrust abysmal smelling tonics in their faces.

  Jack filled his pail at the well and walked back to his room. Dark Moon was not a viable solution to Ella’s problem.

  “Jack, I need to speak to you.”

  Jack turned from where he was unlocking the door to his room to find a very unhappy looking Colonel Lewis. “Sir?”

  “Where were you today?”

  Jack’s fingers tightened around the handle of his pail. “I was tending to my wife today,” he said evasively.