He was awake. He gave her that slitted look, as if he were wondering if he’d landed among the Lilliputians. She set the tray aside, washed and dried her hands, then ran one finger over the pat of butter she’d brought to go on the cornmeal mush. Leaving the bowl and spoon there, she turned to him. “First, we’ll see about your lips. This should help.”
And before he could protest, she touched his mouth with her buttery forefinger. Gently she moved it over first the top lip, then the full lower. He had nice lips—even with the swelling she could tell that much. The upper one dipped in a nice bow in the center. She hadn’t seen his teeth yet, at least not all of them, but from what she’d seen, those were nice, too. Not too small, not too large—not crooked and not even yellow. He obviously didn’t dip, didn’t chew and might not even smoke cigars.
Gradually she became aware that his eyes were open. Not only that, he was staring at her in a way that made her aware of what she was doing. “Oh. There, that should help,” she said, snatching her finger from his mouth.
All business now, she spooned up some of the mush and poked it toward his mouth. It was thick enough not to drip, thin enough to be swallowed without chewing.
He ate silently, his gaze never leaving her face. She avoided looking back, pretending, instead, to concentrate on feeding him without spilling anything on the bedding. But she couldn’t help but notice his powerful shoulders, bare above his chest binding, and the arms with their dusting of dark hair. His hands were as battered as the rest of him, yet she was certain that once healed they would be shapely and well kept. She liked large hands on a man. It made them seem…capable.
Jed Blackstone was as different from Devin as night from day. Dark, where Devin had been blond. Long all over where Devin had been long in the torso, but short in the legs.
Dapper was the word that had first come to mind that day when she’d bumped into Devin on her way home, her arms loaded with books and groceries. She had a feeling this man would never be called dapper, no matter the quality of his clothes. There was something about him, something untamed, for want of a better word.
As she dipped up the last spoonful of the thick yellow mush, seasoned with the last of her precious butter, she wondered what she was going to do about tomorrow’s meals. Half her skimpy garden was just beginning to come in, the other half long since played out. She had two laying hens that provided one and sometimes two eggs a day. Several times a week someone from the settlement brought her supplies. A jar of buttermilk, but rarely any butter. Occasionally a bit of ham or fried chicken, and often a few biscuits or a square of corn bread, but mostly it was staples. Flour, salt, cornmeal, lard, beans and coffee, all in amounts carefully calculated for one.
Now she had a man to feed. It was for his sake, she told herself, that she had not only to keep him here, but to keep his presence secret until he was able to fend for himself. Granted, she’d been so desperately lonely that even a man who didn’t talk beyond the barest minimum was better than no one at all, but that wasn’t the real reason she was so excited she could barely sleep.
Once he was able, he would leave, and whether or not he knew it, she was going with him. All she needed was someone to get her past the settlement. She had tried and tried, but evidently she wasn’t doing it right. Direct by nature, she’d never been good at subterfuge.
This man looked as if he knew about subterfuge, never mind that he’d been beaten to within an inch of his life. Brute strength wasn’t always enough, not when the woods were filled with Millers. It would take devious planning, something she had never been good at…until now.
“For the time being, you’re my secret,” she whispered, feeling optimistic for the first time in months.
Chapter Six
Eleanor looked in on her patient only once or twice during the night. Surely no more than half a dozen times, and then only in case he needed something and lacked the strength to call her. Each time, she lingered long enough to make certain he hadn’t stopped breathing.
Again, she marveled at how strange it felt to have a man in her bed. Standing over him now, she wondered how old he was. Wondered if he were married, if he’d been running away from something, or toward something. Or someone. Few strangers ever wandered onto Miller land. Those who did never repeated their mistake. The Millers weren’t known for their hospitality.
His eyes were closed now, but she could tell by a certain tension that he was awake. His hands, lying outside the covers, were curled into fists. She set the breakfast tray on the bedside table. “Are you awake?” she whispered.
No answer. Mercy, his face was a sight. Two glorious shiners, one the color of raw liver, the other more like wet slate. Had some of the swelling begun to go down?
It was hard to say. His own mother might not recognize him if she saw him now. If he wanted to go on pretending he was asleep, that was just fine with her, but only up to a point. The man had to eat if he were ever going to get well.
“Jed?” She spoke his name and waited.
No reaction. Not so much as a tightening of his poor lips.
“After you finish breakfast I’ll make you a poultice for those eyes. I should have done it before, I just didn’t…”
Didn’t think. Didn’t know what to think, more like.
Standing over him, she waited to see if he would respond. “And for your mouth, and that place on the side of your head.”
She was whispering. Why was she whispering?
When he managed to open one eye, she beamed. “There, see? You’re already feeling better, aren’t you? You’ll feel even better once you eat some nice cornmeal mush. I drizzled molasses on it.” Because she’d used the last of her sugar in his bread pudding, but she saw no reason to tell him that. “I’m going to brew up some willow bark tea. It tastes awful, but it eases the pain. Can you sit up? Here, let me help you.”
She leaned over him and slid a hand under his shoulders. “When I lift, wriggle your bottom. I’ll scrunch up your pillow and—” Oof! He was heavy! Not quite a dead weight, but not far from it. How on earth had he managed to get this far after he’d been beaten?
For that matter, how had he managed to sit up long enough to let her bind his ribs? “They say it hurts more the second day, but after that, it starts feeling better.”
She didn’t know what “they” said. Cousin Annie had wakened one morning unable to move or even speak. One whole side of her face drooped, but she was never, so far as anyone could tell, in any pain.
Finally they managed, but not without groans and curses on his part and endless apologies on hers. Finally, picking up the spoon, she started to feed him when he reached out and took it from her. “Do it myself,” he said gruffly.
“Of course, if you’d rather.”
She didn’t know whether to go or stay. Men could be such independent creatures. “Would you like—?”
“Sit. Talk.”
That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. She had scarcely stopped talking ever since she’d dragged him home with her. “If you like,” she said politely, sitting on the only chair and arranging the skirt of her faded gray muslin around her. “Is there any particular topic you’re interested in discussing?”
She told herself it wasn’t laughter she saw in his eyes. They were too swollen to see much of anything except for a glint of color so dark it defied the light.
“Millers,” he said, and it took a moment for the meaning to register.
“You want to know if they’re capable of beating a man half to death?” She pursed her lips and considered all she knew about the people who stood between her and freedom. “Some of them are, I’m afraid. One or two in particular, especially when they’re drinking, or if they feel threatened. And some of them do drink a lot. And I suppose you could say they’re rather paranoid.”
“Paranoid.” He repeated the word, appeared to be turning it over in his mind, but said nothing.
Having finished his breakfast, he set the bowl and spoon on the be
d beside him just as she reached out to take it. Her fingers brushed his, and she looked at his swollen knuckles and wondered which of the Millers was sporting bruises or black eyes. Alaska would definitely be one of them. Even Devin had been wary of Alaska’s temper when he’d been drinking, which was most of the time.
“I told you why they’re keeping me here, didn’t I?”
He nodded. About to go over the story again, she decided he didn’t need to hear how she’d been taken in by a handsome face and a lot of empty flattery.
“They live on hopes and dreams,” she said instead. “Every deluded one of them. My husband was the worst of all, probably because his grandfather’s first strike was made right here on this very hill. Actually, it was his only strike. I don’t think the poor old man ever found another speck of gold, but he kept on trying until the day he died.” She sighed, her gaze focusing on the past. “So did Devin. Kept on searching, that is. Until the day he died. Did I tell you that?”
She probably had. Goodness knows, she’d been talking a blue streak.
Jed coughed, winced and swore. She told him that his bindings needed tightening. “I’m not sure I can do it alone.”
And he couldn’t help her. Short of planting a foot on his side to gain leverage, which was hardly the recommended technique, she couldn’t think of a way to bind him any tighter.
“Tourniquet,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
He grimaced and shook his head. After a few moments passed in silence, Eleanor said, “Let me go see if the willow bark tea has steeped long enough.” She stood and reached for the tray.
“Sticks.”
Pausing, she sent him a questioning look. She was tempted to beg his pardon again when it dawned on her. “Sticks. Like wringing out laundry. Of course!”
Leaving the dishes in the kitchen, she hurried out to the woodpile and collected several of the smallest sticks of kindling. She wasn’t quite sure how to use them in this case, but between them they would find a way.
Propped up on the bed pillow with the rolled quilt behind his back for added support, Jed waited to see how she would go about it. He could think of several ways to achieve the needed results, none of them particularly comfortable, but the results should be worth any momentary discomfort. Before he could think about getting away from here, he had to be able to move freely and to breathe without feeling as if his innards were being punctured.
Eleanor held a stick of pine in her hand and frowned at his chest. “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully.
Between them, they worked out a method. She would jam a stick under the top layer of binding and twist until he told her to stop. After securing the end by tucking it under a fold, she would go on to the next, always working from the front.
God help him if he tried to roll over onto his stomach. Even sitting up he could feel the hard ends jabbing him through the padding, but at least he wasn’t as apt to kill himself off if he happened to sneeze.
“There now, how does that feel?” she asked, satisfaction evident in the flush of color that stained her cheeks.
He could have told her he felt like a porcupine that had taken to wearing his coat inside out, but he didn’t. She was doing the best she could with the resources at hand. He could hardly ask for more than that. “Bring on your willow bark tea,” he said. “My mother used to make the stuff. Bitter as gall, but it does the trick.”
“Oh. You have a mother,” she said, as if awed by the confidence.
He knew she was curious, but she could just live with it. He wasn’t about to tell her how his mother had left an uncomfortable situation among her own people, taken up with Loran Dulah, nursed the old man’s wife through a lingering illness, looked after their son and then ended up bearing the old man another son and raising both boys until she’d died of lung fever.
His private, personal history didn’t concern anyone, not even his half brother, who knew most of it, anyway. All she needed to know was that he would never take advantage of an unprotected woman, even if he were in any condition to do so. Even if he were tempted.
The following day Eleanor circled the cabin in search of wild greens. From time to time she would glance toward the house, half expecting her patient to be standing in the doorway. Now that his ribs were bound and he could halfway see out of one eye, he was chafing at the bit, clearly eager to be on his way. “Stubborn man,” she muttered. But then weren’t they all?
As if she would even know. She couldn’t remember her father. Dreamed she could, but it was probably only her imagination—the tall man who held her up to touch the angel on a Christmas tree, who let her sip from his coffee cup. Who laughed when she giggled hard enough to wet her pants.
Both her parents had died in the influenza epidemic when she was three, and she’d gone to live with her unmarried cousin, Annie Mayne, a schoolteacher in Charlotte. She must have cried every night for years, but if Annie had heard her, she never mentioned it.
Annie had never married. Never even had a suitor, so far as Eleanor knew. As for Eleanor herself, she had once attended a tea with the new minister at their church, but the only other single man she’d known well enough to do more than exchange pleasantries with had been Devin—the man she’d married.
And as it turned out, she hadn’t known him at all.
Having gathered a basket of wild mustard, dandelion, lamb’s-quarter and cress, Eleanor stopped by the henhouse to collect the eggs. “Thank you, ladies,” she said, scooping up grain with one hand and scattering it on the ground. The hens would have a good scratch before the squirrels discovered it. It was the best she could do. If she left them cooped up they’d be easy prey for weasels and raccoons.
Jed insisted on feeding himself again when she took him a boiled egg and what she called pan bread, which was no more than biscuit dough patted into a large flat cake and cooked on top of the stove in a skillet with the lid askew. It wasn’t pretty, but it was quick and easy, and she’d dribbled a bit of honey on it. He liked his coffee black and bitter, which was just as well. She was running short of coffee beans, though, so he might have to settle for water.
“The less you move around, the better,” she reminded him. “As soon as you finish your breakfast I’ll bring you a basin of water for your hands, and then you can sleep some more. Sleep heals,” she said earnestly. At least it did if a body was going to heal. It hadn’t healed cousin Annie. She had slept and slept and then she’d died.
Without his having to ask, she handed him the chamber pot and then left, closing the door behind her. She would take him the basin and soap when she went to collect the pot. Poor man…it had to be embarrassing. How would she feel if their positions were reversed?
She spent the next half hour in the ragged garden she had halfheartedly planted when Miss Lucy had sent up slips of this and that. She’d had no intention of being here to harvest anything, but if she hadn’t seemed interested, they might have asked why, and she’d have had to tell them that it was because she had no intention of spending another summer trapped on their blasted, tunnel-ridden hill.
The morning sun beat down on her shoulders, searing right through the threadbare gown as she swooped down to snatch a green stalk from the ground. She stepped on her hem, heard it rip, and grimaced. Oh, well—the blasted stuff had gone to seed anyway, that which hadn’t frozen. As for the dress, it had seen its best days too long ago to remember.
Her trousseau had consisted mostly of the carefully maintained and frequently remodeled dresses she wore to work, most of them of some neutral shade that didn’t show dirt. Her two good dresses included a blue sprigged muslin and the rose silk that had served as her wedding gown. By now she’d worn everything to death except for those.
And her hair. What on earth was she going to do about her hair? Cut it off? It might come to that. Her soft-bristled brush was so worn it only skimmed over the surface. Hair like the type she’d been cursed with—curls so tight they defied a comb—needed a good, stiff brush and regul
ar grooming. Instead, she washed it with lye soap and let it dry in the sun, scarcely bothering to look in a mirror, as there was never anyone here to care how she looked.
Tonight she might sweep up her hair and gather it into a knot at the back of her head. She still had half a dozen tortoiseshell pins, although she’d lost most of her supply. It had never occurred to her when she’d first set out from town that she would no longer be able to shop for such simple things as hairpins.
She was on her way to the house when someone called her name. “Elly Nora?”
Wheeling around, she clapped a hand over her heart and nearly dropped her basket. “Oh, it’s you, Hector. You startled me. I was expecting—that is, I wasn’t expecting you.”
She watched her cousin-in-law stride into the clearing, his eyes as blue as morning glories in his lean, tanned face. He really was a handsome man, but he was still a Miller, every bit as hardhearted as the rest of the clan underneath that pleasant manner.
“I been out stumping this morning.” He wiped his forehead with a bandana, then stuffed it back in the pocket of his overalls. “Hot work. Thought I’d come up and see how you’re getting on. You need anything from town?” Going to the nearest market town was an all-day affair, not to be taken lightly. “I’ll be headed out at first light.”
She stayed where she was, hoping to draw him away from the house, but he sauntered over to the tiny back stoop and sat, one big bare foot swinging as he filled his pipe with tobacco.
She could have told him she needed hairpins, but more than that, she needed to get rid of him. What if he went inside the house? He seldom did unless it was raining or snowing, but what if this time he decided to come in for a visit?
Or what if Jed wandered outside? Granted, the poor man could barely move, much less get up and walk, but what if he tried to turn over and it hurt and he cried out?
She didn’t think Hector had been involved in the beating. More than likely it had been Alaska and his whiskey-making cronies, but then again, she had never seen Hector in a temper. He was certainly strong enough to do serious damage.
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