by Jo Goodman
"It's not so bad."
Fear made her voice sharp. "I suppose you think that's an answer to my question. You should have said, 'Yes.' I'll be the one to determine how bad it is."
"Be careful. You're beginning to sound like a wife." He sucked in the beginnings of a laugh as pain shot through him. Ryder clutched his side to limit the agony to as small a place as possible.
Mary stopped her gentle search. "Let me light a lantern," she said. "I can't do you any good in the dark. I may even hurt you."
Ryder missed her hands immediately. "What are you doing here anyway? You should be back in the chamber."
Mary struck the flint. White light nicely illuminated the sour look she gave him. For good measure it was accompanied by an unladylike snort.
His smile was lopsided. "Point taken," he said dryly.
Mary raised the lantern. "Oh, God," she whispered. Ryder's face was ashen and lines of strain were clearly etched at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Dried blood covered his fingers and streaked the front of his breechcloth. The wound that was the source of the blood ran in an ugly, jagged line for most of the length of Ryder's left thigh. He had torn part of the breechcloth to make a bandage, but it was inadequate for the task. Some of the buckskin had dried to the wound while elsewhere blood continued to drip.
She looked at the way Ryder was still holding his ribs. "Broken?" she asked.
He nodded. "Two, I think."
Her eyes dropped to his feet. The bundle of clothing he had gone out for was lying there.
Ryder followed her gaze. "I brought back the prize."
Mary didn't comment. She couldn't help but wonder at the cost. "Let me fix a bandage for you now."
He shook his head. "I'll bleed more if you lift the bandage I've made. I want to get out of this area. We're too vulnerable."
"Were you followed?"
"No, but I won't be so difficult to track."
She understood. He hadn't been able to cover the route he had taken. Somewhere beyond the cavern there was enough of Ryder's blood for the trail to be picked up again. Mary wouldn't let herself think about that now. Ryder wasn't nearly as strong as he was pretending to be. "I need to get you back to the chamber where I can look after you properly," she said. "Should I support you or would it be less painful for you to walk unassisted?"
"I can go alone," he said. "You carry the clothing and the light. Don't forget to bring my lantern."
Mary led the way as Ryder hobbled behind her. It was difficult to keep her pace as slow as his. His normal stride would have swallowed hers; now it was only a third as long. She asked no questions, not wanting to tax his strength any further. Halfway to the chamber it seemed that Ryder's face was the same pale shade of gray as his eyes. A hundred yards from their chamber's entrance Mary had to present her shoulder and arm for his support whether it pained him or not.
Leaving one lantern and the clothes bundle behind, Mary managed to get Ryder to the bed. She realized how much he had girded himself for that effort. Once he was lifted onto the edge of the rock shelf, he collapsed.
Mary's work began at that moment. She made Ryder as comfortable as possible, rearranging the blankets under him and folding another for a pillow. At the well she filled the basin and dipped several cloths into the cold water. Laying it all aside for a moment, Mary raided the trunk for material that would make the best bandage. She settled on her own chemise, tearing it into long strips. She rifled the saddlebag that Florence Gardner had packed and found a flask of alcohol, the bottle of liniment, and a small sewing kit.
Ryder's eyes were closed when Mary returned to the bed and his breathing was shallow. She removed his bandana and put the back of her hand to his cheek. His skin was cold and clammy. She touched his lips lightly with her fingertips and began to work.
The jagged wound on his thigh required her first attention. There were other scratches and cuts, but none so deep as to call for stitching the way this longest one did. Little Sisters of the Poor had served the hospital in Queens for years. Mary was no stranger to nursing. She had been called upon to cleanse wounds and stitch them before, and she had always done it with a glad heart. It wasn't the same now. Her hands were shaking.
She pushed Ryder's breechcloth free of his thigh and began removing the dried-on bandage. The wound bled again, but she had learned from doctors that wasn't necessarily a bad thing; infection could be washed away by the blood. Mary carefully laid back the torn flesh and used Ryder's knife to cut away the dead and shredded tissue. She cleaned the wound first with soap and then inspected it. There were embedded bits of gravel that had to be painstakingly removed. When Mary had removed as many of them as she could hope to get, she cleaned the wound again, then liberally showered it with alcohol.
Ryder had been stoic until that point, centering his mind on something other than the pain. With the introduction of the alcohol, he fainted.
"Thank you, God," Mary whispered. It was beyond her how he could have withstood so much in the first place. She glanced at his face and saw the release of tension in his features. With his final collapse, she noticed that her hands were no longer shaking. Mary bent to her task, working quickly before Ryder regained consciousness.
She threaded the needle deftly, wishing only that she had one curved for sutures. "Oh, Maggie," she said softly, "what I wouldn't give for even a tenth of your skill." But her physician sister couldn't aid her now, so Mary set to work. She sutured the underlying tissue first with the alcohol-soaked thread. The wound took sixty stitches before she was ready to close the skin over it.
Ryder came awake as she was finishing the last of the skin sutures. He watched her cut off the thread and study her work with a critical eye. "Well?" he asked hoarsely. The white lines were at the corners of his mouth again.
"Mama said that needlepoint was never my strong suit," she said. "But I think she'd change her mind if she saw this."
"It didn't have to be pretty," he said.
Mary laid one hand over his forehead, brushing back his thick hair where it clung to his skin. She smiled down at him. "Oh, it's not," she told him. "But it's good."
"That's all right, then." He closed his eyes. Mary's fingers were warm where they stroked his cheek. He wanted to reach for her hand, but his arm fell uselessly back to his side.
She bent and kissed his cool cheek. Her hand found his. Tears welled in her eyes as she felt him squeeze it. In other circumstances she would have called the gesture gentle. She recognized it now as weak. "Rest," she said softly. Then she sat by his side while he did just that.
"You should eat something," Mary told him. She raised a spoon of vegetables to Ryder's lips.
He took a bite, chewed, and then laid his head back down. "It's enough," he said tiredly.
"But—"
"It's enough."
"Very well." Mary gave in because she couldn't force the issue. Ryder wasn't regaining his strength with the speed Mary had hoped for. He slept in fits and starts, the pain of his broken ribs giving him little relief when he unwittingly turned on his side. What measure of comfort he could derive from sleep was erased soon upon waking. The scar on his thigh was puffy and red where it curved near his knee, and Mary was afraid she was seeing the first signs of infection.
She took away the food, rinsed the plate, and then sat down in the rocker. She spent what passed for her nights in that chair, moving it closer to the bed so she would hear Ryder each time he woke. "Would you like me to read to you?" she asked.
"No."
"Then let me bathe you. It will ease the heat in your skin."
Her hands all over his body? Ease the heat? Not likely. "No."
"As you wish." Once again she acquiesced with a grace that would have astonished her family or the Little Sisters.
"I know what you're doing," he said.
"Oh?" She didn't bother looking in his direction, pretending no interest as she unrolled his maps.
"You're giving in."
One of Mary's brows
shot up. She raised her face and speared Ryder with a level look. "Not fighting is not always the same as giving in."
Groaning softly, Ryder closed his eyes. That meant she was biding her time. Probably had plans to force-feed him while he was unconscious and bathe him while he slept. He turned gingerly over on his side, determined to stay awake as long as possible. "What are you doing with those?"
"Looking for gold," she said. "Same as you were."
"You don't know where to look."
She shrugged and bent to her task again. "I found Colter Canyon marked on this first map, and I've been able to match the elevation markers and topographical features to the second map. It's really just a closer view, isn't it? I suppose it intentionally wasn't marked as Colter Canyon to make it less useful to someone who stumbled upon it."
"Like you."
She ignored his sarcasm and said patiently, "No, not like me. Like another prospector. That is who drew this map, isn't it? Your prospector friend?"
Ryder's brows raised a fraction. He nodded his head slowly.
"Your amazement is not flattering. I know how to read a map, and I can put two and two together for the correct sum as well as anyone else."
At least he'd gotten a bit of a rise out of her. "Yes, you're right. Joe Panama drew the map. He explored most of this area at one time or another. He was convinced there was a mother lode of silver in these parts."
Mary could hear the strain in Ryder's voice, the small breaths between sentences that signaled he was tiring. She thought of cautioning him, but decided against it. Showing concern for his strength was a sure means of raising his ire. "Did he ever discover it?" she asked. Perhaps she could simply exhaust him with questions.
Ryder shook his head. "Not that he ever told me."
"He's dead?"
"A few years ago. He killed himself not far from here after a fall broke his back."
Mary's features softened compassionately. "You found him?"
"No," he said, watching her closely. "I was with him."
Her eyes widened. "And you let him kill himself?"
"I let him end his suffering," he said, "because I couldn't end it for him."
"He asked you to?"
"Of course." He saw Mary's brows draw together as she struggled with this information. "Measuring one sin against the other?" he asked. "Was letting Joe pull the trigger any different than pulling it myself? What if I told you that he didn't carry a gun?" He saw her brows lift fractionally. "That's right. I gave him mine."
Something of the sorrow Mary felt in her heart touched her eyes.
"I'm not a saint," Ryder said.
"I never mistook you for one."
"If you're cataloging my sins, I have some more I—"
"I'm not judging you," she said quietly. "I was only thinking how it must have pained you to make such a difficult choice. I know what the Church teaches, but I can't help wonder how I might have decided in the same circumstances."
"You might find out," he said gravely.
At first she didn't take his meaning. Her features went from blank to horrified as she saw him tap his wounded leg lightly. "What are you saying? You want me to shoot you?"
"Not just this minute."
"Don't make light of this," she said angrily. Mary's mouth flattened and her tone became sharper. "Or me. I find nothing about it remotely humorous."
"I recall that not so long ago you held a Henry rifle to my chest and claimed you were willing to use it."
Mary did not appreciate being reminded. "That was different," she snapped.
"What was different was that I was in good health then. Now that I'm likely to die, you're not willing to help me along. You have a confusing sense of morality."
"It would have been a grievous sin if I had killed you then. It would be an equally grievous one if I did it now."
"So you're saying it really wouldn't have been different at all," he said thoughtfully. "You're very quick to change your opinion." He saw her face flush and her eyes flash. "You look as if you're giving my request more serious consideration. Perhaps the key to getting what I want is to goad you into it."
Mary bent her head and stared at the map. The lines ran together and place names blurred. A fat, heavy tear slipped past her lowered lashes and splattered on the paper.
"Mary?"
She shook her head, not trusting herself to say anything and not wanting him to speak.
Ryder forced himself to sit up, wincing as he slid his legs over the side of the stone bed. He was glad she hadn't looked up, glad that she couldn't see the pain in his expression. She would think it was all because of his leg, and she would have been wrong. He hadn't meant to make her cry. "No more tears on my account, Mary," he said. "I don't want—"
She sucked in a sob and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
Ryder managed to push himself off the bed. Relying heavily on his uninjured leg, he hobbled toward where Mary sat on the floor. He nudged aside the maps with the toe of his foot, putting himself in her line of vision.
"Go back to bed," she said hoarsely. "There was no reason for you to get up."
"There was every reason."
She raised her head. "You're a horrible man."
She said it as if she meant it, and Ryder had no doubt that in that moment she did. "Worse than horrible," he said.
"Don't patronize me."
"I was agreeing with you." He held out his hand to her. "Take it, Mary, or I swear I'll get down on my knees beside you." That threat had her slipping her hand into his. Ryder drew her to her feet. She was stiff and unyielding when he pulled her into the circle of his arms, but he held out, keeping her close in a loose embrace until she relaxed against him.
"You're not going to die," she whispered. Mary's tears dampened his shirt. "You're not."
Ryder said nothing. It was a certainty that his life wouldn't end by her hand or with her cooperation. He regretted that he had let her think, for even a moment, he might ask it of her.
She was going to fight for him, and in the end, if her ministrations and her prayers weren't enough, he would do what he had to without any help from her.
Mary knuckled her tears aside as she felt Ryder's weight shift toward her. It was harder to know who was holding whom now. Slipping her shoulder under his arm, Mary aided him back to the bed. His face was pale, and parenthetical lines of pain creased the corners of his mouth. He didn't argue when she rearranged the blankets over him and examined his leg.
The swelling and redness had spread. Ryder's knee looked inflamed with the infection from the injury. A thin red line was now visible, snaking from the base of the wound toward his calf.
Mary knew what she had to do. "I'm going to have to cut these stitches," she said, "and clean the tissues again. It's going to hurt like hell." When Ryder didn't respond she stopped her examination and glanced in his direction. He was out cold. "Just as well," she whispered. "I can't spare any liquor for an anesthetic."
Numbing her senses to the task at hand, she began working. She sliced the lower third of the visible stitches and laid open Ryder's skin. Sanguineous, malodorous fluids seeped from the infected tissue. She cut the second layer of stitches, and more of the infection was revealed. Mary cleaned the wound, this time scrubbing it with the hard, alcohol-soaked bristles of Ryder's hairbrush. Splinters of wood came to the surface, and she used a needle to extract every one that she found. The wound bled freely again, and Mary let the bleeding run its course before she began the task of suturing.
Ryder never woke while she worked, but occasionally his body would jerk in response to the deep pain she was inflicting. All the while her lips moved in the ceaseless litany of prayer.
When she was done Mary knelt at the well and washed her hands. Having done all she could was not the same as having done enough. It was the disparity between the two that troubled her.
She sat in the wing chair, her long legs curled under her, and watched Ryder sleep. How serious had he been, she
wondered, when he'd compared his situation to Joe Panama's? Did he really think she might give him a gun so he could kill himself? Was that his idea of being cruel to be kind?
Mary's head throbbed. Fingers of tension seemed to be pulling the skin tightly over her pounding temples. Bright flashes of light, created by the deep ache behind her eyes, began to cross her vision. The steady roar in her ears reached tidal wave proportions.
Mary's head fell forward. Her shoulders slumped. Only the curled position of her body kept her from sliding to the floor from the chair. Eventually her dead faint became a deep, healing slumber.
* * *
Standing unnoticed in the entrance to the chamber, Jarret Sullivan slipped his Colt back into its holster. The showdown he had anticipated and prepared for was not going to happen, at least not immediately. He turned down the lantern he had carried with him into the cavern and then set it aside. There wasn't any need for it in Ryder McKay's well-lit hideout. Jarret counted six lanterns, all of them burning with varying degrees of brightness. Mary's idea of prayer candles, he decided. He doubted Ryder would use his supply of oil so frivolously.
Jarret could see that both occupants of the room were sleeping deeply, but he had no difficulty in discerning the differences in their slumber. His tread was silent as he passed Mary's chair and went straight to the stone shelf-bed on which Ryder lay. Jarret had only glimpsed Ryder at Fort Union, but he had been given a photograph that left him with no doubt that it was Ryder McKay he was seeing.
Jarret looked for the injury that engraved Ryder's face with pain and brought beads of perspiration to his upper lip. Finding none visible, he raised the blanket and whistled softly. "Hell of a thing, you bastard," he said softly. "I could almost feel sorry for you."
Lowering the blanket, Jarret turned his attention to Mary. She didn't appear to be injured, only exhausted. There were shadows beneath her eyes and no color in her cheeks. He had never thought of her as particularly fragile, but she had that aura about her now, looking too slender and delicate in Ryder's clothes. "If he hurt you," he said under his breath, "I'll break his knees."
The threat would have been a familiar one to Mary. She had used it herself on four different occasions. Jarret first heard it when he stood up as best man for his friend Ethan Stone. Mary had been looking out for her sister Michael that time. She had given Jarret a similar warning when he'd taken Rennie in hand. Connor Holiday hadn't been spared when he'd made Maggie his wife, and Walker Caide had heard the same threat when he'd exchanged vows with Skye. Mary Francis always looked out for her sisters. She would have protected them with her life if it had come to that.
