His words jarred her into action. With burning cheeks, she hurried to Mother’s side, where she kept her back turned as Hawk and Nash undressed the man.
Mother’s color had not improved. If anything, a faint greenish hue had appeared around her mouth.
“Are you feeling poorly?”
“I’m tired.”
At the weary words, Addie studied the woman more closely. They’d been traveling for days, enough to suck the energy from even a younger woman. And they’d been almost drowned in the downpour. Of course, her skin felt cold. Did that explain the way she looked and sounded?
Cries and protests from the cot proved Shorty’s pain increased at the movement.
“He’s decent,” Nash called.
Addie hung her wet coat on the back of the chair, turned it toward the stove to hurry it in drying, and then returned to the narrow cot. A gray woolen blanket covered Shorty.
Nash peeled it back to expose Shorty’s leg. “It’s gouged pretty deep.”
An unnecessary observation. Addie could see it for herself.
Mr. Zacharius had fallen asleep with his head restingagainst his arms on the tabletop. His breathing sounded like he needed new bellows.
Mr. Bertrand shifted his back to the injured man. “I will certainly be letting the owners of this stage line know their service is not up to standards.”
No one paid him any mind. Did he think Shorty had injured himself just to inconvenience Mr. Bertrand? Or that God had ordered it to rain on the day the man would be traveling? Mr. Bertrand surely had to be aware of the dangers he’d encounter traveling across the mountains.
She found the washbasin hanging behind the stove and filled it with the warm water left in the kettle. “Do you suppose he has any clean rags?”
Nash opened cupboard doors and drawers. “This do?”
The gray rag he held up seemed clean. She took it and began washing out the wound.
“Perhaps it’s a good thing he’s passed out.”
She nodded at Nash’s words.
Hawk looked through the contents of an upper cupboard. “I recall he had whiskey here. For medicinal purposes, mind.” Bottles rattled. “Yup.” He held up a dark bottle and carried it back to the cot.
Satisfied she had the wound as clean as she could get it, Addie stepped back.
Shorty mumbled something.
“I hope he isn’t coming around. At least not now.” Hawk spared the man a glance before he poured whiskey into the wound.
Shorty roared and reared upward.
Nash caught his shoulders and pressed him back to the bed.
The man kicked and shot out his fists. Hawk held hislegs, and Addie reached under Nash’s chest to pin the man’s arms down.
Nash had removed his wet coat, and welcome body warmth wafted from him. When Shorty calmed and Nash stood back, coldness crept over Addie. She had good reason for being cold. Her clothes were damp, and slashing rain had washed every exposed inch of skin. Her skirts dripped, and her shoes were soaked.
But the chill didn’t come from wet clothes or water from the sky. It originated from a place deep inside, a place permanently cold since she turned eleven years old, and her life had been shattered. She clenched her teeth and forced a deep breath into her lungs. She’d improved at erasing the horrible pictures from her mind, but they occasionally flared like an out-of-control fire as they did now.
One way to end those memories involved turning her mind to other things.
“Does he have any other injuries?”
“’Spect his ribs are sore.” Hawk studied the man who had passed out again. “No tellin’ if he’s hurt inside.”
