Starting with the madman who had claimed the farmhouse. Had the countryside grown so violent that complete strangers dared occupy a house and drive off owners too weak to defend themselves? Why hadn’t the villain taken over the much grander Sutton Hall across the lane?
Or had he tried and that had been Jacques’ ghost?
“Don’t use that arm,” Meera warned. “I have no way of knowing if the clavicle is cracked or broken. The muscles in your shoulder are thick, so we can hope for the best. But the wrap is needed to hold the bone in place until it heals, which means you can’t move your arm. Do you understand? You could be permanently crippled if that bone doesn’t heal. I can give you a mild pain killer. Those bruises will hurt.”
“Has anyone gone after the madman?” Discovering he couldn’t pull his coat on, Fletch cursed and let Meera button it over the sling.
He ought to mind a short brown woman seeing him undressed, but she was an enormous improvement over field surgeons who came after him with saws.
“Rafe and Damien and a few of the men from the manor rode out. Kate put the children to bed at the inn with Verity, but she’s pacing the floor in my front room in a temper now. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her angry before.”
The dormant volcano had come to life. Fletch prayed he wasn’t her target. He eased off the examination table, hiding a wince of pain. Juggling his coat pocket with his good right hand, he removed his coin purse. Opening it one-handed was beyond him. He offered it to the apothecary. “Take what I owe you.”
With a surprised nod of approval, she helped herself to a coin. “If I had more patients who actually paid, I could invest in better equipment. Do not attempt to do anything with that arm for the next few weeks. Come back to see me if it swells or you become feverish.”
He wasn’t listening. He stalked into the front room of the small cottage to find Kate—Mrs. Morgan—pacing. She halted at his appearance, noted the sling and half-fastened coat, and scowled.
His head filled with words but none emerged. He nodded at her and marched toward the door.
“A search party has gone to look for the intruder,” he finally informed her.
She hurried to keep up with his strides, apparently too furious to reply.
The front garden smelled of herbs. Long stems and seed heads brushed his clothing as he stalked toward the lane. He wanted to order her to stay in town, but he had no right. He hoped sensible heads would keep her here.
“I think I know who it was.” She continued marching down the lane.
He nearly skidded to a halt, then hurried to catch up. He waited impatiently for the rest of the bricks to fall.
She spoke curtly, without prompting. “My brother-in-law. My husband was Welsh and grew up in the West Country. I met his brother a few times over the years. He’s an itinerant field hand. George refused to hire him, said he was a troublemaker. I recognize the accent, and the size was right. He’s not a large man.”
“I stabbed him.” Fletch slowed his pace. The knife he’d used was one he used for everything, from cleaning mud from his boots to skinning hares.
“Good. Maybe that will send him on his way.” She didn’t sound concerned.
“Bloodthirsty wench. The knife wasn’t clean. If the wretch doesn’t die from bleeding, he might die of infection. Why does he think the house belongs to him?” He had pondered that all the while the doctor had been poking and prodding and spreading pain.
She shrugged. “He might be quite mad. Or perhaps it’s a Welsh thing. George never owned the property. It belonged to my father and was bequeathed to Arthur. Brydie and I have life estates so we’ll always have a home. Damien has gone over the papers to see if all is as it should be.”
“Mad, then.” Although, in Fletch’s experience, madmen didn’t just suddenly show up at the door without reason, however insane.
“Thank you for believing me,” she murmured as they reached the inn’s muddy drive.
Why shouldn’t he believe her? He’d ponder that another time. He realized she hadn’t thanked him for thrashing the lout. Violence was seldom the answer, as he’d just proved.
The inn drive really needed gravel. Fletch wanted to carry her over the filth, but he was officially crippled. She ignored his offered good right arm and picked her way delicately past the worst puddles.
She hesitated at the lobby entrance. “Have you eaten? I can fetch something from the kitchen. I feel incredibly guilty that you were hurt for no reason of your own.”
Well, hell, he did have a reason. He’d really wanted to punch someone.
How the devil did he reply? He’d lost the patina of civilization long ago. He didn’t know how to address this anxious female.
“I wanted to hit him,” he said, stupidly being honest because he had no other words. “I’m fine.” And he walked away, because that was what he did best.
He wasn’t fine. Everyone knew that. And right now, he ached like hell and wanted a barrel of ale to knock him out for a week.
But the captain had finally trusted him to work on the manor clock. He had to stay sober. Could he work on the aging mechanism with one bloody hand?
