Alcohol,linen strips, needles and thread, scissors, ointment, iodine. I gather everything I can from the medicine chest in the inn’s office, my hands trembling as I place the supplies into a woven basket. I carry a kettle of boiled water wrapped in a dish towel.
Suspicious circumstances. Not a real explanation. And now here I am, tiptoeing up the stairs to tend to a strange man—one who will eventually wake to find himself chained like a prisoner.
I ease the guest room door open. A faint groan escapes his cracked lips, his blue work shirt clinging to his chest with blood and sweat. Boots hang off the bed, trousers still tucked in.
A shallow cut bleeds above his right brow. I check for more head wounds but find none. Unbuttoning his shirt, I work fastbut gently. Maybe he’s a ranch hand. A farmer. His body is built for labor.
My fingertips rest briefly on his chest as I watch the steady rise and fall of his breath. Sweat glistens across his neck. He’s sun-darkened but pale in the cheeks. He’s lost too much blood.
Then I see it. A small, clean puncture wound just under his ribs. A knife? Maybe. I lean in, ear to his chest. No gurgling. No wheeze. His lungs sound clear. It mustn’t be too deep. Thank God. All I can do now is close it up.
Surely this will wake him. Shackles lock his wrists, chained to the rails of the iron bedframe. I didn’t want them there, but right now I’m grateful. If he lashes out, at least I’ll have a chance to flee.
I steady myself, open the iodine.
The moment it touches the wound, he stirs. Mumbles something.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “You’re safe. I’m closing the wound. I’m sorry—it’ll hurt. Please try to be still.”
He groans. A gasp tears from his throat as he jolts upright, chains clattering.
“Shhh, please. You’re all right. You’re doing just fine,” I say, stitching fast. Sweat beads on his brow. His lip trembles as he bites down, suppressing a scream.
I wish to God we had something stronger whiskey.
When I finish, I wipe away what blood I can and bandage the wound.
“All done,” I whisper, gathering the stained cloth and excess supplies into a small sack.
Then he shifts again, rolling slowly onto his side, exposing his back.
My breath stalls.
“Oh, good God.”
The white linen beneath him is drenched in blood. No wonder his skin’s gone ghostly.
I slice the back of his shirt open with the scissors. Beneath it, more blood, more wounds. One near the shoulder, another low by the kidney.
I move faster now, scrubbing the area clean, then pouring iodine over the wounds. He flinches but doesn’t speak. Iodine pools in the gashes like a seasoned hog roast. I thread the needle and begin again.
When I finish, I tap his side. He rolls onto his back with a grunt.
“It’s going to be all right,” I murmur, dabbing a cloth along his lips. They’re dry, cracked, nearly bloodless.
He barely moves, but his hazel eyes open for a moment. Stormy, unfocused. When they lock with mine, something flickers in me.
Who is this man?
“Miss Alice!”
A voice rings out down the hall. I jolt, heart hammering. I shut the door quietly behind me.
“Miss Alice?”
It’s a maid. Mabel. She seems flustered, hands wringing against her white apron. I try to smooth my expression and tuck the panic away.
“Yes?”
