“Me head hurts,” Thomas mumbled. “And me arm.”
“I ken, love. Ye had a terrible fall. But ye’re going to be all right.”
Jeane checked his eyes—pupils the same size, responsive to light. She asked him simple questions—his name, his age, what he remembered. His answers were slow but accurate.
“Ye’re a very lucky boy, Thomas,” Jeane said with a smile, even though her own eyes were burning with tears of relief. “Ye gave us quite a scare.”
“Sorry,” Thomas whispered.
“Daenae be sorry. Just be more careful next time, aye?”
He nodded slightly then winced at the movement.
Jeane gave him a small dose of milk of the poppy to help with the pain and to let him sleep. Within moments, his eyes were closed again, his breathing deep and even.
“He’ll sleep through the night,” Jeane told Cecily. “And that’s good. Rest will help him heal, but he’s through the worst of it. I’m certain of that now.”
Cecily grabbed Jeane’s hands, squeezing tight. “Thank ye. Thank ye so much. I daenae ken what I would have done if?—”
“Daenae think about it,” Jeane said gently. “He’s going to be fine. The arm will take time to heal, and he’ll have a scar on his forehead, but he’ll be runnin’ around causin’ trouble again before ye ken it.”
Cecily laughed through her tears and pulled Jeane into a fierce hug.
When she pulled back, she looked at Jeane with shining eyes. “Ye’re a blessin’ to this clan, Liliana. A true blessin’.”
Jeane flushed, unused to such praise. “I’m just doin’ me job.”
“It’s more than a job,” Cecily insisted. “Ye saved me son’s life. I’ll never forget that.”
After Cecily settled in to sleep in the chair beside her son, Jeane slipped out of the room, needing air and space.
Her hands were still shaking, not from fear anymore but from the release of all that pent-up tension. She’d been so afraid Thomas wouldn’t wake up, that she’d done something wrong, that she’d fail him and his mother.
She found herself in the washroom, scrubbing Thomas’ blood from her hands. The water turned pink then red then finally clear.
But she couldn’t stop washing. Couldn’t stop seeing that moment when she’d first seen him lying there, so small and still.
“Jeane.”
She turned to find Fergus standing in the doorway.
“Ye did it,” he said quietly. “Ye saved him.”
“I was terrified I wouldnae be able to,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “What if I’d made the wrong choice?”
“But ye dinnae,” Fergus said, crossing to her and taking her wet hands in his. “Ye were brilliant, little mouse. I’ve never seen anythin’ like it.”
“I’ve never treated anyone that badly injured,” Jeane confessed. “I was just… I was makin’ it up as I went, hopin’ I was doin’ the right thing.”
“Ye were,” Fergus assured her. “Ye were calm and confident, and ye took charge. The whole clan saw it. They saw ye save that boy’s life.”
Jeane looked up at him, seeing something in his eyes that made her breath catch.
“I’m so proud of ye,” he said softly. “So damn proud.”
Tears spilled over, and Jeane let herself lean into him as he wrapped his arms around her. She pressed her face against his chest and let herself cry—from relief, from exhaustion, from the weight of what she’d just done.
Fergus held her through it all, one hand stroking her hair, murmuring softly in Gaelic.
