Blood had never bothered him before. But none of the blood he’d seen before had been hers.
He was a man of action. If something was broken, he fixed it. If someone needed punishing, he meted it out. But when this tiny person he was supposed to protect lay on the floor, bleeding and still, he felt powerless.
“Oh, dear.” The innkeeper’s wife lowered herself to the floor beside him and touched her fingertips to the smooth skin of Tabetha’s forehead. “My husband will return with the doctor shortly. His house isn’t far, just on the edge of town.”
Stone merely shook his head, dazed.
Terrified.
“Let’s get her off the floor, why don’t we? Wilma! Bring more linens and hot water to Mrs. Chester’s chamber!” The woman hollered at the maid over her shoulder.
Off the floor. Off the floor. It was something he could do. He adjusted his position and gingerly slid one arm around her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. As he lifted her into his arms, rapid and steady drips of the scarlet liquid dripped from her hair. He froze.
It was too much blood.
“Let’s get her to your room, shall we, Mr. Chester?”
“Yes. Yes.” He blinked. Sick with himself, he eyed the stairway. He shouldn’t have allowed her to leave the room in the first place. He stepped around her blood and, conscious of the new drips forming on the floor, exercised the greatest of care as he climbed back to the second floor. “Thank you, ma’am,” he murmured when she held the door wide for him.
“I’m Mrs. Hettrick.” She hurried to the bed and drew the covers back. “Give me a moment here. I do hope these linens protect the mattress.”
Stone tightened his grip on Tabetha protectively, watching her face for any indication that she might be waking up. She felt soft and fragile in the folds of the night rail she’d held up and declared the loveliest thing she’d ever seen when they’d been shopping in the mercantile.
He didn’t mind holding her. He didn’t mind at all.
“There now.” Mrs. Hettrick moved aside and Stone lowered Tabetha’s limp form onto the bed.
“I’ve brought more linens, Mrs. Hettrick. And hot water.” A mob-capped maid rushed into the room. Stone edged away as the innkeeper’s wife went to work wiping away some of the blood and the maid pressed a dry cloth to the back of Tabetha’s head.
“She’s such a pretty little thing,” the maid commented.
“And newly married too,” Mrs. Hettrick cooed. And then to Stone, “Pardon, Mr. Chester, this is my sister, Wilma. Now don’t you worry about your bride, she’s going to be just fine. My oldest boy fell off a horse last winter, and there was so much blood you’d have thought he was a goner. But sure as I’m standing here, he was right back on that horse the next day.”
Stone nodded. She was right, of course.
But this was Tabetha!
Her eyelashes fluttered, and his heart lurched.
“Thank God!” He raised a hand to her cheek, stroking the soft skin along the corner of her lips. “I thought—” His voice caught.
Because, despite all their bickering, this minx was growing on him, and he couldn’t imagine a world without her plaguing him at every turn.
“Oh, look. There now. Didn’t I tell you? Welcome back, Mrs. Chester. You took a bit of a fall—gave your dear husband quite a fright.”
Tabetha stared up at him, confusion swimming in her eyes. “My dear… what?”
“Your husband, m’ dear—poor Mr. Chester.”
“Husband?”
“You hit your head at the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Chester,” the maid added helpfully.
“Lay back and rest until my husband returns with Doc Finch.”
If anything, Tabetha looked even more perplexed. “Who are you?”
“I’m Mrs. Hettrick. And my husband is Mr. Hettrick—we’re the owners of The Tartan Scarf. Don’t you remember checking in yesterday?”
