“She’s talking about fetchin’ Doc Kent for the boss,” said Max. “You sure you didn’t rattle something loose in your head?”
“Oh.” The tips of Jem’s ears reddened as he addressed Jane. “Heck sakes, ma’am. The boss probably only has a couple of cracked or busted ribs and a twisted ankle. No cause to send for the cavalry.”
This elicited some snickering from his brothers and Max, but Morgan said, “Jem’s right. I don’t need a doctor.”
“The same way you don’t need help,” said Jane. “Yes, I see that. I’ll get the door.” She turned toward the house but not so quickly that she missed Morgan’s arched eyebrow and the rather astonished looks of all of his men.
At Jane’s direction, Jessop and Max supported Morgan all the way to the bedroom. They left him wobbling on one foot beside the bed and hurried out when Jane indicated they had done enough. She shut the door behind them.
“There’s no audience,” she said. “Sit. Down.”
Morgan sat.
Relieved, Jane’s cheeks puffed a little as she exhaled. “Good.” She approached the bed and held out her hand for his hat. When he gave it to her, she turned it over in her hands, examining it. “How is it that this did not get knocked off your head? Jem did not lose his either.”
“Cowboy secret.”
It was his flat, expressionless delivery that assured Jane his humor was still as twisted as his ankle. She dropped it on a post at the foot of the bed. “Are you going to wrestle that boot off yourself or allow me to do it?”
“If it comes off my ankle’s going to swell.”
“That is why if nothing is broken, I am going to get a pan of cold water, have you soak your foot in it, and then bind that foot tight for you. But the boot has to come off sometime. It might as well be now.” She thought Morgan was going to offer another objection, but then he took a deep breath and was obviously and painfully reminded that his foot was not his only injury. Grimacing, he set one forearm tight against his ribcage. “I will get the pan, water, and bandages,” she said. “We will see how far you get with that boot while I am gone.”
“She-devil,” he muttered.
On the point of leaving, Jane turned and gave him her most indulgent smile. “If we are already come to a point in our marriage where endearments are an appropriate form of address, you should know that I prefer ‘devil’s handmaiden.’” She felt very good about leaving him speechless.
Only Jake was still present in the kitchen when Jane got there. He had drawn the short straw that meant he had to stay behind to help while the others returned to work. He assured Jane that she was not what made this duty a short straw; it was the boss. Jane appreciated the distinction.
He fetched a galvanized steel tub from the barn, cleaned it out, and filled it with water to which Jane added a portion of Epsom salts. It was too heavy for Jane to carry to the bedroom so Jake was engaged for that onerous task as well. He set the tub at Morgan’s feet and left without a word.
“What did you do to him?” Morgan asked when Jake was gone.
“Do to him?” Jane dropped the bandages on the bed. “Nothing. Shall I hold up a mirror so you can see the scowl you are casting?”
If anything, Morgan’s scowl deepened. “I got the boot off.”
“I see. And the sock, too.” She knelt beside the tub and held out her cupped hands. “May I?”
His heavy sigh was both sufferance and surrender. He slid sideways to avoid hitting the tub and gingerly lifted his injured foot. He placed the heel in her hands.
Jane carefully pressed her thumbs against his flesh, feeling her way over and around the bones of his ankle and foot, hoping she would know that something was out of place by touch alone. She made an effort to portray more confidence than she actually felt.
When she looked up, she saw Morgan’s teeth were clenched. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The scar at the corner of his mouth was a very white crescent. “I’m sorry.” She guided his foot to the salt bath and gently lowered it. She heard him suck in his breath as cold water washed over his skin. “It seems as if nothing is broken.”
“I know it’s not. You had to be convinced. I didn’t.”
“You are right,” she said. “I did.” She nudged the tub closer to the bed so he could rest his foot at a more comfortable angle. “What about your ribs?”
“What about them?”
“Alex broke some ribs falling down the stairs, and?—”
“Clumsy?”
“Drunk,” said Jane. “Dr. Stiles swaddled his chest in bandages.”
“No swaddling.”
