He tried to gauge ten minutes, then pulled the foot out of the water. He could no longer feel any burning in the flesh, but the swelling hadn't gone down, and what little of the skin that wasn't red before now glared brightly from the cold.
The stocking had become a pitiful object, riddled with holes and stiff with dried blood and pus. It needed a good washing and mending, but he had nothing else to put on, and his feet would grow even worse in the boot with no stocking at all. The best he could settle for was turning it around so the holes that had been on top of his foot now exposed the bottom. This would likely result in blisters underneath his foot and more holes in the stocking where the boot rubbed on top. Maybe he could find cloth to wrap his foot in before then.
But when he tried to pull his boot on over the swollen appendage, the swelling had grown far too large to tuck inside the leather. The effort reignited the flame in his foot, and the more he tugged, the more he wanted to either swear or cry. This was ridiculous. Would he have to now trudge back with only a stocking on this foot? At least it wouldn't make his limp any worse than it had already become. Not having the leather rub would feel better. Should he remove the other shoe too? Mrs. Barlow would surely think him a daft invalid. Certainly not a man to be admired.
He'd come to terms with the fact that no woman would consider him a catch with this weak leg. But spending so much time with a lady like Mrs. Barlow… Well, that made a man wish for better.
Made him wishhewere better.
* * *
Was the drop in temperature the cause of Mr. Long's pain? Katie studied him as he limped back to their camp. Maybe she shouldn't be so obvious in watching, but she had neither the strength nor desire to cater to polite manners. And this man needed help.
That was why she was brewing willow bark tea for his pain. Was something else wrong, though? The limp was a great more severe than yesterday. Had he hurt himself since then?
As he neared the camp, she caught sight of his stockinged foot. Hemusthave injured himself. Either that or the shoe made his leg hurt worse.
Just watching the way he eased himself down a tiny bit at a time made her own body hurt. He exhaled a long breath once he settled, but he didn't look her way.
He also tucked his foot where his trousers mostly covered it, so she couldn't get a good view of the stocking. She might have to directly ask him what had happened.
First, though, she handed him the plate she’d prepared. Men always responded better with a full belly.
He took the food with a “Thanks,” and then she poured tea from the kettle.
"This will taste better after it brews longer, but here's a cup to start with." The willow bark would be bitter. Too bad she didn't have sugar or molasses to sweeten it with.
"Aren't you going to eat?"
He hadn't taken a bite yet but motioned toward her own plate, which she hadn't touched.
"I'll get to it. Here's your tea." In truth, her body was almost too weary to eat. She would do what she needed to help Mr. Long before collapsing onto her blanket. The pains around her belly had come more frequently this afternoon. Nothing so strong she couldn't stand it, and not steady like her housewifery book said to watch for. Just exhausting.
He took the cup and sipped, but his brow stayed lowered. He seemed to be contemplating something. "Aren’t you feeling well?"
Now it was her turn not to meet his gaze. "Just tired." She adjusted the kettle back among the logs on the fire.
"Lie down then. I can do what's left to be done."
She looked over at his foot, where only a snippet of gray wool showed. "Are you hurt? A new injury, I mean?" She couldn't stretch out for the night until she’d done everything she could for him.
He shifted, covering the foot a little more. "Just a rub from my boot. Nothing much."
She met his gaze. "I have a salve that should keep any blisters from festering. Is there a hole in your stocking? I don't have darning needles, but I might be able to patch it."
He shook his head a little too quickly. "I'd use a salve if you have it. No need to concern yourself about the holes."
More than one hole then. And since he seemed so skittish about the whole situation, his blisters had likely already festered. That must be adding to his limp. She had a feeling this man didn't like to show pain.
She searched her carpet bag for the cream Sarah had taught her to mix. She had an extra pair of wool stockings too. Would he accept them if she offered? They were a simple cream color, no fancy embroidery or ruffles. And the weave was loose enough that the pair would likely stretch to fit his feet. If he was in the condition she suspected, his own stocking would do little to help and he might be willing—or rather, desperate enough—to use hers.
She pulled out the salve and the garments and handed them to him, then kept her voice casual enough to ease his pride. "If you've a hole in yours, put these on to keep the boot from rubbing more. You wouldn't want the blisters to fester and burn. When they reach that state, the foot will often swell, and sometimes the fever will overtake the rest of your body. You'd be laid low in only a day or two. And I need to get to that town and its doctor." She could only hope the description of what was to come, maybe some of which he was already experiencing, would encourage him to care for the wounds properly.
He took the jar and stockings, but his gaze had sharpened on her. "Do you think the babe will come early?"
She didn't have the strength to ease his fears too much, but she could offer a simple fact. "I’m supposed to have several weeks still. Maybe as much as a month."
Though that didn't ensure this little one would wait the full length of time. The housewifery book made that clear.
