“O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home.”
She didn’t know more than that first verse, so she slipped back into humming.
Gil gave her hand a light squeeze. Maybe embarrassing herself by singing had been worth it.
Did she really believe God would help them? Had He done so in the past? She couldn’t say for Gil, but she’d felt the Lord’s presence with her this past year since Ezekiel had helped her come to know Him.
Ezekiel.
Tears crowded her eyes once more, and she fought the urge to curl on her knees on the stone floor. How much hurt did the Lord expect her to bear in a single week? First losing Ezekiel last night, and now Gil clung to life.
Her pain was nothing to Gil’s, yet her heart felt fractured beyond repair.
She sank to her knees beside the bed, sitting back on her heels as she cupped Gil’s hand in hers. She let her forehead drop to the mattress. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d been there to help him.
If he hadn’t slipped away without telling her what he was doing, she could have stopped him. Found another time when she could have been a lookout for him. Even as the thought rose up, she knew there would have been no other opportunity.
Jedidiah had men everywhere. It would have been impossible to move all those crates without being caught. How much had Gil managed? Any?
Her chest pressed until she could hardly breathe.
This was why she fought to control everything in her life. She had little power over her father and his decisions, but everything else, shehadto take charge of. She’d learned long ago how much pain came when she didn’t—pain to herself and to those around her.
She lifted her head to take in Gil’s face, half covered by the wet cloths that had turned pink from the blood. Around the fabric, the bruising made it almost impossible to recognize him, but she knew the man beneath those bruises, the kind, gentle man who’d come to mean so much to her.
Gil.
Hot tears stung her eyes. She'd started to release her heart to him, to let herself trust him. Maybe even let herself love him.
She’d let herself hope.
She should have known better.
Letting go of control brought pain. And this time, Gil would pay for her foolishness.
Jess studied the slow, even rise and fall of Gil’s chest. It’d been at least half an hour since she’d finished cleaning and bandaging his wounds—all except the gash on his cheek that needed stitches. She’d been waiting for the willow bark tea to take effect. It finally seemed to have taken enough edge off the pain that he could sleep.
The damage that remained made her belly churn. Two angry knots rose on his scalp, hidden by his dark hair. A gash on the crown of his head had bled profusely before she cleaned and dressed it. At least it didn't appear deep. But his left eye... The lid was swollen nearly shut, the flesh around it a sickening black. The right eye fared a little better, bruised but not very swollen.
She studied the dark puffy wound that extended from the left eye down to the unnatural bulge along his cheek bone. Were bones fractured beneath that angry skin? She couldn't be certain. And what could be done for broken bones in a man’s cheek? Rest might be his only treatment. That and something stronger than the tea to ease his pain.
Despair pressed down on her like a smothering blanket. If only he had never crossed paths with her, he would have been spared this brutality at her father's hands. The suffocating guilt settled like a stone in her chest.
A gash on Gil's jaw needed attention. The cut ran deep enough that it should be stitched. She likely couldn’t stop a scar, but maybe she could keep the mark small. She pulled her smallest needle and a bit of thread from her sewing kit.
It took too long to thread the needle, thanks to her shaking hands. She hated stitching skin. Especially since it was usually her father’s own men who’d caused the injuries she closed.
Footsteps sounded in the other room, and she turned to face this new threat. She’d tied back her own curtain so she could see when anyone came. Father hadn’t yet dared show himself—probably because he knew she’d be furious—but now that appeared to be changing.
He stepped across the room, his footsteps quiet, his pace measured. His expression looked blank.
No sign of remorse.
