“You been shot a lot, huh?” I lowered beside him and touched his necktie.
“I will undress myself.”
“You just drawled for somedollto help.” My voice light, my stomach all jumbled in knots. I couldn’t let him die.
“Pestering you.”
I rubbed my hands down my thighs. “Fine. Have at it.” I sat back, crossed my arms.
One thing I’d learned from Ma doctoring folks all those years was to be calm and controlled. But—I needed to check his wound. Now. Not argue about nonsense.
My cabin was shadowed, and I squinted to see. He fumbled with the tie, fingers slipping at the knot. Blood soaked his white sleeve, a dirty black edged with carmine and bronze. I broke a match across the heel of my boot and lit a tallow candle, wax guttering over the brass chamberstick. He released his necktie, laid his head back.
I leaned forward and touched the button at his throat. “Just let me.”
He was warm, his body still as I unbuttoned his shirt and vest. Beneath, he wore a tank, mostly white with cardinal-feather red blooming across his chest. I lifted his hem, but his hand paused mine, his palm calloused against my knuckles.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Dammit, Stot, you’re dying.”
“Nah.” He raised the edge of his shirt, a glimpse of tan skin. “Stomach’s not winged.”
“Mmm.” I wiped my forehead, my body clenched, fear corkscrewed all throughout. I helped him from his black waistcoat and edged the shirt over his shoulder muscles, the sleeve crunchy with bits of dried blood and sticking to his slick skin. I grabbed my scissors. “I’m cutting off your sleeve.”
“Blazes, that’s my favorite shirt.”
“Not sure red’s your color.”
Crinkles fanned from his eyes. A frantic urgency heated my body—so I breathed, slowed the motion of my hands.
I removed the shreds of his button-down and tossed them on the floor. His wound was gnarled, but the bullet shallow. I could get it; hewould be fine. In a mug of heated water, I stirred in a scoop of ground willow bark. Stot lounged on my sofa, one arm free, the other clothed, black tie still knotted, oilcloth slicker rumpled behind him, linens dirty and sticking to him. I handed him the steeped tea. He glowered at the shards of willow frothed in the water.
“Just drink it.”
He lifted my dainty teacup to his lips. I pushed aside my cabinet curtains in search of supplies, glancing at him over my shoulder. He adjusted his grip on the cup and grimaced. I snatched some whiskey and poured a couple of fingers. “Better, princess?”
I tipped the bottle to my mouth, and the liquid scratched down my throat. I shivered, my damp nightgown chilling me. This was my only decent gown, my other threadbare, with a wide, loose neck. I banged about my shelves.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Looking for an all-fired needle.”
“You’re not stitching me up.”
I lifted my brows. He tried to look at the wound on the back of his arm. “I can do it.”
I leaned against my cedar-plank table. “Alright.”
“I’m more worried about your sewing ability.” He scrutinized an overdress tossed over a crate.
“There’s nothing wrong with my garments,” I said.
“Sure. Just the occasional holes and missing buttons.” He closed his eyes. “You don’t sew. Someone did it for you back home.”
How in Sam Hill had he noticed that? I was careful to cover rips whenever I went into town. And furthermore: What had happened back in Kansas didn’t matter anymore.
“This is my home.”
