“I favor my right hand. ’Twas hard to work the fabric with my left.”
The knot finally gives, and I gently pry the dressing loose from his skin. My whole body tenses. “Callum! Did you even wash this? It’s covered in old stains.”
He’s looking over his shoulder at me, and the stupid guy issmiling.
“What?” I give him my best glare. “Make fun of me, and I’ll cut your other arm.”
“You’ve never called me by my Christian name.”
I lean back. “Sure I have.” I test it on my tongue. “Callum, Callum. I’ve totally said your name.”
“Well.” He gives me a wink. “Something about it was different this time.”
“No,” I insist. “There’s nothing different.” Unless you count the way my chest is suddenly one giant pang.
His laugh is low and quiet. “As you say.”
“Whatever. You need to let me focus,Callum.”
I snatch the kettle from over the fire and pour boiled water into the basin at my bedside. Using a sliver of Donag’s soap, I wash my hands then scrub Callum’s bandage as best I can. It’s hopeless. I pour what’s left of the boiled water into a small bowl and return to his side.
“Ready?”
He glares at the soap and water like a toddler looks at vegetables. “I’d nae idea you were such a wee tyrant.”
I chuckle. “You don’t know the half of it.”
As I soap up the bandage, I explain, “My grandfather hates doctors. Last fall, he fell and dislocated his shoulder, so what did he do? He asked his old army-medic buddy to reset it, then had me fix him a comfrey poultice every day for a month. All to avoid the hospital. For bronchitis, it’s a mustard poultice. Ginger for burns.” I hold up the sudsy strip of fabric. “So, believe me. I’ve got this.”
“If you”—he hisses as I touch it to his skin—“insist.”
I angle him toward the window. “Actually, this looks worse than it is. If you keep it bound tightly, you should be fine without stitches, because that I don’t do.”
As the morning light catches his skin, a tiny alarm pings in my mind. I’ll need to leave for the kitchen soon, or face the wrath of people like Margie.
I should hurry.
The deepest part of the cut is only a couple inches long, and it doesn’t take long before the water rinses clear from his skin. But his bandage is ruined. “You need a clean dressing. This thing’s dead.”
“Just fold it half-wise.”
My hands drop. “Don’t you know about germs?”
He looks away, shrugging. “It’ll serve till I can make another.”
Of course he doesn’t know about germs. “Sorry. I’ve got something we can use. It’s not a bandage, but it’s fabric and it’s clean.”
He adjusts his shirt, looking more self-conscious than ever. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”
Does anyone ever trouble themselves on his account?
Though I guess the same is true for me. Aside from Poppa, there isn’t really anybody I can count on. Not in any meaningful way.
I hesitate, then lean over. “Can I—?” Before he can answer, I pull the knife from the scabbard at his waist. The move is supposed to be casual. It isn’t.
At my touch, his breath catches, and suddenly I’m on fire. “Can I use this?” My voice comes out weak. “I need it to cut a strip. From my shirt.”
“Your shirt?”
