Bethie lay in the big, empty bed, fully clothed, listening. The shooting seemed to have died down. Awhile ago it had grown so fierce she was afraid the walls were about to be breached. But now the fort was almost quiet. Perhaps that meant Nicholas would be returning soon.
Maybe it would be over by morning, and maybe...
She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until a knock on the door woke her. She hurried from bed to answer it, expected someone to tell her the building was on fire. Instead she found several battle-weary men bearing Nicholas between them.
Her heart stopped. “Oh my God! Nicholas!”
He hung limply between them, his eyes closed. But he was breathing. He was alive.
“Lay him on the bed.” She stepped aside to let them enter, hurried around to the other side of the bed. “What happened?”
“He took a tomahawk to the back of the head,” said one of the men as they laid him back on the mattress. “It was the handle that got him, no’ the blade. If it had been the blade, his brains would be—”
“Hold your whist, Bill! This is his lady here!”
Filled with dread, Bethie leaned over him, touched her hand to his cheek. “Nicholas, can you hear me? Nicholas?”
He didn’t move, didn’t answer, lay still as death against the pillow. But he wasn’t feverish, and his breathing was deep and even.
“The surgeon says all we can do is wait and see if he wakes up.”
Bethie nodded, fought back her tears. “Thank you, gentlemen, for bringin’ him home. Can one of you fetch water for me—and bandages? I want to clean the wound on his arm.”
“Aye, ma’am. I’ll see to it.” The one who’d first spoken picked up the water bucket from the table, started out the door, turned back. “If it makes you feel any better, he saved a good man’s life out there. If it hadn’t been for him, I dinnae know how many of us would have made it back inside the walls alive.”
“H-he went outside the walls?”
“Aye. He led us out to the west ravelin so we could fight back those Indians who were shootin’ fire over the walls. Nicholas Kenleigh is a man among men, the bravest of the lot. We’re all prayin’ for him tonight.”
As the men shut the door behind them, Bethie didn’t know which emotion burned hottest inside her—fear or fury.
***
Bethie kept vigil at Nicholas’s side all night and through the next day. She removed his sweat-stained clothes, bathed his body with cool cloths. She cleaned the wound on his arm, where it seemed a ball had grazed him. She trickled water into his throat, urged him to drink. She spoke to him, and she prayed.
Dr. Aimes came to check on him around noon, told Bethie there was nothing to be done. “I’ve seen men wake after being unconscious for weeks and be in complete command of their faculties, but I’ve also seen men drift away and die or wake to be helpless as newborn babies. Keep talking to him.”
And so she did. She spoke to him of her childhood before her father’s death. She told him how hard her life had been before he’d arrived on her doorstep. She told him she loved him, could not imagine a single sunrise without him. But if he heard, he showed no sign of it.
Annie brought her meals and fresh water, shared with her news of the battle. “Some of the fight has left them. They’re gatherin’ under the bank again, but no’ so close this time. Yer man put a lick of fear in them, he did. No one has been killed or injured all day, thank heavens! But look at you, lamb! Ye’ve no’ slept a wink! Let old Annie take the little one, and you get some rest.”
Beyond exhaustion, Bethie nursed Belle, kissed her, handed her over to her auntie Annie, then lay down beside Nicholas, her head on his shoulder, and slept. When she awoke, she found him still unconscious, but his arm was wrapped around her, holding her close.
***
Nicholas heard the blast of a cannon, was certain it had been fired inside his skull.
“Open your eyes, love. Please open your eyes!” It was Bethie. She sounded upset.
He tried to answer, heard himself groan instead. His head hurt like hell. What had happened? He tried to remember, fought to clear his mind. The Indians had surrounded the fort, fired lit arrows over the wall. Had he been shot? Aye, a ball had grazed his right shoulder. But that was yesterday, and the wound had been minor. Why did he feel so weak?
“Nicholas? Can you hear me?”
He fought the blinding pain in his head, willed himself to speak. “Bethie.”
“Oh, thank God! Oh, Nicholas!” Her lips brushed his cheek. Something cold was held to his lips. “Drink.”
He didn’t realize until the cool water slid down his throat how thirsty he was. But before he could ask for more, he was drifting again.
