Page 35 of The Widow Wore Plaid

“Good enough.” He pulled the shirt over his head and she helped ease the left arm into the sleeve and tuck the shirttail into his breeches.

“I’ll see if I can get some of the blood out of your jacket before it stiffens.” She picked up the remains of the bowl of dark red water. An unpleasant coppery smell rose from it. “Ew. Let me just get rid of this.” She crossed to the rear door and without thinking opened it.

“Jane, no!”

At his cry, she turned back just as the boom of a gun echoed in the otherwise quiet forest.

Chapter Fifteen

Before Gareth could move, the heavy stoneware bowl exploded in Jane’s hands. She shrieked and fell backward as a shower of pottery bits and dirty water rained down around her. He bolted for the door, grabbed her arm, and jerked her back. Another stride and he kicked the door shut, then slammed the bolt down.

He whirled back around to Jane and his heart stopped.

Covered in blood, she stood frozen and shaking in the center of the room, her eyes wide, breathing in noisy gasps.

“My God, Jane!” He took a step toward her, but she shrieked again and stumbled backward. Hands outstretched with palms out, he inched toward her. “Jane, sweetheart, I just need to see where you’re bleeding.”

She looked down at her hands, as though she’d never seen them before, then began to scrub them together. “No, no, no.”

“Jane.” He needed to go find whoever had done this to her and kill them, but he couldn’t leave her so . . . altered. Never had he ever seen Jane anything other than cool, calm, and efficient, as she had been about his wound. This vulnerable woman bore no resemblance to that one, yet clearly was a part of her as well. One he would still cherish and love. However, his first concern right now was what injuries she had sustained. He took another step toward her. “Sweetheart, let me see your hands.”

Still dazed, she held them out stiffly. “What’s wrong with me?”

“You’ve been hurt, love. I’m not sure how badly, so I need to tend to you now.” In front of her at last, Gareth gently took her hand. He wished for one of the wetted cloths but was afraid if he tried to take her toward the fireplace she’d bolt. Still, he needed to clean her hands and face. Thankfully, nothing seemed to be dripping blood, so he drew her hand through his arm and escorted her slowly the ten feet to the table. “Sit here now, sweet. I need to get some water.”

“I’ll do it.” She sprang up before he could stop her and looked around puzzled. “Where’s the bowl?”

Considerably more worried now at this lapse of memory, Gareth rose and took both her hands. “It shattered, my dear. The intruder fired a bullet that broke the bowl. Don’t you remember?”

“I . . . I . . .” She stared at him, though not seeing him. “I don’t . . .” Jane blinked several times, then peered into his face. “Gareth, oh, Gareth,” she said, and dissolved into tears on his chest.

But she was Jane again. He heaved a great sigh of relief and sat down on the chair with her on his knee. Stroking her hair, he let her cry as long as he dared. He must go find the villain who had done this and make him pay—dearly. “Shh, my love. You are all right. At least I think you are. Tell me what is hurting?”

Sitting up on his lap, she shook back her head and wiped her eyes. “I don’t feel any hurt, really.” Her hand went to her cheek. “Is there a cut here?”

Difficult to see for the blood all over her. Where was that blood coming from? “Let me get a wet cloth and clean you up. Then I’ll be able to tell.” He deposited her in the chair and picked up a couple of the muslin strips. The water in the pot was still very hot, but he dipped the cloths in it, then waved them a little to cool them as he went back to Jane. “Here, let’s see where this blood is coming from.”

“I can do that. . . .” Oh, yes. The Jane he knew and loved had definitely returned.

“Turnabout’s fair play. My turn to tend to you.” He squeezed some of the water out of the warm cloth and gingerly began to wash her face. The cloth became tinged with pink, but the only injury he could ascertain was a scratch on her cheek. Likewise, her hands seemed free of major damage, just a nick or two, none of which was actively bleeding. “Can you wiggle your fingers, Jane?”

Nodding, she waggled them every way they would go.

“No cuts? I’d think with the shards of pottery all around you, something would have been struck worse than these.” He peered at her hands, rubbed a finger over the insignificant scratches. “Is this my blood? The bloody water you were throwing out?”

She grabbed the other wet cloth and scrubbed her hands. The skin appeared pink and mostly unbroken, no real damage whatsoever. “I think so.” Scrubbing briskly, Jane removed all traces of the carnage that had seemed to have been coming from her. The linen turned a rusty color, but Jane’s hands remained unscathed. “Apparently this”—she indicated her cheek—“is the only true hurt it caused. A minor miracle considering all those sharp shards could have cut me quite badly.”

Scraping outside the back door brought Gareth’s attention back to the problem at hand. He strode quickly to the door, leaned against the stone wall, and peeked out of the window. His vantage point showed him nothing of the intruder and he had to close his eyes and breathe deeply to quell the fiery rage that burned through him. Whoever this man was, he deserved to die for almost killing Jane. An inch to the left and she’d be dying on the floor right now. He clenched his jaw, the image of Jane crumpled on the floor giving way to one of Gareth with his hands wrapped around the throat of some faceless man, choking the life out of him.

Pistol at the ready, Gareth whirled to the other side of the window, peering out at the scrub brush, grass, and stone well that comprised the rear yard of the cottage, but again couldn’t see a human figure. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine.” Jane’s voice was closer than expected. He glanced over his shoulder to find her right behind him. “The scratch on my cheek stopped bleeding.” She smiled, a shadow of her old self. “I’m still shaking, but not so badly now. Did you see him?”

“No.” Gareth returned his attention to the view out the back window. “But he’s out there and I don’t care who he is, I swear to you I will kill him.”

He eased back from the window, willing the man outside to make a movement. Give him a target to shoot at was all he asked. Out of the corner of his eye, movement to his left. He tapped the glass to break it, then fired toward the shadow he’d seen. Thought he’d seen. There was no cry, so likely the man hadn’t been hit. Bad luck. He unhooked the powder horn he’d unearthed upstairs when he’d found the pistol. His father had never willingly thrown away anything, it seemed. Thank God for it now as far as his son was concerned.

“Did you get him?” Jane stood directly behind him, cold dispassion in her voice.