"Don't worry about me, Mr. Melcher. I am here to worry about you."
Which is just what she did when he'd finished eating. She brought his shaving gear and held the mirror for him while he performed the ritual. She studied him surreptitiously, the gentle mouth and straight nose, strong chin with no cleft, no dimples. But it was his eyes she liked best. They were pale brown and very boyish, especially when he smiled. He looked up and she dropped her eyes. But when he tended his chore again, swiveling his head this way and that, his jaw jutting forward and the cords of his neck standing out, it made the pulse beat low in her stomach. Without warning came the memory of the robber's sharper features, thicker neck and longer, darker face. Forbidding countenance, she thought, compared to the inviting face of David Melcher.
"The robber wears a moustache," she observed.
All the gentleness left David Melcher's face. "Typical!" he snapped.
"Is it?"
"It certainly is! The most infamous outlaws in history wore them!"
She lowered the mirror, rose, and twisted her hands together, sorry to have angered him.
"I can see that you don't like to speak of him, so why don't you just forget he's down there and think about getting yourself better? Doctor Dougherty said I should change the bandage on your foot and apply some ointment if it gives you pain."
"It's feeling better all the time. Don't bother."
Rebuffed, she turned quickly to leave, sorry to have riled him by talking about the robber, especially after Mr. Melcher had been so complimentary over the fried steak and potatoes and the fresh linen napkin on the tray. She could see there was going to be friction in this house if the criminal managed to live. Yet she'd taken on the job of nursing him, and she was bound to give it her best.
Returning to the downstairs bedroom, she found he'd moved his right hand—it now lay across his stomach. She studied its long, lean fingers, curled slightly, the shading of hair upon its narrows, and saw what appeared to be a smear of dirt on it. Edging closer, she looked again. What she had taken for dirt was actually a black and blue mark in the distinct shape of a boot heel. Carefully picking up the injured hand by the wrist, she laid it back down at his side. But when it touched the sheet, he rolled slightly, protectively cradling it in his good left hand as if it pained him. Instinctively she pressed him onto his back, her hands seeming ridiculously minuscule upon his powerful chest. But he fell back as before, subdued and still again.
It was hard to tell if the hand was broken, but just in case, she padded a small piece of wood, fit it into his palm, and bound it, winding gauze strips up and around his hairy wrist, crossing them over the thumb until any broken bones could not easily be shifted. She noticed as she worked that his hands were clean, the nails well tended, the palms callused.
Checking his forehead again, she found it somewhat cooled but still hotter than it should be. Thinking back wearily to yesterday when she'd set out for town and a job at Culpepper's, she thought how little she'd suspected she'd end up with a job like this instead. Perhaps Culpepper's would have been preferable after all, she thought tiredly, slogging back to the kitchen for cotton and alcohol again. She looked around in dismay at the room: pieces of torn rags and gauze everywhere; used wet lumps of cotton in bowls; vinegar cruet, salt bowl, herb bags, scissors, dirty dishes everywhere; blood splatters on the wall and the highboy, and the stench of burnt alum hanging sickeningly over everything.
Turning on her heel, she uncharacteristically disregarded it all and returned to her bedroom.
Dear God! He'd turned over… and onto his right leg!
Pushing and grunting, struggling with his limp weight, she managed to get him onto his back again, then fell across his stomach, panting. But she knew even before she looked what she'd find: the wound was bleeding profusely
Which is just what she did when he'd finished eating. She brought his shaving gear and held the mirror for him while he performed the ritual. She studied him surreptitiously, the gentle mouth and straight nose, strong chin with no cleft, no dimples. But it was his eyes she liked best. They were pale brown and very boyish, especially when he smiled. He looked up and she dropped her eyes. But when he tended his chore again, swiveling his head this way and that, his jaw jutting forward and the cords of his neck standing out, it made the pulse beat low in her stomach. Without warning came the memory of the robber's sharper features, thicker neck and longer, darker face. Forbidding countenance, she thought, compared to the inviting face of David Melcher.
"The robber wears a moustache," she observed.
All the gentleness left David Melcher's face. "Typical!" he snapped.
"Is it?"
"It certainly is! The most infamous outlaws in history wore them!"
She lowered the mirror, rose, and twisted her hands together, sorry to have angered him.
"I can see that you don't like to speak of him, so why don't you just forget he's down there and think about getting yourself better? Doctor Dougherty said I should change the bandage on your foot and apply some ointment if it gives you pain."
"It's feeling better all the time. Don't bother."
Rebuffed, she turned quickly to leave, sorry to have riled him by talking about the robber, especially after Mr. Melcher had been so complimentary over the fried steak and potatoes and the fresh linen napkin on the tray. She could see there was going to be friction in this house if the criminal managed to live. Yet she'd taken on the job of nursing him, and she was bound to give it her best.
Returning to the downstairs bedroom, she found he'd moved his right hand—it now lay across his stomach. She studied its long, lean fingers, curled slightly, the shading of hair upon its narrows, and saw what appeared to be a smear of dirt on it. Edging closer, she looked again. What she had taken for dirt was actually a black and blue mark in the distinct shape of a boot heel. Carefully picking up the injured hand by the wrist, she laid it back down at his side. But when it touched the sheet, he rolled slightly, protectively cradling it in his good left hand as if it pained him. Instinctively she pressed him onto his back, her hands seeming ridiculously minuscule upon his powerful chest. But he fell back as before, subdued and still again.
It was hard to tell if the hand was broken, but just in case, she padded a small piece of wood, fit it into his palm, and bound it, winding gauze strips up and around his hairy wrist, crossing them over the thumb until any broken bones could not easily be shifted. She noticed as she worked that his hands were clean, the nails well tended, the palms callused.
Checking his forehead again, she found it somewhat cooled but still hotter than it should be. Thinking back wearily to yesterday when she'd set out for town and a job at Culpepper's, she thought how little she'd suspected she'd end up with a job like this instead. Perhaps Culpepper's would have been preferable after all, she thought tiredly, slogging back to the kitchen for cotton and alcohol again. She looked around in dismay at the room: pieces of torn rags and gauze everywhere; used wet lumps of cotton in bowls; vinegar cruet, salt bowl, herb bags, scissors, dirty dishes everywhere; blood splatters on the wall and the highboy, and the stench of burnt alum hanging sickeningly over everything.
Turning on her heel, she uncharacteristically disregarded it all and returned to her bedroom.
Dear God! He'd turned over… and onto his right leg!
Pushing and grunting, struggling with his limp weight, she managed to get him onto his back again, then fell across his stomach, panting. But she knew even before she looked what she'd find: the wound was bleeding profusely
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