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Authors: Lori Austin
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home.”
“Can’t.” She coughed. Perhaps she’d swallowed a cobweb.
She crossed to the patient he’d been attending. The man was unconscious. Feverish
and clammy. His leg appeared gangrenous. Considering the conditions, she wasn’t surprised.
“Doctor?” she asked.
Ethan lifted his gaze.
“Will you join me?” She raised her brows.
He hesitated, but in the end he did.
She set her hand atop his. “I don’t care what you’ve done.”
It paled in comparison to what she had.
• • •
Mikey spent a lot of time scrounging for things that would help Ethan.
Clean shirts could become bandages. A single shot of whiskey might cleanse a wound
just enough to allow someone to heal. Knives could become surgical instruments. Stones,
strings, pretty much anything might be useful. The trick was getting folks to part
with what was often all they possessed.
The sniper Fedya proposed the idea of making people trade for medical attention. Ethan
hadn’t liked it.
“I’m a doctor. I can’t take a man’s last clean shirt before I sew his bloody arm.”
“Then I will,” Fedya said calmly. “Or, better yet . . .” He let his gaze travel over
Mikey’s large form and lifted a brow.
“I don’t—” Ethan began.
“Precisely,” Fedya interrupted. “You don’t. You’re trying to save people with spit
and a rusty needle. I admire you for it, even if you are ten times a fool.”
“Thanks,” Ethan muttered.
“Dobro pozhalovat,”
Fedya returned, and Ethan frowned. “You’re welcome,” Fedya translated with a smirk.
For some reason, it annoyed Ethan when Fedya spoke in foreign tongues, which only
made Fedya do it more often. Fedya had an ear for languages, and in Castle Thunder
there were so many men from so many different countries, he sometimes spent hours
learning from them.
Though Ethan and Fedya snarled and scowled at each other a lot, they also seemed to
like being together. Some nights when Ethan sat up with a patient, Mikey would wake
and see the two of them talking quietly together. Mikey thought Ethan needed a friend,
and he couldn’t find a better one than Fedya.
“I’ll ask for payment, Ethan.” Mikey didn’t mind. Most times, all he had to do was
ask.
“It isn’t as though you’re making the request for yourself, Doctor,” Fedya said. “You’re
doing it for them.”
He spread out his long-fingered hand, the gesture reminding Mikey of a man he’d seen
once in a traveling show. That fellow had pulled a coin from behind someone’s ear.
Mikey had always wanted to do that. Maybe Fedya could teach him. He’d already taught
Mikey a few Russian words, which Mikey whispered to himself each night before he slept.
They sounded so pretty.
“Gentlemen.” Miss Annabeth had arrived. Every morning a guard brought her from Whitlock’s
Warehouse to Palmer’s Factory; she spent the day helping Ethan in the infirmary. At
night they took her back.
“
Senorita
.” Fedya clicked his heels and bowed.
Annabeth rolled her eyes. She always treated Fedya like an annoying little brother.
Mikey should know.
She patted Mikey’s arm the way she did whenever she saw him—absently, but with love—or
at least he thought it was love. No one had ever loved him but Ethan and their da,
which wasn’t the same thing as a woman’s caring. However, when Annabeth looked at
Ethan, love was all Mikey saw. She loved Ethan nearly as much as Ethan loved her.
Seeing them together almost made being here all right.
Almost.
They were still in prison, and for Mikey, who was used to being out in the sun and
the wind, to riding and tracking and hunting, prison hurt. Sometimes his stomach clenched
from lack of food, his head ached from the stale air and dust, and he longed so much
to stand beneath the sky, he thought he might cry.
If he’d been here alone, Mikey wasn’t sure he’d have survived. But as long as he had
his brother, who
“Can’t.” She coughed. Perhaps she’d swallowed a cobweb.
She crossed to the patient he’d been attending. The man was unconscious. Feverish
and clammy. His leg appeared gangrenous. Considering the conditions, she wasn’t surprised.
“Doctor?” she asked.
Ethan lifted his gaze.
“Will you join me?” She raised her brows.
He hesitated, but in the end he did.
She set her hand atop his. “I don’t care what you’ve done.”
It paled in comparison to what she had.
• • •
Mikey spent a lot of time scrounging for things that would help Ethan.
Clean shirts could become bandages. A single shot of whiskey might cleanse a wound
just enough to allow someone to heal. Knives could become surgical instruments. Stones,
strings, pretty much anything might be useful. The trick was getting folks to part
with what was often all they possessed.
The sniper Fedya proposed the idea of making people trade for medical attention. Ethan
hadn’t liked it.
“I’m a doctor. I can’t take a man’s last clean shirt before I sew his bloody arm.”
“Then I will,” Fedya said calmly. “Or, better yet . . .” He let his gaze travel over
Mikey’s large form and lifted a brow.
“I don’t—” Ethan began.
“Precisely,” Fedya interrupted. “You don’t. You’re trying to save people with spit
and a rusty needle. I admire you for it, even if you are ten times a fool.”
“Thanks,” Ethan muttered.
“Dobro pozhalovat,”
Fedya returned, and Ethan frowned. “You’re welcome,” Fedya translated with a smirk.
For some reason, it annoyed Ethan when Fedya spoke in foreign tongues, which only
made Fedya do it more often. Fedya had an ear for languages, and in Castle Thunder
there were so many men from so many different countries, he sometimes spent hours
learning from them.
Though Ethan and Fedya snarled and scowled at each other a lot, they also seemed to
like being together. Some nights when Ethan sat up with a patient, Mikey would wake
and see the two of them talking quietly together. Mikey thought Ethan needed a friend,
and he couldn’t find a better one than Fedya.
“I’ll ask for payment, Ethan.” Mikey didn’t mind. Most times, all he had to do was
ask.
“It isn’t as though you’re making the request for yourself, Doctor,” Fedya said. “You’re
doing it for them.”
He spread out his long-fingered hand, the gesture reminding Mikey of a man he’d seen
once in a traveling show. That fellow had pulled a coin from behind someone’s ear.
Mikey had always wanted to do that. Maybe Fedya could teach him. He’d already taught
Mikey a few Russian words, which Mikey whispered to himself each night before he slept.
They sounded so pretty.
“Gentlemen.” Miss Annabeth had arrived. Every morning a guard brought her from Whitlock’s
Warehouse to Palmer’s Factory; she spent the day helping Ethan in the infirmary. At
night they took her back.
“
Senorita
.” Fedya clicked his heels and bowed.
Annabeth rolled her eyes. She always treated Fedya like an annoying little brother.
Mikey should know.
She patted Mikey’s arm the way she did whenever she saw him—absently, but with love—or
at least he thought it was love. No one had ever loved him but Ethan and their da,
which wasn’t the same thing as a woman’s caring. However, when Annabeth looked at
Ethan, love was all Mikey saw. She loved Ethan nearly as much as Ethan loved her.
Seeing them together almost made being here all right.
Almost.
They were still in prison, and for Mikey, who was used to being out in the sun and
the wind, to riding and tracking and hunting, prison hurt. Sometimes his stomach clenched
from lack of food, his head ached from the stale air and dust, and he longed so much
to stand beneath the sky, he thought he might cry.
If he’d been here alone, Mikey wasn’t sure he’d have survived. But as long as he had
his brother, who
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