something to him.
âIâll take care of you,â she whispered, the huskiness of her tone lingering in him like sensual pleasure. She took his hand in hers and held on tightly. Then he was being bounced in the back of a wagon, having the marrow beat out of every bone in his body.
His last conscious thought was, hell had an angel.
Chapter
4
H elena, Eliazer, and Ignacia wrestled an unconscious Carrigan upstairs. Despite their efforts to move him gingerly, he ranted at each tread they took upward, and made delirious utterances that practically dislodged the chinks out of the log walls. Emilie was so horrified, she could only stand at the base of the steps with a dumbstruck expression on her face and watch.
The hallway was narrow, making it difficult for the three of them to navigate in sync. With each run-in with the wall, Carrigan mumbled an oath. As they walked his suspended body toward the featherbed in Augustâs room, Helena wished she could take off the colorful quilt her mother had made. But there was no time, and worrying over its ruin wasnât going to help matters. She needed to keep a level head.
Once Carrigan was on the mattress with his back to the testers, he began to shiver. Though Helena had covered him with a blanket on the ride home, the snow on his clothing had melted and left water on his coat and trousers. Unclasping her cloak, she covered his long legs with the leftover warmth in the fabric.She had to work fast and opened the front of his decorative coat. The odor of spent gunpowder clung to him. Blood tainted the right underarm area of his flannel shirt, its crimson bloom spreading high over his chest. Flakes of unburned gunpowder had been forced through the hole in the coatâs leather and looked like ground pepper around the matching hole in his shirt.
Holding her breath, she slipped the shirt buttons from their holes and slowly parted the sticky fabric. Dark specks tattooed the edges of his red-black wound, while blood smeared his right nipple, and the surrounding skin. Sheâd witnessed her mares giving birth and had wrapped enough brush-scraped hocks on her Express horses not to cower at the sight of blood. But the scorched smell of Carriganâs clothes, and the violent path the iron had taken in his body, upset her stomach. She had to swallow her discomfort.
Her gaze roved over his torso, looking for further damage. He was well built, with an upper body that spoke of exercise through hard work. His flesh tone seemed naturally tan, the kind of brown her face took on in the summer when she neglected her bonnet. He had a smooth chest, small nipples, and an abdomen corrugated with muscle. His physical appearance would have been flawless were it not for the copious scars and nicks marring his skin. The vague impression of a horseâs hoof was beneath his last rib, and what could have been the result of a knife fight left a lasting mark on his shoulder. Other than the healed cuts and old bruises, he had no fresh wounds.
Helena looked helplessly at Eliazer. âI donât know anything about tending gunshots.â
Leaning over Carrigan and gazing at the damage, he commented thoughtfully, âIn the war, I saw such wounds. I donât know if the bullet is still inside him. If it is, heâs as sure as dead.â
A tremor shook Helenaâs courage. Carrigan wasnâtgoing to die. He couldnât. He was too strong to let go of life.
âBut if the bullet came out the other side,â Eliazer continued, ruffling his beard with stubby fingers, âhe might have a chance. No way to tell until you turn him over.â
âIâll need to undress him. Youâre going to have to help me with his coat.â Her next move wavered between continuing to assess Carriganâs condition and warming him to stop his chills. Seeing his teeth rubbing together from cold, she knew the wet pants took precedence. But she couldnât slide them over his
âIâll take care of you,â she whispered, the huskiness of her tone lingering in him like sensual pleasure. She took his hand in hers and held on tightly. Then he was being bounced in the back of a wagon, having the marrow beat out of every bone in his body.
His last conscious thought was, hell had an angel.
Chapter
4
H elena, Eliazer, and Ignacia wrestled an unconscious Carrigan upstairs. Despite their efforts to move him gingerly, he ranted at each tread they took upward, and made delirious utterances that practically dislodged the chinks out of the log walls. Emilie was so horrified, she could only stand at the base of the steps with a dumbstruck expression on her face and watch.
The hallway was narrow, making it difficult for the three of them to navigate in sync. With each run-in with the wall, Carrigan mumbled an oath. As they walked his suspended body toward the featherbed in Augustâs room, Helena wished she could take off the colorful quilt her mother had made. But there was no time, and worrying over its ruin wasnât going to help matters. She needed to keep a level head.
Once Carrigan was on the mattress with his back to the testers, he began to shiver. Though Helena had covered him with a blanket on the ride home, the snow on his clothing had melted and left water on his coat and trousers. Unclasping her cloak, she covered his long legs with the leftover warmth in the fabric.She had to work fast and opened the front of his decorative coat. The odor of spent gunpowder clung to him. Blood tainted the right underarm area of his flannel shirt, its crimson bloom spreading high over his chest. Flakes of unburned gunpowder had been forced through the hole in the coatâs leather and looked like ground pepper around the matching hole in his shirt.
Holding her breath, she slipped the shirt buttons from their holes and slowly parted the sticky fabric. Dark specks tattooed the edges of his red-black wound, while blood smeared his right nipple, and the surrounding skin. Sheâd witnessed her mares giving birth and had wrapped enough brush-scraped hocks on her Express horses not to cower at the sight of blood. But the scorched smell of Carriganâs clothes, and the violent path the iron had taken in his body, upset her stomach. She had to swallow her discomfort.
Her gaze roved over his torso, looking for further damage. He was well built, with an upper body that spoke of exercise through hard work. His flesh tone seemed naturally tan, the kind of brown her face took on in the summer when she neglected her bonnet. He had a smooth chest, small nipples, and an abdomen corrugated with muscle. His physical appearance would have been flawless were it not for the copious scars and nicks marring his skin. The vague impression of a horseâs hoof was beneath his last rib, and what could have been the result of a knife fight left a lasting mark on his shoulder. Other than the healed cuts and old bruises, he had no fresh wounds.
Helena looked helplessly at Eliazer. âI donât know anything about tending gunshots.â
Leaning over Carrigan and gazing at the damage, he commented thoughtfully, âIn the war, I saw such wounds. I donât know if the bullet is still inside him. If it is, heâs as sure as dead.â
A tremor shook Helenaâs courage. Carrigan wasnâtgoing to die. He couldnât. He was too strong to let go of life.
âBut if the bullet came out the other side,â Eliazer continued, ruffling his beard with stubby fingers, âhe might have a chance. No way to tell until you turn him over.â
âIâll need to undress him. Youâre going to have to help me with his coat.â Her next move wavered between continuing to assess Carriganâs condition and warming him to stop his chills. Seeing his teeth rubbing together from cold, she knew the wet pants took precedence. But she couldnât slide them over his
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