Whirlwind Reunion. Debra Cowan
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not accusing him, Russ.”
“I don’t care.”
Annalise wasn’t convinced, but it wasn’t her business who had hurt him; it was her business to treat him. Patch him up and send him on his way. “Who do you think would’ve done something like this?”
“The rustlers he’s been chasing for months, the Landis brothers. About two months ago, he caught up to them and they beat him up.”
“We think they decided to try again,” the blacksmith put in.
“And kill him this time.”
Annalise had overheard some talk during her supper at the Pearl. “I thought they were in jail in Abilene.”
“Five of them are,” Russ said flatly. “Two escaped. Davis Lee told me late this afternoon.”
She wet the cloth with carbolic acid and began gently cleaning the caked blood from Matt’s back. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the combined breathing of those in the room, the occasional push of the wind outside. The scents of dried blood and dirt hid the clean, masculine smell she remembered from the other night. Tension pulsed in the quietness.
Russ stood to her left, looking down at his brother. “They stole his boots. That’s gonna make him madder than hell.”
After a few moments, Annalise was able to discern the actual wounds and she winced. His back was flayed by what at first looked like shallow cuts. She leaned closer, motioning for Ef to bring the lamp lower.
The lacerations were ragged, uneven, as though someone had dragged a jagged blade down his back. Bile rose in her throat.
Behind her, Russ cursed. “It looks like he’s been whipped.”
“No,” the blacksmith said quietly. “I’ve been whipped and the marks are different than that.”
“Well, what is it then?” Russ asked in frustration—the same frustration Annalise felt as she scrutinized Matt’s back.
“The wounds are shallow, most of them no more than an eighth of an inch. A few, like these in the middle of his back, are almost a quarter-inch deep. And they’re all long, three and four inches.”
“Like someone bore down on the weapon as they slashed him?” Ef asked.
“Yes, exactly.
“Do you think a knife did this?” Russ asked with quiet anger.
“The gashes aren’t clean like they would be from a knife blade. The edges of the wounds are ragged.”
“Then what the hell did that to him?”
“I don’t know yet.” After further examination, she straightened.
“Can you tell how bad it is?”
“The bleeding seems to have stopped and that’s good, but I don’t know how much blood he lost before you got him here.” She felt her way up his strong denim-covered calves, the backs of his powerful legs and then his sides. “I don’t feel more injuries.”
“So, we can take him to the hotel now?”
Her gaze caught his. “No. He shouldn’t be moved. Not now anyway.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do?”
“What do you mean? He can stay here, just like any other patient.”
“He’ll kill me if I leave him here.”
Russ’s wife started, pinching his arm.
Even though Annalise knew the man’s words were said out of worry for his brother, she couldn’t keep the sharpness from her voice. “Well, we certainly can’t do something he might not like. You go ahead and move him. When he starts bleeding again, send for me. Or don’t.”
Russ frowned.
Lydia tugged her husband’s head down to hers and said in a half whisper, “For goodness’ sake, Russ, she isn’t going to hurt him. Especially since he was the father of her baby.”
Anger shot through her. How many people knew about that? She had foolishly believed—hoped—that his brother would be the only one privy to the information.
Matt stirred, his big hand clamping hard onto her knee. His heat reached through her skirts and skimmed along her nerve endings.
“Matt?” Russ stepped forward.
Blue eyes opened, clouded with pain as they focused on Annalise. “Angel?” he whispered.
At the endearment, an unexpected knot of longing tangled in her chest, but it was quickly gone. His calling her that surely meant he was out of his head with pain.
His brother leaned over the bed. “Matt?”
Matt’s eyes closed and his hand slid from Annalise’s leg.
Reading the look of concern on the other man’s face, she said, “It may take him a while to come to.”
Russ nodded. “I want to stay with him tonight so I can be here when he wakes up.”
“All right.”
After Ef was convinced he’d done all he could for now, he handed the lamp over to Russ and said good-night. Russ assured the blacksmith he would send for him if anything changed and told Lydia the same when she offered to stay with him.
When he returned from walking his wife out, Annalise had retrieved a crock of honey from her cabinet and was carefully applying it to Matt’s back.
“Why are you putting honey on him?” Russ asked sharply.
“It will form a barrier to keep the dirt from getting into his body. It may also help dull his pain.”
“I’ve heard of that, but I didn’t know if it really worked.”
“I’ve had good results in the past.”
Russ nodded, a brief glint of respect in his eyes.
She pointed to the second cot. “Feel free to sleep there if you want.”
“Thanks, I might do that later.” He pulled over a chair from beside the door and sat down at the foot of the bed.
She worked in silence for a few moments. As she finished treating the wounds, Russ spoke, “Sorry about what I said earlier.”
“It’s all right.” She gave him a small smile. What had hurt more than that was what Matt had said. Angel.
Her throat closed up. Feeling suffocated, she rose and walked to the sink across the room to wash her hands.
Between this and Josie’s threat of miscarriage, Annalise felt trapped. The best thing for her would be to send Matt to the hotel with his brother, get him out of her clinic. That was what she wanted. But seeing the extent of his injuries had changed her mind about getting him out of here. He could start bleeding again and he might get a fever.
She stared at the medical certificate hanging above the supply cabinet. It didn’t matter how uncomfortable she found this situation, Annalise knew she couldn’t, wouldn’t turn her back on him the way he had on her.
Feeling as though he’d been beaten with a fence post, Matt forced his eyes open, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window a few feet to his left. He sorted through his fuzzy brain, trying to get his bearings. Buttery-yellow light slanted in a wide band across a clean pine floor. He was on his belly in a narrow bed that smelled of fresh air and lye soap. And something sugary-sweet.
He wore trousers, socks, but no shirt. His bare back burned like fire as his gaze tracked what he could see of the room. Another cot, also narrow, sat several feet away behind a half-drawn curtain. Between the two beds was a small table holding a lamp and a pint-sized brown crock. A glass-fronted cabinet filled with things he couldn’t identify from this angle was