Hours passed and my shoulders ached satisfyingly when I looked up from my work and noticed night had come. At some time during my labors Mary had carried in a small plate of food. It had gone mostly untouched, except for the few flies feasting on a piece of cold chicken. Carefully pouring the last of the ground mustard seed into a jar, and wiping the mortar and pestle clean, I laced my fingers together and reached up to stretch the stiffness from my arms and back. Though my problems were far from over, I felt much better, and grabbing a jar of salve and some strips of linen, I set out for Henry’s room. He may not have wanted to see me at present, but his wounds still needed to be checked for infection and wrapped with clean bandages.
I knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. When he called me in, I found him propped up on his bed reading, and by his raised eyebrows he was rather surprised to see me.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Your bandages need changing,” I said, and held out the supplies as evidence. “It should have been done last night, but...you were...unavailable.” This sounded better than you stormed from the house and stayed out walking until after midnight and worrying me half to death in the meantime. Unavailable was close enough to the truth.
He pushed himself up from the bed, unlaced his shirt, and pulled it over his head. “I am at your disposal,” he said, tossing the shirt back onto the bed. Even standing in front of me half-naked, his demeanor remained formal and his tone had returned to cold indifference, making it all too clear that he didn’t care for my company.
Crossing the room, I set the linen and salve on the bed and then busied myself unwrapping his bandages, wishing to have the job done and be gone from the room. Once his wounds were exposed, I pressed lightly on the ribs beneath the scapula, checking for tenderness and any fractures I may have missed.
“Does this hurt?” I asked.
“Not really. A little soreness is all.”
Minimal bruising remained around the wound, but otherwise the skin was knitting together nicely. I scooped same salve from the jar and rubbed it on his back, along the lower trapezius and into the latissimus dorsi. His skin felt smooth and warm and I cursed silently when my pulse unexpectedly quickened. Good heavens! I thought, rather put out by my reaction. He’s just another patient, no different than old Edgar Sweeney or Thomas Dowling.
Henry’s hair fell an inch or so past his shoulders and it was all I could do to keep from reaching up and running my fingers through it. To counter the temptation I conjured up images of Mrs. Ryan’s boils, which she routinely asked me to lance. But try as I may, there was no getting away from Henry’s broad shoulders and the lines of muscle running just beneath the skin. In the off chance any damage had been overlooked, I ran my fingers along his spine and across the upper trapezius, brushing his hair aside as I continued on to his deltoid. Henry shivered from my touch and then tensed as though annoyed his body would respond in such a way. Well, at least I’m not the only one being affected, I thought with some satisfaction
“You are healing very well. The stitches can come out at the end of the week,” I said at last.
“Almost too well. I feel so good, it’s easy to forget that I was shot four days ago.”
“The strong tend to heal quickly,” I said, biting my lip as I wrapped strips of linen around his torso. His wounds did look remarkably good for so short a period of time. Perhaps in my excitement I had gone a tad bit beyond sustaining life. Oh, well. Nothing could be done about it now other than pretend it was normal to heal from a pistol wound in less than a week. I shook my head at the very idea, knowing I’d sustained paper cuts that had taken longer to mend.
When I finished with his back, I moved around to check his arm. An uncomfortable tension rested between us and I felt impelled to say something to clear the air. “Henry,” I started tentatively, keeping my gaze fixed on his arm to avoid looking in his eyes. “I’m sorry about locking you in your room the other night. You’re not a prisoner and I won’t do it again. Please, don’t think it had anything to do with what Nathan said today.”
Henry stayed silent, and I started to rub salve on his arm when he took hold of my wrist. Surprised, I looked up and saw his face had gone deadly serious. “Is there any truth in Nathan’s claim?” he asked, his green eyes alert and watching me. “Are you a witch?”
“Of course not!” I cried indignantly.
“Is it true that you go into the woods at night?”
“Yes, it’s true. I like to walk, same as you. Is that such a crime?”
Henry scowled at me. “Then why does Nathan accuse you?”