Alex straightened her shoulders and drew a deep breath, then she opened the bin containing her medical supplies and called toward the shadows. “Come into the light and we’ll see what needs to be done.”
As with every medical incident, her heart sank and she prayed she would be up to the task. So far, common sense and her book of home remedies had pulled her through, but each time she had to play doctor, she had to battle squeamishness and a profound urge to flee.
“I’ll doctor you, sir,” she said, pride making her sound more confident than she felt. “But I won’t feed a naked man. If you want supper, you’ll have to get dressed.”
Dal smiled and shrugged. “A wise man doesn’t argue with his cook.”
“I have standards,” Alex explained stiffly. “Which include civilized behavior.” She set her medical supplies on the edge of the wagon worktable, then groped behind her skirts, seeking her wheelchair.
“I’ll find you a shirt and some trousers,” Dal said, grinning. Alex would be Alex. She didn’t allow the boys to swear in her presence, insisted on napkins, and woe be to the cowboy who relieved himself within her line of sight.
The man watched Alex settle herself in the wheelchair and snap her crutch into the brackets Dal had installed on the chair. She moved the medical supplies to her lap, then lifted her head with an expectant expression. “Please. Come into the light.”
The man hesitated, then he came forward and lifted an arm so she could examine the cut on his rib cage.
Dal watched her clean the gash, then he asked the boys which of them could spare a shirt and a pair of trousers.
It bothered him to notice that Freddy had followed Les to the observers’ camp, where she was talking to Jack Caldwell. A flash of jealousy blackened his heart, and he wanted to stride over there, punch Caldwell, and carry his woman back where she belonged.
Instead, he took a shirt and pants to the chuck wagon, then filled his supper plate and sat with the boys, his back to the observers’ camp.
Chapter 16
The man’s skin was taut and warm beneath Alex’s fingertips. She doctored the cut on his rib cage, then treated a half dozen smaller cuts and scratches, noticing how lean he was, but muscled and well formed. Magnificent, really. A blush tinted her cheeks, and she ducked her head, concentrating on a scratch across his belly and trying not to peek at his loincloth.
“There’s a scrape on your collarbone,” she murmured, fumbling for her crutch so she could stand to reach the abrasion. When the man understood, he dropped to his knees in front of her wheelchair. “Thank you,” she said, surprised and pleased by his consideration. Except now he was at eye level, and his continued intense scrutiny made her feel self-conscious.
As she worked, she stole occasional glances at him. The lantern shone directly into his face, revealing a thin nose, broad cheekbones, and thick-lashed grey eyes beneath heavy brows. If Alex had been asked to guess, she would have said he was probably in his middle thirties. And she suspected a handsome man was hiding beneath the long hair and unkempt beard.
Lowering her gaze to his chest, she extended a finger and gently touched an old scar. “A gunshot wound?” she asked, not looking up because he continued to stare at her face.
There was nothing menacing or threatening about his stare, but his interest and attention made her actuely self-conscious. She returned to his collarbone and applied a soothing paste. “My name is Mrs. Mills, but we’re being informal on this drive so everyone calls me Alex. What should we call you?’ When he didn’t answer, she met his gaze then blushed. “Oh. Dal said you couldn’t or wouldn’t talk. I’m sorry.”
Vividly aware that he hadn’t looked away from her, she resisted an irritating urge to pat her hair and wet her lips. When she finished treating him, she closed the lid on her medical box and moved a half roll back. “I’ll fix you a supper plate.”
Lightly, he placed his fingertips on her shoulder indicating she should stay seated. Surprised, she watched to see what he would do next and smiled when he pulled on the shirt and pants Dal had brought him. “If you had a hair cut and a beard trim, you’d be quite presentable,” she said, instantly appalled that she’d uttered such a personal remark.
Sinking to the ground in front of her chair, he folded his legs Indian fashion. Then he touched the scraggly ends of his beard and lifted a lock of long hair, his meaning plain.
Later, Alex couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to speak so familiarly or to perform such an intimate service. She could have handed him the shears, but that’s not what she did. As he turned in front of her chair to accommodate her, she cut his hair then trimmed his beard close to his jaw. By the time she reached his lips, her hand was trembling slightly. Blinking, she placed the shears in his hand and fished in the medical box for the mirror she kept there.