Chapter 4
" B ut they told me…they said…I mean…you're not real." Cara knew she was talking gibberish, but her mind simply couldn't grasp the fact that Michael Macpherson, her Michael Macpherson, was walking right beside her.
She shifted, locking her arm around his waist, supporting his weight with her body. Michael groaned as she stumbled. "Believe me, I'm flesh and blood, and right now, I feel like it's mainly blood." He sagged backward, his breathing coming in irregular gasps.
Cara tightened her hold, whispering in his ear. "You've got to hold on. I can't do this by myself. Come on, we've gotten this far. Just hang on a little while longer. Please."
His muscles bunched and tightened, as he pulled himself upright, but he kept walking. "How… much… farther?"
"Not much more. Just around the next bend." Keep him talking, her mind asserted. Keep him awake and keep him talking. "I looked for you, you know. After you disappeared."
"I looked for you, too." His voice was rough, colored with pain.
"Then I don't see…" She stopped, not knowing how to continue.
"How we missed each other? Me either. But just at the moment I think there are more important things to deal with."
"You're right. I'm sorry." There was just so much she wanted to ask him. So much she needed to know. But not now. He slumped forward again, his shoulders relaxing. She tightened her grip. "Michael, you've got to stay with me. I can't keep you up here on my own."
He jerked his head upward, pulling himself back to consciousness. "I'm here."
"Good." She stared at the side of his head, concentrating on the way the dark hair curled against his collar, trying to find something of the boy she remembered in the man he'd become. "Just keep talking to me, okay? Tell me what happened to you."
He nodded, shifting a little, leaning into the curve of her body. She could feel the heat from his fever. His shirt was damp with sweat. "I...don't know. Snuck…up on me…shot me. Lucky to escape."
"Someone shot you?" She tried to make sense of the insensible. "Was it a hunter do you think?"
"Man hunter maybe." He groaned, tensing with pain as they hit a rough spot.
"You mean you think someone shot you on purpose?"
"Seems likely." His words were a bit disjointed, but if she was following the conversation, he was talking about murder. Or attempted murder.
"My God, Michael, are you saying someone tried to kill you?"
"And did a damn fine job of it." He drew in a ragged breath and she felt his body slide forward.
"Hang on," she ordered. They stopped and she automatically turned toward him, supporting his weight. "We're here."
The warmth of his body surrounded her as he braced himself against her.
She closed her eyes, feeling his heart beating beneath her hand.
The tangy smell of male enveloped her and somewhere deep inside her, despite the odor of blood and injury, she responded to the memory.
She knew this man, knew his scent, knew the feel of his arms. And no matter what anyone had told her, he was real. Real .
The feel of something sticky against her fingers pulled her from her thoughts. "Oh God, you're bleeding again."
He touched the stain on his shirt. "Yeah, I think the walk opened the wound."
"Look, Michael, we've got to call a doctor."
"No time." Their eyes met and she saw the certainty in his gaze. "The bullet has to come out now."
She helped him into the house and across the living room, for once thankful that the cabin was small.
Reaching the door to the bedroom, she paused, summoning the last of her strength.
"We're almost there." She wasn't certain who she was talking to, Michael or herself.
She steered him across the room to the bed.
With an exhausted sigh, he dropped down on it, his eyes closed, his lashes dark against the ashen pallor of his skin.
"Come on, we've made it this far. You've got to stay with me."
Blue eyes flickered open. The pain reflected there made her gasp. With steely determination, he struggled to sit up, leaning back against the pillows. "Have you ever removed a bullet?" He spoke slowly, as if each word were an effort.
"It's not something I list on my resume." He frowned. "I'm sorry. It's just that I haven't dealt with anything like this before." Her voice trembled. What if she lost him?
He reached out, covering her hand with his. "It's all right. I know how. I'll guide you."
She bit her lower lip and nodded. She could do this. A man's life depended on it. Michael's life depended on it. "Okay. I'm just going to go get some bandages and things."
Pulling her hand away from his, she hurried into the bathroom.
Throwing open the doors to the medicine cabinet, she searched among the antacids and cold remedies for something that could treat a gunshot wound.
A bubble of laughter rose in her throat.
Pepto Bismol was a poor substitute for anesthesia.
Oh, God, she prayed, help me.
Clamping down on her rising hysteria, she forced herself to focus on the assortment of containers in front of her.
Alcohol, that was important. She picked up the bottle.
What else? She grabbed a tube of Neosporin, feeling a lot like a fireman fighting a raging forest fire with a squirt gun.
Pain killer. She needed a pain killer. The best she could do was a bottle of Advil, but something was better than nothing.
Reaching for the analgesic, she spied a prescription pill bottle.
She picked up the plastic container. Antibiotics.
They were probably old. A refill she'd never used.
They'd have to do. She grabbed the pills along with the Advil, adding them to the things already in her hand. In her haste, she dropped the lot.
The alcohol bottle bounced against the wooden floor, but didn't break.
The tube of antibiotic landed near the wall.
The pill bottles rolled into a corner. Grabbing a basket of potpourri from the back of the toilet, she dumped the contents into the bowl.
Then, on hands and knees, she retrieved the bottles, placing everything in the basket.
Her breath was coming in ragged gasps now and tears threatened. She had to calm down.
Standing with the basket clutched in one hand, she pushed aside bottles and tubes, discarding the metal box of Band-Aids when she came to it.
Hardly adequate for the job at hand. Finally, in the back of the cabinet, she found a roll of gauze and some tape.
Tossing them in the basket, she turned, her gaze falling to the counter.
A pair of tweezers lay by the sink. She swallowed back a wave of queasiness. She'd need something to pull out the bullet. Throwing them in with the rest, she grabbed a pillow case and a wash cloth from the linen closet and headed for the kitchen.
She needed a knife. Wrenching open a drawer, she surveyed her pitiful collection of cutlery.
Never much of a cook, her array of knives was sadly lacking.
Selecting the best of the lot, she threw a paring knife into the basket and grabbed a bottle of water from the counter on her way back to the bedroom.
She stopped in the doorway, trying to compose herself.
The situation was dire enough without adding her panic.
Breathing deeply, she crossed to the bed.
His eyes were closed again and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
She placed the basket on the bedside table and sat on the bed beside him.
"Michael?" His eyes opened. "You've got to tell me what to do. "
He nodded. "Did you get a knife?"
She held up the paring knife. "It's the best I could find."
He reached for it and ran a thumb across the blade, a flicker of laughter passing across his face. "If you want to butter me, this might do, but I don't think it'll actually cut anything."
She flushed. "I don't have anything else."
"You can use mine." He pointed at a small leather pouch hooked to his belt.
With shaking hands, she unhooked the flap holding it in place, and withdrew a tiny knife.
Balancing it in her palm, she examined it more closely.
It was beautifully wrought. The handle was ivory in color and striated with gray and black.
The blade itself was polished brass or some similar metal.
It was flat on one side and intricately carved on the other with interlocking circles and curls.
"It's a sgian dubh."
"A what?"
"Sgian dubh. It's Gaelic."
"Skeen doo." She pronounced the strange words slowly.
"That's it. Sgian dubh. It means black knife. This one is very old. It's been in my family for generations. Came from Scotland. But more importantly, it's sharp enough to dig out the bullet."
She touched the blade experimentally. A thin line of blood appeared on her finger. Definitely sharp. "Okay, what do I do first?"
He smiled weakly. "I'd say the best thing to do would be to pull off my shirt. Then you're going to clean the wound with something. Do you have any whiskey?"
Actually it wasn't a bad idea. Maybe after a good stiff drink she could do this.
Or better yet, maybe a couple of good stiff drinks.
She pulled herself back to the task at hand.
"I've got rubbing alcohol. It's better than whiskey.
And I brought some Advil. It's not much, but it will help with the pain. "
She put the little knife on the table and opened the bottle, shaking out a couple of pills. She glanced up at his face, cringing at the pain she saw etched there. She added a couple more tablets to the pile on her palm. "Here, take these." She held out the medicine, along with the water.
He looked at them with a puzzled expression. "I think I'd rather have the whiskey."
She smiled. "Take them. And this one too. It's an antibiotic." She added another pill to the pile, fervently hoping it was still potent.
Again, he shot her an odd look, his eyebrows raising quizzically. "Antibiotic?" He said it like it was a foreign word.