Chapter Three #2
She approached the fire so that it sat between them as she crouched to stir it to life.
She left the house with her buckets to fill with water, preparing but admittedly stalling as well, and poured one bucket into the water kettle on the spit over the fire.
She gathered clean cloths, having few to spare, and finally took in hand the knife she’d found with the dead horse days ago.
She advanced cautiously, almost warily, and knelt beside him again.
Up close he seemed impossibly large within the narrow space of the house.
One broad shoulder nearly brushed the edge of the hearthstones where he lay.
His chest rose and fell beneath soaked, dirt-streaked layers, the movement shallow but steady.
Despite the fire that had burned evenly yesterday afternoon and evening before she’d banked it for the night, his clothes were still damp and likely weren’t helping his fever, or perhaps had contributed to it.
She hesitated before touching him, at first just laying her hand on his broad chest simply to verify that indeed his clothes were still damp and that, yes, she would need to remove them.
Then, grimacing slightly, she reached for the leather crossing his chest and began to unclasp the buckles, which were stiff with damp and grime.
She had to use both hands to loosen them, but the straps pulled away easily enough.
Beneath the leather he wore a wool shirt that proved harder still to remove.
She tugged unsuccessfully at first, frustrated by the dead weight of him and by the awkwardness of trying to undress an unconscious man who outweighed her by so much.
Eventually she managed to free his left arm from the sleeve before it caught beneath his back entirely.
Annoyed now, breathing hard again from effort, she planted one hand against his side and shoved hard enough to roll him slightly away from her.
The movement dragged a rough sound from him, not quite waking but close enough that she froze instantly.
His brow tightened briefly before the fever seemed to pull him back under again.
She finished wrestling the garment free and then had to repeat the process with the undershirt he wore, this one damp with moisture and the heat of his body.
She sat back afterward, unexpectedly still, the sight of him unsettling her.
Scars crossed his chest and shoulders in pale, uneven lines, some thin and faded, others thicker and rougher as though badly healed.
One entire side of his ribs had darkened into deep blue and black bruising ugly enough that she stared at it several moments before finally looking away.
Even wounded and unconscious, he looked powerful in a way that made the small house seem suddenly smaller around him.
The reality of him—the sheer size of him—was as fascinating as it was intimidating.
The old man had grown spare in those last years, his body reduced slowly by time and hardship until she’d forgotten what strength truly looked like on another person.
This man possessed it in abundance. There was something formidable in the breadth of him, in the thick muscle across his shoulders and chest, in the heaviness of his arms lying loose at his sides.
The lines of him shifted subtly in the firelight with even the slightest movement from him—the hard contour of his stomach beneath bruised ribs, the powerful shape of his chest, dense strength running through him as plainly as the grain in split wood.
He looked built for violence in the same unquestionable way wolves looked built for hunting.
Her gaze caught briefly on his hands resting near his waist—large hands, roughened and scarred, the knuckles split in places old and new alike. Even those looked capable of frightening force, though now they lay open and still beside him, at ease for the moment by fever and exhaustion.
Abruptly aware that she had been staring, she forced herself to look away and reached instead for the ruined clothing still clinging to his lower body.
The leather belt came free first, followed by the soaked, dirt- and blood-stiffened binding he must have wrapped around the wound, and then finally the pants beneath it.
Removing those proved awkward enough. She had to tug and work the fabric down in stages—while more than once resisting the urge to simply cut the pants off him—lifting his hips on one side and then the other while trying very hard not to think about the staggering fact that she was undressing a grown man inside her house.
The effort left her flushed and irritated by the time she finally dragged the pants clear of his legs and tossed them aside.
Beneath, he wore wool hose laced separately at the waist, the same as she’d worn for years, this life’s version of underwear, she’d always thought.
She paused and gulped down a swallow, her gaze flickering once toward the center of him before immediately darting away again.
Heat rushed into her face so suddenly she was grateful no one was there to see it.
She had no desire whatsoever to contend with that part of him and decided instantly she would leave the hose where it was if at all possible.
The wound made that less than ideal, but not impossible.
It lay high on his thigh, closer to his hip than his knee, the blood having soaked deep into the wool along one side.
Grimacing, she took up the knife again and cut a long opening through the hose rather than trying to remove it entirely, slicing from mid-thigh upward until she could peel the soaked fabric carefully back from the injury beneath while leaving the rest of him covered.
The sight of the wound roused a grimace in her.
The gash was long and angry looking, the flesh around it swollen red.
Dried blood crusted thickly along the side of his leg and into the coarse hair there, the skin hot beneath her fingers when she touched it.
And still, at least a day since it had been inflicted, it seemed to ooze fresh blood as well.
She blew out a breath and got to work, in the same manner as she did all unpleasant things, with a mind to simply get it over with.
She cleaned it slowly at first, dipping cloth into warm water and wiping away blood and dirt until all that was old and possibly dangerous was removed.
More than once, his body tensed reflexively beneath her hand, and she jerked slightly in surprise, waiting until he went still again.
Beneath her hands the muscle of his thigh felt dense and hard even in stillness, powerful in a way that kept her aware of how large he truly was.
When finally it was as clean as she could make it, she studied the cut judiciously before deciding it needed stitching after all, being deeper than she’d originally suspected.
The man had taught her how to sew skin, though only twice before had she sewn flesh instead of cloth.
She fetched the old bone needle and silk thread kept wrapped carefully in linen on the highest shelf and returned to the man, feeling the greatest amount of unease at this moment, wondering if he would wake, fevered, and resist, possibly strike out at her.
He didn’t. Aside from a hard crinkling of his brow at the first pass, he barely stirred, but she thought this was more worrisome, that he was so deep inside a fever or insensible that the piercing of his flesh scarcely disturbed him.
The stitching took time. Once she thought she might actually be sick and turned away until the feeling passed.
But eventually the edges of the wound were drawn together well enough to satisfy her.
Afterward she spread a generous amount of her precious salve carefully across the injury, the sharp herbal scent of yarrow and comfrey rising to her nose.
The stranger made another rough sound then and shifted weakly against the hard earth beneath him.
She glanced toward his face again, where the fever flush remained high along his cheekbones.
Even as she was pleased that the hard part was done, she frowned as she stood and collected the kettle of warm but now bloodied water.
She left the house and walked to the creek, where she used leaves and stones to scrub the pot clean, rinsing it several times before refilling it.
The dog followed and returned with her and thumped back down on the floor inside the house while she hung the pot over the fire again.
From her stash of plants and roots, she found the dried willow bark and feverfew and added them to the water, waiting until it steeped, until it was dark and bitter, which took some time.
She had no cups and so scooped out a few mouthfuls into her bowl and when it had cooled enough, she returned to the wounded man, sitting back on her heels beside him, and hesitated only briefly before sliding one arm awkwardly beneath his shoulders.
She grunted quietly, somehow still surprised by the weight of him.
He roused a bit as she lifted him, though only barely. His eyes opened a sliver, unfocused and gray in the firelight, before drifting shut again almost immediately.
“Drink,” she told him quietly.
When he didn’t respond, she used a firmer voice as the man had done with her once. “Drink.” She pressed the rim of the bowl carefully against his mouth, and was pleased when he opened automatically, swallowing once and then again.
She sat back when it was done, lowering him again to the ground, and released her breath. That was enough for now, all that she could do.
***
The fever held him hard through the remainder of that day and into the next.