Chapter 3 #3
The driver slowed. It was Mr. Talbot, the repairman Percy had gone to fetch the day before. He squinted at her, then at the sled.
“Mrs. Bellamy? What happened?”
“I found him near the river,” she gasped, out of breath. “Unconscious and half frozen.”
Talbot climbed down and moved swiftly to the man. “Is he dead?”
“No,” she paused, trying to catch her breath, one hand going to her chest.
“Looks dead.”
“He isn’t.”
Talbot crouched and touched the man’s coat. “He’s soaked through.”
“I know.”
“You should take him to Dr. Keller.”
“He lives twenty minutes outside town.”
“Then where are you going?”
“The inn. He needs to be warmed first.”
Talbot looked uncertain and Martha’s patience broke.
“Either help me load him into the wagon or get out of the way.”
That moved him.
Together they lifted the man and sled into the back, and Martha climbed up beside him.
The wagon jolted over every rut. Martha kept one hand against the man’s chest, feeling for movement. His heartbeat was slow, but steady, spurring her forward.
People turned as they entered Willow Crossing.
By the time they reached the inn, three men had followed on foot.
Percy burst through the front door before the wagon stopped. “What happened?”
“I found him by the river. Go, quickly. Go get Eliza.”
Percy ran inside.
Talbot helped Martha lower the man onto the sled again. Eliza appeared with her sleeves rolled and flour on her cheek.
Her eyes widened. “Who is this, then? Not another suitor?”
“I don’t know.” Martha didn’t laugh at the joke, though she might later.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“For now,” Talbot said.
Martha shot him a look.
They carried the man through the front doors. Guests had already gathered in the lobby. Mr. Dobbins stood near the stairs with a cup in his hand.
“What happened?” he asked.
Martha did not slow. “An accident.”
“Who is he?”
“A man who needs privacy.”
She directed Talbot and Percy toward the ground-floor sitting room. It was small but warm, with a couch near the fireplace and doors that could be closed against curious guests.
“Percy, bring blankets. Eliza, heat water.”
“Should I fetch the doctor?” Percy asked.
“Not yet. Get the blankets first.”
They settled the man on the couch.
Martha cut away the wet fabric around his wound and removed his coat. Beneath it, he wore a buckskin shirt darkened by river water. His arms were marked with old scars. One long line crossed his forearm.
A tracker, perhaps. Or a hunter.
His face was lean, his cheekbones sharp beneath cold skin. Even unconscious, he looked guarded.
Martha’s fingers itched for charcoal.
The impulse startled her. She was shocked at the sudden urge to draw, something she hadn’t felt, hadn’t had time to feel, in so long.
And yet, she could see the drawing before she made it. The dark fall of his hair against the pale cushion. The scar at his jaw. The tension that remained between his brows even now.
She pushed the thought aside.
This man did not need a picture of himself. He needed his life to be saved.
Percy returned carrying every blanket he could find.
“Not all of them,” Martha said. “We have guests.”
“You said blankets.”
“Three will do just fine.”
Percy set down the pile reluctantly. “Where did you find him?”
“Near the river.”
“Was he attacked?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he fall?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is he?”
Martha shot him a quick look, eyebrows raised, and Percy closed his mouth.
“I’ll tell you everything once I know it,” she said. “For now, I need you to keep people out.”
“Even Mr. Dobbins?”
“Especially Mr. Dobbins.”
With a quick smile, Percy stationed himself outside the door.
Martha removed the man’s wet boots and wrapped his feet. She resisted the urge to bring him too close to the fire. Warming him too quickly could do more harm than good.
Eliza arrived with water and clean cloths. “You need Dr. Keller,” she said. “I’ll send Percy.”
“In a moment.” Martha loosened the makeshift bandage at the man’s thigh. Fresh blood welled beneath it.
Eliza inhaled sharply.
“Press here,” Martha said.
Eliza obeyed.
Martha cleaned around the wound, checking for stone or splintered wood. The cut was ragged but not filled with debris. It might be stitched.
If infection did not set in; if the cold had not already done too much.
The man’s head shifted.
Martha leaned closer.
His eyes opened.
They were brown, darker than she had expected, and unfocused.
“You’re safe,” she said.
His gaze fixed on her face.
For one instant, something like relief passed through it.
Then he tried to rise.
Pain appeared to catch him before he made it halfway. His hand closed around Martha’s wrist with surprising strength.
“The family,” he said.
“What family?”
His fingers tightened. “Two days,” he mumbled, his voice rough. “Two days.”
She frowned, not understanding. “You’re injured. You need to lie still.”
“They don’t know enough.” He tried to sit again, but she eased him back against the cushion.
“Who doesn’t?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”
He looked past her, as though he could see through the wall and across miles of snow.
“They’re going to die,” he rasped. “They’re all going to die.”