FOUR
Eating a wild quail egg Henry managed to find and fry up, Maggie stilled, with the fork almost to her mouth. He stared at her, as if he was trying to figure out how to approach her.
“What is it?”
His mouth was set in a tight line. “Your bandage. I’ve been putting it off, but it’s past time to check it for infection. We need to change it.”
Heat flooded her cheeks.
“I understand that you don’t want me touching you, and I gave you my word I wouldn’t. But one of us has to tend to it. Are you able to stomach it?”
Filled with indignation, Maggie wanted to protest. She wanted to scream at him, of course, she could handle it. But… the thought of seeing the mark left by the monster, James, threatened to send her over the edge.
That was something she most definitely couldn’t handle.
There were two choices: she could hope she wouldn’t mentally collapse and do it herself, or let him get close enough to her to change it.
Noticing the state of her dirty and torn shift, she cringed.
She’d taken advantage of his absence several times in the past few days to sponge off with the basin of water he toted in, but still didn’t smell very nice.
Her hair was in tangled knots as she couldn’t lift her arms high to brush it without feeling the sting of the wound from the skin stretching.
There was also another matter to consider. As a result of the attack in the woods, her shift was ripped in the middle and hanging precariously low. With the wound running from her upper chest to her breastbone, she was all too aware of the proximity Henry would be to her modesty.
He’s already seen the wound when I was out, she reminded herself. But the difference was that I was unconscious and dying. Although… if the wound becomes infected, I could still die.
The choice was made. It was the obvious one, whether or not it was what she wanted. Henry remained quiet during her internal conflict, waiting for her answer.
Maggie clenched her teeth. “I’ll need you to change the dressing and check it.”
He simply nodded, clearly understanding what it cost her to utter those words. “I’ll get some fresh water and bandages from my satchel.”
Using the time he was briefly gone, Maggie tried to mentally prepare herself. She wanted to scream and latch the door shut. Instead, she took deep breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. By the time he returned, she was as calm as she could be, under the circumstances.
She watched as he prepared. After rolling up his sleeves, he placed an empty bowl and a basin of water on the table.
He pulled out a corked bottle and a small flannel bundle from his satchel.
There were white strips of fabric, neatly rolled inside the flannel bundle.
Uncorking the bottle, he sloshed it over his hands, the excess dripping into the bowl he had placed on the table. Now ready, he turned to face her.
The whole routine seemed very methodical, as if he’d done it before.
Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Are you a surgeon too?”
A small smile appeared on his face, “No. But my mother was a wonderful healer. I witnessed her skill firsthand many times during my adolescence, from boyish recklessness.”
He was trying to put her at ease.
She nodded, accepting his story.
Coming closer to the cot, he kneeled down. “I’ll untie the bandage and then soak the final layer of cotton a bit to make sure it’s not stuck to the wound. If you need me to stop, tell me and I will…Ready?”
Nostrils flaring as she began to breathe deeply again, she willed herself not to let the fear show in her voice. “Yes. Do it.” She kept her gaze focused on the wall behind him.
Slowly sitting up, she sat frozen as he untied the knot at her shoulder and unwrapped the bandage. It was wrapped in an X-pattern, crisscrossing over her wound from one shoulder to under her arm on the opposite side.
Finally, it was removed. All that remained was the cotton padded over the wound.
“You may want to lie back while I soak this off...”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “No, thank you. I prefer my feet on the ground.”
He didn’t argue with her. There was a swishing sound and then something wet pressed against the bandage on her chest. He left it there for a minute or two and then slowly peeled the last layer away from the wound. Mercifully, it was painless.
“Thank God. No sign of infection and it appears to be healing well. Should be able to remove the stitches in another week.”
A small measure of relief swept through Maggie.
“Let it air-dry for a minute and then we’ll cover it. You doing okay?”
“Fine.” She could feel a thin layer of sweat on her face, her body as taut as a bow string. She was too exposed like this. And fighting the temptation to open her eyes and see for herself.
None too soon, Henry placed a wide strip of soft fabric against her chest. “Done. Now I need to just wrap the bandage across again to hold it in place.”
She opened her eyes. “I’d like to be left alone for a few minutes.”
“It won’t stay unless we wrap it.”
Bringing a slightly trembling hand up, she gently held the cotton in place. “I need a few minutes alone.”
Henry appeared to consider it and then walked to the door. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
Once he was gone, she sighed with relief and pushed herself up off the cot. Carefully crossing the room, she peeked out the window to make sure he wasn’t watching. He was in the yard on his knees.
What was he doing?
When he lifted his hands in praise to the heavens, it dawned on her. He was praying for her. Giving thanks for her healing. Quickly, she turned away from the window. It was too much to think about now. Right now, she only had a short time before he would be coming back inside.
Walking to the trunk against the wall, she pulled out her one extra shift and an old dress of her mother’s. Letting the old shift fall to the ground off her shoulders, she stepped out of it and kicked it in the direction of the fireplace. It could be used for kindling, for all she cared.
She called Henry back—she was fully clothed in her clean shift, the neckline no longer revealing. Over her shift, she’d donned her mother’s waist skirt. The folded bodice sat on her lap, waiting to be put on over the final bandages. She’d have to go without a corset.
If Henry was shocked at her appearance when he came back inside, his face said otherwise. He wore his cool mask of calmness, never revealing his true thoughts, but ever reading hers. Still holding the fabric with one hand over the wound, she said nothing as he wrapped the bandages around her.
He tied off the gauze and stepped back, the distance between them once again established.
“Please turn around,” she instructed.
Unsurprisingly, he did so without question. She unfolded the bodice and put it on, careful not to tug any of her stitches. The bodice wasn’t a favorite of hers, but it did lace in the front, making it easy to dress. Mother would’ve wanted her to have it.
“You can turn around now.”
“Feel any better?” His eyes were twinkling.
She busied herself smoothing her skirt. “It was improper for you to see me that way before. I’ll remove my stitches when the time comes.”
Not calling her bluff, he simply nodded. “I’ll put these things away and go back out to the barn. Samson could do with another brush down.”
Maggie sank down onto the cot, exhausted. She wouldn’t have been able to keep up the pretense for one second longer. Between the emotional fatigue and physical weakness, the simple act of dressing had taken its toll. This was the most she’d been out of bed in days.
Her eyelashes fluttered as she struggled to remain awake.
A week. That was what he said. The stitches could be removed in a week.
She would need to be on her feet by then, fully independent.
Why had she felt the need to say she would take them out herself?
There was no way she could do that. No amount of preparation would prepare her for that.
There was bound to be pain, but she was more afraid of seeing the face that cut open her chest. The face that had tried to do more.
Remembering, her body turned cold. She could never willingly let another man touch her. Having Henry so close to her today had been torture. His presence radiated masculinity. Authority. She only had to see his wardrobe for confirmation that he was not to be trusted.
But in the yard today…What was that?
Just as vividly as she could see her attacker’s face, she saw Henry on his knees for her.
She couldn’t understand it. He didn’t truly know her.
He’d only heard bits and pieces, one main component he seems to be forgetting— Maggie was the daughter of a Confederate.
His sworn enemy. So why would he thank God on her behalf?
She replayed the conversation over in her mind when Henry told her everyone was God’s people.
If that were true, he wouldn’t be fighting on one chosen side.
He would abstain from this terrible war altogether.
He preached love and unity, but he commanded men to attack and kill.
No, he definitely was not to be trusted.
Whatever his motives were for staying, Maggie would have to remain on guard. Even if her heart began to question it.