Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  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.

  "You know, for infection." His injury must be affecting him more than he was letting on. He acted like he'd never heard of an antibiotic. He stared at the pills in her hand, a look of distrust playing over his face. Men were such babies when it came to taking medicine.

  "I'll tell you what," she said, placing the tablets in the palm of his hand. "If you take the pills, I'll get you some whiskey. Okay?" She wasn't at all sure letting him drink was the right thing to do, but hey, that's always what they did in Westerns when somebody got shot, and she really doubted the Advil was going to do a lot to deaden the pain.

  "Whiskey first."

  She met his gaze and was once more surprised at the determination reflected there. This was not a man to argue with, even in his current condition.

  She left the room and opened the cabinet where she kept the liquor. Whiskey could mean several things, and not wanting to waste valuable time, she grabbed a bottle of Bourbon and another of Scotch, the 30 year old kind. If the guy had to drink his anesthetic, it might as well go down smoothly.

  When she walked back into the bedroom he was in the process of trying to peel off his shirt. The look of agony on his face was almost her undoing. Dropping the bottles on the bed, she moved to his side and carefully helped him remove the shirt. The muscles in his back were rigid, taut evidence of a pain more intense than she could imagine.

  She slid an arm around his shoulders. "Here, lean back." Once he was propped up against the pillows again, she reached for the bottles. "I wasn't sure what you wanted. Bourbon or Scotch—" She cut off the sentence. This wasn't a cocktail party.

  He grabbed the Scotch and after unscrewing the cap, drank deeply.

  "The pills." She hated to sound like a taskmaster, but he needed the antibiotics.

  With a grimace, he swallowed the tablets and took another swig from the bottle, pausing to run a thumb over the ridged glass at the mouth of the container. His brows drew together, then, with a sigh, he lay back against the sheets.

  She sat beside him on the bed and carefully began to peel the bandages off. They were stuck in places and she could feel him tense every time she had to pull at one. Finally, there was only the wound. Using the washcloth and the water, she carefully washed away the blood.

  She could see the bullet hole now, a perfect little circle, almost as if he'd been hole punched. The edges were black and the center oozed blood mixed with a greenish liquid. Infection. She could smell it. Swallowing to keep her stomach in line, she leaned back.

  "Okay, what now?" Her voice was tight and came out sounding pinched. Her heart was pounding.

  "Wash the area out and then make a cross cut to open it up."

  She opened the alcohol and poured some onto the wash cloth. With a hesitant swipe, she brushed a
cross the open wound.

  "No. Not like that." He took the bottle from her and tipped it over. The liquid ran down his shoulder. His face tightened and she could see the whites of his knuckles as he gripped the bottle. Finally satisfied, he handed it back to her. "Now, cut."

  Dreading what came next, she picked up the little knife, swabbing it with alcohol. Grimly she bent over his shoulder, concentrating on what she was about to do. Placing one hand so that her fingers splayed out around the wound, she inched the knife downward.

  "Do it." His voice rumbled deep in his chest and she could feel the vibrations with her fingers.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she tightened her grip on the knife and cut swiftly across the wound. Placing the alcohol soaked washcloth across it, she reached for the tweezers. After blotting away the worst of the blood and sterilizing the tweezers, she began to search for the bullet.

  Sweat ran down her face and she used her free hand to wipe it away.

  Michael groaned once, but other than that, remained stoically silent, his eyes shut his mouth drawn tight.

  She twisted the tweezers first to the left and then to the right, probing as gently as she could. Finally, just as she was beginning to think there was no bullet, she felt the tweezers hit something solid.

  "I think I feel something. Wait." She withdrew the tweezers triumphantly. "I have it." The ball of lead looked more like a metal lump than a bullet. She felt like she should be dropping it into a bowl for posterity or something. "Should I keep it?"

  He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "No."

  With a shrug, she dropped it in a nearby trashcan then quickly cleaned the wound. Using the gauze and Neosporin, she formed a pad of sorts which she bound in place with tape and strips torn from the pillow case. Not the best bandage ever made, but certainly one that would do for now.

  Michael appeared to have passed out, or at least was sleeping. She cleaned up some of the mess, leaving most of the medicine on the bedside table, then carefully removed his boots, and covered him with a blanket.

  Exhausted, Cara crawled up onto the bed, ignoring the fact that she was essentially sleeping with a stranger. Well, maybe not a stranger. She'd certainly slept with him before. It was too much for her tired mind to try and work out, and besides, there was only one bed, and her bedmate was in no condition to take advantage of the situation.

  She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift, comforted by the fact that she could feel him breathing. It was probably her imagination, but he already seemed cooler. Just as sleep threatened to overtake her, she felt him move. She turned to look at him, meeting his steady cobalt gaze, shivering at the intensity of his stare.

  "Thank you…Cara." He briefly caressed her cheek, his touch soft like the gentle kiss of a butterfly. Then his hand dropped and his eyes closed as he slipped back into the healing arms of Morpheus.

  "You're welcome." The whispered words were wasted, but her heart sang at the sound of her name. He knew her. He was real. The explanations could come later.

  She dropped her hand into his, reveling in the feel of his warmth, knowing that life coursed through his veins. By reflex, or intention, his fingers tightened around hers. With a smile, she let herself slide into sleep.

  Sunlight filtered through the closed curtains, making a cheerful pattern on the quilt. Michael stretched, trying to remember where he was. A dull pain radiated from his shoulder. He frowned as memory flooded back. The gunshot, the mine tunnel—Cara. He turned to look at the pillow next to him. Empty.

  She was gone. Again.

  He wasn't sure how long he'd been here. He remembered Cara removing the bullet and then things were a little hazy. Mainly he'd slept, but he also had recollections of her lying beside him, warm and alive. He felt his body respond to his thoughts, a sure sign he was on the road to recovery. Something he obviously owed to Cara and her medicine.

  She'd woken him several times, insisting that he take more of the little tablets. He glanced at the array of medicine on the side table. The bottles were odd, made of a substance he didn't recognize. He touched the big brown one. Hard, yet pliable. Certainly strange, but no doubt there was an explanation. Besides, who was he to argue with success? He wondered briefly what it was she'd given him. Whatever it was, it seemed to be working.

  He sat up and rotated his shoulder cautiously. The wound was tender, but his head was clear and he was certain the infection was gone. He looked around the room, trying to get his bearings. The furnishings were simple with bright spots of color here and there. Definitely a feminine touch.

  There were vases of flowers everywhere. And stacks of books. He picked one up from the bedside table. This Rough Magic. The title seemed to mirror the situation. Magic was about the only thing he could think of to explain the fact that she'd appeared in the mine tunnel just when he'd needed her most.

  He put the book down, shaking his head at the wild turn of his thoughts. There was certainly no such thing as magic. Rough or otherwise. He turned his attention back to the room, more than a little curious about the woman who owned it.

  The focal point of the room was a magnificent watercolor. He didn't know much about art, but the painting was good, a landscape, painted somewhere in the mountains. The silvery line of a stream marked the edge of a small clearing. He could almost smell the tangy scent of pine and feel the warmth of the sun on his face. The colors were muted, giving the entire scene a dreamy feel. He smiled to himself. He'd actually almost used the word romantic.

  The center of the canvas was dominated by a huge blue spruce, its massive branches bending low, almost touching the ground. The scene was somehow familiar. He studied it through narrowed eyes, and, when understanding came, felt a surprising sense of elation.

  It was the mine tunnel.

  Just behind the great spruce, in the shadows of its limbs, he could see the opening. And in the mottled browns and blacks of the tunnel, he could just make out the image of two figures intertwined. With energy he was surprised he possessed, he got out of the bed and crossed the room to stand in front of the painting. He stared at the couple. The brush strokes were strong, emotions laid bare. In barely six inches of space the artist had captured both longing and passion. It reached out from the canvas, surrounding him.

  In the corner, faint but discernible was the artist's signature. Cara Reynolds. A shiver ran down his spine.

  She hadn't forgotten.

  A small, tarnished brass plaque at the bottom of the frame caught his attention. He read the words and then, with his heart pounding, read them again. Lovers' Reunion. He suddenly felt absurdly happy. Bending closer, he tried to make out the date underneath the title. As he read it, his joy changed to confusion—confusion to shock. He sat down on the end of the bed with a thud. According to the plaque, the painting had been completed in January of 1993. He sucked in a ragged breath. Nineteen ninety-three?

  Cara's watercolor had been painted just over a hundred and thirty years after he was born.

  5

  Duncan Macpherson was dead. Loralee bit her lip, surprised at the swell of emotion. She'd certainly cared for the old man, but in her business it didn't pay to make attachments.

  "Are you sure?" she asked, fastening the last of the buttons on her bodice.

  The burly miner pulled up his pants, popping one suspender into place on his shoulder. "Heard it up at the mine. They found him on the road to Clune. Figure word's spread all over town by now." He pulled the other suspender into place and buttoned his fly with a satisfied grin. "Mighty fine time, Loralee." He reached into his pocket and threw a coin down on the bed. "I'll be back next payday." With a jaunty salute, he strode out the door, slamming it behind him.

  Loralee sank to the bed, reaching automatically for the coin. Duncan was dead. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to make sense of it, wondering what had possessed him to head for home without Jack.

  Jack.

  She rushed to the window, her heart pounding. The sway-backed sorrel was still tied
to the post outside. He lifted baleful brown eyes and whinnied softly.

  "Jack." She hustled through the door, skidding to a stop beside the horse. There was no way Duncan would leave Jack willingly. No amount of liquor could cause him to forget the beast. So how could Duncan have been found on the road to Clune? Something was dreadfully wrong here. Loralee patted the horse, trying to calm her rising fear. "Wait here, sweetie, I'll be right back." What she needed was help. Two heads were wiser than one and all that.

  She ran up the row to Corabeth's door and pounded on it. There was no answer. Puzzled, she tried to open the door. It rattled but refused to budge. Locked. She pounded again, certain the noise would wake the dead, but there still wasn't an answer. Several tousled heads poked out of doorways along the row. Loralee pasted on a smile, waving with a casualness she didn't feel.

  The window to Corabeth's room was shut, the curtain tightly drawn. Corabeth obviously wasn't answering. Which meant Loralee was on her own. Again. The important thing right now was to deal with Jack. She had to hide the horse. At least until she had a chance to talk to one of Duncan's sons. Until then, the fewer people who saw him outside her crib, the better.

  Looking up at the sun, she was surprised to see that the day was already well advanced. She stroked Jack's soft nose, and after making certain no one was paying attention, looped his reins over her arm. "Come on, sweetie, let's get you somewhere safe."

  She led the horse down the dusty road and around the corner, away from town, up toward the mines. Jack followed placidly enough, his gait slow and steady.

  After a steep climb up the canyon, they stopped at the edge of a rushing stream called Willow Creek. Although for the life of her she wasn't certain why. She'd never seen any tree looking remotely like a willow along its rocky banks.

  The canyon narrowed here, only wide enough for the rough hewn logs that, laid side by side, formed a bridge of sorts. Jack took one look at the rickety wooden structure and refused to budge. "It's just a little bit farther. And there's bound to be oats to fill your belly. Come on, sweetie."