And gently nudging him down the steep incline toward the rickety old bridge that crossed Cedar Creek.
Half ashamed, Sloan stopped in the middle of the structure to listen to the running water, reluctantly enjoying the way late afternoon sunlight poured into the creek. Light and shadow, changing with every ripple. Like life, he supposed, except he wasn’t in the mood to wax poetic, so he turned his attention to an indeterminable shape on the bank, about fifty yards east of the bridge. Looked like a pile of clothes, he decided, wondering with brief amusement who had lost their shirt.
Then the pile of clothes moved. Sloan leaned over the bridge, hands gripping the stone abutment. Seconds later he was running, slipping, rapidly maneuvering his way down to the water.
Seven
A woman. It was a woman lying there, a scant yard from the creek. She wasn’t moving anymore. He didn’t know if she was alive. Sloan clambered over a jutting boulder, dropped onto a narrow strip of damp sand, saw the blood—and the old-fashioned bonnet covering the woman’s head.
Garnet Sinclair.
She was curled on her side beneath a clump of shrubbery growing between several large boulders. And, thanks be to God, she was alive: blood still oozed from beneath her concealing bonnet, smearing her forehead. More stained the whole left side of her dress from shoulder to neck. Her eyes were closed, the lids translucent from blood loss, shock—Sloan automatically noted symptoms, none of them comforting. Nestled against her right side, her right arm curled protectively around it, was some sort of bundle wrapped in a blood-spattered shawl.
Sloan’s mind recoiled from what appeared to be a fox’s narrow snout and pointed ears peeping out of that shawl. A fox?
He dropped down beside Garnet, who did not stir. But the creature’s eyes blinked open, and a faint yip emerged from its sharp-toothed mouth. It was a fox, all right—not a domestic animal or a pet. Even a baby would have been less shocking than a wild red fox.
Over the years Sloan had faced numerous frightening encounters, from angry mobs to a grieving father who thrust the muzzle of a gun against Sloan’s chest. This present terror, intensified by anger, eclipsed all other occasions. His mind was mush, his hands trembling. To think the girl had actually tangled with a rabid fox and—from the look of it—with some idiotic notion of helping the animal.
He eyed the swaddled form with loathing, calculating how best to destroy it while evading a disease-infected bite. He’d have to move fast, for Garnet’s sake as well as his own. His fingers closed over a sharp-edged rock. How many times had the animal broken her skin before she subdued it in the shawl? In order for her to have captured it, the rabies would have progressed to the latter stages.
Sloan’s medical bag contained no vials of Pasteur’s life-saving serum.
A whine sounded deep in the fox’s throat.
Garnet Sinclair’s translucent eyelids flickered. “Shh . . .’s all right . . . don’t be afraid.” Her hand fumbled, barely missing the fox’s black nose. “Need more . . . water?” She stirred. “I’ll . . . find help. Don’t die. Please.”
The poignant plea, soft but audible, caused something inside Sloan to twist painfully, some remnant of feeling he wanted to deny but couldn’t. Even when semiconscious, the girl’s instinct was to help. To protect. In spite of his training, logic, and common sense, Sloan was unable to ignore that plea.
He would have to try to help the fox as well as Garnet.
Reluctantly his gaze focused on the animal, which needed to be moved out of the way so he could determine the exact nature of Garnet Sinclair’s injuries. After a long moment of concentrated study his hand opened, and the rock dropped back to the dirt. Something was wrong with the fox, all right, but it wasn’t rabies. He hoped.
Garnet’s right arm twitched, half lifting. “Find help. I . . .” Her hold on the animal loosened. The shawl unwound, and the fox collapsed in a limp, bloodied heap at Sloan’s feet. Late afternoon sun revealed the ugly wound that had ripped open the animal’s belly. Torn strips of cloth dangled uselessly above and below, attesting to Garnet’s efforts to bind it closed.
Once again logic urged Sloan to make short work of the creature, toss it aside so he could find out how badly Garnet herself was injured. But he couldn’t do it. He simply could not do it. Not when the girl had all but killed herself over a dumb animal—and not when that dumb animal looked directly up into Sloan’s face with an eerily human expression of resignation . . . and trust. Sloan wondered if he was the one who had gone mad.
“If I find out you do have rabies along with that gash in your abdomen, I’ll turn you into a rug.”
He shucked off his jacket, then reached for the unprotesting fox. Now that he had settled on a course he worked with speed and deftness, his hands sure. In seconds the blood-soaked cloths were back in place, holding ragged edges of furry skin together. Sloan figured his ministrations must be painful, yet the fox never attempted to struggle, much less bite. Just kept watching him through unblinking eyes with elongated pupils and an unnerving anthropomorphic trust. Pity pinched his heart. Sloan ignored it. He securely wrapped the small animal, a young juvenile from its size, back in the cleanest portion of the shawl, then laid it underneath the nearby bush. Its fate rested where it belonged, in the divine hands that persisted in meddling in Sloan’s life.
He washed his own hands in the cold creek water, thought about his bag, but because she seemed to be unconscious decided to check Garnet before he retrieved it. A faint moan whispered past her lips as he knelt beside her. “It’s all right. I’m here, and I’m going to help you.”
A swift once-over reassured him that she’d suffered no broken bones—all that would have deterred him from moving her—though movement might be the least of his concerns. From the appearance of the churned earth and trail of blood on the other side of the boulders, the injuries had been sustained elsewhere. The girl must have literally dragged herself over to the fox. Foolish, soft-hearted, impetuous female . . .
Her skin was softer than a doeskin glove and alarmingly cold. In spite of the gathering dusk and old-fashioned sunbonnet, Sloan could still discern the freckles dusting her face. For a month now his memory of that first meeting had kept him awake many a night. He’d worked every day since like a man bent on punishing himself because of it. Their present circumstances only stoked that ruinous fire. She was injured and vulnerable and had made it clear she had no interest in him. She needed a doctor, and he was the only one around. God made it plain he was here to help her.
But what he wanted was to touch each one of those freckles.
He was actually lifting his hand when her eyes fluttered open. Sloan yanked his hand away. She moaned again, lines of pain bracketing her mouth, furrowing her brow. “Shh. Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. He brushed his fingers against her cheek, his only intention now to reassure. “Don’t try to move. It’s all right. Tell me where it hurts.” Relief filled him when awareness seeped into her eyes. “Miss Sinclair—Garnet. Can you tell me where you hurt?”
“What—?”
“Looks like you’ve suffered a fall,” Sloan began, keeping his voice calm and soothing. “I need you to tell me where you hurt, so I don’t cause you unnecessary pain, or more damage. Don’t worry—I’m a doctor. I know what I’m doing.” Blood from the gash in her forehead had dripped over his fingers. He tugged out his handkerchief, wet it in the creek, then carefully pressed it against the wound.
She tried to lift her arm, but the movement was uncoordinated, jerky. “Fox—?”
“I took care of it—no! You mustn’t move.” He pressed her struggling body back down. “The fox is alive, all right? I promise.”
“Help . . .”
“I will. Don’t worry. I’m going to help you.”
She shook her head weakly. “No. Help . . . fox. First. I’m all right.” Glassy eyes fixed on his face. “Take care of the fox.”
“You’re in no position to give orders,” Sloan began, shutting his mouth when he realized h
ow overbearing he sounded. Abruptly his gaze sharpened.
There was something about her expression, a current of tension that had manifested itself in a deep inner trembling he could feel beneath his fingertips where he held her down. “Relax,” he said, watching her closely. “I’ll see to the fox, I promise. I reclosed the abdominal wound with the strips of cloth you fashioned—very resourceful. As soon as I take care of you, make sure you’re resting comfortably, I’ll do the same for the animal, hmm? How about it?”
“Don’t hurt . . .”
“I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
“Not me—fox.”
Obstinate girl! “The fox is safe.” Hopefully it was also still alive. “Do you remember meeting me?” he asked, hoping to divert her not only from that wretched animal, but also from his examination of her person.
For some reason she was manifesting the symptoms of extreme fear. Beneath his fingertips her pulse was racing, her lips were white, her pupils dilated. Fear, not shock. For the fox? Herself? Certainly the situation warranted some anxiety, yet Sloan had done his best to relieve her mind, even when she wasn’t entirely sentient. Instinct warned him to tread with extreme caution. Considering their radically opposing reactions to his presence, it might be easier to win the fox’s trust than Garnet Sinclair’s.
Casually Sloan began a chatty monologue while he examined her. Besides the gash on her forehead, she’d suffered a jagged tear from high on her left shoulder to the middle of her collarbone, along with numerous contusions and scratches. The shoulder wound would require stitches.
Just like the fox. Sloan flung a sour glare toward the sky. The Supreme Creator of the universe possessed a bizarre sense of humor.
Well, of course. He’d created human beings, after all.
Sloan lifted Garnet Sinclair’s slender wrist, positioning his fingers over her pulse. Still too fast. Frowning, he continued his rambling monologue, and suppressed all hint of impatience. “So I’m walking to Winchester because my horse, Dulcie, went lame a month ago. Turned out to be minor, a stone bruise, and I’m glad of it. She’s a great little mare. Owned her for years, right after I started private practice.” He almost choked on the words. “At any rate, I bought her from a family friend who raises saddlebreds. I was on my way to bring her home—did you know I’ve bought a place about a mile east of Tom’s Brook? Left there right before lunch. I like to walk, you see. Good for the legs, heart, lungs. I stopped on the bridge, decided to get a drink of water because it looked so cool and fresh. Caught a glimpse of your dress.”
She was relaxing, her pulse no longer racing. Incredibly, something that might have been humor flickered across the bloodied face, and a corner of her mouth tilted. “You’re . . . not from around here, are you?”
“No.” The words and gently amused tone matched with uncanny precision those she’d spoken to him a month earlier. The first flicker of true alarm prickled beneath Sloan’s skin. Had his diagnosis been erroneous? Head wounds were unpredictable, after all. “I’m from—”
“Yankee . . . too bad . . .” Those otherworldly eyes, the color of fog-draped cedar, dimmed, as though she were withdrawing to some distant sanctuary. “Thanks for taking care of the f—” With the suddenness of a dropped curtain, she passed out.
Lips pressed together, Sloan wrapped her in his jacket and lifted her into his arms. She was surprisingly light. He held her limp weight close against his chest in an effort to provide as much of his own body heat as possible. She needed warmth and medical attention, and she needed them immediately. With shelter and care, other than a scar or two she should heal without permanent damage. Sloan was less certain about the fox. Once again he thought about a merciful end for it while Garnet was unconscious.
He’d given his word to help—both of them.
The quiet inward nudge set his teeth on edge. “Then You’ll have to do it. I’m no veterinarian.” And this was positively the last time he planned to practice his former profession.
His glance dropped to the quiescent fox. “I’ll come back for you,” he growled, feeling like a jinglebrain for talking to an animal. Picking his way with care, he followed the narrow creek bank downstream, aware with every passing second of the deepening twilight.
Moments later he came upon a small finger of well-grazed meadow that had reached the water through a fissure in the rocky cliff. Sloan’s breath expelled in soundless relief. At some point in the past, a crude lean-to had been erected to protect an equally crude hayrick. He laid his burden on the driest part of the ground, hurriedly arranged a bed within the lean-to from scattered remains of hay, then settled his patient in her nest. She never stirred. After checking her vital signs again, he left.
Dusk was closing in fast. Darkness would follow even more swiftly.
Some twenty minutes or so later, with a blessed heat-and-light-giving fire to keep the encroaching night at bay, Sloan was finally able to focus all his energy on a still unconscious Garnet Sinclair. He’d stopped the bleeding before laying the fire, and every five minutes had been checking her vital signs, each time reassured by the strong heartbeat and steady pulse. If only fever didn’t set in. Or worse.
That shoulder needed to be stitched, but he’d decided to examine her head more thoroughly first, based on her questionable lucidity and continued unconsciousness. The bonnet would have to come off.
He began working the knotted ribbons, ignoring the tingle of anticipation at the thought of finally seeing Garnet Sinclair without the infernal head covering. With a grunt of satisfaction, he carefully peeled the bloodied, dirt-smeared scrap of fabric away from her head.
Behind him the fire crackled, sending up a shower of sparks, and a burst of revelatory light shone directly onto Garnet’s bared head. Even matted with blood and perspiration, arranged in an unflattering topknot on the crown of her head, the color of her hair was unmistakable.
Red. Even more striking than the fox’s. Red hair. Sloan dropped the bonnet, his hands curling into fists.
Why did she have to have red hair?
Eight
When Garnet opened her eyes, she focused first on a campfire. She lay in dreamy languor, wondering when and why she’d built a fire, vaguely aware of a multitude of aches and pains. Eventually she turned her head and discovered that the world beyond the campfire was black as her father’s boot polish. It was long past sundown.
“Oh no.”
“Ah. You’re awake.” A man appeared by her side, and memory descended with the force of a deluge. “No—don’t try to move just yet,” he said, his hand pressing against her right shoulder. “You might start the bleeding again.” He laid two fingers against her neck, monitoring her pulse, then checked her for fever.
“The fox?” Her voice emerged in a strained whisper. Garnet searched the face hovering over her, but the shadows revealed little other than light-colored eyes, dark unruly hair with a hint of wave, and a thick, straight mustache. “Where’s the fox?”
“In the hayrick. Don’t worry, it’s still alive.” A short pause ensued. “I don’t know for how long. It was a bad wound. Aren’t you interested at all in your own status, Miss Sinclair?”
She wanted to wince away from the biting tone. She supposed her dogged insistence concerning the fox seemed irrational, especially when there didn’t seem to be any part of her that didn’t now throb with pain. But she couldn’t explain. “Am I—can I be moved? My family was expecting me home by sunset. They’ll be . . . concerned.”
More likely panicked. By now Papa would have called out all the neighbors, Sheriff Pettiscomb, and Banjo Scoggins’s hounds. Oh, she was in a barrel of molasses for sure. And all for a fox . . .
“Are they nearby?”
“Not exactly.” She tried to piece together where she’d left Goatsbeard, but all that came to mind was a winding path through some woods, a huge bush drooping with clusters of flame-colored blooms. A steep slope—and the heart-stopping seconds when she fell. “I—This is Cedar Creek?”
H
e nodded, the restive shadows giving his face a sinister cast. Why was he looking at her like that, almost as though he were angry? Or was it another, darker emotion altogether? Garnet’s heart began to pound. Her throat was arid, her lips rubbery. “I live about eight miles south of Strasburg, perhaps less . . .” Her voice cracked. Hating her fear, her helplessness, she turned her head away.
“Wonderful,” he said after a moment. “You might weigh less than my pack, but there’s no way I can carry you for eight miles.” The curt words might have been dragged over a bed of gravel.
Shocked embarrassment flooded her veins. “Of course not. I have a buggy.” Instinctively she started to lift her hand. A knifelike pain pierced her shoulder, cutting off her breath.
The man’s hand whipped out to stop the movement. “Careful! You gashed your shoulder when you fell. I’ve stitched and bandaged it, but you need to keep still.” Unlike the curt admonishment, his touch was gentle as he rearranged the sling Garnet belatedly realized he’d fashioned. It bound her left arm and shoulder, keeping them largely immobile.
When he finished, he sat back on his heels and frowned down at her. “Tell me about the pain. Where does it hurt the worst?”
“Well”—sort of everywhere—“mostly my shoulder. A bit of a headache. Not too bad, really.”
Stitched? Bandaged? The fingers of her right hand twitched with the instinctive need to check for herself. Surely a man who had gone to so much trouble intended no harm. And that day, the day in the meadow when she had been alone and vulnerable—he hadn’t followed her then. Hadn’t taunted or teased or grabbed. Hadn’t . . . threatened.
He’d even taken care of the fox. Though as she lay there, her gaze fastened to his face, she realized sickeningly that she hadn’t seen or heard the animal since she regained consciousness.
“What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing. It’s . . . ah . . . I feel much better. Perhaps you could help me up.” She pinned a confident smile on her face.
Shenandoah Home (Sinclair Legacy Book 1) Page 6