wonderin’ about my injuries. When do you think the doctor will come?”
“He’s been stopping by late in the afternoon, but it depends on his patients.”
“Humph.” Jericho wished Miz Donnelly would leave the room so he could just look at himself and get it over with.
“I can probably answer any questions you have.”
With that virginal face? “I doubt it.”
“I’m a trained nurse. Are you concerned about your leg?”
“I’ll just wait until he gets here to ask my questions.”
“I helped him remove the bullet. I’m more than capable of telling you what you need to know.”
Her clear, guileless eyes hinted that she had no idea what he really wanted to ask. “Somehow I don’t think so,” he muttered.
She pursed her lips and looked affronted. “You had lost a lot of blood by the time you showed up here. Part of your wrist bone was chipped, but there was no bullet. The tissue inside is damaged.”
“You say the doc will be by sometime this afternoon?”
She rose from the chair. “Yes, but there’s no need for you to wonder and worry. I’m sure I can put your mind at ease.”
She might be soft-looking, but she was as persistent as a hungry mule. He gritted his teeth and stared her right in the eye. “Was my manhood shot off?”
She nearly dropped the bowl in his lap. They both grabbed for it. Her hands fumbled over the top of his and she pulled away with the crockery.
Her face flushed bright red and she choked out, “You’ll have to ask the doctor.”
“That’s what I figured,” he growled.
She hurried out of the room. “I’ll get you something to drink.”
While she was gone, he patted his groin but all he could feel was bandages.
A few minutes later, she returned with a tin cup, which she held for him. Jericho sipped at the cool water as he studied her. Slight pink still tinged her lovely face and her eyes were bright. She kept her gaze averted. For some reason, her embarrassment caused him to smile.
He’d thought a trained nurse would be more pragmatic about the human body. Her obvious discomfort sparked a long-buried need in Jericho, a purely male urge to find out how much experience she’d had. Man-to-woman experience.
Where had that thought come from? His brain was muddled from the injuries, that’s all. The questions he needed to ask had to do with the ambush that had left him laid up and Hays dead.
Jericho glanced around the room. “I think I remember seeing a boy in here a couple of times.”
“My brother, Andrew.”
“How old is he?”
“Twelve.”
That could be about the age of the boy he’d spotted riding with the gang at the ambush. Was Andrew Donnelly the one who’d shot and killed Hays? Jericho needed to see that kid and examine the horses around here to check if any of their shoes matched the tracks he’d followed.
A knock sounded on the front door and Catherine placed the tin cup on the bedside table. “I’ll be right back.”
He closed his eyes as she left, as much to rest as to try and make out her words in the next room.
She reappeared with a thin, brown-haired man who appeared to be a few inches shorter than Jericho’s six-foot-four.
“This is Dr. Butler,” she said. “He couldn’t believe it when I told him you were awake.”
Jericho wasn’t sure how much longer he’d stay that way. Reaching out with his good hand, he awkwardly clasped the other man’s. “Thanks for what you did.”
“Captain, you should be thanking Catherine.”
“It’s Lieutenant, Doc.”
The doctor aimed a warm, affectionate smile at her. “Well, Lieutenant, you’re lucky to be alive, and it’s because of her. She saved your life.”
A slight blush stained his nurse’s cheeks as she moved to the left of Jericho’s bed. He looked over and nodded. A brief smile touched her lips before her gaze skittered away.
The doctor eyed Jericho critically. “You surprise me, sir. I didn’t expect you to survive.”
“You can call me Jericho.”
“Your color is much better and your fever seems to have gone down a bit. I’d like to take a look at your wrist and leg.”
“All right.” Jericho wasn’t too keen on having anything looked at, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
The doctor moved around the foot of the bed and up beside him. He cut away the bandage wrapping Jericho’s wrist and forearm. The flesh was raw and torn. His hand lay limply, curled inward on top of the clean white sheet.
“Can you move your fingers?”
He could, but couldn’t straighten out his hand.
“Hmm. Can you bend your wrist?”
Jericho tried and jagged pain flashed through him. “Can’t. There’s no give in it.”
“Don’t force it.”
“What does that mean, Doc?”
“Some tendons were torn by the bullet.”
“But I’ll still be able to use this hand again, won’t I?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“I will. I have to.” Jericho was a lousy left-handed shot. He had every intention of making the McDougal gang pay for what they’d done, and to do that he had to be able to use his gun hand.
“I need to see how it heals up,” the doctor said.
“How long?”
The other man raised an eyebrow. “Longer than three days. You’re getting stronger. I sure didn’t hold out hope for that, not like Catherine did. Let’s check your progress in another couple of days.”
“I’m gonna be gone by then. The gang’s trail is already cold. The longer I’m laid up, the harder they’ll be to find.”
“You listen to me, Lieutenant.” The doctor’s brown eyes turned stern. “You lost a lot of blood. By all rights, you shouldn’t be drawing breath right now. If you get out of that bed before Catherine or I tell you, you could rip open your stitches and bleed like a stuck hog. I can’t put any blood back in you. Understand?”
“Yes.” Jericho
