of the harvest fell in the fields without Johnny to harvest it. Ever since then, we have been scraping by.”
“Your father let the harvest rot?”
“He says he is not a working man. He lives as if he still has his family’s wealth, although he has not had it since he was probably our age.” She uncapped a bottle and wet the edges of a cloth. “Now he needs money to stop an eviction. I see. He ought to know he isn’t going to find any takers that way. Who would buy a woman? Especially me.”
He bit his lip, holding back his opinion. He was not an experienced man by any means, but Father’s lack of decency had given him more than a glimpse of the bad in the world. The land was ideal but mortgaged beyond its value. A man could work himself into the ground trying to keep up with the payments. How did he tell her it wasn’t the land that would attract a certain kind of man?
Unaware of the danger, she leaned closer. Her face was flawless ivory and he could not look away. He did not feel the sting of the iodine. There was only her, this beauty with her gleaming midnight curls and soft pink mouth pursed in concentration. Her touch was the gentlest he had ever known, like liquid gold against his skin. When she drew away, he felt hollowed out, as if darkness had fallen from within.
“I don’t know how to thank you for your act of mercy.” She cast him a sidelong look through jet-black, lush lashes as she rummaged in the small box once again.
“Just doing the right thing.” He remembered how small she had looked in the lean-to, and the horror filling him when he realized she was about to be hit and hit hard.
“And do you often do the right thing, Ian McPherson?” A needle flashed in the lantern light.
“It can wear a man to the bone trying. If only life were more cooperative.” He cast her a grin, choosing to keep his stories private. What would she think of him if she knew how he had failed his loved ones? How he had lost his future trying to hold on to the past? He cleared his throat, struggling to let go of things that could not be changed. “I see you were serious about the stitches.”
“Is that a note of fear I hear in your voice?”
“Not me. I’m not afraid of a needle and a bit of thread.”
“Yes, how could I forget you are a tough one? Grit your teeth, then, for this will do more than sting.”
“These will not be my first stitches.”
“No, I suppose not.” The corners of her mouth drew down as she threaded the needle, and he could easily follow her gaze to where he’d left his cane leaning within easy reach.
Thank the Lord, it was a question she did not ask and so he did not have to answer.
Chapter Five
Homeless by month’s end? Fiona’s hands trembled as she tied the last knot. The needle flashed in the lamplight as she worked it loose and used her sewing scissors to snip the thread. One last douse of iodine to Ian’s wound, and she wrapped it well with clean bandages from the roll she kept on hand in the barn. She could not bear to think of the times her kit had come in handy, for Johnny had been always getting a cut here or a gash there. She could almost hear his voice echoing in the pitch-black corners of the barn, as if whispering beneath the beat of the wind.
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