to do that several times a week. I think I’ll just go see if Mr. Patterson has a little pull-cart he could trade me for this week’s pies.” She arose, and took her woolen shawl and bonnet from the pegs by the door. “I need to discuss with him and the hotel owner when I can start delivering again, anyway.” She had notified her customers she would not be baking again till after the move. “Do you want to come with me?”
“No, I think I’ll work on arranging my bedroom,” Prissy said. She stretched and rubbed the small of her back. “I have a feeling my bed’s going to feel very good tonight, after all the boxes we’ve been carrying and the furniture we’ve been arranging and rearranging. Oh, and while you’re there, would you look and see if they have anything lighter for curtain material? Mama’s castoff damask curtains are just too dark and heavy for this room, don’t you think?”
Sarah nodded her agreement. “I’ll look at the bolts of cloth while I’m there. Perhaps a dotted swiss…” Sewing was Milly’s area of expertise, but surely she could sew a simple pair of gathered curtains.
It only took her five minutes to walk from the cottage on the grounds of the mayor’s property, out the wrought-iron gates and down Simpson Creek’s main street to the mercantile. The weather was cool, and lowering clouds in the north promised colder weather still, perhaps even a “blue norther.” Might they even have some snow? It was too bad it had not come in time for Christmas, if so…
Distracted by her thoughts, she didn’t remember to look out for the warped board that lay halfway between the hotel and the mercantile—
—and suddenly she was falling headlong, her arms flailing in a vain attempt to regain her balance. She cried in alarm as her shawl slid off backward and her forearms skidded along the rough boards. The fabric of her left sleeve snagged on a protruding nail which sliced a three-inch furrow into the tender flesh of her arm, leaving stinging pain in its wake.
And blood. A crimson trickle, then a rivulet welled up from the lacerated flesh, staining the cloth. Dizzy and nauseated at the sight, she closed her eyes, hoping she was not about to faint.
Then there were voices and running footsteps from inside the store, and a pounding on the boards as someone ran up the walk from behind her. “Miss Matthews! Are you all right? I saw you fall.”
Sarah recognized the voice of Mr. Patterson, the owner of the mercantile. She heard another voice asking, “Wait, don’t try to move her. Can you hear me, Miss Matthews?” She recognized that voice, too—that of the very last person she wanted to have witnessed her humiliation, Dr. Nolan Walker.
Her recognition galvanized her and kept her from giving into the blackness that she might well have surrendered to otherwise. She opened her eyes. “Of course I can. I’m fine. Just…give me a minute.”
She opened her eyes, and saw that he was kneeling beside her.
“Can you move your limbs, Miss Matthews?”
“Of course I can,” she said again, and to prove it, struggled to sit up.
“Wait. Just lie there a moment, get your bearings.” he commanded her, coolly professional. “Lift your head.” He wrenched off his coat, and laid it under her head.
“I assure you, Dr. Walker, I have my bearings.”
He ignored her. “Mr. Patterson, could you please get me some clean cloths and water?”
By now a trio of curious cowboys riding by, and a couple of small boys who’d been shooting marbles across the street, had stopped to gawk at her, and she felt her face flaming with embarrassment. “Please, I don’t want to be a public spectacle.” She reached out a hand. “And it’s cold. Help me inside.”
“Very well, just sit up for a moment, don’t rush—”
She was not about to act the fragile, swooning belle in front of this man. Paying no heed to his injunction, Sarah used his hand to pull herself to her feet. Then she accidentally caught a glimpse of her bloody sleeve. Her head swam, and the black mist threatened to swamp her again. If only she had a vial of smelling salts in her reticule, as proper ladies did! Suppressing a shudder, she looked away from her injured arm and allowed Dr. Walker to help her into the mercantile.
Inside the store, Mr. Patterson had set out a chair in front of the counter, and Mrs. Patterson bustled about, setting a bowl of water and some folded cloths on top of the flat surface.
She sank gratefully into the chair, and felt the soothing, cool wetness of the cloth the mercantile owner’s wife wiped on her forehead, murmuring, “You poor dear, that was a nasty fall!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Patterson, I—I’ll be all right,” she felt compelled to say, though she still wasn’t completely certain.
“You’ll want to look away,” she heard Dr. Walker saying, as he peeled back the blood-stained, ripped sleeve from her injury. He then took another cloth and soaked it in the water, wrung it out, used it to sponge the blood away. The cut stung like a hundred red ants were biting her at once, and Sarah bit her lip, determined not to cry out.
Then Dr. Walker patted it dry, and used a long dry cloth to wrap around her arm, ripping one end of it into two strips to tie it expertly, binding the bandage.
She had to admire his cool professional manner. He’d done it all in less time than it took for Mrs. Patterson to stop clucking over her.
“Thank you, Dr. Walker,” she said, standing. “I—I appreciate what you’ve done. I’m sure it will heal up nicely now.” She’d have to return another day to see about the curtains and the wagon. Right now she wanted nothing more than to escape his gaze and that of the Pattersons and go back to the cottage. She’d doubted he’d accept payment for his impromptu doctoring, but perhaps she could bring him a cake by way of thanks.
“It’s a blessing he was there,” Mrs. Patterson murmured in agreement.
“Oh, I’m not done, Miss Matthews. That’s a nasty gash you have, and it’s going to need proper disinfectant and some stitches to heal properly. You need to come down to the office with me where I can do it properly.”
Her eyes flew open. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary,” she protested.
“And I’m sure it is. Come along, Miss Matthews,” he said, tucking her uninjured arm in his.
“But—”
“Best listen to the doctor, dear,” Mrs. Patterson was saying.
“Yes, he’s treated wounds on the battlefield, after all,” her spouse added.
She felt herself being pulled out the door, willy-nilly. She trusted his medical judgment, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to be alone with him, even if she was only a patient to him in this instance.
Chapter Five
His hand under her elbow, and keeping his eyes on her still pale face, Nolan led Sarah carefully down the steps to the street. Behind them, a dog had found the bonanza of apple pie splattered against the wall and on the boardwalk and was happily lapping it up.
It was the coldest day he’d experienced since coming to Texas, but it was still nothing to what the weather would be like in his home state at this time of year. Back in Maine,
