passed the bottle to him without meeting his eyes.
“If you want to wait for the doctor, you can,” he offered.
Distress drew her features tight. “No, I don’t think we should wait. I’ll do this as quickly as I can.”
He nodded, uncorking the whiskey and swallowing a hefty amount. Maybe if he got drunk he wouldn’t rise to the occasion the way he seemed to every time she got within a foot of him.
She crossed herself, then pulled a chair up to the bed. Gingerly she folded the sheet away from his injury, careful to keep his manhood and vital parts covered.
The first cool touch of her scissors between his skin and the bandage caused him to twitch.
Her gaze flew to his and she grimaced. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay. Just do it.” He took another gulp of whiskey.
She quickly cut the bandage; it took her a few minutes to pry it away from his skin. Her touch was firm and capable as her fingers moved over his flesh.
His arousal grew, mounding the sheet. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
A flush rose on her neck, up her cheeks, and still she worked. That same flush heated his body. His jaw working, he closed his eyes until she removed the bandage.
He noticed her hands were shaking, and he set the whiskey bottle inside the vee of his thighs so she couldn’t go poking that needle into any vital areas if she slipped.
She cleaned the wound carefully, frowning as she leaned over him.
“What do you think?”
She looked up, her gaze sober and earnest. “I’ll do the best I can, Lieutenant.”
He wanted to relax her a tad. It wouldn’t help either of them if she stabbed too deep with that needle. Or too far to the north. “Maybe now would be a good time for you to call me Jericho, seeing as how we’re getting pretty familiar here.”
“All right.” Her hands trembled.
“You’re steady, aren’t you?” he asked. “I won’t have to worry about you sewing that sheet to my leg?”
“I—I’m fine.”
He was nearing the end of the whiskey and still feeling more than he liked, pain and otherwise.
She picked up a bottle marked Carbolic Acid and poured a small amount of the liquid on the needle. “Ready?”
“Ready.” He gritted his teeth, hoping he would pass out once she got started.
It didn’t reassure him that she flinched before she even began.
He looked away, guzzled down another burning swallow of liquor. He felt a sharp prick, then a red-hot sting slicing through his flesh. “Damn!” he roared.
She bit her lip as she pressed his flesh together to take her first stitch.
Sweat trickled down his temple and his vision hazed. With a shaking hand, he lifted the bottle and downed the rest of the liquor. Pain throbbed through his body, razor sharp.
“Try to breathe. It will help.” Catherine didn’t look up from her task. Even though her voice shook, she was reassuring.
She took another stitch and another. The hurt layered upon itself until Jericho grabbed the edge of the bed with his good hand. His knuckles burned. His arm quivered.
Her skirts brushed his hand, her warmth reaching out to him. He tried to focus on the fresh clean scent of her, and wished again he could pass out.
“Last night, I noticed you walked without your hip dipping. That’s a good sign there’s no nerve damage.”
He grunted.
“Where are you from, Jericho?”
Her voice seemed thick and heavy, as if coming through a wall. “Southeast Texas. Outside of Houston.”
“How far is it from here?”
“Far.” A lifetime away.
“How long have you been a Ranger?”
How the hell was he supposed to remember? “Since I was nineteen. Thirteen years now.”
“And before that?”
“I apprenticed with a gunsmith in Uvalde. Took me two years to get a commission.”
“What made you want to be a Ranger?”
He appreciated that she was trying to distract him, and he struggled to force his mind on to something other than the pain. “My pa was one.”
“Is he tracking the McDougals, too?”
Jericho watched her through slitted eyes. “He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
She kept stitching with a single-mindedness he envied. “He died when I was twelve. My ma raised me and my sisters.”
“You have sisters?” She didn’t glance up. “How many?”
“Four.”
“Bless the saints!” She kept stitching. When would she finish? “Older or younger than you?”
“All younger.” Agony made his voice crack. “How’s it coming down there?”
“Just a few more stitches. Luckily, you didn’t tear the wound all the way down.”
He didn’t feel so lucky right now, but if he lived through this, he probably would.
“What are your sisters’ names?”
“Deborah, Jordan, Michal and Marah.”
“All Bible names?”
“Yes, like mine. My pa was Noah, and he wanted us to all have a name from the Bible like he did.”
“I know Jericho is a city and Jordan is a river, but Michal was a person, wasn’t she? King David’s daughter?”
“Yeah.” He squeezed his eyes shut, using his flagging energy to focus on Catherine’s voice.
“What about Marah? I’m not familiar with that name.”
“My ma says it’s the first camp of the Israelites after they crossed the Red Sea.”
“And your other sister?”
“Deborah was named after a judge in the Old Testament. She’s the oldest of my sisters.”
“Do they all live outside of Houston?”
“Yes.”
