скачать книгу бесплатно
“No!” Loosening the unconscious man’s clothing, the scout did not look up.
“You’ve no right ‘ere,” the mill bird went on with surprising temerity. “Tendin’ the sick is our job.”
“Sì, our job today,” Farina corroborated from behind him.
When Injun Jack did not answer, Westfield advanced a foot or two. “Some clean clothes and a little whiskey, yer friend’ll be ‘alfway to recovery.” Cautiously, he took another step. “Just let us get to ‘im.”
“I said, no!” Spinning on lithe legs, the man rose to a wary, menacing crouch. His hair flailed across his face, obscuring his furious features, but the knife in his hand was plain to see. One instant, the lethal blade had been nestled in a beaded sheath in the small of his back. The next, it was bared, glinting dully, and pointed at those who dared to interfere. “Go,” he snarled.
“Wh-whatever you say.” The pair retreated, tripping over each other in their haste.
Injun Jack turned and split the seam of the wounded man’s high cavalry boot from the top to the ankle with his knife. Easing the ruined boot and a blood-soaked sock from the trooper’s foot with surprising gentleness, he dropped them on the floor.
Despite the scout’s tender care, the soldier grimaced in pain. Rebecca looked to Sergeant Unger in mute appeal. Unable to leave his patient, he nodded approvingly when she draped a towel over her arm and picked up a basin of clean water.
“No, signora!” Farina hissed, realizing her intentions.
“I intend to see that boy gets the proper medical attention.” Displaying more bravery than she felt, she marched to where the scout peeled back the soldier’s blue kersey trousers, slicing along the yellow stripe that ran up the leg.
Her heart pounded as she squeezed between the beds and stopped behind him. Brawny, dusty and sweat-stained, he emanated raw power, and Private Westfield had been right. The man reeked of whiskey.
She cleared her throat delicately, but Injun Jack did not acknowledge her presence. Uncertain what to do, she waited, using the time to study him.
He was taller than the few Indians she had seen. And his shoulders were broad. Fascinated in spite of herself, she watched the muscles rippling under his fringed buckskin shirt as he leaned over the wounded man. His big, gentle hands were a contrast to his unsavory appearance, she decided, eyeing the holster at his side. Jutting from it was the bone handle of a sixgun which looked well-oiled, well-used and deadly.
Her gaze roved from his narrow waist, down to the rawhide thong which secured his holster to his thigh. Under supple, formfitting leather pants, his sinewy legs were unmistakably powerful.
Perplexed by the direction of her thoughts, Rebecca tried to peer under his hat brim, past the hair which screened his face from her view. One glimpse of his angry visage was enough to daunt the most intrepid, but she could not leave the boy to his mercies.
“Why don’t you go along now, and let me do that?” Edging forward so he could not ignore her, she explained distinctly and rather loudly, “I need to treat his wound.”
In response, he drove the point of his knife into the floor near the hem of her skirt and left the weapon standing upright. She stared down at it in shock. In the sunlight slanting through a nearby window, it seemed to shimmer, vibrating from the force with which it had been driven into the planking.
Her fear giving way to anger, she dropped to her knees and set the basin on the floor with a thump. Unmindful of a splash that soaked her apron, she addressed him crossly, “You listen to me, Mr. Indian Jack or whatever your name is. If your dirty hands haven’t given this boy an infection already, the vermin dropping off your hair and clothes should be enough to kill him.”
Covering the soldier with a sheet, Injun Jack turned. The bluest eyes Rebecca had ever seen drifted over her, their corners crinkling with an unexpected smile.
“My hands are clean enough, ma’am,” he drawled, removing his hat politely, “though I’ll own there hasn’t been much time for laundry or bathing between skirmishes.”
“H-how dare you try to frighten me?” Sinking back on her heels, she glared at him accusingly. “You’re not an Indian.”
“I’m not deaf, either. You didn’t have to shout.”
“I was trying to make myself understood.”
“I understood. I’m still not going anywhere.”
“Then stay,” she snapped, wishing she could wipe the grin from his grimy, bewhiskered face. “Just don’t get in the way.”
Before he could respond, the soldier stirred and moaned. Opening eyes almost as blue as Injun Jack’s, he stared up at Rebecca blearily.
“A lady,” he whispered weakly. “Thought I was dreamin’.”
“No, not dreaming.” She leaned near. “How are you, Private?”
“Better for seein’ you.”
Nearly staggered by the alcohol on his breath, she shot bolt upright and glared at the scout over her shoulder.
“A little bourbon for the pain.” He shrugged.
“Are you a nurse, ma’am?” the soldier asked hoarsely. “Or an angel come to carry me to glory?”
“Neither. I just do what I can. I don’t think you’re bound for glory yet, but I’ll know better after I look at your wound.”
“Sergeant Unger can see to it.” The young man rallied enough to tuck the cover under his chin. “A lady shouldn’t be lookin’ at a man’s… limb. It’s not fittin’.”
Her hand on the sheet, Rebecca assured him, “You needn’t be concerned, Private. I don’t embarrass easily.”
A brown, callused hand stayed hers. “Teddy’s propriety is only part of the problem,” Injun Jack warned. “He took a good lick with a tomahawk. This isn’t like treating splinters and sprains.”
“I wish my only experience had been splinters and sprains, sir.” She stared pointedly at his hand until he withdrew it, scowling. “However, I lived three miles from Gettysburg during the late war.”
“A Yankee angel,” Teddy joked feebly. “What do you think of that, Jack?”
“I think it’s a good thing for you the war is over.” Rising, the scout sat on the adjacent bed. “Go ahead, ma’am. Your hands are cleaner than mine and I bet you don’t have nearly the vermin.”
Her face bright with color, Rebecca turned back the sheet, glad Teddy had closed his eyes on the situation. She was aware of Injun Jack sagging wearily in the shadows behind her, his head resting against the iron bedstead, his azure eyes following her every move.
Her brow puckered with worry when she saw the gash and the red streak running up the soldier’s leg. The cut had been packed with an alcohol-soaked bandanna in the field. The cloth was now brown and crusted with dried blood, its original color unidentifiable. After hours on the trail, it had adhered to the edges of the wound. Calling for hot water, she carefully set about removing it.
Teddy gritted his teeth and endured hot compresses to loosen the packing, though his jaw worked furiously as it was extracted. When blood gushed from the cut, Rebecca allowed it to flow for a moment to carry away the debris lodged inside. Tears sprang to the young man’s eyes, but he was silent while she washed the wound.
Looking around for the doctor or the steward to sew the gash, she was relieved to see the sergeant approach. “Hello, Injun Jack,” he greeted the scout while he inspected Rebecca’s handiwork.
“Hello, Unger.” The man made no effort to stand.
“Good work, Miss Rebecca.” The steward handed her a small tray which held a needle, thread and paper of morphine powder. “Here, you’re going to need these.”
“But-”
“If you’ll take care of Private Greeley, I’ll take care of the rest,” he told her reassuringly.
She glanced at Injun Jack who hunched in the shadows, seemingly dozing. “Very well,” she managed.
After the sergeant departed, she waited until the morphine took effect and Teddy’s breathing became deep and regular. His eyelids fluttered as she sewed, but he did not seem to feel any pain. She worked quickly for his skin was already hot and dry to the touch and on his cheeks were two bright spots of color.
“How bad is it?” he asked sleepily when she finished.
“I’ve seen worse,” Injun Jack answered for her.
Rebecca started at the unexpected voice behind her.
“How bad, angel?” Teddy pressed, struggling to stay awake.
“The cut is deep, but it’s clean and closed now,” she replied cautiously, “If there’s no infection—”
His eyes glittering with fever and the drug, Teddy strained to see the scout. “Promise you won’t let Doc cut my leg off, Jack.”
“Rest easy, boy. He isn’t coming near you with a saw,” the big man vowed, glowering at the woman as if daring her to object.
Placing a wet cloth on the soldier’s forehead, she urged soothingly, “Just rest now.” But the red streak on his leg concerned her.
She beckoned a nurse, but the man halted twenty feet away and would come no closer. Unwilling to awaken the entire ward, she went to him. “Please bathe Private Greeley,” she instructed, picking up a change of undergarments from a stack on the dispensing table. “And dispose of his old clothes while I fetch something for his fever.”
“Injun Jack won’t let me get that close, ma’am,” the nurse protested, “not without sliding his pig-sticker between my ribs.”
“He didn’t stab me,” she pointed out, shoving the long johns into his hands. “He didn’t even try.”
“No, but—”
“Tell him I told you to make Teddy more comfortable.”
“Yes’m.” The nurse trudged toward the sickbed, glancing back at her unhappily when the scout reached down to reclaim his knife from the floor. “Miss Rebecca says I’m to bathe Private Greeley.”
Injun Jack regarded him through slitted blue eyes for a long moment, then resheathed his knife. “Don’t hurt him,” he grunted, sliding down on the bed and covering himself with a blanket, “or I’ll have to skin you alive.”
Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Rebecca left the rattled nurse to his duties.
Injun Jack lay still, listening to the howling wind. His arm throbbed and he was tired, so tired, but he could not sleep yet.
From behind a fringe of dark eyelashes, he watched Teddy’s Yankee angel at work. Her eyes modestly averted from her patient’s bath, she mixed a concoction for him. Slender, erect and not very tall, she moved with quiet competence, her glossy brown braid slapping between her shoulder blades with every move.
When she turned to dip whiskey from the crock, Jack glimpsed her profile. Her delicate features reminded him of a brooch his mother had worn. But unlike the cameo, her face was animated and expressive.
He judged her to be about twenty-five and pretty enough, but too prim and proper for his liking. She did have a nice mouth and a dimple when she smiled, but when she was riled, her stare could stop a bull buffalo in a dead run.
He closed his eyes wearily. Fatigue was making him foolish… foolish over a woman. But her eyes were beautiful. He wished he could remember what color they were.
Rebecca was relieved to find Injun Jack asleep when she returned to Teddy’s bedside. The patient was clean and quiet, but still unclothed. His new undergarments lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed, and the nurse was nowhere to be seen.
Though she knew it was silly, she ducked to peer beneath the beds. As she straightened, she found herself staring into Injun Jack’s blue eyes.
He grinned lazily. “If you’re looking for your nurse, you won’t find him there.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Not a thing,” he protested, the picture of innocence.
With a sniff, Rebecca turned her back to him and lifted her patient’s head. Holding the cup to his lips, she coaxed, “Drink this, Private.”
The groggy Teddy took a sip, his cooperative stupor ending when he tasted the medication. Shoving the cup away, he gagged, “Jehoshaphat, she’s tryin’ to poison me!”
“That’s not so.” She retreated, half expecting Injun Jack to leap from his bunk and cut her to pieces, but he did not move.
“Pass me your flask quick, Jack,” the young man appealed with a horrible grimace.
His benefactor was unsympathetic. “Soon as you finish what you’ve got there.”
“What I’ve got here is rotgut,” Teddy complained.
“It’s more quinine than whiskey. For fever…” Rebecca’s defense trailed off when he fixed her with a baleful stare.
“I could live through a fever, ma’am. I’m not sure about the whiskey.”
“Drink it, boy,” the scout commanded.
With a distasteful scowl, the soldier took the cup. “Your day is comin’, Jack,” he muttered. “Soon. You show her your arm?”
“What happened to your arm?” She glanced at the other man.
“Got in the way of an arrow.” Covered with a blanket, he made no move to reveal his injury.
“He was shot as he came for me,” Teddy elaborated.
“I wouldn’t have, if I had known you weren’t going to take your medicine.”
Holding his nose, the private drained the cup. “Now give me some good bourbon,” he panted, “and let her look at your arm.”
When Injun Jack threw off his blanket and sat up, Rebecca saw that his right arm hung limply at his side. Fishing a tarnished silver flask from inside his shirt with his left hand, he passed it to Teddy. “Take it easy. You’ve probably had too much already.”
After the young man drank and lay back on his pillow, Injun Jack plucked the flask from his hands and saluted the woman with it. “Your health, Miss Rebecca. That is your name, isn’t it?”
She nodded. His face was pale under his tan and a fine sheen of perspiration coated his forehead. The glaze in his eyes had more to do with fatigue and pain than with the whiskey he swigged. “I could look at your arm, if you’d like,” she suggested kindly.
“No, thanks.” Slumped against the bedstead, his big body hid the injured limb from view and made it virtually unreachable. “O’Hara treated it in the field.”
“This Mr. O’Hara is a doctor?” she inquired crisply.
“This Sergeant O’Hara is a ham-fisted Irishman who did what needed to be done.” He gripped the edge of the mattress to steady himself. “You’ll understand my reluctance, however, to have anyone else poke around in me after he finished.”
Rebecca regarded the scout appraisingly. He had threatened, bellowed and bullied, but he had not hurt anyone yet. Surely he would not harm a woman. “I must insist on examining your arm,” she said quietly.
Amusement glinted in his blue eyes. “You have a lot of stubborn for such a little gal.”
“And you have little sense for such a big man,” she retorted. “Are you going to let that arm become infected?”
“No, ma’am.” Docilely, he extended his right arm. The sleeve of his buckskin shirt had been split up to his shoulder and a dust-caked yellow scarf encircled his bare bicep.
