She stared at the cloth and the wound without really seeing them. Her mind she kept focused within, in order to prevent the nausea. She took deep breaths as she repeated the process. Never had treating someone affected her to this degree. She’d even amputated a foot once. She’d been nauseated then, but it had been the practical thing to do. If she hadn’t amputated the foot, the cowboy would have died. The same rule applied here. There was no need for her to be nauseous now. It was just a simple cut.
She told herself that repeatedly, but it didn’t help because, truth be told, she’d never had to work on anyone she’d loved before.
She paused in wringing out the cloth. The enormity of the realization sank in. God help her, she loved this man. Her hands shook as she replaced the cloth again. She loved him and he’d married her to get a place of his own and respectability. She closed her eyes against the pain. Against the vulnerability. Her father was right. She was a born fool.
She opened her eyes and checked his wound. As best as she could tell, it was clean. She gently placed the cloth in the basin. She dipped her hands in the bowl of whiskey. She caught Clint’s eye. The wing-backed chair rustled a protest as he got to his feet. She tipped her head in Asa’s direction. “Hold him.”
Asa’s eyes popped open. “You’re not sewing me up.”
His gaze collided with hers. She braced and reminded herself this was the practical thing to do. The only thing. “Yes. I am.”
“You touch me, and you’ll be saying howdy to next week before I do.”
It was a nonsense threat. Asa knew it. There wasn’t a thing he could do to stop the other man from holding him down. In his current state, he probably couldn’t stop Elizabeth. Clint halted and looked at Elizabeth. All Asa could see was her profile. There was no softness to play on. He didn’t find any in her voice either as she declared softly, “I’m sewing him up.”
“The hell you are!” he growled.
She held the wicked looking needle high and straightened out the thread. “You can settle up with me later for my disobedience,” she told him in a very precise voice, “but right now, I’m closing that wound. If you think on it, you’ll see it’s reasonable.”
“There’s nothing reasonable about setting a needle to a man’s flesh,” he snarled, his stomach churning at the sight of it. Jesus, he hated needles.
Elizabeth paused. “You can’t expect me to believe you’ve never had a cut stitched before?”
“The hell I can’t.” Pain whipped through his body, reminding him that forceful speech was not on the agenda. “I don’t hold with needles,” he added in a more normal drawl.
“You mean you’re afraid of them,” Elizabeth corrected in a voice he thought too likely to carry.
“Grown men are not afraid of needles.”
She stared at him the longest time, her expression unreadable. Clint stood by her side. Asa didn’t fool himself thinking that the man was caught in any sort of indecision. If Elizabeth wanted him held down, Clint would do it.
Something shifted inside Elizabeth. Emotions flashed across her face, too quick to be deciphered, but when all was said and done, the final expression was a resigned practicality. She was going to stitch his wound and that was that. For the first time, he didn’t admire her perseverance in the face of adversity.
“Please hold him,” she said to Clint.
Asa held up his hand. “You dead set on doing this?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you know I don’t want it and the only way you’re getting away with it is because I’m too busted up to arm-wrestle a gnat?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t feel the least bit guilty?”
“No.”
“Now that’s a sad, sorry state of affairs.” Asa waved Clint back. “You won’t need to hold me.”
It was bad enough Elizabeth had seen him so weak that he couldn’t enforce a solid “no.” He wasn’t going to drop anymore in her estimation by needing to be hog-tied like a green boy.
“It might be better if Clint held you.” Her placating tone of voice set his teeth on edge almost as much as the sight of that needle. “I need you to be perfectly still.”
He glared at her. “I’m not some whining kid who needs to be forced to stay put.”
She flinched, immediately making him feel guilty, but not nearly as guilty as the tiny “I’m sorry” she whispered when she pressed the needle to his side.
He swore loudly as it pierced his flesh. Her hand jerked and he swore again.
Another “I’m sorry” drifted between them. A drop of wetness splattered on his chest. He swore, for no other reason than it felt better than the needle.
“Shut up,” Clint growled, sounding as if he were the one under the needle.