Black crept further into her vision. She knew she was seconds from passing out. It was too much. All of it was too much. She took a deep breath. The horrible scent filled her nostrils. She barely made it to the basin in time.
When the last of the spasms passed, she turned back to the fire. The knife blade glowed red hot. Ready. She moaned despite herself.
“You all right, ma’am?”
It didn’t matter if she wasn’t. She had to be. “I’m fine,” she responded.
She glanced at Clint. He was definitely green around the edges, but he was hanging in there, holding Asa steady. Doing what had to be done. She could do no less.
“Jut one more time,” she breathed. She could do that. One more count of ten and she’d be done.
Clint’s voice was a soft echo. “Just one more time.”
She picked up the blade, welcoming the heat this time against her palms. It gave her something to focus on rather than the suffocating wall of black. Her vision was reduced to a small circle that consisted of the wound she was cauterizing and the blade she was going to do it with. She placed the blade across the wound and resolutely counted through Asa’s low groaning agony and Clint’s swearing. By the time she got to ten, she could barely see.
“Looks good,” Clint declared with obvious relief.
She took a blind step back. “We don’t need to do it again?”
“No.”
The last thing she remembered was asking Clint to take the knife. Then all went mercifully blank.
* * * * *
A week later, Elizabeth came down the stairs to find Bryce, the youngest hand, waiting in the parlor.
“How is Mr. MacIntyre?”
She gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “He’s fine. Almost ready to be up and about to hear him tell it.”
The boy grinned ear to ear. “I bet he’s not much fun laid up.”
If she didn’t murder him by sundown, he’d be fortunate. “What makes you say that?”
“My pa was the orneriest thing on two legs when he got laid up with a busted leg,” the boy added cheerfully. “My ma swore he was going to drive her mad trying to do more before it was time.”
“Mr. MacIntyre is a bit ambitious in his recovery.”
“But he’s going to recover?”
“Oh, yes.” Maybe not from the wounds she’d be inflicting, but from the gunshot, definitely.
“We’re real happy to hear that.”
She assumed he meant the hands by “we”. “Did you need something?”
“Yeah.” He blushed a fiery red that went with his hair. “Mr. McKinnely brought in those brush tails. We figured on keeping them close to home, but we need a big fenced-in area.”
“Why don’t you take that fencing we set aside for the north pasture and put it around the back meadow? If there’s enough posts, we might be able to corral all of them.”
The boy flushed deeper. “That’s a good thought. Do you think Mr. MacIntyre will think so?”
“I imagine so.”
From the way the boy stood there, she assumed he wanted her to go ask. Frustration ate her innards. What did the boy think Asa was going to say? They had the same materials to work with. The same open amount of land. The same water supplies. He continued to stare. Finally, she said, “I’ll go ask.”
She stomped up the stairs, walked past Asa’s room, and then stopped. There was no way she was going in there. The first question and he’d be struggling out of bed to supervise the construction of the corral. He was nowhere near healed enough, but, like a typical man, he wasn’t hearing that. She waited two more minutes and went back down the stairs.
“Did Mr. MacIntyre agree?”
“It’s a fine idea. Go with it.”
As the boy loped out the door, she told herself it wasn’t strictly a lie. It was a good idea.
“Elizabeth?”
The bellow came from upstairs. She ignored it, went into the kitchen and made up a tray of soup and bread. She added a glass of water. The apple pie, she ignored. The man didn’t deserve any sweets.
As soon as she cleared the top of the stairs, Asa bellowed again.
She shot him an exasperated look as soon as she cleared the door. “You hollered?”
He had the grace to drop his gaze from hers. “Was that Bryce I heard downstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Guess there isn’t trouble or it’d be Clint or Old Sam.”
“Exactly,” she agreed.
She had trouble putting the tray down without spilling the soup. Asa, reaching to help, didn’t improve the situation. She blew her hair off her face in exasperation. “Would you stop that?”
“What?”
“Stop trying to help. Stop trying to get out of bed. Stop trying to make yourself sick again!” The last sentence came out as an angry yell.
Asa relaxed against the pillow. He eyed her as if she were some strange new species of animal. A potentially dangerous one. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you shout before.”