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MONSIEUR MCQUEEN’S cape flapped in the cold wind. “Fingal! Stop running off with the wood.”
A smile teased Elizabeth’s lips. She turned from the man. She had no wish for him to see such.
Fingal dropped a shingle before her, widened his jowls, and barked.
The laughter burst from her throat anyway. She picked up the wood and tossed it the other side of the muddy tracks. The dog catapulted into the air and spun, then scampered after it with a series of short barks.
Elizabeth turned back.
Thomas McQueen frowned.
“Will you let me put that sling back on your arm now?” she asked.
“Nae. ‘Tis too hard to work with it on.” His breath fogged the air. “And dinna pester me about it again.” He turned back to the fencing.
She shook her head. The man was as stubborn as a two-headed goat. ‘Twas clear to see the shoulder gave him a great deal of pain, and the cough threatened to break free at any moment.
His changeable temper helped not. It must have been her remark about not being strong. He had pulled into himself and not come out.
“Let us take these rails back to the house.” He tossed his fist before his mouth and fought a cough. After a minute, he lowered his hand to the back end of the wagon and squeaked the words from his throat. “We will then come back for the last of them.”
She nodded. “You need some more tea first.”
“I dinna.”
“And ye need to warm up.”
“Nae time.”
She shook her head. “If you do not stop the cough before it starts, it will take hold.”
“First, you badger me about the sling.”
“Which you wear not even as the arm pains you.”
“Now ye worry with my cough.”
“You need someone to worry about you.”
“I can take care of me ain knickers,” he said.
“What?”
“Meself, Lass. I can take care of meself.”
“If you ask me—”
“I dinna do so.”
“You will be unable to finish getting the wood.” She jumped over and between the muddy trenches made by the wagon wheels, then hoisted herself to the back of the wagon.
“Is that all ye worry about?”
“I could have turned sick myself last night in the cold.” And she could have died of fright in the dark.
She twisted around and sat to her rear.
His brows crawled downward. Snow sprinkles iced his beard, and his nose had reddened like Pere Noel at Christmastime.
Fingal jumped to the wagon alongside her. He licked her face, then turned to Thomas. He pawed the air and whined.
The man’s gaze froze to the dog. His eyes softened like sun-warming blueberries. His fingers scratched first one black ear and then the other.
What would he look like if his beard were trimmed or even shaved? What if he smelled like clean man and not some creature that had been rotting in the forest for months?
And those clothes. She had seen woodsmen in hunting shirts and deerskin leggings, but he looked like he had been wearing his for years.
Her throat went as dry as parchment. She crossed her arms over her chest and not because of the cold.
“Besides,” she snipped. “I have no wish to bury you, nor am I able.”
He pulled his hand from the dog. “Ye will have nae trouble on my account, Miss Johns, for I will nae be dying. I have important things to do before I let that happen.”
––––––––
HAD THOMAS NOT BEEN so tired, he would have throttled her. ‘Twas bad enough the lass pestered him about the arm and his cough, but to now throw barbs at him about dying was more than he could stand.
He spun around and stalked through the mud to the front of the wagon. He reached for Dominic’s halter. Horses and dogs were so much simpler than people.
“One more load after this one.” He rubbed the white patch between the syrup colored eyes. “Then I will give ye a warm rub down and as much hay as ye like.”
The horse bobbed his head and snickered. Thomas pulled the halter.
The wagon rocked forward and backward and stopped. Again, he pulled the halter. Again the wagon rocked and stopped.
The irritation fired up his spine. Was it to get stuck now when he was near finished?
The wheels settled into the ground like a spoon stuck in old, hard oatmeal. He swore under his breath. He turned to see Miss Johns studying him.
Ach! There was nothing to do but have her come pull the harness while he pushed from behind. Where he was to find the strength, especially with the pain shooting through his shoulder, he knew not.
He walked to the back of the wagon, giving the lass a wide berth. She was too soft. Her hair too thick. Her eyes too innocent. He was not about to touch her and risk his temper flaring.
He pulled out several pickets. He shoved them horizontally beneath the back wheels. When the last was done, he stood and faced her. “Ye will pull Dominic forward while I get behind the wagon and push. Just a little nudge should get it going.”
“How can you push with your shoulder?”
“Lass, I have another whole side here.” He pointed his left finger at his right shoulder. Pain shifted across his bicep. He sucked it in and offered a weak smile.
“But I do not like horses.”
Who dinna like horses?
“Well, ‘tis not so much a dislike, as I am not used to them.”
Now, she had gone from nagging to making no sense. “Dominic is a good horse. I could probably whistle and point, and he would move forward.”
“Then why do you not?” Her right brow lifted.
He wanted to swipe it from her face.
“And I am not used to working them. We had oxen, and Papa rode his horse, but he always let me ride in our carriage.”
His mouth fell open. “A carriage? I canna imagine such a thing all the time.” The wind swirled into his throat like a tornado. He fought the itching grip.
“Monsieur McQueen, pushing will only hurt your shoulder, and the exertion will make you cough more.”
He was not certain how much more he could stand.
“And if ‘tis a little push, I should be able to do that.”
“Are ye always this gnatty?”
“What is gnatty?”
“Like a gnat.” He wiggled his fingers in front of his nose. “Always buzzing around a person’s face.”
“I am not being so.” She crossed her arms. “I am simply pointing out a more advantageous solution to our problem.”
“Ye use too many big words, too.”
“I meant—”
“I know what ye meant.” His hand came up. “Fine.” He leaned past her and grabbed more pickets. These he lay atop the mud behind the wagon to make a flooring of sorts. “Stand on these. Ye will not get mired yourself.”
She scrambled off the wagon and onto the boards.
He lifted the end of the wagon and latched it into place. “Wait till I say push.”
He walked back to Dominic’s side. He reached for the halter, smoothed a few words into the horse’s ear, then pulled.
“Push, Lass,” he called over his shoulder.
Fingal, beside Elizabeth, barked wildly. The wheels rocked forward, then backward. Why had he let her push? She weighed not a hundred pounds when wet.
“Harder!” he yelled.
The wagon lurched back and forth yet again. Fingal continued his frantic barks. Thomas may well have to insist she pull Dominic’s harness despite her unease.
Then, the wheels jiggered and jawed and jerked upward to freedom.
The lass screamed.
Thomas’ heart stuck in his throat. He pulled Dominic to a halt on drier ground. He spun around. Where was she?
“Miss Johns?” he cried.
Nothing.
He could not hear Fingal either.
Had she fallen under one of the wheels? She was a nuisance, but he had nae wish to bury her.
He raced to the back of the wagon.
The lass sat to her rear between the planks and the back of the wagon. Mud masked the left side of her face. Another thick layer caked her front.
He slogged through the mire, stepped to the planks, and knelt. “Are ye alright?”
Fingal nudged her back with his snout.
Her lungs grabbed for air. “I am not certain.” She raked the mud from the side of her face. It did little good for there was too much on her hands.
“Does anything hurt?” he asked.
She frowned. “I slipped and fell in the mud face down. Everything hurts.”
A chuckle soared to his throat. He swallowed it into submission.
Fingal licked her face. She squinched her eyes and pushed his black snout aside.
This time, despite Thomas’ best efforts, the laugh escaped.
She smiled. “You said I was stronger than I realized. Maybe you were right.” Dark lashes fluttered atop cold, wind-reddened cheeks. Her laugh was easy and gentle, and Thomas’ heart loosened.
He hated himself for it.
“I have been known to be right on a few occasions,” he muttered.
She eased to her knees and pressed her palms into the mud. She lifted a knee but fell to her side. The mud flooded to her hip.
She was making the situation worse instead of better.
Could he touch her for just a minute? After all, ‘twas not a reflex but a conscious decision on his part.
He reached his hand downward. “Let me help.”
She hesitated. “You promise to do just that?”
He nodded.
She sucked in a quick breath, then lifted her arm and eased her fingers into his hand. Despite the dirt, they were gentle and frail.
A green sickness spread through him. He swallowed. Hard.
He pulled her to her feet. She jumped to the planks.
He let go and spun around. “Make your way to the drier ground, then back around to the wagon.” He waited not to see how she fared, for the revulsion working its way through him was unnerving.
He would have to make certain he was not kind in such a way again.
––––––––
THE MAN HURDLED ACROSS the mud and to the snow-covered grasses like a startled buck.
What had she done now?
Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest, only to have them slide back out on so much mud. She looked down at the thick brown sludge bathing her front.
“Josué,” she breathed. “Ton manteau.” She lifted her arms outward and stared at the coat. The tears reared to her eyes.
“’Twill have to be thrown away,” Thomas said.
“It can be washed.”
“Washed?” he cried. “Lass, we dinna have the time.”
“Who said anything about we?” She lifted her arms outward for balance, then set herself to slogging through the mud step by slow step. “I am perfectly capable of washing my own clothes.” The muddy coat weighed heavy on her chest.
“But we will need to wash ourselves before this day is done.”
She stumbled. Her heart jammed into her throat. She tilted left and right to straighten her spine. Fingal whined. She was not even halfway across.
Why did the man not help?
She rushed forward. She lurched to the dryer, but snow covered grasses. “There is plenty of creek water.”
“’Tis icy cold.”
“And I am perfectly capable of hauling water into the yard or even the house if necessary.” Although, she had to admit, ‘twould be easier with his help.
She was not, however, willing to say so.
She traced her finger in the air down his person. “And your clothes could use a good washing, too. You are filthy.”
His eyes darkened to a black madness. “I have been in the woods—”
“—for months apparently.” She stepped past him.
Behind her, the man swore. “Ye would try the patience of Job.”
“Perhaps, if Job had a wife or even a daughter at the time that had been more free with her words, he would have fared better.”
She was tiring after so little sleep and the falling. A soreness was setting into her body, and her stomach had not settled.
She reached the back of the wagon. She shed the coat and threw it over the side.
She reached for the nearest latch. She pulled. She pushed. She twisted.
She turned to see the man watching her. His eyes pinched tight. He flicked his fingers at her.
She stepped back. He undid one latch, stepped around her, and undid the other. He lowered the back.
She scrambled to the bed. The last thing she wanted to do was force the man to help her again. Sharing laughs or pleasantries seemed to throw him back to some dark place.
Touching her had sent him to some sort of hell.
She turned around.
He stared at the coat?
“I will wash it,” she said. “You need not trouble yourself.”
His gaze slipped to her. “But why, Lass?”
A breeze ruffled her. She shivered. Not even Fingal, who had jumped up beside her, could give her enough warmth for the ride back.
“Granted a good coat is hard to lose,” he said. “But this one.” He paused. “’Tis old and worn.”
“I am all alone here now.”
“I am speaking of the coat.”
“’Tis the coat I speak of.” She crossed her arms over her chest to ward off the chilled air. “If Josué’s coat requires a mere washing in order to preserve something of him that helps me feel braver because my brother was the bravest person I ever knew, then I will wash it. I hardly see how that should bother you.”
She waited for the scowl.
It came not.
“So ye have nae one here?”
“No. They are all gone.”
“I am sorry, Miss Johns. War is hard.”
“Losing one’s family makes it very nearly too hard to bear.”
A hunted look flooded his eyes. His gaze slid this way and that, around and over, not directed at her but running, it seemed, from some unseen force that had ambushed him.
“Aye, Miss Johns, ye are right about that.” He sighed. “Ye are certainly right about that.”