Emmett woke and was immediately struck by a flash of pain so strong that he gasped. He forced open his eyes, but his vision blurred, so he let them drift closed again. His head felt heavy, like it had been packed too full. And the pain. A burning flared in his side, just below his ribs, as if a searing iron was probing into him. He shifted, intending to touch the spot, but when he moved one arm down, the other lifted, stretching his side painfully. He groaned.
Water sated his parched throat, but he couldn’t see where it had come from. He thought he heard kind words spoken in a woman’s gentle voice, but that was obviously impossible. He must have fever madness. Time passed and he vacillated just on the edge of sleep, unable to force his mind to focus enough to fully wake.
An unknown amount of time passed, and finally, he felt a semblance of coherence. Cracking his eyes open, he saw he was in a dimly lit building with no furniture—a shed or a barn perhaps. The sound of a cow somewhere nearby made the second conjecture seem the most likely. He tried to move his arm again with the same result as before. What the devil? Turning his head inch by agonizing inch, he saw his wrists were bound. Though on an intellectual level he knew it would only cause more pain, his panic won out, and he pulled at the ropes, sending agony to his injuries. The knots were tight. His heart started pounding, and he tried to force his sluggish brain to make sense of what was happening to him.
His last memories were foggy. He was leading a company on a reconnaissance mission, hoping to gain information about Fort Malden’s supply line for General Winchester. The regiment’s trek north through Michigan Territory had been fraught with peril. The roads were nearly impassible, one day a swamp and the next, ice. Supplies were so far behind that the troops were in danger of starvation, and typhus fever spread through the camp, leaving three hundred men on the sick list at a time; an average of four daily died from the malady. And all this was in addition to the typical camp difficulties, such as blisters, leg sores, impetigo, and lice.
Emmett remembered crossing the frozen Detroit River with his small company and observing the fort from the woods, but something had happened . . . He tried to push through the murkiness, and suddenly the memory returned with sharp clarity. The Indian attack! Emmett jolted, trying to sit upright, but immediately wished he hadn’t when the pain magnified and lights burst behind his eyes. What had happened to the men in his command? Were they injured as well? Captured? He must find out.
His burst of alarm exhausted him, and he lay his head back down . . . on a pillow? What kind of Indians wrapped their prisoners in quilts and provided feather pillows? His curiosity was overcoming the initial panic, and he tolerated the ache of moving his head again in order to have a better look at his surroundings. Nearby, he saw his hat and boots. And his uniform coat hung from a peg on the wall, the sleeve’s gold decorations signifying his rank standing out against the dark-blue wool. What had happened to his gear? Had he lost his pack in the attack? As he became more aware, he felt that he was wearing a tight cap on his head, and on his hands—
The door creaked open, and Emmett’s chest clenched when he saw the barrel of a musket poke through the opening.
A young woman entered, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or more afraid as she pointed the weapon at him. Did she have any idea how to use that old gun? He squinted, trying to make out her features in the gloom.
“Oh, you’re awake,” she said, and he couldn’t tell whether her voice sounded surprised or relieved. The woman kept her distance, moving closer as she studied the bindings on his wrists, but not coming too close. Then, apparently confident that Emmett was still restrained, her demeanor relaxed. She leaned the musket against the wall near the door and brought in a lantern and a basket.
When the lantern light illuminated her, Emmett wondered for a moment if he was hallucinating. She was probably close to twenty years of age—making her around seven years his junior—and though he may later blame his opinion on blood loss addling his mind and giving the whole experience a dreamlike quality, he thought her unbelievably lovely. Her skin was a creamy white with a bit of pink on her nose and cheeks from the cold. Dark hair and dark eyes surrounded by long lashes contrasted against her skin in a way that was striking without being stark. He couldn’t help but stare. Who was this woman? And what in the world was happening?
She moved toward him, crouching down and setting the lantern on the ground. “And your eyes are blue. I wondered—” She stopped talking, her cheeks turning pink as if she’d not meant to give voice to her thoughts. Clearing her throat, she adopted a more businesslike demeanor. “How do you feel, Captain?”
Though his officer training had included withstanding interrogation, negotiating with the enemy, and other procedures to follow if one was taken prisoner, nothing could have possibly prepared him for this scenario. He did not know how to respond.
At his silence, she wrinkled her brow. “Well, I imagine your injuries are still painful, and your head probably aches. You did lose quite a lot of blood.” She squinted, peering closer at him. “It is normal to experience confusion. Not to worry, it will pass.”
Confusion. That was putting it mildly. “Miss, am I your prisoner?”
“I prefer ‘patient.’ But yes, I suppose you are.” She looked through the basket, drawing out some items. “I need to change your wrappings, if you don’t mind.”
“By all means.”
She hesitated, and he saw a look of apprehension narrow her eyes and tighten the skin around her mouth. “I warn you not to try anything . . . malicious, sir. I am very adept with the musket.”
“I would not dream of it, Miss . . . ?” He spoke the word as a question. Almost as much as his body needed healing, he needed information. If he could get her speaking, he might learn something useful; perhaps even discover a way to escape. It was imperative that he return to his men.
“Abigail Tidwell.” She stood to give a small curtsy then knelt beside him, using scissors to cut the bandages from his arm. When she peeled away the wrappings, Emmett craned his neck to see the injury. The wound was close to three inches long and held together with sutures. He watched as she gently touched her fingertips to the gash and the area surrounding it and even leaned close to sniff it.
“How long have I been here?” he asked.
She didn’t look up from her inspection. “I found you last night. It is nearly night again.”
An entire day. The urgency returned. His men needed him. If they survived the attack, they could be wounded; at the very least, they were in hostile territory without a leader.
“The skin is red, but not overly so, and it does not feel hot, nor is there any discharge. It is healing nicely,” she said, giving an encouraging smile. Then she reached for fresh bandages to rewrap it.
“Are you a doctor?” He meant the words to be teasing; of course a woman wasn’t a doctor. The very idea was preposterous. But perhaps charm would work on this one, soften her defenses, and ease her fears about him.
“My father is a physician-surgeon, and I assist him.”
The answer was a surprise. “And did he stitch my wound?” One thing he had encountered often during his career as a soldier was stitches, both on his own body and others’, and he considered himself a sufficient authority on well-administered sutures. These were some of the best he’d seen.
“No. I did that.” She tied off the bandage and then stopped, glancing up at him; her demeanor had suddenly turned less certain. He wondered at the reaction. Was she seeking his approval for a well-treated wound? He didn’t imagine so. More likely she was worried that he did not believe she truly was the one to mend it.
“Where is your father now?”
The apprehensive expression remained on her face. “In the house. He should be here any moment.” She turned back to the basket as she spoke, and he knew immediately that she was lying.
Now Emmett understood the reason for her worry. She was alone. After all, why would a doctor leave his daughter to tend to a patient when he was simply “in the house”? And there was also the matter of his restraints. They were the work of a person who was worried she might be overpowered. He kept his teasing expression. He could always count on winning a woman over with his flirting. He wasn’t proud of it, but the skill had come in useful a time or two. “And does your father tie up all his patients?”
“No, of course not, but you are American. A person can’t be too careful with an enemy soldier.”
“I see.” He smirked.
She still looked nervous, and he realized his charms weren’t having the desired effect. Didn’t she notice the roguish flick of his brow? Probably not. She was rather focused on his injuries.
“And are these socks, Miss Tidwell?” He wiggled his hands in their bindings, and colorful socks flopped back and forth off the tips of his fingers.
She gave a small nod. “I thought your hands might get cold.”
“Blue and yellow stripes?”
“They were my grandmother’s. She was nearly blind, so I would use the brightest yarn I could find to make her socks. She liked to see them.”
He couldn’t help but smile at the image of an old woman wearing the outrageously colored stockings. “And am I wearing Grandmother’s hat, too?”
“My brother’s.” She pulled back the quilts to expose his other wound. The cocoon of warmth that had surrounded him was invaded by a burst of cold, and he shivered. But the invasion of chilly air brought with it another realization. Nearly all of his clothes had been removed. All that remained were his drawers.
“I’m sorry,” she said, cutting the strips that bound his torso. “This one is much deeper. It will be tender.” She brought the lantern even closer and laid her head nearly on the ground as she inspected the wound on his side.
“Miss Tidwell, where are my clothes?” He maintained a teasing tone, pretending to be shocked.
“They had to be removed to tend your wounds.”
“Even the trousers?”
Red covered her cheeks and neck as she poked at his wound.
She was right––it was much more tender. Emmett sucked in a breath.
“They were wet, and you can’t get warm in wet clothes. I needed to check your feet for frost burn, anyway.” She rose to a kneeling position and set the backs of her fingers on the area around the wound, apparently checking his skin’s temperature.
Her face, if possible, went even redder. Emmett laughed at her discomfort. And now he knew with utter certainty that she was alone.
She squinted and pointed at his side. “I know you cannot see it, but here is where the arrowhead was lodged. The wound is healing nicely, and there is no discharge.” After a moment longer, Abigail retrieved fresh bandages, and he lifted up as well as he could while she reached under his back and across his torso a few times to fix the wrappings. “I saved the arrowhead for you, Captain Prescott,” she said, pulling a sharp, triangular stone from her apron pocket.
“Why would you do that?”
She looked taken aback by the question, and rather offended. “I thought you might find it interesting. It’s made from obsidian and has a rather unusual green tint.”
“And how did you know my name?”
She glanced quickly toward his jacket.
“I imagine that you learned it from the letters in my coat.” When she looked back, he held her gaze. “And you must have found the pouch of curious rocks in my pocket and assumed I’d want to add the arrowhead to the collection. I’m afraid you gave yourself away. You, Miss Tidwell, are a snoop.”
She scowled and stood, tossing aside the arrowhead. Apparently teasing was not the way into this woman’s favor. “Well, I had to know the character of the man in my barn, didn’t I?”
“And what of your character, Miss Tidwell?” Emmett was growing tired of being polite. This was a matter of life or death, not a time for a young woman to play at doctor. There was a war happening this very moment, and he needed to return to his command. Though the position was excruciating, he shifted to the side to rest on one elbow. He was tired of Abigail Tidwell standing over him while he lay flat on his back, incapacitated. As if she were in charge here. He was a captain in the United States Army, for heaven’s sake. “What kind of person ties up a bleeding man?” His voice came out angrier than he’d intended.
Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “A person who is trying to save his life, thank you very much. And speaking of such, a little gratitude would be nice, but I suppose those common courtesies aren’t of importance to cursed Americans.” She snatched up the lantern and started toward the barn door, but then paused. She stood for a moment as Emmett blinked, momentarily shocked by her use of profanity. He’d certainly not charmed her.
She sighed and returned, fetching a cup and a teapot from the basket. “You need to drink.”
She spoke as if giving him tea was the last thing she wanted to do, but she continued to tend him out of a sense of duty. Emmett held back a smile at the young woman’s petulance. Duty was something he understood. She had a stubborn streak and was apparently used to getting her way, but he could see compassion overrode even her pride. Perhaps this failing was something he could use to his advantage. In time, her concern might prove useful. He must be patient, then, and above all not frighten her.
“I apologize,” he said. “I suppose being injured hasn’t improved my temper.”
She knelt beside him and poured the tea, holding the cup as he took a sip.
Emmett grimaced. It tasted terrible.
“I know the flavor is bitter, but it helps with the pain.” All traces of stubbornness were gone, and Abigail spoke in a gentler tone. “And you must sleep in order to heal.”
“I do appreciate your excellent care,” Emmett said. He could feel the ingredients in the tea beginning to take effect as his body grew heavy and his mind grew light. Laudanum, if he wasn’t mistaken. A luxury seldom given to soldiers.
“Tomorrow I’ll bring something to eat,” she said, her voice sounding far away.
Emmett could feel his hold on awareness slipping away, and his final impressions were of his head being laid softly on a pillow and a quilt tucked around him.