“Hey, girl.” Zeche extended his hand to the mare, easing forward to get a closer look. The dried blood underneath the wound seemed to prove she wasn’t in danger of bleeding out, but the injury would need care right away. Infection could be a killer.
He turned a stony gaze on Biscuit. “Did you do that?” The mare needed attention, but he couldn’t leave his gelding in there to pick another fight. It was hard to believe he’d instigated this one, but between the hoof shape of the wound and the aggression Biscuit had just shown, the evidence was clear.
After trudging back to the hay area, he grabbed the rope tied to his saddle and fit it into a halter over his gelding’s head. He opened the gate and led him out, secured the latch, and then tied Biscuit to the corner post. Hopefully he couldn’t get into trouble there.
He’d have to see if the Michellys had something to clean the wound, and it really needed to be stitched. A sigh leaked from his chest. The last thing he wanted was to add more to Gretta’s load. She already carried such a burden with her father’s unsteadiness.
Would he always make things worse?
Gretta could tell the minute Zeche stepped through the doorway that something was wrong.
Father had just risen from bed and was sitting in his chair nursing a mug of coffee, his hair still tousled from the night. The dark skin under his eyes drooped more than normal, a sure sign he hadn’t slept much after the nightmare and the ensuing ordeal. Maybe the coffee would help revitalize him. It was the only staple he would purchase from town, since he insisted they live completely off the land. But even Father agreed life would be miserable without his morning coffee. For that blessing, she was grateful. The day would be so much harder without a cup of the warm brew to fortify her.
Zeche pushed the hood of his coat off his head and stood facing them, hands in his fur-lined pockets. He still wore his snowshoes, and something about the way he dipped his chin made him look like a nervous schoolboy reporting to his parents after a fight with classmates.
“What is it?” She steeled herself against his words. It couldn’t be good if he was acting like that.
“Your mare’s injured. It’s a cut in her shoulder. I…think my gelding might have kicked her.” He looked at her then, regret pinching his brow. “I’m sorry. He’s usually easygoing, I wouldn’t have put him in the pen if I thought he’d be a problem.”
Her stomach tightened as a vision of bloody, torn flesh flittered through her mind, but she found a calm expression. “Things happen. I’m sure she’ll be fine. I’ll see to her.”
But his gaze said he wasn’t so sure, and that thought made the knot in her stomach pull tighter. She straightened from the fire she’d been nurturing and pushed to her feet. After crossing the room to her chest of medical supplies, she retrieved her satchel and headed for the door. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Nyx whined, so she paused and turned to him with a finger outstretched. “Stay.” He tilted his head at her but kept his seated position beside Father’s chair. Then she grabbed her coat and snowshoes and slipped outside.
Zeche clomped behind her in his snowshoes and waited while she fastened the leather straps. They headed around the side of the house, and his movements were a little awkward on the wooden frames. Snowshoes took some getting used to if one didn’t wear them often. Maybe she should offer some hints that would help him maneuver. Although he might consider advice to be an insult. Anyway, the animals needed her focus just now.
His gelding stood tied outside the pen and gave a soft nicker as they approached. She stopped to stroke his neck before stepping through the gate into the lean-to. Her mare and Father’s gelding munched hay on the far side of the structure. She unlaced her snowshoes to make it easier to move inside the dry area, then approached her mare.
“Hey, Roma. How are you, girl?” Her gaze landed on the cut, which was, indeed, a nasty one. No wonder Zeche had been nervous about the injury.
She stepped close enough to rest a hand on the horse’s shoulder and peered at the wound. It was deep. Would need to be sanitized and then stitched. She glanced up at the man who’d moved to Roma’s head, stroking the white patch of hair between her eyes.
“Mr. Reid, could you bring me a bucket of water? There’s one in the cabin by the work table.”
“Call me Zeche. Please.” His face looked pained as he stroked Roma’s face, like he empathized with everything the mare felt.
She laid a gloved hand on his arm. “She’ll be fine.”
The bump at his throat bobbed, and he met her gaze. “You have enough to worry about without us causing more trouble.”
A weight pressed down on her shoulders. She needed to explain about Father. Try to answer what questions the man surely had after the two episodes he’d witnessed. There was no telling what Zeche thought at this point. Maybe once he knew a little of their background, he wouldn’t judge so harshly. She’d promised Father not to speak of it, so she had to be careful what details she gave.
He shifted under her hand, and she jerked it back. She hadn’t meant to touch him, even through the layers of her glove and his buckskin coat. She looked away to force her mind back on what they’d been discussing.
Roma. She shrugged. “Horses do these things.”
He didn’t speak again but turned and left the enclosure.
Gretta inhaled a long breath, then released it. She had to settle her thoughts. Focus. Something about that man scattered her wits. Or maybe she just had too much on her mind.
She slipped a halter on the mare and prepared her suture supplies so she’d be ready when he returned.
As he stepped into the pen with the water bucket in hand, Gretta handed him the rope. “Can you hold her? She might try to move around some. Set the water there in the corner where she won’t knock it over.”
“Do you want me to doctor the wound?”
She flicked a glance at him. His face looked as pale as his voice had sounded. “No. It won’t take me long.”
He held the mare steady while she worked. When she scrubbed the dried blood around the wound, Roma shifted, and the man’s deep tenor soothed her.
“Easy, girl. Just hold steady. It’ll be over soon. Easy there.” The cadence of it was enough to soothe even Gretta’s tight nerves.
She worked quickly, finding a rhythm as she made each stitch, then tied it off and moved on to the next. At last, she reached the end of the wound and eased out her breath while she leaned back to study her work. Those sutures were pretty good considering how long it’d been since she’d practiced. Of course, she’d gotten more experience than she’d ever wanted during the war.
She glanced up at the mare’s head, hanging low as though she were glad the job was over. “You did well, Roma. That should help it.”
“Impressive.”
Her wayward gaze slipped up to the man’s face again. Took in the angle of his strong cheekbones just above the growth of his beard. The intensity glimmering in his dark eyes.
“Where did you learn to stitch a wound like that?”
The knot in her stomach had almost melted away, but it pulled tight again as she turned back to the horse and fumbled for an explanation. “Before we came west.”
“You learned well.” He turned to eye his gelding. “I’ll tie Biscuit out under the trees. With some hay, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” At least he’d let the subject drop. But she still needed to speak with him about Father. Soon.
Zeche settled his gelding, and Gretta dumped the now-dirty water from the bucket, then tied her snowshoes back on. As he made his way back toward her, she couldn’t help but notice the span of his strong shoulders. He may not be accustomed to snowshoes, and a gaping wound had made him go pale, but he was obviously no stranger to hard work. There was something untamed about him—a ruggedness that drew her. And despite that, something about him made her feel safe. Twice now he’d jumped to protect her…from her father, no less. Not that Father would hurt her, of course, but still…it was nice to have a man around who was stronger than her, willing to step in to help. Father used to be that man in her life, but the war had changed so much…
“Ready to go in?”
She turned at the voice and cautiously met his dark gaze. He stood less than a dozen feet away. His brows were raised in question. Now was her moment to speak with him. To explain about father, if she could find the words.
“Mr. Reid, you’re probably wondering…about us.”
The expression on his face changed from pleasantly quizzical to…guarded. His lips pressed, rolling in as his eyes searched her face. “Maybe.”
She straightened her spine. “The war wasn’t easy for my father.” Not for any of them, but that was more than she could share. “We came out here for a peaceful setting. He’s been recovering well, but sometimes the memories are still hard for him.”
There. She’d given enough detail, she hoped, to allay his concerns, but not so much to break her father’s confidentiality.
“He fought in the Civil War?”
“The War of Secession.” The correction slipped out before she could stop it. “In the Second South Carolina Infantry.”
The way his brows formed a V, the glimmer in his eyes—it wasn’t the pity she’d braced herself against. But there was definitely sadness there. “Does he have these episodes often?” His voice resonated deep, gentle.
She pulled her gaze from his face, looking off into the distance where light snowflakes had begun to float from the gray sky again. “Not as much anymore. Before yesterday, it’d been over a month, I think.”
“And then two times the day I show up.”
She turned back to his face. Did he think she was lying? “He’s getting better, Mr. Reid.”
“Call me, Zeche. And I’m glad he is.” His voice had softened to an easy ripple, like the murmur of a creek flowing. “It just seems suspicious than he’d suddenly worsen when a stranger arrives. Like maybe I’m the cause of the set-back.”
She tried to dig into his meaning, to read the expression in his eyes. The angst there tightened a knot in her chest. Maybe it was time to end this conversation altogether.
Tossing her glance up at the sky, she breathed a long breath of the heavy air. “The snow’s coming down again. We’d best get inside. Are you sure your horse will be safe in the trees?”
“I tied a blanket on him, and he has fodder to keep him warm. I’ll check again in a few hours.” The scuff of his snowshoes sounded as he turned toward the house. “Let’s get inside.”
As Zeche followed her onto the porch, she was more than a little conscious of his presence. She was uncommonly tall for a girl—only a couple of inches shy of six feet. She’d gotten her height from Father, who passed the six-foot mark by a good three inches. Yet Zeche was at least that, and where Father’s shoulders were narrow and angular, Zeche was broad. He probably carried solid muscle underneath that buckskin coat.
But what was she doing thinking about the man’s physique? Somehow he’d woven his way into her head—and she’d do best to purge him. He was merely a stranger passing through. He’d be leaving as soon as the snow stopped.