COLIN BACKED through the kitchen door with two bowls full of sloshing liquid in his hands, some strips of cloth draped over one arm, and a jar of honey wedged between chin and shoulder.
He put everything on the table and straddled the bench beside Amy, motioning his head toward her plate. “Finished eating?”
“Yes, I am.”
“May I have a look at that hand? We really should clean it.”
“I suppose so,” she said, offering her hand.
Colin wondered if he were up to the task of drawing her out of this dreamlike state. He had to figure out something to do with her, but she wouldn’t be much help if she persisted in answering him with three-word sentences.
He glanced at her hand and winced. “Ouch!” he said with a mock shudder.
“It’s not so bad.”
“Bad enough.” He gently placed her hand in one bowl. “We’ll soak it for a few minutes, shall we?”
Her long black lashes swept down as she squinted at the bowl. “What is it?”
He smiled distractedly. “Cream.”
“Cream? You mean, from milk?” She gave a slight shake of her head, making her dark hair shimmer in the flickering light.
“Why cream?” she asked.
“Huh?” He shook himself. “Doesn’t everyone put cream on burns?”
“I think not,” she mused, drawing her eyebrows together. “Butter. In my family, we put butter on burns.”
“We always use cream,” he asserted. “As well as honey. I hear tell butter’s no good.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” she said dubiously.
“Well, how does it feel?”
She paused, considering, then tilted her head. “A little better, I guess.”
“See?” His smile was triumphant.
Amy smiled back; the smile was shy and more than a little bit sad, but a smile nonetheless. Colin congratulated himself.
“That should do it.” She started a little when he took her hand, but he pretended not to notice. While he held it over the bowl, watching the cream run off in tiny rivulets, the air between them crackled with unasked questions. Her hand stopped dripping, and he rinsed it in the bowl of water.
Her eyes closed, and he felt her relax, her hand limp as he swished it around, pulled it out and turned it over.
“Hmm…” He dabbed gingerly at her palm with one of the linen strips. “It’s clean now, and a bit less red.” He held it up for her to see. “What do you think?”
Her eyes popped open. “It’s fine.”
But she was grimacing, and the longer she looked at it, the more he felt her stiffen. Not that he could blame her. The puckered blisters were an angry hue.
“We need it perfectly dry.” He dabbed at her hand again, trying not to hurt her. “There. Now the honey…” He opened the jar, dipped in a spoon, and drizzled the sweet thick substance onto her injured palm, spreading it gently with one finger.
She sat silent as he wound a fresh linen bandage around her hand, tucked in the end, and rinsed his fingers in the bowl.
“Davis is watching the young ones.” Wiping his palms on his breeches, he rose. “Would you care to take a walk?”
Without waiting for her answer, he took her by the elbow.