breathing, but he was not one of the hill men.
Colleen ventured closer and when she saw the deep gash in his neck she knew he was severely injured. She turned to run towards the house and stopped. If her father thought he was another drunkard from the hills he would throw him out. The wound was certainly a gunshot. If he returned to the hills whoever had shot him might still be out there looking to finish the job. And if he had gotten mixed up in the McHerlong-Catslip feud the culprit would not give up the hunt easily. That was how the vendetta worked. For generations, her father had said, even when they couldn’t remember why they fought, they would kill one another again and again. Sent stumbling out into the woods he could end up dead before the day was out.
She ran back across the field to the house and opened the door silently. Her father sat, propped in the chair, his stocking feet propped before the fire, snoring loudly.
She pulled a wool blanket from the wooden chest, filled a cask with fresh water and gathered several tins from the shelves along the wall. She mixed a few herbs in a mash with hot water and slipped back outside.
Colleen washed the wound thoroughly and packed the poultice against the young man’s neck. She lifted his head gently and poured a little of the water into his mouth, but he did not stir. She ran her finger curiously along his jawline. He was young, she thought, and his features were fine. She suspected that he might be tall, but it was hard to tell. His clothing was odd, not like that of the hill people, and not like the people in town either. She lifted his hand and examined it. It had been calloused once, but now it looked as if he had not done heavy work in some time.
He looked thin and helpless to her and she shuddered at the thought that someone wanted to kill him. Although he did not move, somehow he looked friendly and kind to her. She tucked the blanket around him and left the water where he might find it if he woke. Colleen ran back to the house and slipped inside as her father began to stir.
Chapter Fourteen
C olleen tended to the man at every opportunity, but when evening approached on the third day her concern grew. He had barely moved any time she had cared for him and when she had checked him in the afternoon she feared he had developed a fever.
She listened for the rhythmic snoring of her father and she slipped from the house with a pail of hot soup, having decided she was going to try to wake the man more aggressively. She feared he would die in the barn, another victim of the terrible vendetta.
“Oh, little one,” Colleen scooped up the tiny kitten just inside the barn door. “Did you get closed in here earlier?” She set down her soup pail and crooned softly to the kitten as she crossed the dim interior of the barn. Colleen knelt beside the man, holding her lantern high in the darkness.
Mark had heard her humming as she entered the barn. He tried to lift his head, but he could not move. His eyesight was blurred and then suddenly a light appeared before him. It was blindingly bright and he squinted into the brilliance. He thought he saw a person there, but this could not be a person, he thought. The face was pure white, soft and sweet and surrounded in a glowing halo. It was a soothing voice, but he could not make out what it was saying. He realized that it was a woman, but not a human woman, maybe an angel.
Was he dead, or dying? He was seeing something that was not possible, or was his mind going as he died? He struggled to make out the angel again and he thought he had seen her face before. He must be dying, he decided, and his mind was making up a picture that he would find beautiful and soothing so he could die easy. He lay back and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to die. He could feel tears running from his eyes and
Colleen ventured closer and when she saw the deep gash in his neck she knew he was severely injured. She turned to run towards the house and stopped. If her father thought he was another drunkard from the hills he would throw him out. The wound was certainly a gunshot. If he returned to the hills whoever had shot him might still be out there looking to finish the job. And if he had gotten mixed up in the McHerlong-Catslip feud the culprit would not give up the hunt easily. That was how the vendetta worked. For generations, her father had said, even when they couldn’t remember why they fought, they would kill one another again and again. Sent stumbling out into the woods he could end up dead before the day was out.
She ran back across the field to the house and opened the door silently. Her father sat, propped in the chair, his stocking feet propped before the fire, snoring loudly.
She pulled a wool blanket from the wooden chest, filled a cask with fresh water and gathered several tins from the shelves along the wall. She mixed a few herbs in a mash with hot water and slipped back outside.
Colleen washed the wound thoroughly and packed the poultice against the young man’s neck. She lifted his head gently and poured a little of the water into his mouth, but he did not stir. She ran her finger curiously along his jawline. He was young, she thought, and his features were fine. She suspected that he might be tall, but it was hard to tell. His clothing was odd, not like that of the hill people, and not like the people in town either. She lifted his hand and examined it. It had been calloused once, but now it looked as if he had not done heavy work in some time.
He looked thin and helpless to her and she shuddered at the thought that someone wanted to kill him. Although he did not move, somehow he looked friendly and kind to her. She tucked the blanket around him and left the water where he might find it if he woke. Colleen ran back to the house and slipped inside as her father began to stir.
Chapter Fourteen
C olleen tended to the man at every opportunity, but when evening approached on the third day her concern grew. He had barely moved any time she had cared for him and when she had checked him in the afternoon she feared he had developed a fever.
She listened for the rhythmic snoring of her father and she slipped from the house with a pail of hot soup, having decided she was going to try to wake the man more aggressively. She feared he would die in the barn, another victim of the terrible vendetta.
“Oh, little one,” Colleen scooped up the tiny kitten just inside the barn door. “Did you get closed in here earlier?” She set down her soup pail and crooned softly to the kitten as she crossed the dim interior of the barn. Colleen knelt beside the man, holding her lantern high in the darkness.
Mark had heard her humming as she entered the barn. He tried to lift his head, but he could not move. His eyesight was blurred and then suddenly a light appeared before him. It was blindingly bright and he squinted into the brilliance. He thought he saw a person there, but this could not be a person, he thought. The face was pure white, soft and sweet and surrounded in a glowing halo. It was a soothing voice, but he could not make out what it was saying. He realized that it was a woman, but not a human woman, maybe an angel.
Was he dead, or dying? He was seeing something that was not possible, or was his mind going as he died? He struggled to make out the angel again and he thought he had seen her face before. He must be dying, he decided, and his mind was making up a picture that he would find beautiful and soothing so he could die easy. He lay back and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to die. He could feel tears running from his eyes and
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