cupping the cloth over her nose and mouth.
She gasped, drew in the warmth of her own breath. Within moments her vision cleared and the whirling in her head slowed. When reason returned and she realized he was still holding her, she shoved his hand away and straightened.
Setting the kerchief aside, he sat back on his heels, watching her. “Better?”
She pressed a palm over her thundering heart and nodded, not yet trusting her voice. She wasn’t sure which terrified her more, being unable to breathe or having Wilkins grab her like that.
“Then pick up the flask.” Turning back to Ashford, he gripped the stick. “Ready?” And before Jessica could respond, he yanked. A terrible sucking noise, then blood gushed in thick, dark rivulets down Ashford’s side and into the dirt. The smell was ghastly. “Pour.”
She tried, but her hand shook so badly she wasn’t sure if any whiskey got into the wound. Apparently some did. Even unconscious, Ashford’s body jerked like a puppet on a string.
“Now the rest over the cloth.”
Again, she poured.
“Press it against the hole. Hold it there while I wrap him.”
She did. The cloth grew hot and wet against her palm. Feeling her stomach roll, she tried to send her mind to a kinder place where pain never intruded and death—
“Let go.”
She blinked at him.
“Move your hand.”
Snatching her hand back, she wiped it on her skirt. The red wouldn’t come off. Battling panic, she searched for her gloves. “Do you see them? My gloves? I know they’re here.” She felt hysteria build, then found the gloves in her skirt pocket. As soon as she pulled them on, she felt calmer, more in control.
Wilkins tied off the wrappings, then wiped his hands on his shirt, leaving dark streaks on the dusty cloth. He sat for a moment, studying her. He must have sensed her alarm because his expression softened—just a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes, but enough to ease her fear. “You did all right, Your Ladyship.”
“I am not a Lady,” she muttered, smoothing the tattered glove over her fingers. “I mean I am not entitled—that is—I am a lady, of course, but not with a capital ‘L’—oh, never mind.” She clasped her hands in her lap, squeezing hard, trying to force strength into her wobbly arms. “Miss Thornton will do.”
“Miss?”
“Mrs. I meant Mrs., of course.” She stared down at her hands, feeling miserable and foolish and so disheartened in spirit she almost burst into tears.
“Look at me.”
She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She would start crying and she couldn’t bear that.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Wilkins reach out, then those same fingers that had bent a cup and tended a wound gently tilted her head up, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Do what I tell you and I’ll get you through this. Understand?”
Currents jumped between them, moving from his fingertips to the tender skin beneath her jaw. For a moment she forgot to be afraid, to be wary of his touch, to armor herself against the pull of those intensely vibrant eyes.
“I’ll keep you safe. That’s a promise.”
She wanted so badly to believe him. But she had been lied to before.
He must have read her doubt. With a look of impatience, he let his hand drop away and rose. “I’ve got to check on the old lady and her daughter.”
As she watched him limp away, sunlight reflecting off the quartz-rich earth blinded her, inflaming the pulse beat in her temple. She closed her eyes. A sense of detachment stole over her, a drifting sensation so seductive she almost gave in to it. What would it matter if she drifted away forever? Who would care?
Victoria .
With a sigh, she opened her eyes. Wilkins said he would keep them safe. For now, she would believe him. But if he was lying . . .
BY LATE AFTERNOON, WHEN THE HEAT RISING OFF THE SUN-BAKED earth was at its worst and the sky was beginning to take on an orange cast, Brady realized Oran Phelps was dying. Something was busted
She gasped, drew in the warmth of her own breath. Within moments her vision cleared and the whirling in her head slowed. When reason returned and she realized he was still holding her, she shoved his hand away and straightened.
Setting the kerchief aside, he sat back on his heels, watching her. “Better?”
She pressed a palm over her thundering heart and nodded, not yet trusting her voice. She wasn’t sure which terrified her more, being unable to breathe or having Wilkins grab her like that.
“Then pick up the flask.” Turning back to Ashford, he gripped the stick. “Ready?” And before Jessica could respond, he yanked. A terrible sucking noise, then blood gushed in thick, dark rivulets down Ashford’s side and into the dirt. The smell was ghastly. “Pour.”
She tried, but her hand shook so badly she wasn’t sure if any whiskey got into the wound. Apparently some did. Even unconscious, Ashford’s body jerked like a puppet on a string.
“Now the rest over the cloth.”
Again, she poured.
“Press it against the hole. Hold it there while I wrap him.”
She did. The cloth grew hot and wet against her palm. Feeling her stomach roll, she tried to send her mind to a kinder place where pain never intruded and death—
“Let go.”
She blinked at him.
“Move your hand.”
Snatching her hand back, she wiped it on her skirt. The red wouldn’t come off. Battling panic, she searched for her gloves. “Do you see them? My gloves? I know they’re here.” She felt hysteria build, then found the gloves in her skirt pocket. As soon as she pulled them on, she felt calmer, more in control.
Wilkins tied off the wrappings, then wiped his hands on his shirt, leaving dark streaks on the dusty cloth. He sat for a moment, studying her. He must have sensed her alarm because his expression softened—just a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes, but enough to ease her fear. “You did all right, Your Ladyship.”
“I am not a Lady,” she muttered, smoothing the tattered glove over her fingers. “I mean I am not entitled—that is—I am a lady, of course, but not with a capital ‘L’—oh, never mind.” She clasped her hands in her lap, squeezing hard, trying to force strength into her wobbly arms. “Miss Thornton will do.”
“Miss?”
“Mrs. I meant Mrs., of course.” She stared down at her hands, feeling miserable and foolish and so disheartened in spirit she almost burst into tears.
“Look at me.”
She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She would start crying and she couldn’t bear that.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Wilkins reach out, then those same fingers that had bent a cup and tended a wound gently tilted her head up, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Do what I tell you and I’ll get you through this. Understand?”
Currents jumped between them, moving from his fingertips to the tender skin beneath her jaw. For a moment she forgot to be afraid, to be wary of his touch, to armor herself against the pull of those intensely vibrant eyes.
“I’ll keep you safe. That’s a promise.”
She wanted so badly to believe him. But she had been lied to before.
He must have read her doubt. With a look of impatience, he let his hand drop away and rose. “I’ve got to check on the old lady and her daughter.”
As she watched him limp away, sunlight reflecting off the quartz-rich earth blinded her, inflaming the pulse beat in her temple. She closed her eyes. A sense of detachment stole over her, a drifting sensation so seductive she almost gave in to it. What would it matter if she drifted away forever? Who would care?
Victoria .
With a sigh, she opened her eyes. Wilkins said he would keep them safe. For now, she would believe him. But if he was lying . . .
BY LATE AFTERNOON, WHEN THE HEAT RISING OFF THE SUN-BAKED earth was at its worst and the sky was beginning to take on an orange cast, Brady realized Oran Phelps was dying. Something was busted
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