again into the black abyss.
Bethany couldn’t say what drew her downstairs. She thought at first that it was her parents and Ingrid returning, but there was no sign of them. She went to Griselda’s room off the kitchen and listened at the door. The housekeeper snored in a steady, undisturbed rhythm. She smiled. Griselda was the soundest of sleepers, even moreso now that her hearing was getting bad.
She returned to the parlor where she lit a second lamp before pushing the drapes aside to look out at the rainy night. The street was empty. Only a few horses could be seen outside the Plains Saloon. Even the light that spilled through the swinging doors of the drinking establishment failed to reach very far. The blackness seemed complete.
She shivered and pulled her wrapper closer about her. Then she heard something. Not a knock. More of a thump. It seemed to come from the entry.
Her pulse quickened. Was someone in the house? Someone who didn’t belong?
No, of course not. She was allowing her imagination to run wild. No one was in the house except her and Griselda. And Griselda was sound asleep.
She went into the entry hall, lamp in hand. Empty, as she’d been sure it would be. But there could be someone on the porch. Although why they would not knock to announce themselves —
They could be up to no good. She had to know. She had to reassure herself. She held her breath and reached for the doorknob. Open it and see. Then you can go back to bed.
There was a thud as the door creaked open. With a squeal of surprise, Bethany jumped back. Heart pounding, she held the lamp out in front of her.
And there he was, a man, soaked through to the skin, covered in mud, lying on his side where he’d fallen.
“Sir.” She stepped forward. “Sir, are you all right?”
First she saw the blood.
Next she saw his face.
“Hawk?” She dropped to her knees, set the lamp to one side, and pulled his head into her lap. “What happened?” She wiped mud and blood from his face with the hem of her wrapper. “Oh, Hawk. Please wake up.”
A gust of wind blew through the doorway, bringing rain with it. The water hit her face, tiny shards of glass against her skin. She must get him out of the weather.
She gently lowered his head to the floor. Then, standing, she grabbed him beneath his armpits and pulled. Nothing. He didn’t budge. She grunted as she threw her weight backward. To her surprise, his body followed a few inches. She lost her balance, tried to catch herself, tripped on the hem of her wrapper, and heard it rip as she sat down hard.
“I didn’t know you were so heavy,” she muttered as she got up.
She eyed the distance she needed to cover before she could close the door. About a foot more should do it. She positioned herself at his head but noticed the torn wrapper waited to trip her again. That wouldn’t do. She untied the belt and removed the ruined garment.
It took a few minutes, but at last she managed to drag him far enough inside that she could close the door.
“Hawk?”
Nothing.
She ran to the kitchen and pounded on the housekeeper’s door. “Griselda, wake up. I need you.”
She didn’t wait for the woman before going in search of bandages and ointment, water and soft cloths. It seemed forever before she was back to the entry hall and kneeling beside him. With one of the cloths, she washed the mud from his face and hair. He had cuts and scratches on his cheeks and forehead, and his lower lip was split. The wound that bled the most, however, was on the back of his head. It would need stitching.
She straightened. “Griselda!” Where was that woman?
She couldn’t tell what other injuries he had as long as he was covered in his mud-soaked clothes. Perhaps she should go for the doctor. No, Doc Wilton was with Mrs. Mackey. If her parents weren’t back yet, neither was the doctor.
She couldn’t afford to be missish. Not when Hawk needed her. She freed the buttons on his shirt and removed it without too
Bethany couldn’t say what drew her downstairs. She thought at first that it was her parents and Ingrid returning, but there was no sign of them. She went to Griselda’s room off the kitchen and listened at the door. The housekeeper snored in a steady, undisturbed rhythm. She smiled. Griselda was the soundest of sleepers, even moreso now that her hearing was getting bad.
She returned to the parlor where she lit a second lamp before pushing the drapes aside to look out at the rainy night. The street was empty. Only a few horses could be seen outside the Plains Saloon. Even the light that spilled through the swinging doors of the drinking establishment failed to reach very far. The blackness seemed complete.
She shivered and pulled her wrapper closer about her. Then she heard something. Not a knock. More of a thump. It seemed to come from the entry.
Her pulse quickened. Was someone in the house? Someone who didn’t belong?
No, of course not. She was allowing her imagination to run wild. No one was in the house except her and Griselda. And Griselda was sound asleep.
She went into the entry hall, lamp in hand. Empty, as she’d been sure it would be. But there could be someone on the porch. Although why they would not knock to announce themselves —
They could be up to no good. She had to know. She had to reassure herself. She held her breath and reached for the doorknob. Open it and see. Then you can go back to bed.
There was a thud as the door creaked open. With a squeal of surprise, Bethany jumped back. Heart pounding, she held the lamp out in front of her.
And there he was, a man, soaked through to the skin, covered in mud, lying on his side where he’d fallen.
“Sir.” She stepped forward. “Sir, are you all right?”
First she saw the blood.
Next she saw his face.
“Hawk?” She dropped to her knees, set the lamp to one side, and pulled his head into her lap. “What happened?” She wiped mud and blood from his face with the hem of her wrapper. “Oh, Hawk. Please wake up.”
A gust of wind blew through the doorway, bringing rain with it. The water hit her face, tiny shards of glass against her skin. She must get him out of the weather.
She gently lowered his head to the floor. Then, standing, she grabbed him beneath his armpits and pulled. Nothing. He didn’t budge. She grunted as she threw her weight backward. To her surprise, his body followed a few inches. She lost her balance, tried to catch herself, tripped on the hem of her wrapper, and heard it rip as she sat down hard.
“I didn’t know you were so heavy,” she muttered as she got up.
She eyed the distance she needed to cover before she could close the door. About a foot more should do it. She positioned herself at his head but noticed the torn wrapper waited to trip her again. That wouldn’t do. She untied the belt and removed the ruined garment.
It took a few minutes, but at last she managed to drag him far enough inside that she could close the door.
“Hawk?”
Nothing.
She ran to the kitchen and pounded on the housekeeper’s door. “Griselda, wake up. I need you.”
She didn’t wait for the woman before going in search of bandages and ointment, water and soft cloths. It seemed forever before she was back to the entry hall and kneeling beside him. With one of the cloths, she washed the mud from his face and hair. He had cuts and scratches on his cheeks and forehead, and his lower lip was split. The wound that bled the most, however, was on the back of his head. It would need stitching.
She straightened. “Griselda!” Where was that woman?
She couldn’t tell what other injuries he had as long as he was covered in his mud-soaked clothes. Perhaps she should go for the doctor. No, Doc Wilton was with Mrs. Mackey. If her parents weren’t back yet, neither was the doctor.
She couldn’t afford to be missish. Not when Hawk needed her. She freed the buttons on his shirt and removed it without too
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