The Officer and the Southerner (Historical Western Romance) (Fort Gibson Officers Series, Book 2) by Rose Gordon Page A
Authors: Rose Gordon
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get into a position that would allow her to drink, then extended her the cup.
She wrapped her hands over his where they were still holding the cup for her, then tipped the cup back a little too far as if she were trying to guzzle it all at once—the way someone would do if they’d just been handed water after being left in the desert without any.
He muttered a curse. He should have offered her water earlier, before cleaning her wound. Never again, he promised them both. Never again.
When she’d emptied the cup, half in her mouth, half on her chemise, he refilled it and offered her more. Which she took greedily before falling back asleep.
Around noon there was a knock on the door.
Glad for the company, Jack opened it to reveal Wes holding a plate of food. “How is she?”
“Better. I think.” He glanced at his sleeping wife. “I cleaned her wound this morning and she’s come awake twice now to drink some water.”
Wes nodded and handed him lunch.
Jack ate in solitude, but not before wetting every cloth he had and laying them over her body. Midway through the meal, he soaked them all again for they’d grown quite warm, then continued eating after he’d reapplied them.
The afternoon passed similarly to the morning. Ella woke up a few times to have a drink, but said nothing more, then went back to sleep.
Dinner arrived in much the same manner as lunch had, but Jack couldn’t eat. He’d been watching her wound all day and had seen absolutely no significant change. Of course, that might be because he’d been staring at it and not allowing any more than a moment or two to pass before looking at it again. Had he not seen it all day, he might be able to make a better assessment. He lowered his head into his hands. He needed to clean it again, and now would be the best time since all the soldiers would be eating and unable to hear her screams.
***
The second round of cleaning had been just as unbearable as the first.
She’d kicked.
She’d screamed.
She’d hit.
She’d flailed.
She’d even tried to bite him.
Then, she’d fallen back asleep. Exhausted.
Covering her with wet cloths again, he left the room to go get more water.
At least that’s where he planned to go.
But instead, his feet took him in the direction of the fellow he saw sitting in the shade: Private Brian McGraw.
Brian wasn’t someone that Jack was overly familiar with. He answered to Captain Cross, who was under General Ridgely. He only knew Brian because he was the sole person who’d ever survived any kind of infection under the medic’s care. Well, not exactly. The medic had wanted to amputate, and McGraw refused. Everyone was in shock when he limped out of the medic’s office and even more surprised when a week later, his limp was diminished and he reported for duty, claiming his infection was gone.
It was. But he’d refused to explain how it had healed.
Nobody had questioned him too much about it, likely because everyone had an assumption that they didn’t want confirmed. But Jack didn’t care what Brian had done or what he might have to do, he just wanted to know.
“ Afternoon, Private,” Jack greeted, walking up to where Brian was reclining against a tall post beam that helped to support the boardwalk of the second floor.
“ Lieutenant,” Brian said with a quick salute.
Jack couldn’t care less about being saluted and the proper respect due him. He wanted answers. “How’s your leg doing these days?”
Brian started. “It’s doing fine, sir.”
Jack nodded. “It was a nasty cut, wasn’t it?”
Now it was Brian who nodded, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“ Tell me,” Jack pressed. “Just how did you get that cleared?”
“ Sir, I think I need—”
“ Tell me,” Jack repeated. “That’s an order, Private.”
Private McGraw bit his lip. “I—I don’t think you really want me to say.”
“Did you go see the Indians?” Jack asked softly, putting voice to the suspicion he believed many
She wrapped her hands over his where they were still holding the cup for her, then tipped the cup back a little too far as if she were trying to guzzle it all at once—the way someone would do if they’d just been handed water after being left in the desert without any.
He muttered a curse. He should have offered her water earlier, before cleaning her wound. Never again, he promised them both. Never again.
When she’d emptied the cup, half in her mouth, half on her chemise, he refilled it and offered her more. Which she took greedily before falling back asleep.
Around noon there was a knock on the door.
Glad for the company, Jack opened it to reveal Wes holding a plate of food. “How is she?”
“Better. I think.” He glanced at his sleeping wife. “I cleaned her wound this morning and she’s come awake twice now to drink some water.”
Wes nodded and handed him lunch.
Jack ate in solitude, but not before wetting every cloth he had and laying them over her body. Midway through the meal, he soaked them all again for they’d grown quite warm, then continued eating after he’d reapplied them.
The afternoon passed similarly to the morning. Ella woke up a few times to have a drink, but said nothing more, then went back to sleep.
Dinner arrived in much the same manner as lunch had, but Jack couldn’t eat. He’d been watching her wound all day and had seen absolutely no significant change. Of course, that might be because he’d been staring at it and not allowing any more than a moment or two to pass before looking at it again. Had he not seen it all day, he might be able to make a better assessment. He lowered his head into his hands. He needed to clean it again, and now would be the best time since all the soldiers would be eating and unable to hear her screams.
***
The second round of cleaning had been just as unbearable as the first.
She’d kicked.
She’d screamed.
She’d hit.
She’d flailed.
She’d even tried to bite him.
Then, she’d fallen back asleep. Exhausted.
Covering her with wet cloths again, he left the room to go get more water.
At least that’s where he planned to go.
But instead, his feet took him in the direction of the fellow he saw sitting in the shade: Private Brian McGraw.
Brian wasn’t someone that Jack was overly familiar with. He answered to Captain Cross, who was under General Ridgely. He only knew Brian because he was the sole person who’d ever survived any kind of infection under the medic’s care. Well, not exactly. The medic had wanted to amputate, and McGraw refused. Everyone was in shock when he limped out of the medic’s office and even more surprised when a week later, his limp was diminished and he reported for duty, claiming his infection was gone.
It was. But he’d refused to explain how it had healed.
Nobody had questioned him too much about it, likely because everyone had an assumption that they didn’t want confirmed. But Jack didn’t care what Brian had done or what he might have to do, he just wanted to know.
“ Afternoon, Private,” Jack greeted, walking up to where Brian was reclining against a tall post beam that helped to support the boardwalk of the second floor.
“ Lieutenant,” Brian said with a quick salute.
Jack couldn’t care less about being saluted and the proper respect due him. He wanted answers. “How’s your leg doing these days?”
Brian started. “It’s doing fine, sir.”
Jack nodded. “It was a nasty cut, wasn’t it?”
Now it was Brian who nodded, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“ Tell me,” Jack pressed. “Just how did you get that cleared?”
“ Sir, I think I need—”
“ Tell me,” Jack repeated. “That’s an order, Private.”
Private McGraw bit his lip. “I—I don’t think you really want me to say.”
“Did you go see the Indians?” Jack asked softly, putting voice to the suspicion he believed many
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