The Scout's Bride

“No!” Loosening the unconscious man’s clothing, the scout did not look up.

“You’ve no right ‘ere,” the mill bird went on with surprising temerity. “Tendin’ the sick is our job.”

“Sì, our job today,” Farina corroborated from behind him.

When Injun Jack did not answer, Westfield advanced a foot or two. “Some clean clothes and a little whiskey, yer friend’ll be ‘alfway to recovery.” Cautiously, he took another step. “Just let us get to ‘im.”

“I said, no!” Spinning on lithe legs, the man rose to a wary, menacing crouch. His hair flailed across his face, obscuring his furious features, but the knife in his hand was plain to see. One instant, the lethal blade had been nestled in a beaded sheath in the small of his back. The next, it was bared, glinting dully, and pointed at those who dared to interfere. “Go,” he snarled.

“Wh-whatever you say.” The pair retreated, tripping over each other in their haste.

Injun Jack turned and split the seam of the wounded man’s high cavalry boot from the top to the ankle with his knife. Easing the ruined boot and a blood-soaked sock from the trooper’s foot with surprising gentleness, he dropped them on the floor.

Despite the scout’s tender care, the soldier grimaced in pain. Rebecca looked to Sergeant Unger in mute appeal. Unable to leave his patient, he nodded approvingly when she draped a towel over her arm and picked up a basin of clean water.

“No, signora!” Farina hissed, realizing her intentions.

“I intend to see that boy gets the proper medical attention.” Displaying more bravery than she felt, she marched to where the scout peeled back the soldier’s blue kersey trousers, slicing along the yellow stripe that ran up the leg.

Her heart pounded as she squeezed between the beds and stopped behind him. Brawny, dusty and sweat-stained, he emanated raw power, and Private Westfield had been right. The man reeked of whiskey.

She cleared her throat delicately, but Injun Jack did not acknowledge her presence. Uncertain what to do, she waited, using the time to study him.

He was taller than the few Indians she had seen. And his shoulders were broad. Fascinated in spite of herself, she watched the muscles rippling under his fringed buckskin shirt as he leaned over the wounded man. His big, gentle hands were a contrast to his unsavory appearance, she decided, eyeing the holster at his side. Jutting from it was the bone handle of a sixgun which looked well-oiled, well-used and deadly.

Her gaze roved from his narrow waist, down to the rawhide thong which secured his holster to his thigh. Under supple, formfitting leather pants, his sinewy legs were unmistakably powerful.

Perplexed by the direction of her thoughts, Rebecca tried to peer under his hat brim, past the hair which screened his face from her view. One glimpse of his angry visage was enough to daunt the most intrepid, but she could not leave the boy to his mercies.

“Why don’t you go along now, and let me do that?” Edging forward so he could not ignore her, she explained distinctly and rather loudly, “I need to treat his wound.”

In response, he drove the point of his knife into the floor near the hem of her skirt and left the weapon standing upright. She stared down at it in shock. In the sunlight slanting through a nearby window, it seemed to shimmer, vibrating from the force with which it had been driven into the planking.

Her fear giving way to anger, she dropped to her knees and set the basin on the floor with a thump. Unmindful of a splash that soaked her apron, she addressed him crossly, “You listen to me, Mr. Indian Jack or whatever your name is. If your dirty hands haven’t given this boy an infection already, the vermin dropping off your hair and clothes should be enough to kill him.”

Covering the soldier with a sheet, Injun Jack turned. The bluest eyes Rebecca had ever seen drifted over her, their corners crinkling with an unexpected smile.

“My hands are clean enough, ma’am,” he drawled, removing his hat politely, “though I’ll own there hasn’t been much time for laundry or bathing between skirmishes.”

“H-how dare you try to frighten me?” Sinking back on her heels, she glared at him accusingly. “You’re not an Indian.”

“I’m not deaf, either. You didn’t have to shout.”

“I was trying to make myself understood.”

“I understood. I’m still not going anywhere.”

“Then stay,” she snapped, wishing she could wipe the grin from his grimy, bewhiskered face. “Just don’t get in the way.”

Before he could respond, the soldier stirred and moaned. Opening eyes almost as blue as Injun Jack’s, he stared up at Rebecca blearily.

“A lady,” he whispered weakly. “Thought I was dreamin’.”

“No, not dreaming.” She leaned near. “How are you, Private?”

“Better for seein’ you.”

Nearly staggered by the alcohol on his breath, she shot bolt upright and glared at the scout over her shoulder.

“A little bourbon for the pain.” He shrugged.

“Are you a nurse, ma’am?” the soldier asked hoarsely. “Or an angel come to carry me to glory?”

“Neither. I just do what I can. I don’t think you’re bound for glory yet, but I’ll know better after I look at your wound.”

“Sergeant Unger can see to it.” The young man rallied enough to tuck the cover under his chin. “A lady shouldn’t be lookin’ at a man’s… limb. It’s not fittin’.”

Her hand on the sheet, Rebecca assured him, “You needn’t be concerned, Private. I don’t embarrass easily.”

A brown, callused hand stayed hers. “Teddy’s propriety is only part of the problem,” Injun Jack warned. “He took a good lick with a tomahawk. This isn’t like treating splinters and sprains.”

“I wish my only experience had been splinters and sprains, sir.” She stared pointedly at his hand until he withdrew it, scowling. “However, I lived three miles from Gettysburg during the late war.”

“A Yankee angel,” Teddy joked feebly. “What do you think of that, Jack?”

“I think it’s a good thing for you the war is over.” Rising, the scout sat on the adjacent bed. “Go ahead, ma’am. Your hands are cleaner than mine and I bet you don’t have nearly the vermin.”

Her face bright with color, Rebecca turned back the sheet, glad Teddy had closed his eyes on the situation. She was aware of Injun Jack sagging wearily in the shadows behind her, his head resting against the iron bedstead, his azure eyes following her every move.

Her brow puckered with worry when she saw the gash and the red streak running up the soldier’s leg. The cut had been packed with an alcohol-soaked bandanna in the field. The cloth was now brown and crusted with dried blood, its original color unidentifiable. After hours on the trail, it had adhered to the edges of the wound. Calling for hot water, she carefully set about removing it.

Teddy gritted his teeth and endured hot compresses to loosen the packing, though his jaw worked furiously as it was extracted. When blood gushed from the cut, Rebecca allowed it to flow for a moment to carry away the debris lodged inside. Tears sprang to the young man’s eyes, but he was silent while she washed the wound.

Looking around for the doctor or the steward to sew the gash, she was relieved to see the sergeant approach. “Hello, Injun Jack,” he greeted the scout while he inspected Rebecca’s handiwork.

“Hello, Unger.” The man made no effort to stand.

“Good work, Miss Rebecca.” The steward handed her a small tray which held a needle, thread and paper of morphine powder. “Here, you’re going to need these.”

“But-”

“If you’ll take care of Private Greeley, I’ll take care of the rest,” he told her reassuringly.

She glanced at Injun Jack who hunched in the shadows, seemingly dozing. “Very well,” she managed.

After the sergeant departed, she waited until the morphine took effect and Teddy’s breathing became deep and regular. His eyelids fluttered as she sewed, but he did not seem to feel any pain. She worked quickly for his skin was already hot and dry to the touch and on his cheeks were two bright spots of color.

“How bad is it?” he asked sleepily when she finished.