The Scout's Bride. Kate Kingsley

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СКАЧАТЬ doesn’t look intoxicated.” Moving to the doorway, she observed as the man traversed the room on silent moccasined feet.

      “Well, ‘e smells like a distillery,” Westfield insisted as Injun Jack laid the wounded soldier on a bed and hunched down beside him. A few beds away, Sergeant Unger glanced up, but made no move to stop him.

      “If nobody’s going to do nuffin’—” Westfield hitched his trousers around his waist “—we’ll ‘ave to see to this wild man.”

      “Peste,” Farina mumbled, but he got to his feet.

      Trailing them into the ward, Rebecca positioned herself at the dispensing table, at a prudent distance from the big Indian.

      Also loath to approach closely, Westfield hailed him from ten feet away, “Afternoon, Injun Jack. We’ve come to tend the private.”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ