The Mercenary's Kiss. Pam Crooks

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      Startled, she drew back. “You?”

      “Yes. Me.”

      The apprehension grew in leaps and bounds. “I’ve never had stitches before.”

      “You think I’ll botch the job? Or hurt you?”

      Her lips clamped tight. That’s exactly what she thought.

      He tossed aside the washcloth and reached for the leather case lying on the ground next to him. “Then you’d better understand one more thing between us, Elena. Besides following my orders, you’re going to have to trust me.”

      He opened the container. Firelight glinted off an assortment of surgeon’s tools—knives, tweezers, pliers. And an ominous-looking saw.

      An amputation kit, Elena realized, taken aback.

      He removed a needle and spool of thread, pulled out a length and broke it off.

      “Are you a doctor?” she asked.

      “Far from it.”

      “But you have knowledge of medicine? Surgery?”

      He threaded the needle deftly. “What I’ve learned about treating injuries, I learned in the field.” His gaze, dark and shadowed, met hers. “The hard way.”

      The field?

      “This will hurt some,” he said, distracting her from the question of how he had acquired his experience. And where. “But I’ll work as fast as I can. You want a shot of whiskey first?”

      “No.” She reached for Pop’s elixir. “I can numb the skin with this. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Again she drenched a clean portion of the washcloth and pressed it over the laceration.

      “What’s in that stuff anyway?” he demanded.

      “Only Pop knows. He’s never told anyone. Not even me.”

      “Why not?”

      “Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound is a solution he’s formulated himself from the secrets of the ancients.”

      “The secrets of the ancients.”

      “It doesn’t matter what the ingredients are. All that’s important is the elixir is therapeutic.” She considered him and the disdain he didn’t bother to hide. “Your opinion of it is irrelevant.”

      “You’ll think differently when you feel the needle going through your skin when you could’ve had whiskey instead.”

      “The pain will be minimal, I assure you.”

      He sighed and shifted his position. “Sit on the ground and lean against my leg.”

      He nudged her off the log and directed her to sit sideways between his spread knees, then eased her head back to rest on his thigh. The position gave him clear access to the laceration.

      “This will only take a few minutes, so don’t move.” He took the washcloth from her and tossed it aside. The needle and thread hovered above her. “I’ll work as fast as I can.”

      He brushed the hair away from her forehead and began closing the wound, each dip and pull of the needle practiced and smooth—and as pain-free as she’d predicted. Again Elena wondered about the circumstances from which he had acquired his skill. He seemed to have learned from them well.

      In her close proximity, she dared to study him. His dark eyes were narrowed in concentration. Beneath her head, the muscles in his thigh were firm, his strength a palpable thing. She noted the days’ growth of beard and hair hanging too long past his collar—and how they gave him a dangerous look.

      Yet she felt no fear of him. Not now, at least, though the memory of his long-barreled Colt pointed at her earlier clearly indicated he wasn’t a man to be crossed.

      He tied off the thread, and Elena quickly lowered her lashes. True to his word, the suturing had only taken a few minutes.

      “Eight stitches,” Jeb said grimly, snipping off the ends with small scissors taken from the amputation kit. He straightened, and Elena pulled away.

      “Thank you.” She sat cross-legged in the grass and tentatively probed his handiwork with a fingertip. He’d closed the wound neatly.

      He regarded her for a long moment. “Who took your son from you?”

      For a little while, her worries for Nicky had faded under the distraction of Jeb’s doctoring. Now they came crashing back all over again.

      “I know him just as Ramon,” Elena said. “And I only learned that when he and his men ambushed us.”

      “Why would he take the boy?”

      She strove for the calm she needed to discuss the situation. Given his intention to help her, Jeb was, after all, entitled to know. “I can only speculate. Ramon never knew he existed until today.”

      Jeb’s features hardened in suspicion. He leaned forward. “There are a hell of a lot of babies in this country, Elena. Why would he take yours?”

      She tamped down the ugly memories that reared up, as she always did when they returned to haunt her. She drew in a breath. “Ramon raped me two years ago. I haven’t seen him since. Until this afternoon, that is.”

      A moment of stunned silence passed.

      “Nicky is his.”

      “Sweet Jesus.”

      “So I’m quite certain he will not give my baby back…very easily.”

      “No.” Jeb’s gaze didn’t waver. “He won’t.”

      “I don’t even know who he is,” Elena went on, the words pouring from her now that Jeb had turned the spigot. “That—that night, he robbed us of the entire take from one of Pop’s shows. The fact that he—Ramon—came upon us today was pure chance.”

      “You know nothing about him, then?”

      “No.” She considered Jeb, his unexpected willingness to change his travel plans to go after the Mexican and his men. “Do you?”

      “Not for sure.”

      “But you have an idea?”

      “A speculation.”

      This time Elena waited. By the tight set of Jeb’s mouth, it was easy to see he knew more than she did.

      And what he knew wasn’t good.

      “His name is Ramon de la Vega,” Jeb said, pulling no punches. “He’s a follower of Emiliano Zapata. They’re revolutionaries. They intend to overturn the government of the President of Mexico.”

      Her heart began a slow, thundering pound. “Oh, God.”

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