“Put your arms across your chest.”
“No.”
Martha stared.
“Fine.”
She bent, slid her arms beneath his shoulders, and hauled.
The man’s eyes widened.
Martha grunted.
He was enormously heavy, but she had spent years hauling feed sacks, barrels, wet firewood, and once a sick calf nearly half his weight.
She dragged him backward.
His useless legs carved twin lines through the dirt.
“Name?” she gasped.
He answered through clenched teeth.
“Colum Reed.”
“Martha Higgins.”
“I know.”
She stopped.
“What?”
Colum’s face changed.
Only for a second.
Then he looked away.
Martha’s breathing slowed.
“How do you know my name?”
“Town talks.”
Something in the answer felt wrong.
But she was too tired to pursue it.
She dragged him onto the porch.
Getting him over the threshold required a plank, two blankets, several curses, and all the strength Martha possessed.
When she finally lowered him onto the iron cot in the parlor, sweat soaked her hair and dress.
Colum lay still.
Martha leaned against the wall.
“You break that cot, I’m putting you back outside.”
His eyes moved toward her.
“Thought I was half a man.”
“That half looks heavy enough.”
For the first time, something almost like amusement moved across his face.
Then pain replaced it.
Martha saw sweat bead on his forehead.
“Fever?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Not well.”
She lifted the stained blanket.
Colum grabbed her wrist.
His grip was strong.
Martha froze.
Their eyes met.
“I need to see your legs.”
“Why?”
“Because if those splints are filthy and your skin’s infected, you’ll die in my parlor.”
He did not release her.
Martha looked at his hand.
“Either let go or squeeze harder so I know whether to hit you with the stove shovel.”
Colum released her.
She removed the blanket.
The splints had been tied badly.
The skin around his knees was bruised purple.
Worse, angry red abrasions ran along his thighs and calves.
Martha frowned.
“Bear did this?”
Colum looked toward the window.
She noticed again.
Something was wrong.
But she did not ask.
Not yet.
Instead she boiled water.
For the next hour, Martha cleaned his wounds.
Colum hated every second.
“You’re pulling.”
“Your skin’s stuck to the cloth.”
“You enjoy this?”
“Immensely.”
“You have the touch of a blacksmith.”
“Then stop moving.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Fair point.”
He glared.
She glared harder.
By sundown, the filthy bandages had been replaced.
Martha discovered Colum could feel pressure above his hips but nothing below.
He could not wiggle a toe.
Could not bend a knee.
Could not lift either leg.
The damage looked terrible.
“You need a real doctor.”
“Already saw one.”
“Which?”
“Harrison.”
Martha frowned.
Doctor Harrison had delivered half the children in Willow Plains.
He was blunt but not careless.
“What did he say?”
Colum stared at the ceiling.
“That I might never walk.”
Martha waited.