Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
" W hat the hell?" he said, holding the Glock as if it were a snake ready to bite him.
In a way, it was. Just having one of those in the cabin could get him sent back to prison. That was his first problem. The second was why did this woman have a loaded weapon? Was that why she'd been shot? Had she fired on someone else? Would they come looking for her?
First things first, he needed to get this thing put out of harm's way. He covered her with the quilt once more then went back into the pantry where he pulled down the old five-pound coffee can his grandfather, who hadn't trusted banks since he was a kid in the Depression, had kept cash. Connor made sure the safety was on, then took a clean dish towel from the shelf and wrapped the gun in it. Putting it in the can, he screwed the lid back on and stuck the whole thing on the top shelf of his pantry.
It was out of sight of anyone stupid enough to trek through the snowstorm into the holler looking for his cabin. It was also out of reach for the woman on his bed, where it would stay until he knew her and her situation better.
This was why he stayed by himself deep in the woods away from people. They brought nothing but trouble. Returning to the bed, he double checked both her coat and pants pockets for anything else she might have. Finding nothing, he decided to start with her jeans, so he could get her calf reset before doing anything else.
With as much care as he could muster, he managed to remove her shoes, jeans and socks, already making the decision not to go anywhere near her underwear or bra. If she woke up and those were still on, he figured she might not assume he was some sort of pervert. He put both pairs of his wool socks on her, pulling them up almost above her knees, then re-splinting her leg in as straight a position as possible. Seeing no open wounds on her lower extremities, he quickly pulled the quilt up to her waist. The sweater she wore was the next problem.
If it were his sweater, he'd be okay with someone cutting it up the center, since the bullet hole in the shoulder had already ruined it, but the black material was very soft, probably expensive. Women, at least the ones he'd known, seemed to have attachment to their clothing. He started on her uninjured side and scooted the hem of the sweater up to her arm, and wiggled her arm down into the middle of the sweater and left the sleeve hanging. As he adjusted his position to gather the sweater over her head, he saw the dark bruises along her rib cage.
Damn. She probably did that on the tumble down the mountainside. He hoped she didn't have broken ribs, too. Slipping his hand under her neck, he lifted her head and pulled the sweater over so that only her injured shoulder and arm were still covered. Pulling the top of the quilt up to uninjured shoulder and neck, he tucked it around her right side. He reached into the pot at his feet and grabbed the washcloth, which was medium warm now. Squeezing it over her other shoulder to loosen the sweater where the blood from the bullet hole dried had it to her skin.
Carefully, he tried to peel the edge away. It's gonna hurt if you go slow or fast. Might as well make the hurt quick and pull the bandage off . His grandfather's words made sense. Except he was more worried about making it bleed more than causing her pain. He laid the other washcloths on top of the quilt, then gathered the bulk of the sweater up and pulled it off her shoulder.
"Uh," the woman grunted, but didn't open her eyes.
Well, at least she—he glanced at her wallet, lying on his dresser—Zoe reacted to pain. That was a sign she wasn't completely brain dead, wasn't it?
He wiggled the sweater off her other arm and laid it on the dresser, then examined her shoulder. Just as he feared, the effort peeled the dried blood from the gunshot wound and bright red blood oozed out. Grabbing one cloth, he laid on top of the wound, then slid the other one behind her shoulder where the bullet exited. Another small grunt of pain came from her.
"Sorry—Zoe. I don't mean to hurt you," he said, then paused. "Actually, that's not true. I did mean to move you, which made you hurt. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to do it again."
He finished pulling her sweater off, tossing it on top of her other clothes. Leaving her shoulder exposed, he twisted the washcloth over the pot to squeeze out the excess water. He lifted back the top washcloth, setting it aside. Blood hadn't soaked it, but still oozed from the center of the hole, the edges were already crusted over, but seemed to be in a starburst pattern from the center out.
As gently as he could, he cleaned any dirt or debris from the outer edges inward, rinsed the cloth in the warm water and repeated. He continued this action until the wound appeared to be clean. There was no way to be sure all the debris was out of it without probing inside, which would make her bleed more, making the situation worse. Grabbing the jar of honey, he dribbled a little in the center of the hole.
"I know this is probably weird," he told her as he gently smoothed the honey with his finger until the entire opening was sealed with it then laid a clean washcloth on top. "But honey is one of the oldest disinfectants man has ever had. Least that's what my grandma always said."
Duke came over and sat by the bed, his head cocked to one side.
"No, I'm not talking to you or myself. I saw on some TV show that people who are unconscious can still hear you talk, and sometimes it helps them regain consciousness."
Duke tilted his head the other way.
Connor shrugged, then put a dry cloth over her shoulder.
"Okay, Zoe," he said, moving the other pillow down beside her right side. "This is going to hurt, but I need to see the exit wound."
He grasped her left forearm with his left hand and slid his right arm up her back, then rolled her to her right side.
"Unghhh," she moaned louder this time.
"Yeah, I know. Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. Good news is, that there is an exit wound. Which means I don't have to dig around in there with my needle nose pliers. And that would hurt way worse."
He draped her arm over the pillow, steadying her with one hand while he cleaned the exit wound, which was a few millimeters bigger and more explosive looking than the one in front, finally sealing it with more of the honey. If it weren't for her leg, he'd try to position her on her side to rest so the wounds weren't stressed, but he figured her leg needed to be straight in order to heal.
Before he moved her again, he pulled his clean flannel shirt off the dresser and wiggled it up her left side and behind her.
"One more painful move for the night, Zoe," he said, lowering her carefully onto her back.
This time she let out almost a sigh when he was finished. He pulled the shirt out from beneath her on the right side, slipped her good arm in and buttoned it from the bottom up, leaving just the top one undone, figuring no one liked feeling strangled when they slept. Lastly, he cleaned the dirt from the singe mark on her temple and all the cuts and scrapes on her face. The bruises had deepened in the hours since he'd found her. but no noticeable increase in the swelling appeared.
After he repositioned her leg and covered her with the quilt, he cleaned up the water in the pot and washcloths. He took down the cast iron skillet from hanging on one of the nails on the wall, set it on the wood burning stove. From the nineteen-fifties era fridge in the kitchen area, he grabbed some butter, one of the packages of rib-eye steaks, and a couple of eggs. Climbing a mountain and hauling a wounded woman back down it and across a mile of terrain had him ravenous.
As he made his dinner, he glanced at the bed several times. Zoe was sound asleep still. He needed to try and get some fluids down her at the least.
The fact that she'd moaned when he'd moved her, suggested that she would wake up eventually. At some point he'd have to take her to the hospital in town to get that leg properly set. That was going to have to wait until the road out of the holler was clear. From years of experience, he knew the snow coming down had already blocked him in for a few days.
He sighed.
Until then, she was his responsibility.
?
"No! No! Nooooo!!"
Connor bolted out of the leather chair, pulling his hunting knife from the sheath still strapped to his thigh and took a fighting stance, scanning the cabin for the threat "What the hell?"
Duke bayed loudly.
Crying came from the bed. Zoe was thrashing about.
"Quiet, Duke," he said laying the knife on the floor near the bed.
The hound sat and stopped his baying.
Connor reached down to hold Zoe by the shoulders. "Easy, Zoe. You're safe."
She shook her head from side to side and struggled to move her legs. "Unnngh," she cried out in pain from the effort.
"Easy, Zoe. You need to stop moving. Your leg is broken."
Suddenly her eyes popped open. Deep blue irises stared at him, but he knew she wasn't really seeing him. "I've got to tell them. I have to." Her hand clenched onto his forearm, her nails digging into his skin. "People will die."
"Who's going to die?" he asked, shifting his position to stretch out beside her on the bed. If he could get her calm, maybe she'd quit thrashing around and reinjuring her leg or shoulder.
"Everyone. They'll kill everyone." She released her hold on his arm to grip the front of his shirt. "I have to tell them."
"Okay, sweetheart. We'll tell someone as soon as you're better," he said, slowly rubbing his hand up and down her left arm.
"Now. They…have to…know," she murmured, slowly drifting back into oblivion.
Connor adjusted his position so he was on his side facing her, drawing the quilt she'd knocked loose over them both. He'd stay only until she was resting peacefully. His body heat should help her relax.
Draping one arm over her, he contemplated all that he'd learned about Zoe in that exchange.
She knew something important about someone or some people being killed. There was someone somewhere she needed to impart this message to. Someone from somewhere didn't want her getting her message to those people. And at the moment, she was safe with him, because they believed she'd been killed.
Zoe let out a sound almost like a kitten purring and snuggled her face against his chest.
Trying not to think about how nice it felt to hold her as she slept, he considered all the questions her words caused.
What did she know? Who exactly was in danger? Who did she mean to notify? Why did someone want her silenced? And how the hell was he going to stay out of this quagmire?
The day he walked out of prison, he swore he was going to mind his own business, not get sucked into other people's problems again. He'd managed to do it for the past two years, living out here in the deepest holler in Virginia, far away from anyone. Only seeing people when he went to town for supplies, or finished training a hound and took it to the buyer.
Now he had to not only keep Zoe safe until the roads cleared, but once he took her to the hospital in town, he'd have to stay close until she could defend herself.
You have two choices, when you're faced with a wounded animal. You help it heal or you put it out of its misery.
Grandpa was the man who taught him to fish, hunt, trap and survive in the woods. He also taught him about right and wrong, honor and standing up for someone defenseless. The moment he'd decided to bring Zoe off that mountain, her safety became his responsibility, no matter what trouble she was in or she brought with her.