Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

G il’s breath caught, and he shifted backward and to the side so the bend in the wall would protect him from the oncomer’s view. Maybe he could move away faster than they were walking. He could stay out of view until… Until he fell off the bridge into the chamber below? Or until he had to try to descend the rope carrying two crates?

Plan B, then. He was trying to figure out what it would be when…

“What have we here?” Jedidiah’s voice curled through the cave, tightening every part of his body. Had the man seen him?

He scrambled backward, using the cave wall against his arm to guide him.

“Your game’s up, Coulter. You can keep running, but we have you cornered now. And red-handed too, it seems.” The man’s voice held an irritating combination of high nasal and low menace.

Enough to send a shiver down Gil’s back as he set down the crates behind him, then let the light move closer. His heart pounded an urgent rhythm. Would it be better to run? He could probably get down the rope ahead of Jedidiah. But if the man had that rifle from last night—or any weapon—he might use it.

Maybe Gil could bluff his way out of the situation. He could lean on whatever leverage he had as McPharland’s son-in-law.

The lantern drew closer, illuminating Jedidiah's wiry frame and those of two other men flanking him. Big men, from what Gil could make out in the shadows. Jedidiah’s eyes glinted with a wicked satisfaction.

"What's this about, Jedidiah?" Gil forced a casual tone, as if he had every right to be here.

Shadows from the flickering lantern skewed his predatory smile. "Looks like we caught ourselves a thief. Boss ain't gonna be happy about this, Coulter."

It appeared he wouldn’t be able to pretend he wasn’t carrying out crates. Maybe a show of bravery would be a better tact. "I'm no thief. Just taking what belongs to my family."

"Is that so?" Jedidiah stepped closer, his henchmen coming too. "Funny, I don't recall the boss saying anything about you Coulters having a claim on our goods."

Before Gil could answer, the man on the left stepped forward. Gil shifted but didn’t see the flash of movement from the other guard until it was too late.

A fist slammed into his gut. The air whooshed from his lungs, and he doubled over, gasping as he forced himself back up.

A punch to his face helped raise him, striking his jaw with a crack and whipping his head backward.

Pain roared through him as his body caught up with the blows, but he had to fight. His vision blurred, but he could see the looming outline of a man in front of him.

He struck out, putting force to the blow. His fist hit flesh—but not hard enough.

A jab landed on the other side of his face. His cheek lit on fire and his head pounded.

A boot slammed into his gut, throwing him backward.

He landed on the edge of a crate, falling sideways as he scrambled to pull himself together. His forehead slammed into the stone floor. Pain exploded.

There’d be no fighting his way out of this.

He pulled his knees close and curled into a ball.

A hand gripped his arm and hauled him up.

Gil’s body screamed with pain. But he forced himself to open his eyes and see what they would do to him. At least he’d know where the next blow came from.

Jedidiah’s face was only an outline through the blurry haze. "If the boss didn't want you kept alive so bad, I'd end you right here.” His mocking, nasal tone grated. “But don't worry, we'll make sure you learn your place real good."

Another blow exploded into his jaw, and Gil squeezed his eyes against the pain. The men weren’t finished with him, and each punch and kick sent fresh waves of torment through him.

He was helpless to protect himself. They might not plan to kill him, but he felt an inch from following Ezekiel to the grave.

What would happen to Jess? And the baby?

He bent as much as he could with the men still holding him up.

God, help Jess. If you take me away, send someone else to get her out of here.

J ess's footsteps echoed through the empty apartment.

Where was Gil?

The funeral had been a blur, listening to all the stories the men told about Ezekiel. She’d been so focused on them, she’d not realized when Gil slipped away.

How had she not felt him leave?

Once she realized he was gone, she’d known deep inside what he was doing.

His sapphires.

Why had he thought that was a good idea? Jedidiah surely hadn’t missed his exit.

Maybe he’d sent one of his men to follow Gil, for the evil man had stayed at the graveside. Just in case Gil had escaped unnoticed, she’d stretched out the service as long as possible, asking for others who wanted to share. Finally, her father gave her a pointed look that said she’d best end things.

Now, peeking behind the bed curtains to confirm the empty beds she’d already checked once, a growing sense of dread twisted her insides.

She hiked her skirts and ran to the door, grabbing a lantern and matches on her way. The sound of heavy footsteps froze her just inside the threshold.

Father never walked with such a loud tread . Lord, let it be Gil.

The curtain jerked aside, and Jedidiah marched in, not waiting for an invitation.

Fear surged through her, laced with a fair amount of fury. How dare he enter her home without even knocking? Without asking permission?

But then another man followed—one of his guards—with a limp figure slung over his shoulder.

Her pulse stopped as everything inside her clutched tight. Gil.

No!

A strangled cry escaped her lips. Was he dead? He hung lifeless, draped over the thug’s shoulder.

The guard stopped beside Jedidiah in the middle of the room.

The small man’s cold eyes met hers, unflinching. "Where do you want him?"

Did that mean he was still alive? God, let him be alive .

"On the bed." She hurried to her sleeping area and pulled back the curtains. "Lay him here."

As the guard lowered Gil's limp form onto the mattress, she got a clear look at his face. Bruises and blood mottled his swollen features, and crimson matted his hair.

A sob catching in her throat, she dropped to her knees beside him. Gil.

She reached to brush the hair from his eyes but stopped herself. It looked like any touch would cause more pain.

Anger surged through her, shaking her insides as she put the pieces together. She whirled to face Jedidiah, hot tears stinging her eyes. "How could you do this?" Her voice came low but broke with emotion she couldn’t contain.

Jedidiah's brows rose. "Caught him stealing from your father. This is what happens to a man who can't be trusted."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out, the guard following not meeting her eyes, though she’d known the man for years. He used to be kind, before. But Jedidiah ruined him like everything else.

Her entire body trembled, but she couldn’t let herself fall apart. She had to tend to Gil. If there was anything that could be done, she would do it.

She fell to her knees beside him, watching his chest rise and fall. The movement was faint but unmistakable.

At least one of them was breathing.

She forced air in through her nose, knowing she needed to keep her strength and her focus. Blowing it out, she rested two fingers at Gil’s neck where the large artery ran, avoiding a trail of blood that had run from a cut in front of his ear, already drying. His pulse felt as light as his breathing, but the beat ran fast. Was that good? If only she had more medical training.

She knew the little she’d learned from one medical book and the few times she’d been to visit a doctor.

What did Gil need first? The cuts tended to? She had no ice or snow for the bruising. Were there broken bones? She was out of laudanum, but she had willow bark powder she could brew in a tea. He’d need to wake up in order to drink it.

As soon as Father came in, she would send someone to town for medicine. Until then, best she know exactly what they were dealing with. A quick check of his clothing showed no overlarge blood stains. She pushed up and strode into the main room to gather a bucket of clean water and cloths.

While she tended his obvious wounds, she’d look for broken bones. She’d need to remove some of his clothing to look for bent limbs, swelling, or bruising. Maybe this wasn’t proper, but Gil needed help. And she would only check his arms, legs, and abdomen.

She untucked his shirts, lifting the hems of both the flannel layer and his undershirt. Just like a doctor treating a patient.

The first bruise she glimpsed wiped away any thoughts of indecency, honing her attention on what damage might be underneath the skin. The dark purple area didn’t appear to be swollen, and it was on Gil’s left side, mid-abdomen. From what she could remember of the chart of organs on the wall in Dr. Miskelly’s office, only intestines were tucked in that area.

The farther she searched, the more dark skin she found. Almost more than unbruised areas.

One spot above his ribs tightened a knot in her middle. She didn’t dare press hard, but she couldn’t feel any loose or soft parts of his ribs.

He groaned a few times, deep, heart-wrenching sound, but didn’t come awake.

Would she be able to tell if it was broken?

She’d heard that nothing could be done for broken ribs except bed rest. Gil would be in a world of pain when he came fully coherent.

She brushed one light fingertip over his temple in an area that wasn’t bruised or cut. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” Emotion bubbled up, silencing her.

She pressed a light kiss to that same spot. If there were any way she could take on some of his pain, she would do it.

She rolled up his sleeves and then checked his arms and shoulders without having to remove his shirt. She would worry about his back later.

As for his trousers, should she cut the legs open? She could stitch them back later at the seams. She could probably see almost to his knees by rolling up the hem of each leg, but if there was any injury, she’d need to gain access to treat the area.

For now, best to check where she could under the hems, then focus on washing his face and hair. Just in case she needed to stop a still-bleeding wound.

As she wrung a little water from her cloth to trickle down Gil’s right cheek, his eyes opened a sliver. His mouth moved, like he was trying to wet his lips to speak. That would be painful, for both lips were swollen, the bottom one cracked and bleeding.

She rested a finger on his lips, the lightest of touches. “Don’t try to talk. I know it hurts. I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t move his mouth again, but his hand rose from where it lay at his side. Only the hand, as though the arm was too heavy. Or broken? If he could move his hand, the bone wouldn’t be fully snapped. She’d check that next.

For now, his eyes had opened wider, his fingers reaching as though he wanted something. The wet cloth? Pain medicine? She still had to brew the willow bark tea, and he probably didn’t want the former. Maybe he just wanted a little comfort. This she could give.

She touched her fingers to his palm, and his hand closed around them. Tight. His injuries hadn’t stolen his strength—at least not all of it.

With her hand firmly in his, he closed his eyes again, and his face relaxed.