Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

J ess left her hand in Gil’s for a long moment, breathing in the feel of him. He wanted her for comfort. Had she ever been so important to another person that just holding her hand brought relief from suffering? Certainly not to her father. The men she treated needed the medicine she brought them. Teas for pain or breathing ailments.

Her mother maybe. She’d loved having Jess near anytime she was sick. Not so close that Jess would catch the illness, but in a nearby chair, reading or telling stories. Jess hadn’t been there in her last minutes, only Father had. Had his presence comforted Mama?

Jess inhaled a thick breath.

Father was the one responsible for Gil’s condition. If he weren’t such a hard man, he’d rein in Jedidiah’s cruelty.

She couldn’t let her mind follow that trail or her body would tense and she’d be no comfort to Gil at all.

She eased the air out, long and slow. Then, one hand still tucked in Gil’s, she used the other to lay the wet cloth on his forehead. Better to let the water loosen the dried blood so she didn’t have to rub much. She dipped another clean cloth in the water bucket, squeezed it out, and draped it over another part of his face. The cool water might ease his pain a little.

What else could she do? Maybe start willow tea brewing.

She rose to do that, and once she had the water and powdered willow bark heating, she returned to sit on the edge of the bed beside Gil.

When he raised his hand again, she slipped hers into his grasp. What more could she do for comfort? She stroked her free hand over the back of his and hummed a quiet tune.

Her mother had sung this hymn to her often when they worked together, washing clothes or peeling apples. After humming through the verse once, she dared shift to actual singing. Her voice was nothing beautiful, but the words of this song felt so appropriate for Gil’s condition. And hers too.

“O God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home.”

She didn’t know more than that first verse, so she slipped back into humming.

Gil gave her hand a light squeeze. Maybe embarrassing herself by singing had been worth it.

Did she really believe God would help them? Had He done so in the past? She couldn’t say for Gil, but she’d felt the Lord’s presence with her this past year since Ezekiel had helped her come to know Him.

Ezekiel.

Tears crowded her eyes once more, and she fought the urge to curl on her knees on the stone floor. How much hurt did the Lord expect her to bear in a single week? First losing Ezekiel last night, and now Gil clung to life.

Her pain was nothing to Gil’s, yet her heart felt fractured beyond repair.

She sank to her knees beside the bed, sitting back on her heels as she cupped Gil’s hand in hers. She let her forehead drop to the mattress. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d been there to help him.

If he hadn’t slipped away without telling her what he was doing, she could have stopped him. Found another time when she could have been a lookout for him. Even as the thought rose up, she knew there would have been no other opportunity.

Jedidiah had men everywhere. It would have been impossible to move all those crates without being caught. How much had Gil managed? Any?

Her chest pressed until she could hardly breathe.

This was why she fought to control everything in her life. She had little power over her father and his decisions, but everything else, she had to take charge of. She’d learned long ago how much pain came when she didn’t—pain to herself and to those around her.

She lifted her head to take in Gil’s face, half covered by the wet cloths that had turned pink from the blood. Around the fabric, the bruising made it almost impossible to recognize him, but she knew the man beneath those bruises, the kind, gentle man who’d come to mean so much to her.

Gil .

Hot tears stung her eyes. She'd started to release her heart to him, to let herself trust him. Maybe even let herself love him.

She’d let herself hope.

She should have known better.

Letting go of control brought pain. And this time, Gil would pay for her foolishness.

J ess studied the slow, even rise and fall of Gil’s chest. It’d been at least half an hour since she’d finished cleaning and bandaging his wounds—all except the gash on his cheek that needed stitches. She’d been waiting for the willow bark tea to take effect. It finally seemed to have taken enough edge off the pain that he could sleep.

The damage that remained made her belly churn. Two angry knots rose on his scalp, hidden by his dark hair. A gash on the crown of his head had bled profusely before she cleaned and dressed it. At least it didn't appear deep. But his left eye... The lid was swollen nearly shut, the flesh around it a sickening black. The right eye fared a little better, bruised but not very swollen.

She studied the dark puffy wound that extended from the left eye down to the unnatural bulge along his cheek bone. Were bones fractured beneath that angry skin? She couldn't be certain. And what could be done for broken bones in a man’s cheek? Rest might be his only treatment. That and something stronger than the tea to ease his pain.

Despair pressed down on her like a smothering blanket. If only he had never crossed paths with her, he would have been spared this brutality at her father's hands. The suffocating guilt settled like a stone in her chest.

A gash on Gil's jaw needed attention. The cut ran deep enough that it should be stitched. She likely couldn’t stop a scar, but maybe she could keep the mark small. She pulled her smallest needle and a bit of thread from her sewing kit.

It took too long to thread the needle, thanks to her shaking hands. She hated stitching skin. Especially since it was usually her father’s own men who’d caused the injuries she closed.

Footsteps sounded in the other room, and she turned to face this new threat. She’d tied back her own curtain so she could see when anyone came. Father hadn’t yet dared show himself —probably because he knew she’d be furious—but now that appeared to be changing.

He stepped across the room, his footsteps quiet, his pace measured. His expression looked blank.

No sign of remorse.

Anger boiled inside her. She stood and stepped outside her sleeping area to meet him. She pulled the curtain shut behind her, hoping their voices wouldn’t wake Gil.

She leveled a glare on her father. "How could you? Your men beat my husband nearly to death.”

His eyes flicked to the curtain, then back to her face. He crossed his arms over his chest, his stance wide and unyielding. "It had to be done, Jess. You know that."

Fury flashed at the edges of her vision. "No, I don't know that!" She had to stay quiet. Poor Gil didn’t need her waking him. She breathed hard and forced her voice low. "He didn't deserve this. Any of it."

“He tried to steal from me. He had to be punished.” Father’s voice remained calm, almost lifeless.

She had to grip her apron to keep from reaching up and shaking him. She’d never wanted to hurt anyone like she wanted to hurt him now.

She couldn’t. It would put Gil in far too much danger. She forced her body to stay still, though her breath came in short gasps. "I need a man sent to town." She managed to keep her tone low and controlled. "For more medicines. I'll make a list. And a doctor. Gil needs a real doctor, even if you have to send to Helena for one."

Her father regarded her, his expression emotionless, almost as if she hadn’t spoken. It was impossible to read. She’d seen it before, and she hated it.

But she lifted her chin. She wouldn’t show how angry she was. “He can't be moved, so the doctor will have to come here. And we're not leaving tomorrow. We’re not leaving until Gil is better."

Her father stood a moment more. Not speaking. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and walked out.

When the curtain swished back into place, she allowed herself to breathe again. Her shoulders sagged, and the rush of air she took in made her lightheaded. She turned to her sleeping area and tied the fabric barrier back again.

Would her father summon a doctor? He guarded their privacy so fiercely, rarely permitting outsiders in.

But surely he would send for the medicines for her husband .

Wouldn’t he?

Exhaustion pressed so hard on her limbs that she barely dragged herself back to Gil’s side. Maybe stitching that gash on his face should wait until he awoke. No sense in ruining precious sleep, though she might have already interrupted his rest with her loud words.

She should probably eat something herself, but her middle churned at the idea. Should she force something down? Maybe in a little while.

First, she needed to have that list ready when Father sent someone for it. She’d run out of paper, though, and had forgotten to pick some up when they were in town last. Would Gil mind if she tore a page from the back of his notebook? She would be careful not to look at anything he’d written.

The book lay on top of his pack, easy to grab and pluck out a single blank page. But when she picked it up, a pencil tucked inside made the cover fall open.

Her breath caught as her gaze fell on the open sheet.

There, sketched in exquisite detail, was her own likeness. She stood by the cookstove, her face turned slightly, captured in a pensive moment. The shading, the lines, the way he'd shown the light falling across her features—it was a work of art, crafted with undeniable talent and a depth of perception that… Well, he was remarkable. His talent was remarkable.

Her fingers hovered over the page, not daring to touch the graphite strokes. The drawing let her see herself through Gil's eyes, and the intimacy of it made her throat burn. He had noticed her, studied her, in a way no one ever had before.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to close the notebook, her heart thudding against her ribs. The walls she was working so hard to rebuild around her heart, the ones she needed in order to keep herself safe, were teetering. How could he knock them down so easily, even in sleep?

With shaking hands, she tore a blank page out and tucked his notebook away again. She couldn't afford to dwell on the implications of that sketch, not now. Gil needed her to be strong, to focus on his recovery.

She had to push aside all these tangled emotions, which would overwhelm her if she let them.