Judith E French by McKennas Bride

monk’s cell, containing little more than a bed, a few articles of clothing hung on hand-whittled oak pegs, another pair of boots, and a single straight-backed chair fashioned of peeled branches. A saddle slung over a trunk, and a pair of deer antlers with a silver crucifixdangling from it were the only other items of note in the room.
    Well, Caitlin mused wryly, you’ve brought no sporting woman to this room. Of that much I can be certain.
    She looked back at Shane and was relieved to see that his color seemed to be returning. He had a concussion, she reasoned, and a few cracked ribs. God willing, that was all.
    Shyly she reached out to touch a curling lock of his dark hair. It was as soft as she remembered it. “Ah, Shane,” she whispered too low for him to hear. In some ways he was the same under that rough exterior. She wondered how his fair hair had turned so dark in the years since they’d last laid eyes on each other.
    Shane seemed asleep, and the idea that she could gaze at him and even touch him without his knowledge made her bold. She skimmed her fingertips lightly over his cheek, marveling at the scratchy texture of his beard. His whiskers had tickled her when they’d kissed. It hadn’t been an unpleasant sensation, but different.
    Not that beards were uncommon among men. To the contrary, most males old enough to lift a glass of spirits grew them. Her own father had worn a beard, and since she’d come to America, she’d seen few white men clean shaven. Still, the Shane she’d married had worn neither beard nor mustache.
    Thoughtfully she studied the bloody gouge on Shane’s face. Cleaning that wound would be easier without whiskers in the way, and doubtless it would heal faster.
    Her reverie was interrupted by the squeak of the door hinges. Caitlin gave a little start and turned to see Mary staring at her.
    “Mary bring needle. Sew head.” The Indian woman carried an empty basin, a cloth that had known bettertimes, and a needle large enough to sew canvas. Curled in a loop over her thumb was a length of sticky yellow string.
    “What is that?” Caitlin demanded suspiciously.
    Gabriel followed Mary into the room. “That’s sinew, for stitching McKenna up.” He placed a pail of steaming water on the floor and beat a hasty retreat from the sickroom.
    Caitlin glanced at Shane and then back at Mary. “No, I don’t think so,” she pronounced firmly. “If you will please look after the children, I’ll see to my husband’s injuries.”
    Mary frowned with disapproval. “Mary do,” she insisted.
    “No, Mary will not do.” Caitlin stepped between Shane and the housekeeper. “That needle is …” She trailed off and shook her head. “I assure you, I’m quite capable. I cared for both of my parents in their final illnesses.”
    Mary grunted and shifted her pipe from one corner of her mouth to the other. “Mary good medicine woman. Much heal.”
    “I’m sure you are. But I can do this.”
    Mary shrugged and with a final sniff of contempt, she deposited her basin and rag beside Gabriel’s bucket and shuffled out of the room.
    Caitlin’s feeling of triumph was short-lived. She knew she had her own sewing basket with silk thread and tiny needles, but where would she find a man’s razor? And what was she supposed to use for disinfectant and bandages?
    She would need help. Her own stubborn pride couldn’t stand in the way of what was best for Shane. Doubts piled one upon the other in her mind, and she shivered. What if Mary did know more than she did?
    “Mary said you needed me,” Justice said, appearing without warning in the open doorway. “Is he gonna be all right?”
    “He’s going to be fine,” Caitlin replied with more confidence than she felt. “Can you get me a razor and some soap? No, forget the soap; I have some in my luggage. I’ll need more of that whiskey from the barn and—”
    “Ain’t no more firewater.”
    “Isn’t any more,” she corrected.
    “ ’S what I said.