Page 62 of Calder Country

Turning away, she walked out of the kitchen. Her heart was aching, but she wasn’t about to let Jake see her cry. She had her own pride.

Picking up her thick merino shawl, which she’d tossed over a chair, she crossed the front room, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch. The air was biting cold. She pulled the shawl tighter around her body.

Sunset stained the deepening sky with streaks of crimson, a sign that the early storm had moved on and the warm fall weather would return. But Britta’s own storm still raged inside her. Jake needed help, and she was more than willing to give it, along with her love. Why couldn’t he understand that?

She would gladly spend the rest of their lives serving as his helpmate and raising his little girl. As for the rest—at twenty-nine she was still a virgin. Even being kissed by Jake was a thrill. As long as there was love between them—and already a child—wouldn’t that be enough?

But she knew better than to present that argument to Jake. He was in no frame of mind to listen.

The sun had gone down. Britta had begun to shiver beneath her shawl. It was time to go in and do whatever Jake would allow her to do.

In the kitchen, he had cleared the table and set the dishes on the counter next to the sink. There were two plates, water glasses, and a few utensils. Britta washed, dried, and stacked them for the next meal.

The light was on in the room where Jake slept. Coming down the hall, she could hear the sound of bumping and struggling. The door was partway closed. Hesitating, she called out to alert him that she was nearby. He was a private man, and she had to respect that. But he would have to accept being helped.

She heard another thump and a muffled curse. “All right, come in,” he muttered.

She walked into the room and found him in his chair, trying to reach the empty enameled chamber pot where it lay upended on the floor. To get it, he would have to lean over far enough to risk falling out of the wheelchair.

“I’ve got it.” Britta picked it up.

He sighed. “Give it to me and step out of the room.”

Britta did as he’d asked. Moments later she returned, took the pot from him, and emptied it in the bathroom. Returning, she placed it on a side chair, within easy reach. Jake was fumbling to fasten his trousers. He paused to gaze up at her.

“See what you’d be in for if I accepted your offer? Can you imagine a lifetime of this, and worse?”

“You’ll get stronger and more able to do things,” Britta said. “It will just take time. Talk to the doctor. She worked in a veterans’ hospital after the war. She’ll be able to give you some suggestions and maybe order some devices to make things easier.”

“You know I was in the war,” Jake said. “I came home from France without a damned scratch. I used to look at those poor bastards in wheelchairs and think how lucky I was. And now this. Maybe I had it coming.”

“Nobody has it coming, Jake. But at least, the man who shot you is dead.”

“Yes. I know. Too bad he didn’t have a better aim.”

“I’m going to assume you didn’t really mean that,” Britta said. “Leave your trousers undone. I’ll need to check your wounds and change the dressing.”

“Don’t bother. I’m fine.”

“And we want you to stay that way. Those wounds could still become infected.”

“You sound like my mother, God rest her soul.” He watched her get the gauze, tape, and salve out of the wall cabinet and carry it to the nightstand.

“You’ve never told me about your family, Jake.” She unbuttoned the top of his flannel shirt and slipped it off his shoulder. The blood-soaked clothes he’d worn the night of the shooting had been thrown away, but Britta had brought more clothing from his quarters above the jail.

“I’ve not much family left,” he said. “My folks were Kansas farmers, fine stock. They died in the Spanish Flu epidemic while I was in the army. Two sisters married and moved away—I don’t even know where. By the time I came home, the bank had taken what was left of the farm. I had an army buddy from Blue Moon. We got separated, but after the war I decided to look him up. He never made it home, but the town needed a sheriff, so I took the job and stayed.”

“Tell me his name. Maybe I know him.” She lifted the dressing off his shoulder wound. Healthy pink flesh was closing around the bullet hole.

He told her the name. It wasn’t one she recognized. But talking like this seemed to make the delicate process of tending his wounds easier.

“I lost a brother in the war.” She picked up the tin of salve and tried to twist off the lid, but it was screwed on tight. “Axel—but you already knew that.” She twisted the lid harder. It was stuck.

“Here, let me do that.” He took the tin from her and gave the lid a turn. The lid popped loose. He handed it back to her.

“At least I’m still good for something,” he said.

As Britta dabbed the salve around the wound, her patience snapped. “You’re still good for a lot of things, Jake Calhoun,” she scolded. “You’ve got a brain, eyes, ears, and two good hands. That’s more than some people. The sooner you stop feeling sorry for yourself, the sooner you can move on with your life.”

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