Page 64 of The Promise of Jenny Jones
“Oh yeah. It’s going to hurt like a son of a… gun. I’ll try not to scream if you won’t.”
“The train is shaking too much!”
Jenny lifted a hand and stroked the kid’s hair, wondering what had happened to Graciela’s hat. “I trust you to do the best you can.”
Graciela pulled back and stared into her eyes. “You trust me?” she whispered.
“I’m trusting you with my life, kid.” Jenny stared back. “And that’s okay. See, I figure you owe me. I took care of you when you were sick, now it’s your turn to do something for me. I was there for you, now you have to be here for me. The fact is, you’ve got it easy. I’d rather sew a few stitches any day than mop up buckets of vomit. God!”
Graciela wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve, something she wouldn’t ordinarily have dreamed of doing, then she slid a glance toward the sewing packet Ty was kneading between his fingers. “Can I have a taste of tequila?”
“Hell no.” Jenny scowled. “If you start drinking next, so help me I’m going to have to smack you bad.” She closed her eyes, took a couple of deep breaths, then looked at Ty. “Give her the sewing packet.” To Graciela, she added, “Pick the strongest thread and double it. Tie off each stitch. And Graciela?”
The sewing packet was shaking in her hands. “Yes?”
“If I should faint, don’t stop sewing. In fact, if I faint, you sew as fast as you can, understand?”
Ty muttered a string of curses, then stood in the aisle with his back to them, his angry stance daring anyone to approach. Jenny flicked a glance at him, then motioned to Graciela to kneel in front of her.
It took several tries before Graciela picked up the rhythm of the train’s sway and was able to thread the needle. Her hands shook so badly that the thimble continued to fall off her finger. Jenny took a long hit from the tequila bottle, then she and Graciela stared at each other.
“We’ve been through a lot,” Jenny said quietly. “What we’re doing now is just one more thing. No harder than anything else.”
“Does it hurt?” Graciela whispered, her eyes wide, the needle trembling between her fingers.
“Hurts a lot.” The wound hurt like a son of a bitch, and she wanted to say so, but she didn’t. She was as proud of her restraint as she was of anything she’d ever done.
Marguarita, I hope you are fricking paying attention. If I ever had reason or provocation to spit out some choice cussing, now’s the time, by God. I hope to hell you’re noticing what a good example I’m setting here.
“Are you going to cry?”
“I might. I would hate for you to notice, so don’t look up.” She peeled back the bloody tequila-soaked cloth to expose the wound and heard Graciela suck in a sharp, hissing breath. “When you’re finished, pour more tequila on it.” Closing her eyes, clutching the blouse up out of the way, she leaned against the seat back and tried to hold her breathing steady and regular.
The first jab was no more than a pinprick, enough to get her attention but too tentative to penetrate skin. So was the second jab.
Jenny pried open her jaws. “For God’s sake, are you going to sew or are you going to just torture me? Do it and get it over with.”
On the kid’s fourth try, the needle went in, and Jenny fainted.
Chapter Fourteen
Ty made a pillow out of the saddlebags, then covered Jenny with her shawl when she curled down on the seat. Kneeling beside her, he studied her flushed face, hoping she wasn’t feverish. “Is the bandage too tight?”
“Feels like a corset.”
“Do you want more tequila?” He smoothed a length of sweat-damp hair back from her forehead. “We have more tortillas if you’re hungry.” She shook her head. “All right, get some rest. Sleep is the best healer.”
He eased back on the seat beside Graciela and lit another cigar to occupy his hands. Outside, the light was starting to shade toward evening. Long shadows pointed away from the cacti, which were taller now than those growing deeper in the wastelands. If he’d been on horseback, he would have noticed the northern incline of the land, but the motion of the train distorted such observations.
Smoking, seething with anger and concern, he studied Jenny’s pale face. The way her lashes curved in a coppery crescent on her cheek, the way her lips parted slightly.
It should have been him. Not her. Hell, she’d already been shot. If someone had to get wounded, it was his turn. Frowning, he glared out the window over Graciela’s head.
Marguarita might have chosen her daughter’s protector hastily, but she had chosen wisely. She must have sensed Jenny’s fearless persistence, her stubborn and dogged commitment to a promise once given. So far, she’d received a blackened eye, a cracked lip, a shot-up arm, and a slashed stomach. And they weren’t yet out of Mexico.
Gradually he became aware of Graciela’s low murmur beside him. “What did you say?”
“I’m praying,” she answered in a choked voice. “I’m telling God that I didn’t mean it about making Jenny bleed.”
