Page 16 of His Unforgettable Bride
“Who’s Alex?” Juliet asked. Their brother? A neighbor or a friend? She shook her head. Why the onslaught of questions? Holy Moses, she just asked herself another one.
Tabitha buttoned her coat up to her chin. “Alex is our nephew, whom we expect any day now.” She dropped her hand onto her sister’s shoulder. “Since you’re still recovering from your cold, why don’t you prepare the bed in the sitting room for our guest? Retrieve one of Father’s old nightshirts and any leftover medical supplies. Start the fire, as well.”
“And you’ll assist Juliet and Icala?”
“Exactly. Many helpers make a task easier.”
Rain pelted the carriage house roof in a rapid rhythm. But they couldn’t allow the weather conditions to hinder their rescue. A life may depend on their efforts.
Tabitha withdrew a pair of black gloves from her pockets. “Please lead the way, Juliet.”
She wasted no time darting outside, crossing the yard, and hoping her little trail markers hadn’t blown off the path. Soon she entered the thicket and wove around trees and brush, following her white trail. When they reached the injured man, Juliet crouched to double-check his breaths, placing her finger under his nose.
“Is he…still with us?” Tabitha leaned over Juliet’s shoulder.
“Yes, does he look like Alex?”
“We’ve not seen our nephew in twenty years, making me a poor judge of his identity.”
“Oh.” Juliet twisted to gaze up at the sister. “Why haven’t you seen him?”
Tabitha frowned. “It’s impolite to ask, and this is not the time for questions.”
Juliet had a bad habit of saying too much and speaking too freely. Although she’d been trying to limit her chattiness since working for the Firth family, it was a genuine struggle half the time.
Or, more accurately, most of the time. “I apologize for my nosiness.”
Icala was spreading the tarp on the ground as best he could, but the sparse open space prevented him from extending the edges. “Whoever he is, let’s pray he recovers.”
“Amen,” Tabitha whispered.
Juliet crawled over a mossy log alongside the body. With Icala near the man’s feet and Tabitha next to his head, they spun him onto the canvas, laying him on his back. He made no sounds or movements, even though she wished he would. Scratches covered his ashen, swollen face. A large bump on his forehead was red or perhaps bruised. His temple sported an ugly, blood-crusted marring. And then there was the bloody spot on the back of his head. No doubt his mix of injuries had caused his unconscious state.
Together, with Icala in the lead and she and Tabitha bringing up the rear, they slowly hauled him through the woods. The chilly rain had sputtered out by the time they reached the clearing. Juliet’s handhold grew slippery, and she tightened her grip on the tarp. Tabitha grunted now and again. Little by little, they made progress, weaving around the stumps in the yard.
Finally, they dragged him through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the sitting room. In their wake, a mud trail streaked the floor, and Juliet promised to mop it later. They fully lowered and released their load onto the sitting room’s navy carpet to clean him up a smidgen before transferring him onto the bed.
Lanterns and a budding blaze combined to offer adequate lighting on a dreary day. A metal-framed bed and an unusual chair made from a sugar barrel, the cushion covered with plaid fabric, sat on either side of a stone hearth. AHarper’s New Monthlymagazine draped over one arm of a deep burgundy settee.
Clucking, Livy rushed forward, dropped to her knees beside the patient on the tarp, and gazed at him with love in her eyes. She covered him with a thick, deep green afghan. “It’s him. Our dear nephew. Thank you, Juliet, for finding our precious Alex.”
“What makes you confident it’s him?” Tabitha removed her gloves, and her voice labored as she strode to a small corner table brimming with medical bottles, ointments, and bandages. “He could be anybody.”
“Intuition, I suppose.” Livy expertly tucked the blanket around the long form on the floor.
With a huff, Icala placed his hands on his hips. “Should I collect Doctor Pooley?”
A small sigh slipped past Livy’s lips. “I’m afraid he’s working beyond town this week and possibly the next. Therefore, it’s up to us to care for our patient.”
Everyone broke into motion. Livy ran a wet cloth over the man’s bruised face. Tabitha applied an ointment to his cuts, and Icala bandaged his pale feet. Did he suspect frostbite?
Unsure how to best assist, Juliet padded toward the hearth to boost the small fire. She added another log and jostled the wood into place with the wrought iron poker before turning back around but remaining next to the warmth. She’d caught a chill outside, but her measly woe fell far short compared to the patient’s list of concerns.
Although tempted to slip outside to wring the moisture from her heavy, dripping skirts, she would never do that again.
Mrs. Quinborow had taught her not to stare openly at her betters, yet Juliet studied the injured man. How could she not? His wounds failed to hide his rugged handsomeness in the better lighting. A chiseled jaw, full lips, and shoulders built like a Viking. However, his skin had a sickly pallor, and his stillness was alarming. Although his straight nose held a noble perfectness, his wavy, untamed hair was imperfect and utterly appealing.
A notion struck her to crouch beside him and remove a twig from his locks, but she refused to act on her whim for a change. She moved the poker from one hand to the other, ready to ensure the room remained well-heated for the patient.
