Page 37 of The Scarred Lyon

At last, he sputtered, snow flying from his mouth as he tried to catch his breath. Thank heavens. “Can you move?”

“No,” he croaked.

“Lie still, I’ll use the shovel.”

Lady started barking, obviously distressed.

“It will be fine, Lady,” Augusta reassured. The puppy settled, sitting and keeping watch over Duncan. Red blotches spread across the snow piled around Duncan’s head.

“You’re bleeding!”

“My head aches,” he slurred.

She felt the back of his exposed head and felt a lump; her fingers were wet. Blood.

“Head wounds bleed profusely,” Duncan said in a stronger voice. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“I won’t.” Augusta resumed digging, clearing enough snow to expose his shoulders. “Can you move now?” she asked, worried.

“It happened again,” he mused, not replying to her question. “Another roof collapsed on me. What are the bloody odds?”

“Duncan, please focus! Can you move?”

“Right.” He turned, then cried out in obvious pain. “My shoulder. Dislocated. Again.”

Augusta continued shoveling away the snow until most of his torso was cleared. “Which shoulder?”

“The same as before,” he said with a grimace.

With great effort, Augusta helped Duncan stand, and as he leaned on her, they slowly descended the narrow stairs. His clothes were soaked through and his teeth were chattering.

“We have to remove these garments.”

“My shoulder. You need to do what Patrick did.”

“I am not certain I am strong enough to pop it back in,” she replied worriedly. “Can you lie on the floor?”

Duncan shook his head. “I may never get up again.” He looked around the room. “Take me to the back door.”

Looping his good arm around her shoulder, she guided him toward the door. “What are you going to do?”

“There is another way. It is not ideal, but it will have to do. Open the door.”

Augusta did as he asked.

He leaned against the door frame. “Christ, the pain.” Duncan clasped the elbow of his injured arm and lifted it upward as he pressed hard against the door frame. The pressure caused him to shout expletives that would make anyone blush. Then Augusta heard it, a popping sound. All the blood drained from his face, and he wobbled.

Augusta rushed to him, trying to hold him up. “Lean on me. Take deep breaths. Is most of the pain gone? Is the shoulder in place?”

“I-I-I think so,” he replied breathlessly.

At the column of his neck, she could see the raised gooseflesh. “You are freezing.” She closed the door. “Come over to the fire. Slowly now.”

She assisted him into the chair, then, grabbing the hem of his shirt, she said, “I am going to pull it over your head very carefully, without you moving your injured shoulder. We have to remove all your clothes to dry them.”

“Do it.”

It took a few minutes, but Augusta removed the ruffled shirt and hung it on the wooden rack near the fire. Then she found the quilt and wrapped it around him. His bruises from the carriage accident were now a purple-black hue. She took off his boots and stockings, then unbuttoned his trousers. “Can you lift your hips slightly so I can pull them off?”