Page 4 of A Troublesome Circumstance

“I’ll manage,” she said stubbornly. “Just… don’t follow me.”

“Why in the blazes would I follow you?”

Before she could answer, her pitchfork clattered to the ground. Her eyes rolled back, and she crumpled.

“Botheration.” Jude dropped his rifle and caught her just before she hit the dirt. She was light—too light. Her skin was cold, and she barely stirred in his arms.

He stood there for a long moment, torn between sense and conscience. He should leave her, ride into town, and fetch help. That would be the logical choice. But logic had little to do with the fierce protectiveness rising in his chest.

“Devil take it,” he muttered, shifting her weight and starting towards the cottage.

Halfway there, she stirred. “What are you doing?” she gasped, struggling weakly. “Let me down this instant!”

“No.”

“You promised I could leave!”

“And you fainted before you made it to the door,” he retorted. “That changes things.”

She pushed feebly against his chest. “I will be fine.”

“You will not,” he said through gritted teeth. “You need stitches, and I’ve no desire to bury a stranger on my land.”

When he reached the cottage, he nudged the door open with his shoulder and set her gently on the chair by the hearth. She immediately sprang up and darted towards the table, seizing a dull knife and brandishing it with shaking hands.

“Stay back,” she warned.

Jude crossed his arms, unimpressed. “That knife is so blunt it couldn’t cut through butter.”

“How do I know you won’t hurt me?”

He smirked faintly. “I never said I wouldn’t. Stitches are painful things.”

Her hand went to her forehead. When she touched the wound, she winced. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s awful,” he countered. “You’ll scar badly if I don’t sew it up.”

Suspicion warred with exhaustion in her eyes. “And you expect me to trust you with a needle?”

“I assure you that if I wished to harm you, I wouldn’t waste time threading it.”

That earned him the smallest flicker of reluctant amusement—or maybe disbelief.

He sighed, already regretting his decision to involve himself. “Sit down. Let me help you. After that, you’re free to go, assuming you can still stand.”

Keeping a white-knuckled grip on the dull knife, the young woman lowered herself into the chair by the fire. Her movements were stiff, cautious—as though she expected him to pounce at any moment. Her gaze never left him, flicking to every shift of his hand.

Jude had seen frightened creatures before, but there was something about the set of her chin that told him she was trying very hard not to appear afraid.

He crossed to the small table and fetched the wooden box that held his meager medical supplies. Setting it down with deliberate calm, he lifted the lid and withdrew a needle, thread, and small bottle of spirits. “You’ve had stitches before?” he asked, glancing up at her.

“I have.”

“Good.” He threaded the needle, holding it close to the firelight. “Then you know it will hurt like the devil.”

Her lips twitched, the faintest ghost of humor. “So you mean to say you are not gentle?”

“I’m efficient,” he replied, pulling a chair closer. “That’s far better than gentle in these matters.”