Page 20 of Short-Straw Bride

Crockett had every lamp in the den blazing with light by the time Travis arrived. “Set her on the sofa,” he said. “I need to wash out that wound and see if any bone has chipped or if the skull is dented from the blow.”

Travis laid Meredith across the cushioned seat, arranging her head at the end nearest the lamp table where Crockett had piled several squares of toweling.

As Crockett moved in with basin and sponge, Travis backed away and paced the room’s perimeter.

Why was it that every time Meredith’s path crossed his, she ended up hurt? First her leg in one of his traps, and now her head kicked by his mule. Both were accidents, of course, yet Travis couldn’t shake a growing sense of guilt. If he had made different decisions, neither would have happened.

He dipped his chin and rubbed the aching area above his eyes. Help her recover, Lord. Please. Don’t make her pay the price for my mistakes.

Travis circled past the woodstove, his mother’s rocking chair, and his father’s bookshelf, and then found himself once again at the foot of the sofa. He studied Meredith’s face. Her dark lashes lay delicately against her pale cheeks, fluttering slightly. Tiny frown lines puckered her forehead between her brows as Crockett probed her wound, and quiet whimpers vibrated in her throat. An insane urge to shove his brother away and spare her the pain of his invasion had Travis balling his hands into fists, but he restrained himself from interfering.

After several more minutes of cleaning and probing, Crockett finally set aside the washbasin and pushed to his feet. Travis met his eye, silently seeking answers.

“The bleeding has slowed, and she continues to react to the pain—both of which are good signs. The cuts are fairly minor and won’t require stitching. I’ve treated them with salve. It’s the impact to her head, not the abrasions, that I’m most worried about, but best I can tell, there are no skull fractures.”

Travis acknowledged his brother’s words with a slight dip of his chin, and then reached out to grip the back of the sofa, bracing himself for the rest of the news.

“The fact that she hasn’t awakened could be a problem. There is no way to know the extent of the damage inside her skull. The only thing I can recommend is to make her as comfortable as possible. Let her rest and heal at her own pace.”

At first, Travis said nothing, just silently absorbed the verdict. So much of his life revolved around controlling his environment. Control meant security. That’s why Archers never left their land and why few people were ever granted permission to cross their property line. Control minimized risk. But all his efforts to minimize risk tonight had failed. Mitchell’s men escaped, the barn burned, and Meredith—a woman whose only “crime” was trying to perform a good deed—lay unconscious on his mother’s sofa, and there was nothing he could do to remedy the situation.

Travis pressed his fingers into the wood trim of the sofa back and straightened. “My room’s closest,” he said. “We’ll put her in there. I can bunk with Neill.”

“Someone should probably sit up with her until she regains consciousness.” Crockett raised a brow and searched him with a look that seemed to ask more than one question. “I’d be happy to—”

“No. I’ll do it.” Travis bent and lifted Meredith from the sofa. “She came here because of me. It’s only right that I be the one to tend her.”

Crockett nodded, a slight smile curving his lips. Travis glared at him, uncomfortable with his brother’s shrewd expression. Crockett’s grin widened at his reaction, but he wisely said no more and, instead, strode down the hall to open the bedroom door and pull back the covers on the bed. Travis carried Meredith through the doorway and lowered her to the mattress.

“We should probably . . . um . . . try to make her more comfortable.” Crockett glanced at Travis from the opposite side of the bed, his face reddening.

Travis took secret pleasure at his brother’s discomfort until the meaning of his words settled into Travis’s brain. His mouth suddenly dry, he looked from Crockett to Meredith and back to Crockett again.

“We can’t—” He cleared his throat. His shirt collar seemed to be shrinking. There was no way he was going to undress her. Especially not with Crockett looking on.

“I’m not suggesting we do anything improper.” Crockett blew out a heavy breath. “Well, not too improper. Aw . . . blast it, Travis. I’m trying to be practical here. Her breathing is shallow, and if we loosen her stays, that might help. That and taking off her shoes so she can rest better. That’s all I’m saying.”

Shoes. He could handle shoes. Travis swallowed hard and moved to the end of the bed, where her feet hung off the side of the mattress. It was true that she didn’t look very comfortable, her legs skewed at an odd angle. If he was lying there, he’d sure want his boots off. So why did he feel like the worst kind of cad when he touched her ankle?

“Throw the blanket over her legs,” Travis ground out between clenched teeth. She’d shown them all the scar above her ankle when she first arrived, but that had been her choice. Neither he nor Crockett needed to see anything besides shoe leather now. Once the covers were in place, Travis waved Crockett over to his side of the bed. “Come help me with the other shoe.” The faster they completed the task, the better.

They undid the laces and gently tugged off the shoes.

“Just like when Neill was a kid, right?” Crockett said.

“Right,” Travis agreed. Only it didn’t feel anything like putting Neill to bed when feminine wool stockings rubbed against his hands as he poked her toes under the covers. Nor was he able to picture Neill’s sleepy little boy form when it came time to take care of the second order of business.

Travis looked to Crockett. His brother shrugged.

“It has to be done, Trav. She needs to be able to breathe freely. If you don’t feel right about it, I’ll do it.”

He sure as shooting didn’t feel right about it. But he felt even less right about letting anyone else do it.

Travis sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the buttons at Meredith’s midsection. But before he touched one, he stopped. His eyes moved to her face. “Meredith,” he said in a firm, loud voice. “Meredith, can you hear me?”

Her head shifted slightly on the pillow, but she gave no sign of waking.

“Meredith, I’m going to loosen your . . . ah . . . clothing to help you breathe. I swear that’s all I’m doing. All right?”