Free Comanche Rose by Anita Mills Page B

know."
    He appeared uncomfortable for a moment, then blurted out, "There'll be talk. I mean, you're a woman, and I'm a man, and—"
    "How old are you, Mr. Nash?"
    "Twenty-three, ma'am."
    "I was thirty last summer." Dipping the cloth into the cup again, she returned to her task. "Come on, just a little more," she coaxed Walker.
    "You aren't exactly old enough to be my mother," Nash said behind her. "And after what happened—"
    She sighed. "After what happened, I expect people to talk, and there's not much I can do to stop them. What am I supposed to do—hide?"
    "No, of course not. But—"
    Laying the cup aside, she turned back to wipe Walker's mouth with a dry corner of the napkin. "I cannot help it that I wanted to live too much to die, sir," she said wearily. "But if it bothers you to sit here with me, you can go into the other room."
    "I didn't mean me. I didn't mean J felt that way, Mrs. Bryce," he responded awkwardly. "I was thinking of you."
    She felt a surge of anger. "Well, don't. I'm not a woman who thrives on pity."
    "I'm sorry. It must have been very hard on you," he murmured.
    She looked up at that. "I don't mean to talk about it— now or ever," she said evenly. "To anyone."
    "I wasn't trying to pry, ma'am. I just meant..." He paused, then sighed. "Well, if you're going to sit up with him, I think I'll go into the surgery and straighten things around for tomorrow. I, uh, I guess if you need any help, you'll call for me," he added lamely.
    "Yes."
    For more than a quarter hour after he left, she worked to get the rest of the medicine down Hap Walker. When she was done, she rose slowly and went to the window. They sky was almost cloudless now, and the snow sparkled in the moonlight. Layers of ice weighed heavily on the branches of a small tree, bending them almost to the ground. The stillness was nearly overwhelming.
    She turned back to Hap, then cast a furtive glance toward the surgery. She hesitated, then deliberately walked over and closed the infirmary door. Coming back to Walker's bed, she considered him for a moment before she reached for the wash basin.
    There wasn't anything that said she couldn't bathe him, after all. Telling herself resolutely that he had nothing she'd not seen before, she poured water into the pan. Wringing out the cloth Major Sprenger had used, she began wiping the wavy brown hair back from his forehead.
    While he wasn't what most people would call handsome, he had an appealing face—straight nose, strong jaw, well-defined chin. And despite a faint sprinkling of silver, the tousled hair gave him an almost boyish look. That and the smile lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. She guessed he was probably between thirty-five and forty.
    She lifted the blanket and unbuttoned the nightshirt, then washed his neck, throat, and chest. Her hands shook as she tugged the shirt up, exposing his lower body. She shuddered, fighting the revulsion, and forced herself to look down. Nestled in curled, brown thatch, his manhood was limp, benign. She took a deep breath. Telling herself that the only thing he had in common with Two Trees was his gender, she very carefully began washing his belly and his right leg. The injured one she didn't touch.
    She didn't dry him, but let the air cool his wet skin, then gently pulled his gown down. Using a corner of the bedsheet, she fanned his face. Exhausted, she sat back to pray.
    Please, dear God, she thought, spare this decent man. Even as the words went through her mind, she wondered what there was about a man she scarcely knew that had moved her to pray for him, when she could hardly find it within her to pray for herself. It was, she supposed, all those things Major Sprenger had said about him.
    The only light in the room was the yellow flame flickering valiantly within the sooty lamp chimney, the only sound Hap Walker's harsh, ragged breathing. She squeezed her dry, itching eyes tightly shut, trying to wet them, then leaned forward again to touch him. She