Free Crossings by Stef Ann Holm

across Carrigan’s swollen flesh. “I think the damage was done only to his muscles.”
    â€œWhat should I do? Sew him up?”
    â€œNo. Just put a poultice on the wound and wrap him with bandages.” Eliazer slipped the brim of his hat higher on his forehead and said in a solemn voice, “He is lucky to be alive. Whoever shot him intended to kill him by the angle of the entry. They were aiming for his heart.”
    Helena hadn’t had a spare thought to wonder who could have wanted Carrigan dead. But having two men connected to her be shot within the span of a week undid her nerves.
    Ignacia returned with the water basin and towels slung over her arm. She put the items on the bureau. Helena gave Eliazer the muddy boots. “Take these to the kitchen, and I’ll clean them later. There’s mustard seed in the larder. Ignacia can show you where. Make up a plaster.”
    Nodding, Eliazer went with his wife.
    Alone with Carrigan, Helena began the process of bathing him. She dipped a cloth into the warm water, wrung it out, then ministered to his chest with a butterfly touch. Repeating the process until the basin turned pink, she was able to remove the gunpowder residue and control the flow of blood. His breathing remained somewhat ragged. Drops of moisture clungto his damp forehead, and she wiped them away with the towel. Her fingers paused. An impulse to smooth the swath of hair from his brow took her, and she acted.
    His hair was coarse, but felt silky. The length fell past his collarbone, making her wonder how he managed to cut the ends himself. They were even and nearly blunt, save for the shorter locks that teased his forehead. He kept them shoved away from his eyes, but she had noticed they came forward to aggravate him.
    She gave his face a lingering look. The granitelike features softened in his sleep, though the troubling lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes had not diminished. Complexities surrounded him. She guessed his wounds went beyond superficial and doubted she would ever know the true extent of his pain.
    With each soft, drying stroke of the towel, Helena’s sympathy for Carrigan increased. She took his broad hand in hers, studying his fingers. They were lean, the pads tough. His fingernails were short and clean, the crescents of white on the ends cut straight. She found it difficult to connect the wedding ring on his fourth finger with her. But as their fingers meshed, the bands of gold were an identical set. To be taking care of her husband seemed surreal. Nothing had prepared her for the nurturing tendencies she was feeling now, and they frightened her. She gave his joints each a massage before placing his arm at his side.
    Eliazer came up to her with a bowl of the plaster and sheet strips. He handed her a vial. “Rub some sassafras oil over his skin before you use the mustard. Bind him tight enough to stanch the blood, but not so tight as to chafe.”
    Helena applied the hot poultice with Eliazer’s help. They wrapped the bandages around Carrigan and changed the soiled quilt for a laundered coverlet, bringing the edge halfway up his chest.
    â€œLeave the plaster on for ten minutes, then take it off and apply some of this salve.” Eliazer took out a tin from his pocket. “I make it with beeswax.”
    â€œI’ll need your help again.”
    â€œI will help you.” He turned away and headed for the door. “I’m going to go down and tell Ignacia to steep some pine nut tea. That will medicate his insides. And I’ll get the laudanum.”
    She watched him go, then turned her focus back to Carrigan, who seemed to finally be resting comfortably. A flicker of hope fueled her stamina as she thought of the long night ahead. If only he didn’t wake up in torment, she could cope.
    Ten minutes later, she and Eliazer completed the process of dressing Carrigan’s wounds. She thanked Eliazer for his help and told him