Free The Circle Eight: Caleb by Emma Lang

some details that could prove useful.
    “Then you’re a lucky man.” Caleb wiped the bits of blood from Rory’s hands. She had strong fingers that were callused but long and tapered, still feminine. That surprised him considering what she did every day. Her fingernails were caked with dirt, but he took the time to clean them, and he didn’t know why.
    The doctor finished stitching her up and then peered at his own handiwork. “She is very strong. She has a good chance of recovering if a fever doesn’t catch hold.”
    Caleb rinsed the cloth in the basin, leaving behind a pinkish tinge. “When would a fever hit?”
    “Within the first day I should think. Possibly two. She shouldn’t be moved for at least a week.” The doctor gestured to a fresh pile of bandages. “After she is clean, you can wrap her, but not too tightly. If she starts to bleed again, send someone to fetch me.”
    The doctor got to his feet with a groan. “I’m afraid I need to rest now. I’m not as young as I used to be.”
    Caleb watched the old man shuffle out, looking like someone’s grandfather. He would reserve judgment on just how benevolent the doctor was.
    “Now it’s you and me, Rory.” He should feel uncomfortable with a half-naked, bloody stranger. Her face was relaxed, making her look very young and accentuating the softness of her skin. Her cheekbones were high, framing a heart-shaped face he hadn’t seen beneath the leather cap. Her hair wasn’t merely brown. In the light from the lantern, bursts of red and gold shone in the strands.
    Caleb shook his head to dispel the image. He had no call to be thinking of Rory Foster as a woman. She was a blacksmith and a squatter. It wasn’t his fault she was injured. The confounded woman had climbed the tree and fallen out on her own. He wasn’t going to feel guilty.
    Except he was.
    He had to take off what was left of her shirt. The damn doctor had cut it open to patch her up then left it hanging on her like a rag. Caleb would have to see what lay beneath the tattered garment. He reached for the buttons, refusing to accept his hands shook. It was a trick of the light, nothing more.
    The buttons were smaller than those on a man’s shirt and he fumbled to push them through the holes. He finally got them undone and opened her shirt.
    “Holy shit.”
    She had bindings around her breasts, well-used ones by the look of them. He untied the knot beneath her arm and tried to unwind them. Unsuccessfully. With her lying on bed, there was little chance he would move her to a sitting position to get them off, not to mention the possibility he would tear her stitches.
    There was no help for it. He would have to cut the bindings. No doubt Rory would rip a hole in the ceiling when she found out. She must have used them for years and it didn’t appear as though she had money to buy much. Her clothes were threadbare and her house meager. The woman was barely getting by, probably enough to keep herself fed and nothing more.
    He would make sure she got new shirt and bindings. Her trousers, another curious thing about the woman, were stained with blood but with some effort they might come clean.
    Caleb was stalling. Once he cut the bindings, there would be nothing between Rory and him but air.
    He pulled the knife from the scabbard in his boot and carefully sliced through the fabric. The old bindings nearly fell apart in his hands and soon they revealed the smoothest, creamiest skin he’d ever seen. Her breasts were marked from the tight bindings but they spilled out as though they had been gasping to be released.
    Her nipples were the color of a blush pink rose, a sweetly feminine thing he didn’t expect from a woman he hadn’t thought of as female. Oh, she sure as hell was as womanly as he had ever seen. Not many had breasts the size of Rory’s. She might have kept the bindings on to work without injuring herself.
    Regardless, he found himself staring at a half-naked, unconscious woman who was