Page 34 of Wyoming Promises
Sharing a lunch or at least some midmorning refreshment with Bridger had grown into a daily routine. Lola took a deep breath as she carried the tray out the door. A brief flutter of sanity cautioned her every day. She held more questions than answers about this man and prayed every evening for Marshal Anderson’s quick return—surely his investigation would settle her anxious thoughts.
On the other hand, Bridger worked diligently, and his soft-spoken conversations—though mainly filled with appreciation for her father’s work and questions about the town—gave her a sense of companionship she’d lost after Papa died. Walking the balance of caution and neighborliness wore on her nerves.
Setting the tray on a stool just off the porch, she heard a bark of pain echo inside the shop. She paused, but only muffled sounds of rattling tools followed as she stepped closer.
She waited only a moment after her sharp rap at the shop door before creaking it open. In the light filtering through the windows, Bridger’s lean frame curled around his hand. One end of a white rag hung from his teeth as he tried to tie a knot, but blood quickly spotted it.
“What happened?” she asked, turning him with a shove to get a better look.
“Just a scratch. I got it.”
“Let me see,” she said, pulling the loose bandage away. A deep gouge cut across his middle finger, from the joint to the fingernail, almost clean through. Blood streamed across his hands and spattered on the workbench. “A scratch?”
“I got it.” His tone called her attention to his face, pale and determined.
“Sure you do.” She shook out the rag he used and folded the loose scrap of skin into its place before wrapping it tightly. Then she squeezed—hard. Bridger’s cheeks grew paler, accentuating the jagged scar.
“Come on!” She dragged him outside and pushed him to a stool. Grabbing his rough right hand, she placed it over the rag and squeezed it hard with both of hers. “Hold that tight, you hear me?” He nodded, still looking dazed and a little woozy. “I’ll be right back.”
She raced into the mortuary and selected materials she needed from the cabinet, tossing them into a pan as she moved through the door. Outside, she watched Bridger’s jaw clench and his eyes blink furiously, head tipped back.
She grabbed his hand as she fell to her knees and pulled him upright. “Not that way. Are you light-headed? Going to pass out?” she said, removing his fingers pressed to the wound. She slowly unraveled the cloth.
He nodded. “Don’t much like the sight of blood, ma’am.”
“Tip your head low, like this.” She tugged his head down below his shoulders. The soft hair at his nape tingled warm against her cool fingers.
She laid a fresh rag across his hand and replaced his other hand on top for pressure. Dumping the supplies from the pan, she ran to pump cool water into it.
“Here,” she said, returning to his side. “Put your hand in this. It’s cold, but that’ll help slow the bleeding and clean it out.”
He did as she bade, his normal dusky tone returning. “Sorry about this, Lola. I didn’t mean to cause a fuss.”
She added carbolic to the water and rubbed more over her hands. The flow of blood slowed before she pulled his hand from the pan and covered it with another dry cloth. She rinsed the bowl and returned with fresh water, added more carbolic and placed needles and scissors in to disinfect.
“You’re looking better,” she said, blotting his hand dry with the cloth that covered it.
His smile returned, growing with the flush along his jaw.
Dousing her hands with carbolic one last time, she threaded the needle with catgut and stabilized his arm between her elbow and ribs in a firm hold. She wedged her left hand around his fist, raising and separating the torn finger to work on.
Blowing loose hair from her eyes, she pursed her lips and pulled the needle through his skin, gently tugging the loose edges together. Another stitch. “You still with me?” she asked, glad to avoid his view, but concerned with his silence.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. A chuff of laughter blew warm against her neck. “Although, some doctor you are. No whiskey to dull the pain of the needle.”
She smiled, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “I figure the pain of whatever sliced this finger had to be worse than this little needle. What happened?”
“Let’s just say your father’s chisels are plenty sharp.”
She nodded but still couldn’t picture exactly how he’d done it. She kept adding stitches, forming a perfect hook along the edge and across his finger.
His solid chest warmed her shoulder as he peered over it, watching her work.