The broken she-wolf - Healed by innocence

All the pains

*Lillian*

The quilt falls from his shoulders, wedges between our bodies, and trails in the mud as we trudge toward the house. The wind howls, slinging the stinging rain sideways. The porch eaves can’t protect us from the merciless storm.

I let go of the man and release the latch on the door. The wind shoves the door open, nearly taking my arm with it. I pull on Blaise Moonshadow. "Get inside!"

He stumbles into the house. I follow him, slam the door, and jam the bolt into place, imagining I hear the wind howl its protest. Digger lifts his head, releases a small whine, and settles back down to sleep.

I stare at the man standing in my house, wondering what in the world I think I'm going to do with him now. He looks ready to collapse at any moment. I set the lantern on the table and pull out a chair. "Sit down."

He obeys, hunching his shoulders and wrapping his arms around himself. I step behind him and cringe when I see the brown stain on the back of his shirt. I might have noticed it earlier if he hadn't been wearing a vest.

"Let's get your shirt off." With trembling fingers, I unbutton his shirt, pull the ends free of his trousers, and work the clinging shirt off his body. Then I study the long, jagged, pus-filled gash. Red irritated flesh surrounds it, and I wonder briefly how he managed to chop my wood. "I'm going to have to lance it. Let's get you into bed."

I help him to his feet. He follows without complaint as I lead him into my bedroom. "Can you finish undressing yourself?" He stands, enfolded in silence. I cradle his roughened bristled cheeks between my hands. Images of doing the same thing to my father just before I had kissed him good night as a child swamp me. "Listen to me. You have to get out of these wet clothes and into bed. Can you do that?"

He gives a short nod as though even that is too much effort.

"Good." I hurry to the closet, pull out a towel, and toss it on the bed. "You can use that to dry off. I'm going to prepare some hot salt water to draw out the infection after I have lanced it. I'll be back in a few minutes." I slip out of the room, clicking the door closed.

*Blaise*

I drop onto the edge of the bed and tug off my boots, grimacing as pain assaults me. I should have realized my back was festering and sought out a doctor before now, but clearing my name made everything else seem insignificant.

I struggle out of my soaked trousers, discarding them on the floor. Ignoring the towel, I crawl into the bed, draw the blankets up to my waist, and roll onto my stomach. The next few minutes are going to be unpleasant, but at least I will be in the company of a pretty she-wolf.

A soft tap sounds against the door before it opens a c***k. "Are you in bed?" she asks quietly.

I force the word past my thick tongue. "Yep."

She walks into the room and sets the bowl and a knife on the bedside table. Frowning, she eases onto the bed and touches my cheek. "You didn’t dry yourself."

I think about telling her I was lucky to have made it to the bed, but I don’t think it's worth the effort. She reaches for the towel and gently pats the moisture from my face, the furrows in her brow deepening. The towel keeps catching on the stubble covering my jaw, and I wish I had taken the time to shave that morning.

She leans closer, the soft swell of her small breast pressing against my shoulder as she wraps the towel around strands of my hair and squeezes out the rain. Closing my eyes, I inhale her sweet scent and am reminded of the blue-flower-coated hills I have been traveling.

Her touch is gentle, careful as though she thinks she might hurt me. How many times in the past five years have I thought of Olivia touching me like this? When I had longed for a hot bath that I knew was years away, I would think of taking it with her, drying her off afterward, standing still as she dried me. Then we would make love until dawn, slowly, leisurely, the way we should have done it the first time.

I open my eyes, the burning behind them increasing, and I fear it has little to do with my fever. Tenderly, the she-wolf touches my cheek, the concern in her eyes drawing the words from my ravaged heart. "Why didn’t she wait?"

She leans closer until I see the black rings that circle the gold of her eyes. "Who?"

"Olivia. She promised to wait till I got out of prison... but she married Riley." I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing she had left the rain on my face so my tears would have a place to hide.

*Lillian*

I have never seen a man cry before. I don't think this man usually gives in to tears. His fever, his pain, they are lowering walls I would have preferred to remain in place. The she-wolf inside me who will never know such deep love aches for this man, and I find myself wishing that a she-wolfI know nothing about had waited for him.

He buries his face in the pillow. "Just do what you gotta do and be done with it," he croaks.

I wonder if he realizes I took the time to dry his face and hair so I could put off the unpleasant task that awaits me. I don’t relish the thought of cutting into his flesh. I allow my gaze to roam the length of his bare back. A few scars indicate he's no stranger to pain. I wonder what he did to deserve the beating, if the she-wolf who abandoned him knows all that he has suffered.

My gaze comes to an abrupt halt where the sheet meets his narrow hips. I swallow hard. Beneath the sheet is nothing but flesh. I grab a quilt and drape it over the outline of his legs and buttocks, as though doing so would clothe him. I press my hands together to stop them from trembling. "I’ll be as gentle as I can. I know it’s going to hurt, but try not to move."

He bunches his fists around the pillow, the corded muscles of his back tightening. Taking a deep breath of fortitude, I pick up the knife and prick his wound. He flinches. "I'm sorry," I whisper repeatedly as I lance the long gash. Then I take the cloth I had left to soak in the hot salt water and apply it to the injury.

I hear his breath hiss between his teeth. "I'm sorry, I know it hurts. My brother’s scrapes and cuts were forever festering. He would holler so loud when Ma cleaned them. At least you don’t holler."

I know I'm rambling, trying to distract myself from the task as much as him from the pain. His muscles are firm, and I know he has worked hard in his life. But even with all the work, he manages to have the most beautiful hands I have ever seen. Although his fingers are bunched in the sheets, I remember noticing how long they were when I watched him eat earlier.

I can't imagine that such handsome hands have killed. Instead, I imagine them stroking the strings of a violin. My father had possessed long fingers and with them, he had created the most magical music.

No, a killer should not have beautiful hands. They should be ugly, like mine, with short stubby fingers, stained and roughened.

And a killer should not possess deep blue eyes that are filled with tears.

After repeatedly applying the hot wet cloth to the wound, I bring the lamp nearer and scrutinize the gash. It still looks red and tender, but it's clean. "I think that’s all I need to do tonight."

He releases a shuddering breath and his hands relax their hold on the pillow. Turning his head slightly, he looks at me. "Sorry for the trouble."

I don’t know if I have ever heard anyone sound so tired. I comb my fingers through his sandy hair. "Try and sleep. We want your fever to break."

I drape additional blankets over his arms and a portion of his back, leaving the wound exposed to the air. Slowly, gently, I trail my hand back and forth over his broad shoulders, above the wound. I begin to sing the ballad that caused my father to desert and brought him home from the war, while so many others had perished. He had named me in honor of the song, and I often wonder if I owe my existence to someone’s gift with lyrics.

I sing until I feel the tenseness leave Blaise’s body, until I hear his quiet even breathing. I move to a rocking chair and watch him through the night, wiping the beading sweat from his brow, keeping the blankets tucked around him, wondering what sort of man goes to prison for murder... then weeps because a she-wolf hadn’t waited for his return.