That is why she is sweet
1441 Words
*Blaise*
The aromas of freshly baked biscuits and brewed coffee drift toward me. I lean against the door jamb, watching Lillian stir something in a pot on the cast iron stove. She is wearing a dress the shade of daisies, the same white apron cinched at her waist from yesterday. Her narrow hips sway in a circular motion, seemingly following the path of the spoon. Her soft voice fills the room with a song.
"What are you singing?" I ask.
She spins around, eyes wide, hand pressed just below her throat. "Oh, you startled me."
"I’m sorry." I say softly.
She shakes her head. "That’s all right. I’m just not used to having company. I was singing ‘Fair Lilly.’ My pa told me they sang it around the campfires during the war. It made him so homesick that one night he just got up and started walking home." She turns back to the stove. "I didn’t mean to disturb you with my caterwauling."
"I wouls hardly call it caterwauling." I tell her.
She glances over her shoulder. "Did you find everything you needed?"
"Yes, ma’am." I hold up the towel. "I was wondering if you would make sure my back was dry."
"Oh, yes." She wipes her hands on her apron before pulling a chair out from the table and turning it. "Why don’t you sit down?"
I cross the short distance separating us, hand her the towel, straddle the chair, and fold my arms over its straight back. She presses the towel against my wound. I close my eyes, relishing her touch, as gentle as the first breath of spring. I have been too long without a she-wolf, without the peacefulness a she-wolf’s presence offers a man. It's more than the actual touch. It's the lilt of her voice, her flowery fragrance. The smile she's hesitant to give. The gold of her eyes.
Lightly, she presses her fingers around the wound. "I don’t see any signs of infection brewing, but it’s still red and angry-looking. I wonder if I should sew it."
"Is it bleeding?" I ask.
"No."
I shake my head, "Then just leave it. I’ve been enough trouble."
"It’s going to leave an ugly scar." She says.
"Won’t be the first." I mumble.
Reaching around me, she picks up a brown bottle that had been set near some cloths. I suspect she had anticipated I would need further care this morning. It galls me to need her help. Why couldn’t Ryan have cut me someplace that I could have reached and treated myself? I suppose I should just be grateful that I moved soon enough to avoid giving Ryan the opportunity to slice any deeper.
"I thought I would put some tincture of iodine on it this morning," she offers.
"Fine." I mumble.
She pulls the stopper and the acrid odor assails my nostrils. She drenches the cloth with the reddish-brown liquid. Chase always had a fondness for the medication, pouring it on every cut and scrape I ever had. I suppose it’s because he saw too many men die from infection during the war. I probably wouldn’t be sitting here now if I had told Chase about the cut.
"This is going to sting," she says quietly.
I grit my teeth and dig my fingers into the back of the chair. When she touches the saturated cloth to my back, I suck in air with a harsh hiss.
"I’m sorry, so sorry," she whispers, and I think I hear tears in her voice.
I focus my attention on the man I hope to find in Blaise. Each day, the man owes me more. I wouldn’t be sitting here fighting back the pain if the man hadn’t run off after killing Rowan.
She removes the cloth, and I release a long slow breath. I ease away from the chair as she wraps a bandage around my chest and across my back.
"You will want to keep it clean and have a doctor look at it when you get to town." She says.
“Yes, ma’am,” I nod.
My gaze follows her fingers as they stray to an old wound on my shoulder.
“Someone shot you,” she murmurs quietly.
“Yes, ma’am. A little over six years ago.” I admit.
She jerks her hand back as if I have bitten her. She places the bottle of iodine on a shelf, scrubs her hands at the sink, and wipes them on her apron, over and over, until I think she might remove her skin.
“Is something wrong?” I ask as I stand and shrug into my shirt.
“I just didn’t expect you to clean up so nice.” She mumbles.
Her blush pleases me more than her words. “I... I have got some porridge going here if you would like some.” She say.
I swing the chair around and drop onto the seat. “Just some coffee.”
She slaps the porridge into a bowl and sets it in front of her place at the table before pouring the coffee into a cup and handing it to me. “I’ve got milk and…”
“Just black.”
I wrap my hands around the cup, absorbing its warmth, waiting as she pours herself some coffee and takes her seat. While she dumps six heaping spoons of sugar into her coffee, I watch with amusement. I haven’t been amused in a long time. She’s incredibly innocent. Living out here alone, away from town, away from the influence of people, how could she be otherwise?
Maybe not completely innocent. Even as she offers me food and shelter, a wariness remains in her eyes, a caution as though at any moment she fears I might turn on her like a rabid dog.
She glances up and blushes again. “I like a little coffee with my sugar.”
“Is that why you’re so sweet?” I ask.
Her blush deepens as she lowers her gaze. I curse myself and wonder what the hell I think I am doing. I have no business flirting with a she-wolf, especially one as innocent as she is. “I appreciate all that you did for me last night.”
“You should never let a wound go unattended so long.” She tells me.
“I had other things on my mind.” I bring the cup to my lips and peer over the rim at the she-wolf sitting across from me. She’s sprinkling sugar over her porridge. A corner of my mouth curves up. I think she might save time if she simply poured the porridge into the sugar bowl.
Having known so few she-wolves in my life, I have developed an appreciation for them, an appreciation that even Olivia’s betrayal couldn’t diminish.
I have no memory of my mother. Wade’s wife Briony was the first she-wolf to whom I had ever really spoken. I have always liked the way she listened, as though she truly thought I had something of importance to share. I had even played my violin for her when I had never dared to play it for anyone else. Then Olivia moved to town, and I thought she was an angel, my angel. As much as I want to hate her, I only seem capable of missing her.
“Other than building you a new barn, what can I do to repay your kindness?” I ask abruptly, more harshly than I had intended, memories of Olivia tainting my mood.
Her head shoots up, her delicate brows drawn together over eyes mired with confusion. “I think you ought to spend the day resting and gathering your strength.”
“I need to see to my horse.” I mumble.
“I fed and brushed him this morning.” She says.
I shake my head, “And washed my clothes and polished my boots. Good Goddess, don’t you ever stop doing?”
She drops her gaze to the remaining porridge. “I like to keep busy.” She rises to her feet, picks up the bowl and cup, and carries them to the sink.
“My apologies, Miss Greenmedow. I had no cause to take out my frustration on you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She mumbles.
But it does matter, more so because she thinks it doesn’t. I scrape my chair back and stand. She spins around, the wariness back in her eyes.
“I don’t doubt you took good care of my horse, but I want to check on him anyway.” I walk out of the house.
- Writer
