“Gran swore by it when my Gran’tha was hurt in a tractor accident,” she added with a sage nod. “One of the blades sheared on a rock, and sliced deep into his left arm. Doctors all said the nerves were destroyed. They stitched up the gash, but figured he’d never be able to move his fingers again.”
Fascination warred with Tommy’s initial sick revulsion. “So what happened?”
Brigit beamed. “My Gran had a wise way with herbs, and Gran’tha was too proud to be a burden. So she mixed a salve of white willow, St. John’s wort, lobelia, skullcap, mullein, and a few other things together.
“The entire process takes nearly two months,” she added, pointing to three large glass jars lining the windowsill. “I always have a few batches in process. And now you know why I only have four changes of clothes—
