Cool, gentle hands shaking him softly. "Mr. McCain! Wake up, just for a minute. Take some broth."
He sipped the aromatic brew, then drank thirstily, listening intently to the sounds around him: Eirik's relieved breath, the fire crackling lazily, sounds of the night outside.
"Mark?"
"Try opening your eyes and see for yourself." The gentle hands lifted the moist bandage.
Carefully widening his eyes to slits, Lucas noted with relief that he could stand the dim light. His glance showed him his boy curled up in the comfortable chair, a blanket and a fur spread over him. Fast asleep.
"Does your leg bother you?"
"Hurts. Not bad."
"Good. Get back to sleep. I'll wake you again in two hours."
Concussion, right. Leg broken. That was bad out here. The chores would suffer, he might even miss the first spring seed, unable to move about. Lucas ground his teeth. How could he have been so careless?
As if able to read his mind, the young man put a calming hand on his shoulder. "Sleep, Mr. McCain. Everything will be fine, I promise."
….
In the morning Lucas remembered dimly being woken twice more during the night. Each time Donnelly urged him to drink, open his eyes, and get back to sleep. Each time he did.
…
The day passed by him in a haze – always either Mark or Donnelly in the room with him, checking his bandages, feeding him broth, helping him to relieve himself. He was sick several times, but Eirik was there to support him.
It seemed to Lucas he was always struggling to either fall asleep or stay awake. His leg hurt, his shoulder hurt, his head hurt with every move.
In what must be late afternoon Micah and the Doc came and took inventory.
"Tomorrow's gonna be better, Lucas. You're going to heal."
"Doc, I've got some willow bark in my things."
"Good thinking, boy. That should help him through the night. He might develop a light fever in the evening, if it doesn't go up or he starts hallucinating, he should be fine. Leg looks well, the shoulder too."
"My shoulder?" It was true, the left shoulder hurt.
"It was dislocated." Eirik cleared his throat quickly.
Lucas froze. His arm might be compromised?
"No, Lucas, settle down. Eirik set it right away, and I can say even now, when the swelling goes down, it'll be like new. You might get a weather-feeling, but more so in your leg."
The tall man breathed a sigh of relief.
"Now, Eirik, Mark. How can we help? Cade offered to come and help tomorrow for the morning."
"Aye, he might. If Mark can be excused from School one more morning, we can start on the lower field for the spring seeding – need to start pronging."
"You need more men?"
"I asked Mr. Valance already, we get the use of his oxen. We can do it fine."
"Valance lends you his team? How did you manage that?"
"He likes Mr McCain, though he'd never admit it. A day's help when I can be spared here." A twinge of grateful irony swung in the young man's voice.
"That all?"
"He's mighty proud of that pair of oxen. I made him a carving of one, promised him a second one."
"That's a fair bargain." Micah's voice held little scorn.
Lucas could hear the youngster's shrug in his answer. "Worth it. Weather will break."
Micah grunted. Lucas was relieved the most important thing was taken care of – the ground had to be dug and seeded before the next rain came.
"Right. Doc, I can feed Mr McCain light stuff tomorrow? Potatoes? Some stew?"
"Aye. You might be in for a rough night though, even with the willow bark."
"We'll manage." That was Mark, pride and manliness covering the slight quiver in his voice.
….
He must have drifted off, for when he woke again, the room was quiet but for the sounds of the night.
His leg hurt, his eyes were better. That was the first thing he became aware of. He tried to move, but pain shot through the injured limb, making him gasp.
At once, a slender figure stood by his side.
"Mr. McCain."
"Help me move, Eirik?"
"Sit up a bit?"
"Aye."
The young man brought a rolled up blanket and helped him get into a more comfortable position. But now the leg insisted on him taking notice.
Lucas grimaced.
"Wait, sir, I've got some tea for you."
Almost the rifleman spat the bitter stuff out again.
"Trying to poison me, Donnelly? That stuff's horrible!"
Eirik had the audacity to grin at him, eyes dancing. "Willow bark is bitter but it helps with the pain."
The young man's good humour made him grimace through another sip.
"Some food for me, boy?"
"Yes, Sir. How does some stew sound?"
Eirik helped Lucas feed himself, because the hurt arm hindered him. Few words were spoken. The patient was appreciative of the food, even if it still was only the soft stuff.
Even eating tired the tall man considerably, and he sank back after a few bites.
"Thanks. Where's Mark?"
"Asleep. In his bed this time. I promised him I'd wake him if anything changed."
Meaning his condition, Lucas knew. He felt hot, edgy.
"I'm fine."
The young man brought a moist towel to put on his forehead, and at once Lucas breathed a sigh of relief.
He dozed off again.
…
The rest of his night was filled with weird, colourful dreams of faces, feline and human, shady and clear. Of cool, gentle hands, a memory of his wife. A deep voice filled with some emotion he could not place. Mark, desperate, reaching out to him. Micah, nodding and smiling. A heart-shaped face, translucent, well-known but unplaceable, green eyes burning, windswept hair the same colour as a glass of honey. Doc Burrage with his bone saw.
Lucas woke with a low sound then. Heart pounding, he opened his eyes to the dim, warm light of the lamp on the table. Beside that lay the unmistakable covered head of his farmhand, arms forming a pillow.
Lucas frowned – the boy wasn't getting much sleep that way.
"Eirik."
The pale face lifted, eyes instantly alert. "Lucas? I mean Mr McCain? Anything…"
"Go sleep in your bed."
"I'm fine, Sir. I promised Mark I'd stay and look after you."
Damn it, proud young men. "Then at least take the comfortable chair."
Eirik smiled a little. "All right, sir. How's the head?"
"Head's better. Eyes are much better."
"Glad to hear it. Thirsty?"
"Yes, always."
With a smile of half mischief, half sympathy the young man stood and offered him the choice of broth or tea. With a grimace Lucas nodded at the tea – the leg burned.
Eirik grimaced right back. "That bad?"
"Like someone is hitting it with a hammer with every beat of my heart. I'll never go back to sleep."
Eirik removed a thick wad of paper from the fauteuil. "Newspaper?"
His face must have betrayed the instant interest, but also the realisation that his eyes would never comply.
"I could read it to you."
Lucas hesitated, but the young man's glance was earnest and direct.
"Appreciate it."
He fell asleep again listening to the deep voice.
…
The next morning he woke to Mark working at the table – the boy had brought some of the easier chores into the house.
His son fed him enthusiastically, enjoying having his father to himself.
Lucas felt restless. Leg and head hurt badly enough he could not rightly move at all, but his whole body rebelled against the enforced idleness.
Mark's chipper confabulations about the smoking buck legs, the livestock, and all the small things his son found interesting… they chafed. He needed to be out there, working, making sure the spring seeding was coming along. Out here, an accident like this might well mean the ruin for the farm.
Mark, worried by his Pa's short answers, reached out to reassure himself that his father's forehead was cool.
Lucas shrugged his touch away. He was fed up with the pampering and commanded almost angrily: "Why aren't you out on the field helping the men?"
"We said we'd take turns looking after you. I'll ride out when Eirik comes in. That way the team always has two men working on it, and someone is always with you."
"No, Mark. You hand me my rifle, and put that tea on the table where I can reach it. Go."
"But Pa…"
"Go, Mark. I'm fine. Do something more useful with your time. That field needs seeding before the rain comes."
Only when the boy had run out Lucas realised he was scowling ferociously.
BlueBoy thundered out of the yard.
Lucas made sure he could handle the rifle well enough to defend himself – the hurt shoulder was slightly sore, but the movement of the arm was unhindered.
When he tried to move the leg though, he was reminded that a broken leg doesn't heal in two days. The pain was enough to drive the air from his lungs.
For a while he was content to sit and wait and ponder what had brought him into this situation in the first place. His memory of the fall and how he had gotten back to the house, the extent of his injuries, everything was hazy – more than hazy. Well, he'd figure that out. He should have asked Mark a few questions before sending him away.
He could have been a bit nicer – it must have been a bad few days for his boy.
Angry at himself now, the tall man resolved to grab the newspaper from the table. It would hurt, but he was a hard man, he could handle a little pain.
He sat up slowly, breathing carefully. His head spun, but not too badly. Satisfied that far, he turned to the side, resolved to rest all his bodyweight on the sound leg only. The distance to the table was negligible.
He stood, leaning against the bedpost with both hands, and the room started to spin around him. Thunder hammered in his ears, and his knee gave way. Pain shot through his leg and exploded in his head. Darkness claimed him.