Claire could have kicked herself for being so obstinate. If she hadn't been wallowing in her own self-pity, she would have noticed the symptoms well before he fell off the horse.

Jamie was lively and talkative after the battle at Cocknammon rock. In retrospect, Claire realized this behavior must have been due to the adrenaline rush that typically follows armed conflict. She wished she had engaged him more at the time but instead she had been sullen and pettish after her recapture. If she had spoken with him, he might have revealed to her how injured he actually was. The adrenaline might have prevented him from knowing the extent of his wounds himself. However, she probably could have deduced the truth if she had just been paying attention.

Even when his speech began to slur, she merely attributed it to the whiskey he had been drinking. She should have known that such a big burly Highlander could handle his liquor far better than anyone she'd ever met. Instead, he gradually grew weaker and weaker with the loss of blood as the time passed. They had travelled all day and long into the night. Claire thought that he was just getting sleepy until he began to slip off the horse.

"Stop! Help! He's going over!" she cried.

Jamie slowly slipped off the side of the horse and his large frame hit the ground with a resounding thud. The others had stopped and rushed over to assist.

"Help me get him up," Claire said, "Come on."

Murtagh grabbed Jamie under his arms. He was the biggest help to Claire and always seemed the most concerned for Jamie. She guessed that they were good friends or maybe even close kinsmen.

"Lift. Take it easy," Murtagh said as he helped drag Jamie's limp body up a nearby incline.

Claire began to search for the wound. She found it quickly having suspected where it was based on the massive blood stain on his shirt. She remembered his words, 'This lot isna my blood, not much of it, anyway.' 'Indeed,' she scoffed to herself. Typical male – always downplaying their injuries to prove their bravery and stamina.

"Gunshot wound," she declared with authority. "The idiot could have said something," she grumbled as she probed the wound, "It's a clean exit. I think the round's gone straight through the muscle. I don't think it's serious, but he's lost a lot of blood. It'll need to be disinfected before I can dress it properly."

The rest of the men looked on in amazement. Her medical acumen stunned them. First she had fixed Jamie's dislocated shoulder and now she examined the gunshot wound as if she saw such things every day. Most women would have fainted at the first hint of blood. They had never met a woman possessing such knowledge and exuding such confidence and authority, especially when she was veritably their prisoner. She was an enigma. Even their fearless leader Dougal, whom no one, man or woman, could push around, seemed to defer to her authority in the healing arts.

"Disinfect?" asked Murtagh in confusion.

"Yes," Claire explained, "it must be cleaned of dirt to protect it from germs."

"Germs?" questioned one of the other men.

"Just get me some iodine," Claire turned around to look at them, "Merthiolate?" No response - just confused looks. Finally, she closed her eyes and sighed in frustration. "Alcohol?" she asked, with a touch of sarcasm, certain they would know what that was.

"Oh. Oh, yes. Yes," many of them answered at once, proud to finally know something that she was requesting.

Angus handed her his leather flask. "Here you go," he offered helpfully.

Claire applied the alcohol to Jamie's wound and he immediately came to with a gasp. Instinctively he spoke out in Gaelic, "Tha mi gasta (I'm fine)." His jaw dropped open and he stared up at her in awe as if waking to the sight of a heavenly being.

Claire greeted him with a quirk of her lips and said ironically, "Welcome back."

"I'm all right," he replied trying to sit up, "just a wee bit dizzy." Again, trying to brush off the extent of his injury but Claire would have none of it.

"You're not all right," she reproached him, "Didn't you tell how bad you were bleeding? You're lucky you're not dead. Brawling and fighting and throwing yourself off horses."

There she went a-rambling again. He had that same look in his eyes that seemed to disconcert her so easily.

It was then that it struck Jamie. He wanted her. He had never met anyone like her - her beauty, her boldness, her bravery. He wanted her more than he ever wanted anything in his life.

"Right," she said trying to bring herself back to the task at hand. She turned to the others and demanded, "I need a sterile bandage and some clean cloth."

The men were completely confused. They had no notion of hygiene or the necessity to stave off infection. Ashamed on account of their lack of knowledge, their eyes drifted away from hers and they offered no response to her request.

Claire stared them down and swore in her incredulousness, "Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ."

Taking matters into her own hands she tore a strip from her dress to use. Nowhere near sterile enough but more so than anything else she had seen among this troop of men.

"Hold still," she ordered her patient and applied more alcohol to the wound. Jamie winced and flinched in pain. "Easy," she comforted, "All right. Lift him up," she ordered Murtagh and they sat Jamie up so she could apply the crude dressing.

The pieces from her 20th century synthetic dress kept slipping out of her fingers. This was the last straw in her pent-up frustration with the 18th century, and she swore, "Come on, you g*ddamn bloody bastard."

Dougal, having been stunned into silence by her command of the situation and shamed by his lack of education as evidenced by his ignorance of the things of which she spoke, was finally compelled to say something about her foul language, "I've never heard a woman use such language in my life."

Emboldened by their leader, some of the other men chimed in with such comments as: "Your husband should tan your hide for ye, woman," and, "St. Paul says, 'let a woman be silent...'"

Their attempt to take the moral high ground in light of her obvious expertise and intellectual superiority was met with the following abrupt retort from Claire, "You can mind your own bloody business, and so can St. Paul."

Turning back to her patient she threatened, only half jokingly, "And if you move so much as a single muscle while I'm tying this bandage, I will bloody throttle you."

"Ah. Threats, is it?" Jamie replied, smiling up at the other men, and making light of the situation in an attempt to save face for them all, "And after I shared my drink with you."

Dougal, irritated by the ease and cunning with which his nephew handled the situation, re-exerted his authority by giving her strict orders and then storming off.

"We've 15 miles to go yet," he said, "Five hours at least, if not seven. We'll stay long enough for you to stem the bleeding and dress his wound, no more than that."

Claire's hackles had risen at this, and she got up to chase after him, using her well-practiced 'nurses know best' voice, she asserted, "He needs rest." No response. "Did you hear me?"

Jamie sat up straighter. Knowing her attempt was futile, he recalled her attention, saying, "Randall," unwittingly uttering her real name.

Claire stopped dead in her pursuit of Dougal and spun to look at Jamie. 'How did he know my real name?' she thought. Relief washed over her quickly when Jamie continued.

"The officer ye... ye encountered," he explained, sitting up straighter. "He won't give up so easily. He commands the redcoats hereabouts. He'll have sent patrols out in every direction by now. We canna stay here long."

"You know Randall?" Claire tentatively asked, returning to his side to finish affixing the bandage. "Black Jack Randall, that is?" she felt compelled to clarify (as if Jamie would know her husband).

Jamie hung his head. "Aye," he replied, "I won't risk you or anyone else being taken prisoner by that man." He looked at Claire and the bandage on his shoulder, "If ye canna fix me up well enough to ride, you'll be leaving me here with a loaded pistol, so I may determine my own fate."

Desiring to change the subject, Claire said, "Might've well told me you were shot before you fell off the horse."

"Didn't hurt much at the time," was his excuse.

"Does it hurt now?" she pointedly asked, looking him in the eye.

Jamie looked at his shoulder and then at Claire. "Aye," he affirmed.

"Good," Claire said with a mischievous smirk. Jamie looked down with a chuckle and a smile.

"That's about all I can do," she added, "The rest is up to you," another one of her practiced phrases.

Claire stood up as Jamie looked over his bandage. She offered him a hand to help him rise. He took it with a smile (as if a wee wisp of a lassie like her could lift his weight off the ground) and stood up. Although he would have preferred to pull her down into his lap and show her his appreciation in a different way. Instead he decided to express it with words.

"Thank you, Sassenach. Truly," he said, looking down at her sincerely.

There was that piercing gaze of his again. He called her 'Sassenach' but it was not with the contempt with which she heard the others speak it. Coming from him it was more like a term of endearment. Claire looked up at him from under her lashes and her lips parted.

Jamie had to fight his strong desire to take her in his arms and kiss those lush lips.

Claire became shy once more and averted her eyes. She could not deny the chemistry between them, and she was extremely conflicted.

"All right, well," she said nervously, and reverting to her typical (and currently apropos) cognomen for the type patients to whom she usually ministered, "on your horse, soldier."

Jamie nodded to her and moved toward his horse. Claire took a moment to watch him go and then followed him.

He helped her into the saddle in front of him and gathered her in closely with his good arm. Claire had to admit to herself that she enjoyed the feel of his arm around her. She felt quite comfortable cocooned in his warm embrace. Her cheeks flushed and she was glad that it was still dark out. It would have been easy for her to fall asleep in this state, however, she was still concerned about his loss of blood. She did not want him to faint and fall off the horse again. So this time she figured she would do her best to keep him talking. In order to not reveal too much about herself, she resolved on asking him questions.

"So," Claire began, "Mr. MacKenzie said we have 15 miles to go but where is it that we are going?"

In this manner they continued their journey.

A/N: I paraphrased a line from chapter 3 of Outlander by Diana Gabaldon.