Part 1 (2/2)

Caleb's heart stuttered, and he slipped and slid on the slick new gra.s.s to reach her, grabbing a blanket that was strewn on the ground as he pa.s.sed.

The woman's long, dark hair was unbound and covered her face. Her shabby, wine-colored dress was bunched above her knees, exposing limbs covered in darned black stockings.

Caleb knelt and tugged down the hem for decency's sake. Dreading what he'd see, he gently turned the woman, hoping he wasn't exacerbating her injuries, and brushed the hair off her face. She looked young, pretty, with sooty lashes and eyebrows. Her high cheekbones and wide mouth, now compressed with pain, gave her features a Slavic appearance. Bra.s.s hoop earrings hung from her ears. Her olive skin had a pasty tinge. She must have hit her head on a rock, for blood seeped from a gash in her forehead. A welt marred her cheek.

Have I killed her? Sickened, Caleb heard only the sound of his harsh breathing and the rush of blood in his ears. He stripped off his gloves and thrust them into a coat pocket. With a shaky hand, he reached out to touch her throat. The leap of her pulse under his fingertips kicked his heart into a gallop.

She's alive! He jumped to his feet, intending to run for help. Frantically, he looked around the clearing as if he could magically summon a doctor. He caught himself and shook his head at the foolishness of the fruitless search.

Caleb mentally cast about the surrounding area, trying to remember if he knew of any settlers in the region, but could think of no one. He sank back down to his knees, wondering if he dared check to see if the woman had broken any limbs. Gingerly, he touched her arm.

She stirred, her lips parting. Her eyelids rose. Big, brown eyes flecked with gold and dazed with pain stared up at him. ”My baby?”

His rib cage constricted. Please tell me I didn't kill a child!

Her hand moved to her round stomach. A thin gold ring showed she was married.

Caleb gasped, realizing she was pregnant.

She moaned.

Fear coursed through him. What if the baby's hurt?

”You've hit your head,” he said with a gentleness aimed at rea.s.suring her. ”Are you hurt anywhere else?”

”Everywhere.” She reached to touch her forehead.

Caleb caught her hand. ”You're bleeding.” His voice trembled, and he forced himself to sound confident. ”Head wounds are often nasty but not serious.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. ”I'm going to see to your injury.” Carefully he dabbed at the blood on her forehead. A lump was rising, but the cut didn't look bad, the blood slowly oozing. ”I don't think you'll need st.i.tches.” He folded the cloth and left the pad in place. ”If I may touch you. . .?” He glanced at her for permission. ”I'm sorry for the familiarity, but I must see if you've broken any bones before we move you to safety.” What scant safety there is, here in the wilds.

The woman nodded, wincing as the movement jarred her head. ”Yes,” she whispered.

Tentatively, he ran a hand over her shoulder and down her arm, and then leaned over to check her other side. As far as he could tell, nothing seemed broken. ”Let me check your, uh, ribs.”

She closed her eyes. ”Go ahead.”

Caleb started with her side. Is there a way to even ascertain if the babe is unharmed? He didn't know the least thing about pregnancy. He splayed his hand over her stomach, moving to the top and imagining the child within. Please, baby, be alive.

As if in response to his plea, he felt a movement under his palm. His gaze jerked to the woman's. ”Is that right?” His voice sounded shaky.

The woman opened her eyes. Her hand s.h.i.+fted to touch his. ”Very right.”

The sense of relief went all the way to his bones.

”I think that's a kick.” She pushed his hand lower. ”The head. I don't think he liked the ride.”

”I don't blame the little tyke. I didn't like it, either,” Caleb murmured, surprised to feel a ghost of levity rise in him. His neck burning from the necessary intimacy, he ran his hands down her legs, relieved to feel no obvious broken bones.

Her lips turned upward, and then she grimaced. ”Oswald?”

In his focus on the woman, he'd forgotten about the driver. ”Your husband?”

”Yes.”

”I'm sorry. I don't know. But I'll go find out.” Caleb spread the blanket over the woman, wondering if he should move her first. But he needed to see to the man, whose injuries might be more severe. He lifted the handkerchief to check her cut. The blood seemed to have stopped, so he balled up the linen, b.l.o.o.d.y area inside, and stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket.

Her eyelids drifted closed.

How could I have forgotten the man? Caleb rose, barely noticing the dampness of his trousers from kneeling on the ground. He hurried to the front of the wagon.

The horses looked at him. The one on the right kept its weight off a feathered foreleg. Probably a strain. But he couldn't stop to check.

The caravan leaned drunkenly against the tree, the front side collapsed over the driver's seat. Caleb a.s.sessed the caravan and doubted the wagon could be moved without extra help. ”Oswald,” he called, straining to hear a sound. He moved closer to the seat and saw torn work pants, stocky, flaccid legs, and sensed he was too late. Caleb had to push and shove the wreckage up and back before he could see the rest of the driver.

Oswald's head was c.o.c.ked at an angle that indicated a broken neck. Blood from dozens of cuts congealed on his face and hands. His sightless blue eyes stared at the sky.

Caleb stared at the body for a brief moment. From the looks of the caravan, he'd expected a swarthy Gypsy-type wearing colorful clothing. Not a pale-faced man with brown stubble on his chin that matched his hair and patched canvas trousers.

When Caleb leaned over the body to check, he could feel no pulse under his fingers. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils, and he wanted to be sick. He lowered the man's eyelids.

Straightening, he swallowed hard, struggled to hold down the nausea. He wiped both hands on the front of his coat. I've killed a man. His steps heavy, Caleb plodded back to the woman, feeling as if his whole body had turned to stone. How do I tell his wife?

She hadn't stirred from her spot on the ground.

Caleb's throat tightened, and he had to swallow before he could convey the news. ”I'm afraid your husband is dead.” He crouched by her side. ”I think he was killed instantly.”

She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.

He floundered for something more to say, but he could only manage, ”I'm so sorry.” Mere words that cannot possibly convey the depth of my remorse.

”Not your fault.” She turned back, groped for his hand, and squeezed.

Her palm was rough from menial labor, but the touch heartened him.

”Oswald was driving too fast.”

Caleb was determined not to hide the truth. ”So was I.”

”He was out of control.”

”I wasn't paying attention.”

”I tried to make him slow down, but he wouldn't.” She gasped and placed a hand on her stomach. Her muscles tensed, and her eyes widened with obvious fear. ”I felt a pain. A bad one. The babe's moved lower.”

”No.” Caleb blurted the protest without thought.

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