“She doesn’t look like a witch,” he said, falling back, one forearm covering his eyes. “She looks like a skinny woman carrying a basket who’d rather be picking flowers than traipsing around a whorehouse. Now, where the hell is the doctor?”
Isabel brushed by Chessie to the side of the bed. “There’s no doctor and I’m not a witch, but if it pleases you, I can mutter a few chants and wave feathers over your head. Although no matter what I do, I’m probably wasting my time since you’ll just walk out of here and get yourself shot up again.”
She set her basket on the rickety oak nightstand next to a nearly empty whiskey bottle, noticing with a sidelong glance the gun belt he’d draped over the bedpost within hand’s reach. Probably another gambler or gunslinger whose luck went sour over a card game or a woman. Deliberately ignoring the guns, she looked at him, appraising him with a long up and down gaze.
He was a big man, and older than she expected, mid-thirties she guessed, with a harshness around his eyes and mouth that looked permanently ingrained by experience and the elements. Hard lines shaped his face and body, giving her the impression there was no flesh to him, only tough brown skin covering honed muscle and bone.
The yellow wash of lamp glow did nothing to dispel the darkness of him. From his unkempt hair and beard to the heavy black denim and leather of his clothing to the look in the clouded eyes that glared at her when he pulled his arm back, nothing about him suggested he could or should be approached.
Isabel found herself holding her breath, staving off the chill his very presence seemed to evoke.
A pain-ridden groan escaped his throat. His dark brows drew together. “What are you still doing here? I don’t want any crazy woman cutting me.”
“I suppose you would rather bleed to death.” Isabel ignored the gathering storm on his face and instead focused on the task at hand. She bent to gently pull away one end of the bloody bandanna. “Of course, if you have the strength, you may live long enough to die of lead poisoning.”
His mind dulled by Elish’s whiskey and two days’ loss of blood, Jake tried to think of a nasty retort that would send her away. Nothing came to him and it made her seem all the more irritating.
“You must be a witch. You’ve only been here five minutes and I already feel cursed.”
“Perhaps I am. And perhaps later I’ll wave some essence of burnt toad over your head and make your leg disappear. Then it won’t trouble you further. For now, you’re going to find out that I can cut out a bullet as fast and clean as any so-called doctor.”
Before he could stop her, Isabel whipped a knife from the waistband of her skirt. With the skill of a surgeon she sliced through the bandanna in one clean swipe. The quick motion brought Jake halfway to his feet, his left hand slapping instinctively to his hip, his right reaching behind for the nearest Colt.
“Dammit, woman—”
She twisted the knife and pointed it at him, tip first.
“Be quiet and lie back. I don’t expect your undying gratitude, but I won’t fight you for the privilege of cutting a bullet out of your leg while you curse me for it.”
From behind, Chessie let out a gasp, reminding Isabel she still lingered in the room.
“Don’t worry,” Isabel told her, flipping the knife blade back down, “I haven’t killed anyone—yet.” She gave Jake a hard-edged glance. “No matter how rude they are. Or perhaps you’re just afraid of pain.”
Jake studied her a moment, wondering why anyone would think she was a witch. The flush in her cheeks and the sting of her words made her look and sound far too real to be anything magical. He knew about Mexican women who used herbs and faith to doctor those who believed a handful of weeds and a touch could heal. But this Isabel didn’t look Mexican, or even Spanish, with her pale hair and eyes the color of New Mexican turquoise.
“Who are you?” he heard himself ask, wondering why he cared.
“Isabel Bradshaw. I’m a healer.”
“Bradshaw? That’s not very Mexican.”
“Considering my husband was an American, I wouldn’t expect it to be. And you didn’t answer my question. Are you afraid of pain?” She moved closer, still gripping the knife. “Or of me?”
“I’m afraid if I don’t let you get this bullet out I’m going to bleed to death arguing with you.” Jake fell back against the pillow, shading his eyes with his arm again. He wanted to argue, but a heavy lethargy weighing him down made the effort too much trouble. “Have you ever done this before?”
“A thousand times.”
“You’re probably lying, but what the hell. Get on with it. I’ll pay you if I still have my leg in the morning.”
“Your confidence inspires me,” Isabel muttered.
She could sense Chessie’s anticipation, yet she hesitated.
Isabel didn’t like the look of him. She didn’t want to be here, in Elish’s saloon, with half of Whispering Creek downstairs and Chessie hovering. And she didn’t want to touch him.
That feeling both surprised and disturbed her. It was like missing a step in the dark, a jarring sensation that momentarily threw her off balance and left her groping for a familiar feeling to steady herself. She’d never before felt an aversion to touching someone to heal.
It wasn’t that he was so unique, either. She’d cut bullets out of many a man like him, men who killed as easily as they drank whiskey and bedded women. This time, though, some primitive instinct warned her of a danger she couldn’t define.
Isabel pushed the feeling away, reminding herself why she had come. He was another wounded man, nothing more, nothing less. She reached for her basket, irritated to find her hand tremble as she picked out powdered willow leaves and bark and added them to a jar of pale amber liquid that enhanced the pain-killing benefits of the willow.
What was wrong with her that she couldn’t do so simple a thing without behaving as if it meant her own life or death? Who was this man to her but another outlaw who had tangled with someone faster on the draw? Despite the undoubtedly ignoble cause of his injury, she wanted to help him. She’d never questioned her calling, even as a girl. She’d always cared for the sick and wounded, always sheltered those in need, just as her mother and grandmother before her.
She poured some of the elixir into a glass and held it out. “I don’t know if you need this considering the amount of whiskey you’ve drunk, but it won’t do you any harm, and it will help the pain and bleeding.”
Jake moved his arm just enough to glare at her. “What is it?”
“Powdered toad and lizard spit. Drink it.”
He hesitated then took the jar from her and drank it back in one draught. Almost immediately his face convulsed in a grimace. “That tastes like—”
“How would you know? Do you make a habit of dining on it?”
“You’re starting to annoy me, woman.”
“And I’ve only just begun. I’m sure you’ll loathe me by the time I’m finished.”
“It won’t take that long,” Jake muttered, covering his eyes again.
He heard rather than saw her rummage in her basket again and then felt the cold metal of the knife blade as she sliced away his pant leg. He tensed inside, waiting for the blade to cut into him, wishing he’d finished off Elish’s whiskey and asked for another bottle to follow it.
Instead, she touched him first. Her fingertips, cool and smooth, gently circled the hole in his thigh. He expected a painful probing. But she seemed more intent on simply touching, drawing long, gentle strokes on his skin.
At first it annoyed him. He wanted the bullet out