Immortal Mine (21 page)

Once in the paddock, Sam gets the halter on
him then puts the blanket over his back with the saddle. He’s been
getting the horse used to the saddle, so he barely flinches at
this.

“Okay, are you ready?” he asks me. I grab
hold of the halter, bolstered by the trust Sam has on his face as
he watches me. He stands up on a block, and leans across the Irish
on his belly, giving him his weight. The Irish isn’t thrilled with
this, and takes a few steps to the side.

“Hold it there, Hercules,” I command,
grasping the halter tighter and showing him the whip—which I would
never use on him, but
he
doesn’t know that. It works and he
stops moving, settling for tossing his head and blowing loud
breaths out between his lips.

Sam removes and reapplies his weight a few
times until the Irish stops tossing. Then he places his foot into
the stirrup and calmly lifts his right leg over until he’s seated
on the saddle. The Irish complains again by stomping a few times,
but doesn’t try anything else. Sam climbs off and on a few times,
then says, “Okay, Niahm, let’s walk him.”

“What?” He’s kidding, right?

“Let’s walk. You’ve got him by the harness,
just lead him along.”

“You wearing some padding?” I’m only
half-joking. Sam just laughs. I shrug and take a step. Amazingly,
the Irish follows.

“Good boy, Hercules,” I murmur.

“Why do you call him that?” Sam asks a few
minutes later, relaxing in the saddle, one hand resting lightly on
the pommel, the other on his hip. He has more confidence in me
keeping control that I have in myself.

“I don’t know,” I answer, leading them
around the perimeter of the corral. “You haven’t named him yet, and
I was tired of thinking of him as... well,
him
. He seems
big, strong, and demi-god-like, so I just kind of nicknamed him
Hercules.”

Sam smiles. “It’s a good name.”

I glance back up at him, the sun glinting
off his copper hair, his smile directed my way, and shake my head.
“Only for Greek myths and cartoon characters,” I say.

“It’s a good name,” he repeats. I might have
argued further except that Bob chooses that moment to chase an
escaped chicken into the corral. The Irish
definitely
doesn’t like this new development and rears up, ripping the halter
from my grip. I manage to grab the longe line, but Sam, who’d been
unprepared and relaxed flies off the backside of the stallion. I
hear him hit the fence, and instinctively release the line. The
Irish, not one to pass up an opportunity, races to the opposite
side of the paddock, away from me, Sam, Bob, and the squawking
chicken.

“Sam!” I exclaim, rushing to his side,
followed closely by Bob who has forgotten the chicken in his
concern for Sam. Sam sits up, laughing as Bob manages to lick his
face from jaw to hairline.

“Gross, Bob, stop,” I say pushing him
away.

“It’s fine,” Sam refutes, scrubbing Bob
behind his ear.

“Are you okay?” I ask, worried that he’s
hurt.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been thrown.
Probably not the last, either,” he grins.

I smile, relieved that he’s fine. I’d heard
him hit the fence... or, I
thought
I had. Then Bob gives a
little whine, and nudges Sam’s arm with his nose. That’s when I see
the blood saturating his upper sleeve.

“Sam, you’re hurt,” I say, grabbing his arm.
He glances down, then looks at me with alarm. Huh, I’ve never seen
Sam panic over an injury before.

“It’s fine,” he says urgently, “just a
scratch.”

“How can you know?” I tease, trying to calm
him. “Let’s get inside and I’ll clean it up for you.”

“No!” His answer is quick, sharp, and I
flinch. “I mean,” he says more calmly, “it’s no big deal. I’ll just
go home and let Shane take care of it.”

“Sam, don’t be silly. I’m hardly a squeamish
girl. If it doesn’t need stitches, I can bandage it for you.”

Sam looks anxious, and I’m admittedly
surprised. He’s always calm in emergency situations. But then, I’ve
never seen him hurt, so I guess maybe he’s just calm with others,
but doesn’t deal so well when it’s himself.

“What about the horse?”

I glance over at the Irish, contentedly
pulling weeds from the ground now that he’s been set free.

“He’s fine for a few minutes. Let’s get you
inside.”

Sam hesitates, looks around as if searching
for an answer, and then finally sighs.

“Okay,” he says, standing and pulling me up
with him.

We walk into the house, and he immediately
excuses himself to use the restroom. I begin gathering supplies—a
wet rag, bandages if it’s small, gauze if it’s a larger cut, and
some ibuprofen for any pain. Jean walks into the kitchen at the
same time Sam emerges from the bathroom.

“What’s going on?” Her tone is suspicious,
accusatory.

“Sam hurt himself when the horse threw him,”
I answer. “He’s fine. I’m just going to clean it up a little.”

Jean’s face tightens and she steps toward
me. “Let me do that,” she commands.

“I’ve got it,” I say firmly, standing my
ground. She looks at Sam, a pleading look in her eyes, and I feel
once again like I’m missing some vital piece of the story here. Sam
steps around her and peels his outer shirt off. I try not to check
him out in his thin white T-shirt, but who am I kidding? I
definitely look.

“Sit,” I say, pointing to the chair. Jean
steps closer, and I stiffen, wishing I could command her to go
away. Instead, I turn my attention to Sam. I roll his sleeve up and
wipe around the edges of the wound, glancing up to gauge if I’m
hurting him. He has a tightness around his eyes, watching me warily
and I get the impression that he’s concerned for
me
more
than himself. I glance back down at the wound just below his
shoulder, which is spurting bright red blood still, and see how
deep it is. I dab it with a piece of gauze, and he winces.

“Um, I think you’re going to need stitches,”
I say. He only grunts, but Jean steps closer, peering over my
shoulder.

“I don’t know,” she demurs.

Sam glances down. “I think you’re right,” he
says, and Jean lifts her brows at that.

“Luckily, Shane can take care of that,” he
says, directing his words to her.

“Ah,” she says, as if he’d answered a
question for her.

“I think you should go to the clinic,” I
say, but he’s already shaking his head, trying to pull his shirt
back on.

“No. Shane is a medic. I’d rather he did
it.”

“Fine,” I say, stopping him from pulling his
shirt over the wound. “At least let me wrap it in gauze first. I
don’t want it infected, and I don’t want you to bleed to death on
the way home.”

He grins at me, as if I’d made a joke, and I
just shake my head at him, feeling again like I’ve missed
something. He sits patiently, watching me closely as I bind his arm
with a sterile pad and a strip of gauze, a slight smile on his
face. When I finish, he looks down at it.

“Good job, Doc. Where did you learn such
good bandaging skills?” He’s teasing, but I feel a flush steal up
my face and refuse to look at him as I pick up the remnants of the
supplies.

“Nowhere,” I murmur, turning away from
him.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing my hand. I glance
back at him, then over at Jean who is watching us closely. There is
no way I’ll admit to him—especially in front of her—that when I was
younger, I decided it was unfair that girls couldn’t become Boy
Scouts. So I studied every merit badge requirement and passed them
off—albeit to myself. A wide smile splits Sam’s face.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing,” he says, still smiling. “Just,
thanks.” He lifts his wounded arm, as if I might have forgotten
what he might be thanking me for. He leans forward, and I wonder if
(hope) he’s going to kiss me, but Jean shuffles, reminding us of
her unwelcome presence, and he releases me.

“Just give me a sec and I’ll be ready to
go.”

“Go where?” Sam and Jean both say at the
same time, both sounding edgy. I turn back toward them, just
catching the tail end of their look at one another.

“With you,” I say. “I’m not letting you
drive alone when you’re bleeding.”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam says.

“Yes, Niahm, you should probably—”

“I’m
not
letting him go alone,” I
interrupt Jean.

“What about Hercules?” Sam asks, and I roll
my eyes at him.

“He’ll be fine. He roams out there all the
time. When I get home, I’ll put him back in the stable.” I pause.
“And quit calling him Hercules.”

Sam ignores my last comment, glancing at
Jean once again.

“I’ll call Shane and let him know you’re
coming,” she tells him. I wait for Sam to tell her to leap off a
cliff, he can do it himself.

Instead, he nods tersely and says,
“Thanks.”

Now I know he’s lost too much blood.

Shane waits outside as we pull up, like a
concerned uncle. I glance at Niahm as she carefully maneuvers the
truck into the driveway. She wouldn’t even let me drive. I’d be
amused if I weren’t so worried about how we’re going to explain my
suddenly healed arm to her. It had taken my knife and some pain to
reopen the wound in Niahm’s bathroom before she took a look at it.
I wanted to make sure it would stay for her inspection, but had cut
too deep as she declared it necessary for stitches.

We walk into the house, Niahm watching me
with worry etched across her forehead. I put my “good” arm around
her and give her a reassuring squeeze. In the kitchen, I sit in the
chair, and she sits directly next to me.

“Niahm,” Shane says, professionally
unwrapping his suturing kits to Niahm’s widened eyes. “Would you do
me a favor?”

“Sure,” she answers immediately.

“In the hallway closet there is a small bin.
Can you get that for me?”

“Okay,” she answers readily, and I wince at
the deception required to pull this off. She gives my shoulder a
squeeze as she passes me then does as asked.

Without speech necessary, as soon as she is
gone, I quickly pull my shirt off, and Shane uses a sterile scalpel
on the now light pink line to recreate the wound. I grit my teeth
against the pain, and he grunts in apology. His slice is much
neater than mine, and not quite as deep. By the time she returns,
the scalpel has disappeared into one of the pockets of his suture
kit, and he’s examining my arm.

“Thanks, sweetie.” I raise my brows at his
overly uncle-ish endearment, which he ignores. “Can you fill it
with warm water from the sink? And put some of this soap in it.” He
hands her the bottle of sterile soap. She fills it, hands it to
him, and returns to sit next to me.

“You’re bleeding again,” she notes, looking
slightly pale.

“His shirt was a little stuck,” Shane says.
“Reopened it a little.” He dips a sterile piece of gauze into the
water, and cleans the wound quickly. He has to work
quickly—otherwise he will soon be suturing nothing but my healed
arm. She watches him, and I decide I need to pull her attention
away from scrutinizing what I know will soon be happening.

“So, what’s wrong with calling him
Hercules?” I ask. Her eyes turn to me.

“It’s a silly name for such an unusual,
magnificent horse.”

“You named the Irish Hercules?” Shane
questions.

“Niahm did,” I say.

“No, I didn’t,” she refutes. “I was just
calling him that as sort of a nickname since he doesn’t have one
yet.”

“Hercules was a magnificent man,” I say,
wincing as Shane stabs the needle into my arm. Niahm’s eyes fly to
my arm, and I regret reacting. “What else should I call him?” I
ask, pulling her attention back to me. “Trigger? Mr. Ed?”

She grimaces. “Why on earth would you call a
horse Mr. Ed?” Shane stabs extra hard for my blunder and I’m hard
pressed to keep from wincing again. I sometimes forget that though
a few decades mean little to me, Niahm has only been alive for a
few years. Of course she would have no idea who Mr. Ed is.

“He was a talking horse on TV in the ’60’s,”
I say.

“You kind of like old movies and stuff,
huh?” she says, and Shane coughs over his choked back laugh.

“I didn’t say I
liked
it, I was just
telling you who Mr. Ed is.”

“Well, I doubt your horse is going to talk,
so, no, I don’t think you should call him that either.” She starts
to lean around me, to watch what Shane is doing. In desperation, I
lean forward and plant a quick kiss on her lips. Her face reddens
as she glances quickly at Shane, who is suddenly intent on his
work. She looks back at me, then away, and I’m sorry for the
action.

“Sorry,” I whisper, “I couldn’t help
myself.” She looks at me and I grin, reaching up to lightly caress
her jaw. Her eyes widen a little, reminding me that she is not used
to such overt displays of affection. But it’s done the trick,
diverting her attention from Shane suturing my wound.