~ Strong Arms To Hold Me ~

by

Pam Labud

After being taken into the back room of the building that served as the fort’s infirmary and being placed in a bed, Reed’s arms and legs were shackled with thick, iron manacles to the cot’s frame.

"Is it necessary to chain him like that?" Mrs. McCallister fixed her gaze on the man in the next room.

"It’s the Lieutenant Colonel’s orders, Ma’am." A thickly built, middle-aged Irish officer explained.

"An extra precaution," Timmons said, a half grin on his face as he approached Reed. "Wouldn’t want you tryin’ anything with the Colonel’s widow."

Reed closed his eyes, hoping to shut out the world around him. Unfortunately his injuries and the thick, iron bands on his wrists and ankles prevented him from even the smallest comfort.

Timmons leaned over him and spoke softly into his ear. "That’s right. You just rest up there, Strong. Six days before the judge gets here. A quick trial and you’ll be swingin’ at the end of a rope. All your troubles will be over." He laughed again.

Reed heard the gentle swish of the woman’s skirts as she approached. "Get out!"

Timmons rose from the side of the bed. "Yes, Ma’am. I was just tucking him in." He turned back to Reed. "Sweet dreams, Mr. Strong."

The commander’s widow said nothing while she worked. With an expert’s touch, she gently pulled the fabric back from Reed’s shoulder. The dried blood made a crackling sound that set his teeth on edge. Once the area was clear, she used a small knife and cut into the skin, her movements so quick that he barely felt any pain, until she used a small metal probe to locate the bullet. Suddenly lightheaded, Reed concentrated on the boards that were nailed unevenly into place overhead and fought the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him.

With deft fingers, the nurse removed the piece of lead lodged between muscle and bone. Cleansing the wound with a stinging liquid, she hastily bandaged it. Finished with that chore, Mrs. McCallister tended the cut on his head where the stone had struck him, then the cuts on his arms and hands.

Reed held his breath as she removed his boots and examined the blisters caused by the long walk from his camp. Pulling out a small, glass jar from her apron pocket, she applied a thick coat of salve to his feet. The noxious smell from her poultices filled the room, making Reed sick to his stomach.

The sound of her movements brought his attention back. He opened his eyes.

The angel who’d been so determined to keep him alive now stood over him with a large pair of trimming shears.

Reed tensed as she reached for his belt buckle. "Mrs. McCallister!"

"Relax, Mr. Strong. I said I wanted you healthy for the trial. Remember?"

"Healthy, maybe, but you didn’t say anything about gelded," he said, trying to shake off the fear that would overcome any man while a woman held so sharp a weapon near his private parts.

"If I meant to harm you, Mr. Strong, I would have done so before now." Without saying another word, she set to work cutting the fabric of his trousers and shirt, then slowly began the process of removing his bloodstained clothing.

In the fading light of the afternoon, he watched her slender form as she worked. God, she was beautiful, he thought. Long, thick, golden blond hair curled defiantly despite the ribbons that held it back. Her face was a pleasing oval shape with ripe, full lips and emerald green eyes combined with a complexion so smooth and flawless, she needed no rouge or powder to make her attractive. Old man McCallister had been very lucky to get this woman to marry him. Thirty years her senior, he’d been a career officer when he’d swept the young nurse off the battlefield. At least that’s how the rumor went. And now, thanks to Reed, she was a widow.

~ * ~

Covering her anxiousness with the swift movements of her hands across the material that covered him, Callie labored hard not to stare at the prisoner. Of course he was the right height, just over six feet. And his muddy brown eyes and chestnut hair color were nearly the same shades as Thomas McCallister. In fact, he could very well have passed for a younger version of her late husband. It was more than she could ever have hoped for. He didn’t know it, but Strong was the answer to her prayers.

Finally freeing him of his shirt and denims, she took the shears to his remaining barrier, the long under drawers that had become nearly plastered to his skin from the grime and sweat he’d collected on his excursion to the fort.

He tensed beside her as the cool metal of the scissors touched his skin. "What are you doing?"

"I am attempting to remove the rest of your clothing, Mr. Strong. Now, lie still."

"Wait!" He cleared his throat. "Not that I mind being undressed in the presence of so pretty a lady, I am at a disadvantage!" He tugged at the chains that held him.

"Mr. Strong, when I am finished removing your clothing, I intend giving you a bath. You haven’t had one in several weeks by the smell of it, and I’ll not have my patient lingering in filth. Now, please lie still. I shall do what I can to preserve your dignity." Placing a towel on his abdomen, she gave a final tug and removed the remnants of his tattered garments.

With that, she wiped her hands on her apron, and left him alone. For the first time, Reed took notice of the room around him. A plain, well-cleaned cabin, the infirmary was the picture of neatness. The smell of strong, lye soap reminded him of his own mother’s washroom back home. Squinting, he looked out the window. The widow was carrying a small tub of steaming water. She must have been steeping it on a cook fire outside.

"You may not believe it, but this will make you feel better, you’ll see," she explained when she returned to his bedside. "I swear I don’t know what it is about a man that thinks soap is akin to poison." With quick, sure hands she washed him. Her manner remained distant, her hands well practiced in caring for the sick and injured. After drying him, she lingered a moment longer.

Her patient hadn’t moved since she’d started washing him. He held every muscle taut, not daring to relax a single moment while she worked. Even now, eyes shut tight, his breaths short and shallow; he was the picture of tension, a cord wound so tight that it might snap at any moment. The sight of him stirred a longing that she’d not known she’d possessed until that very moment. The lean muscles and sharp cut of his body sang out to her in a primitive way. She quickly pulled the sheet up to cover him. She didn’t have the time to explore his body the way she’d intended. Not yet, she told herself.

Sighing deeply, she rose to empty the bath water.

"Thank you, ma’am," he said in his low, Southern drawl.

"Just doing my duty," she muttered.

"I know," he answered behind her. "I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not, but I didn’t set out to kill your husband. I just wanted to stop him. To stop the killing."

Callie paused, grateful that her back was to him. She didn’t want him to see her own guilty expression. Guilt because of the relief that had settled over her when she’d learned of her husband’s death. Because of his evil nature, she was glad see Tom McCallister be put under the dirt. She opened the door and emptied the basin outside. When she returned to his bedside, she considered him a moment before speaking.

"Mr. Strong, you will refrain from discussing any of the events of yesterday in my presence. I am neither your confessor, nor your judge." Setting the basin down on the table, she pulled off her apron, laying it beside the tub. In a singular motion, she pulled the ribbon from her hair and let the waist-length strands fall, enveloping her petite figure. After stretching the tired muscles of her arms and back, she remained unmoving for a few moments. The combination of the July heat and her own labors had dampened her skin and left moist places on her dress. She fanned herself briefly. Running her hands from her breasts to her hips, Callie straightened her dress, at the same time tightening it against her figure. She turned to pick up her apron and slowly walked to the door, her hips gently swaying as she moved.

Satisfied when she heard Reed groan behind her, she squared her shoulders and left with slow, purposeful steps. She didn’t need to look back to see the pained look on his face, or the growing desire beneath the thin sheet. Callie’s figure had elicited the same kind of response from men since the age of thirteen. Never in her life had she ever used her looks to gain the attention of a man. Until now. She didn’t stop the charade until she stepped out into the afternoon sunlight and felt the warmth of the infirmary door against her back. Silently, she prayed for God to forgive her for what she was about to do.