Ride the Fire Read Online Free PDF

in the gaping wound. She parted the flesh with her fingers, felt her stomach lurch. He was cut almost to the bone.
    She could not stitch this.
    She stood, took deep breaths to calm her stomach, washed his blood from her hands. “ I . . . I’m sorry. But I’m goin’ to have to . . . to cauterize it.”
    He turned his head, looked back at her over his shoulder, held out his hunting knife.
    “Then do it. Use my knife.”
    She hesitated for a moment, struck by his seeming indifference to the prospect of so much pain, then took the knife. She walked to the table, thrust the knife blade into the hottest part of the fire, waited for it to heat. Worries chased one another through her mind. She didn’t want to do this. She’d never done it before. And she was afraid—afraid of doing it wrong, afraid he would thrash about and hurt her, afraid he would blame her for his suffering. She turned to look at the strange man in her bed. He appeared to be sleeping, his face turned toward her, long dark lashes softening his otherwise starkly masculine features. She did not trust him, knew he was dangerous. But she did not want to hurt him.
    Then, an idea half formed in her mind, she crossed the room to the cupboard, took out her bag of medicines and the jug of whisky Andrew kept for cold nights. Careful to turn her back to him, she poured a stout draft of whisky into a tin cup, added several drops of herbal tincture, sure the alcohol would mask the taste.
    His voice broke the silence. “What’s your name?”
    “Bethie.” Startled, she answered quickly, without thinking, then corrected herself. “Elspeth Stewart.”
    “Check the blade, Mistress Stewart. Surely it’s hot by now.”
    She turned toward him, cup in hand, walked to the bed and offered it to him. “You’ll be needin’ this.”
    He lifted his head, his brows knitted in puzzlement, looked into the cup, grinned darkly.
    “Corn whisky? You’d best save that to clean the wound.”
    “But it will help to dull your pain.”
    He shook his head. “A cup of whisky cannot help me. Besides, ‘tis only pain.”
    Only pain?

    She gaped at him. What kind of life had he led that certain agony meant nothing to him?
    “Fine. Suffer if you like, but I cannae hold you down. What promise do I have that you willna thrash about or kick me?”
    He laughed at her. “I give you my word I will hold perfectly still.”
    “But your sufferin’ will be terrible! Should I no’ at least bind you to the—”
    “No!” There was an edge of genuine anger in his voice now. “I’ve given you my word. Now let’s get this over with.”
    Sick to her stomach and trembling, Bethie set the whisky aside and retrieved the knife. Wrapping her apron around the hot, wooden handle, she carried it to the bed. The blade glowed red.
    She stood next to his injured leg, dreading what she must do, and tried to figure out how best to apply the heat.
    “Do it!”
    The man reached above his head, grasped the carved rungs of the headboard, his large hands making fists around the wood.
    She took a deep breath and pressed the red-hot steel into the wound.
    The hiss and reek of burning flesh.
    His body stiffened, and his knuckles turned white, but he did not cry out. Nor did he thrash or try to pull his leg away. The hissing faded.
    Bethie pulled the blade free, stepped back from the bed, drew air deep into her lungs, afraid she might faint or be sick. Stray thoughts flitted through her mind like wild birds. Had it worked? Was he still bleeding? Would his leg fester?
    How had he managed to hold still through such torment? Gradually her breathing slowed, and the dizziness and nausea passed. Gathering her wits, she carried the bucket and what was left of the fresh water to the bed. She sat beside him, expecting him to be unconscious, but he was not. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his face was even paler than before, if that were possible. But his eyes, though glazed with pain, were open, and he