A Worthy Pursuit by Karen Witemeyer

Stephen out of the room when the teacher started cleaning. No need for the kid to see more than necessary.
    The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He turned to leave, but Miss Atherton stopped him. She touched his arm, drawing him close so she could whisper something in his ear. Stephen’s eyebrows arched as he listened, but when the teacher finished, he stepped back and said, “All right.” Then he dashed out the door.
    Charlotte Atherton dipped the cloth into the basin and squeezed out the excess liquid. The trickling water echoed loudly in the quiet room. She lifted the wet cloth to a spot above the largest of the wounds and tightened her fist until a small stream of water dribbled into the hole. He hissed a breath at the cold sting. His abdomen sucked in automatically, but he caught himself and willed his muscles still.
    “I told Stephen you wouldn’t need those writing supplies for a while.” Her eyes made no effort to meet his, whether from shyness or attentiveness to her task he wasn’t sure. “He’s going to take John to the parlor and let him play on the piano so Lily can start warming up the leftover stew for supper.” She rinsedout her cloth and flushed out the second tear in his flesh near the bottom of his ribcage. “That will keep him occupied for a while. John will play the piano for hours if I let him.”
    Kid seemed kinda young to have that kind of attention span, but some kids liked banging on things and makin’ noise. Odd, since the boy himself was so quiet. To each his own, though. If it kept Stephen away from the gory reminder of what had happened, Stone was all for a little piano banging.
    “Good idea.” He fought a wince as she scrubbed the cloth over the smaller cuts on his shoulder. “This mess is too ugly for the kid to have to look at.”
    She didn’t say anything, yet the way she tilted her head when he finished speaking felt like agreement. She continued working, and he continued watching her.
    The woman never seemed to hurry. Her movements just sort of flowed. No rough jostling. No nervous shaking. Just gentle, smooth motions. By the time she’d finished cleaning his wounds, his breathing had slowed, and the muscles in his neck and back had relaxed in response to her calm manner. If his chest hadn’t been on fire, he would’ve curled up on the bunk and taken a nap.
    “I’m afraid this next part is going to be rather unpleasant.” Her hands released the cloth to slip silently into the basin on her lap. She set the bowl onto the floor then reached for the medicine box. Her graceful fingers closed around the neck of a tall corked bottle. The lovely lethargy he’d been feeling vanished.
    Whiskey.
    He shifted on the cot, steeling himself for what he knew was to come. She looked at him, an apology in her eyes. He flashed his best cocky grin. “And here I had you pegged as the teetotalin’ type.” He dipped his head toward the bottle. “I ain’t a drinkin’ man myself, but if you need a sip for fortification, I won’t judge.”
    “How open-minded of you, sir.” Her tone sounded prissy, but her eyes sparkled with humor. His grin spread wider.
    She pulled out the cork, the small pop echoing between them. Her nose crinkled at the pungent fumes. “As tempted as I am, I’m afraid this particular spirit has been set aside for medicinal purposes.”
    Stone shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
    Miss Atherton retrieved the water-soaked rag, squeezed it out, then met his gaze, all humor gone from her eyes. “Are you ready?”
    Stone braced his arms on the bunk behind him to make the torn flesh more accessible. Then he tightened his jaw and gave a quick nod.
    She held the cloth below the first gash and dribbled the liquid fire from the mouth of the bottle into his wound. Stone’s fingers clenched around the edge of the bare mattress. Every muscle in his body pulled taut. But he didn’t make a sound. Not even when she repeated the procedure on the second gash. Pride intact, he barely even