Chapter 6: The Stitches

On the fourth morning, the healer's hands wouldn't close around the tape.

"Arthritis," she said, and held them up as proof. "Cold mornings. Alpha, come here."

Ewan had been leaning in the clinic doorway with a mug, pretending to read the notice board.

"I'm not a medic," he said.

"You castrated half the calves on this ranch with those hands. You can lift a dressing."

"That's different."

"Is it?" She looked at him over her bifocals. "She said you could touch her for this. Didn't you, Anneliese?"

I was sitting on the cot with my back to the room and the shirt unbuttoned and held against my front.

My face was hot.

"For the dressing," I said. "That's all."

"For the dressing," Ewan agreed.

He put the mug down on the sill very carefully.

The healer found a reason to go to the supply room and shut the door behind her.

Ewan crossed the floor.

I heard him wash his hands at the sink, and the water ran a long time.

"Tell me if it hurts," he said.

The first thing he touched was the tape at the top of my shoulder.

His fingers were warm and rough and so careful that I held my breath.

He peeled the tape down, a few inches at a time, and cool air reached the skin under it.

Then he went still.

I knew what he was looking at.

Six little pale scars in a line, each one puckered, and around them the long old mark where the blade had gone in.

"That's where the silver was," I said.

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