Dried blood covered his fingers and streaked the front of his breechcloth. The wound that was the source of the blood ran in an ugly, jagged line for most of the length of Ryder's left thigh. He had torn part of the breechcloth to make a bandage, but it was inadequate for the task. Some of the buckskin had dried to the wound while elsewhere blood continued to drip. She looked at the way Ryder was still holding his ribs.

"Broken?" she asked. He nodded.

"Two, I think." Her eyes dropped to his feet. The bundle of clothing he had gone out for was lying there. Ryder followed her gaze.

"I brought back the prize." Mary didn't comment. She couldn't help but wonder at the cost.

"Let me fix a bandage for you now." He shook his head.

"I'll bleed more if you lift the bandage I've made. I want to get out of this area. We're too vulnerable."

"Were you followed?"

"No, but I won't be so difficult to track."

She understood. He hadn't been able to cover the route he had taken.

Somewhere beyond the cavern there was enough of Ryder's blood for the trail to be picked up again. Mary wouldn't let herself think about that now. Ryder wasn't nearly as strong as he was pretending to be.

"I need to get you back to the chamber where I can look after you properly," she said.

"Should I support you or would it be less painful for you to walk unassisted?"

"I can go alone," he said.

"You carry the clothing and the light. Don't forget to bring my lantern." Mary led the way as Ryder hobbled behind her. It was difficult to keep her pace as slow as his. His normal stride would have swallowed hers; now it was only a third as long. She asked no questions, not wanting to tax his strength any further. Halfway to the chamber it seemed that Ryder's face was the same pale shade of gray as his eyes. A hundred yards from their chamber's entrance Mary had to present her shoulder and arm for his support whether it pained him or not. Leaving one lantern and the clothes bundle behind, Mary managed to get Ryder to the bed. She realized how much he had girded himself for that effort.

Once he was lifted onto the edge of the rock shelf, he collapsed.

Mary's work began at that moment. She made Ryder as comfortable as possible, rearranging the blankets under him and folding another for a pillow. At the well she filled the basin and dipped several cloths into the cold water. Laying it all aside for a moment, Mary raided the trunk for material that would make the best bandage.

She settled on her own chemise, tearing it into long strips. She rifled the saddlebag that Florence Gardner had packed and found a flask of alcohol, the bottle of liniment, and a small sewing kit.

Ryder's eyes were closed when Mary returned to the bed and his breathing was shallow. She removed his bandana and put the back of her hand to his cheek. His skin was cold and clammy. She touched his lips lightly with her fingertips and began to work. The jagged wound on his thigh required her first attention. There were other scratches and cuts, but none so deep as to call for stitching the way this longest one did. Little Sisters of the Poor had served the hospital in Queens for years. Mary was no stranger to nursing. She had been called upon to cleanse wounds and stitch them before, and she had always done it with a glad heart. It wasn't the same now. Her hands were shaking.

She pushed Ryder's breechcloth free of his thigh and began removing the dried-on bandage. The wound bled again, but she had learned from doctors that wasn't necessarily a bad thing; infection could be washed away by the blood. Mary carefully laid back the torn flesh and used Ryder's knife to cut away the dead and shredded tissue. She cleaned the wound first with soap, then inspected it. There were embedded bits of gravel that had to be painstakingly removed. When Mary had removed as many of them as she could hope to get, she cleaned the wound again, then liberally showered it with alcohol.

Ryder had been stoic until that point, centering his mind on something other than the pain. With the introduction of the alcohol, he fainted.

"Thank you, God," Mary whispered. It was beyond her how he could have withstood so much in the first place.

She glanced at his face and saw the release of tension in his features.

With his final collapse, she noticed that her hands were no longer shaking. Mary bent to her task, working quickly before Ryder regained consciousness. She threaded the needle deftly, wishing only that she had one curved for sutures.

"Oh, Maggie," she said softly, "what I wouldn't give for even a tenth of your skill." But her physician sister couldn't aid her now, so Mary set to work. She sutured the underlying tissue first with the alcohol-soaked thread. The wound took sixty stitches before she was ready to close the skin over it. Ryder came awake as she was finishing the last of the skin sutures. He watched her cut off the thread and study her work with a critical eye.

"Well?" he asked hoarsely. The white lines were at the corners of his mouth again.

"Mama said that needlepoint was never my strong suit," she said.

"But I think she'd change her mind if she saw this."

"It didn't have to be pretty," he said. Mary laid one hand over his forehead, brushing back his thick hair where it clung to his skin.

She smiled down at him.

"Oh, it's not," she told him.

"But it's good."

"That's all right, then." He closed his eyes. Mary's fingers were warm where they stroked his cheek. He wanted to reach for her hand, but his arm fell uselessly back to his side. She bent and kissed his cool cheek. Her hand found his. Tears welled in her eyes as she felt him squeeze it. In other circumstances she would have called the gesture gentle. She recognized it now as weak.

"Rest," she said softly. Then she sat by his side while he did just that.

"You should eat something," Mary told him. She raised a spoon of vegetables to Ryder's lips. He took a bite, chewed, then laid his head back down.

"It's enough," he said tiredly.

"But--"

"It's enough."

"Very well." Mary gave in because she couldn't force the issue. Ryder wasn't regaining his strength with the speed Mary had hoped for. He slept in fits and starts, the pain of his broken ribs giving him little relief when he unwittingly turned on his side. What measure of comfort he could derive from sleep was erased soon upon waking. The scar on his thigh was puffy and red where it curved near his knee, and Mary was afraid she was seeing the first signs of infection. She took away the food, rinsed the plate, then sat down in the rocker. She spent what passed for her nights in that chair, moving it closer to the bed so she would hear Ryder each time he woke.

"Would you like me to read to you?" she asked.

"Then let me bathe you. It will ease the heat in your skin." Her hands all over his body? Ease the heat? Not likely.

"No."

"As you wish." Once again she acquiesced with a grace that would have astonished her family or the Little Sisters.

"I know what you're doing," he said.

"Oh?"

She didn't bother looking in his direction, pretending no interest as she unrolled his maps.

"You're giving in." One of Mary's brows shot up. She raised her face and speared Ryder with a level look.

"Not fighting is not always the same as giving in."

Groaning softly, Ryder closed his eyes. That meant she was biding her time. Probably had plans to force-feed him while he was unconscious and bathe him while he slept. He turned gingerly over on his side, determined to stay awake as long as possible.

"What are you doing with those?"

"Looking for gold." she said.

"Same as you were."

"You don't know where to look." She shrugged and bent to her task again.