The Forever Man(24)

"I wish I could kiss it and make it better, Miss Johanna. You're  bleedin' real bad on your arm. It's makin' your dress all wet. And on  your front, too."

She held her breath against the pain once more, and squinted her eyes.  The sun was dimmer, fading almost. Surely it wasn't growing dark, not in  the middle of the afternoon. And then her eyes closed, and  consciousness slipped away.





"Get the wire nippers from the barn, Pete. Timmy, you run to the house  and get a dish towel and run some water on it. Wring it out if you can  and bring it here." Kneeling beside Johanna's still figure, Tate called  out orders, his voice harsh. His hands clenching into fists, he forced  himself to wait.

The wire had circled her several times, pressing its barbs into her arms  and body. Drops of blood stained her dress in numerous places-one spot  looked as though she'd jerked against the wire, scratching a deep area  on the fleshy part of her upper arm. By some miracle, her face and head  had remained free of the lashing wire. He whispered his gratitude, even  as he sent forth a prayer in her behalf.

Surely the God she worshiped would be merciful. That this good woman  should be so badly wounded was unfair. Though she was not in danger of  bleeding to death, the numerous wounds had brought her to a blessed  state of unconsciousness. Her dried tearstains, silent evidence of  despair, made him wince as he watched her. He longed to hold her close,  knowing he could not touch her until the wire was cut and her body set  free from its dreadful embrace.

"I got the nippers, Pa!" Pete was running wildly, his feet tripping over  small hillocks as he plunged across the barnyard. Skidding to a stop,  he handed the tool to his father, falling to his knees to watch the  proceedings.

Fast on his heels, Timmy arrived, the dripping-wet towel in his  outstretched hands. Tate took it and squeezed it quickly, then placed it  on Johanna's forehead. Her lashes fluttered, and he gritted his teeth.

"Hold still, honey." His whisper was strained, and she shivered at the sound. .

Transferring the nippers to his right hand, Tate slid the bottom pincer  beneath the topmost wire and squeezed the handles. A soft moan of pain  tore at him, and he clenched his jaw against the sound.

"Don't move, Johanna. Can you hear me? I'm cutting the wire." Again he  manipulated the tool, careful lest he impress the barbs against her  flesh. "Lay still, sweetheart. I'm going to have you free in just a  minute."

His eyes narrowed as he shifted, loosening another loop, this one  pressing across the fullness of her breasts. At the sound of her sob, he  gritted his teeth, moving down another few inches.

"Just a few minutes more, Jo. Don't move, honey."

"Uhhh … Oh, God!" It was a beseeching whimper, spoken so low he scarcely  could hear it, yet the sound of her fervent plea tore at his composure.

"Ah, damn it all, honey. Don't move, sweetheart! I'm tryin' so hard not to hurt you, baby."

As if he must bathe the wounds with tenderness, his words poured over  her in a fervent litany. And she responded. Her breathing quieted, and  only a small shiver each time he cut a wire revealed her awareness of  his task.                       
       
           



       

Finally the wire lay spread on either side of Johanna, and Tate  considered the problem of moving her from the grasping barbs that were  still embedded in her clothing from beneath. Sliding his arms under her  shoulders and knees, he half knelt beside her, ready to lift his burden.

"Now, when I pick her up Pete, very carefully pull down the wire that's  caught in her clothes. Can you do that?" he asked, his eyes sending a  message of strength to his young son.

"Yes, Pa." As if he knew his folly had brought them to this place, Pete  bent low, his brow furrowing, his small hands ready to do the task his  father had assigned. He bit at his lip, squinting through the tears that  slid down his cheeks, and his hands grasped the wire, tugging it away  as his father lifted Johanna from the ground.

Tate watched her face as he rose to his feet, his strong arms supporting  her. Finally, as the last strand fell away, he held her close to his  chest, his mouth open and warm against her forehead.

"Johanna, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have had that fence in  better shape. This is my fault. I'm so sorry." In a chorus of penitence,  he moaned his regret, carrying her to the house.

Behind him, Pete dragged his feet. Timmy raced ahead, opening the  kitchen door, holding it wide, allowing Tate to carry his wife into the  house.

"Pete, find Johanna's scissors. They're somewhere in the kitchen, I  think." Tate's voice floated back down the stairs as he climbed. "Timmy,  fill the washpan full of warm water from the stove and have Pete carry  it up here. Bring up a couple of towels with you."

Without hesitation, he pushed open his bedroom door and strode across  the room. And for the first time, he placed his wife in the center of  his bed. His mouth twisted as he absorbed the irony of it all and sat  beside her, his fingers already busy with the buttons of her dress.

"I … hurt … so … bad." Her words were spaced, each one borne by a separate breath, and he bent to drop a quick kiss against her cheek.

"I know you do, honey. I know you do." The buttons were undone, and he  drew back to consider the problem. "I think I'm going to have to cut  your dress off, Jo. I hate to ruin it, but I don't want to move you  until I find out how bad you're cut up."

"Bad." The one word, spoken in such a grumpy, sullen tone of voice,  almost made him laugh. That she could be sassy was a good sign, he  decided.

Through the doorway Pete appeared, carrying the pan of water, Timmy  behind him, bearing the scissors. "Here, Pa. Where do you want this?"  Towels were draped over his shoulder, and Tate took them from him,  motioning to the bedside table. Depositing his responsibility there,  Pete backed from the room. Timmy stepped closer to the bed, his gaze  clinging to Johanna.

"Is she all right, Pa?" His words exposed the anxiety he felt, and Tate reached a hand to brush back the boy's hair.

"She will be, Timmy. Why don't you go on downstairs with your brother?  Close the door behind you." Tate took the scissors and sent the child on  his way, waiting only till the latch caught before he turned to the  task at hand.

The scissor blade slit first one sleeve, then the other, slicing its way  across the bodice of her dress to the front opening on either side.  With a grim look at her closed eyes, he continued, opening the front of  her clothing from top to bottom, splitting her petticoat and chemise,  cutting through her underpants as he went.

Carefully, gently, he turned back the layers of fabric, exposing the  pale flesh they covered, until only her stockings, held above her knees  with store-bought garters, remained to cover her from his sight.

She was fair-skinned, this wife of his. Only her hands and lower arms  were tanned from the summer sun, probably when she'd worked in her  garden. Her breasts were full, rosy-tipped and firm. Across her left  one, a long gouge angled from side to side, barely missing the puckered  crest. His breath was a sigh of relief. How much worse that could have  been, he thought. Her arms were riddled with numerous small punctures,  the blood oozing anew from the removal of her dress tugging at the  wounds.

He rolled her away from himself, noting each scratch, each small  piercing of her flesh, down to where her hips rounded in a graceful  curve and her buttocks showed evidence of more gouging. None of them  looked to be serious, the long jagged cut on her arm the deepest                       
       
           



       

Once more he brought her to lie on her back, and her sigh of relief was a  shudder that swept over her small body. She'd looked so sturdy, so  neatly put together, in her clothing. How could he have guessed the  fragility beneath those cotton dresses, the slim length of her arms and  legs that she'd hidden from his view?

Greedy for the sight of her, yet ashamed of his carnal desire for the  woman he tended, he wrung out a towel in the water, careful in his  ministrations as he bathed her cuts. Gently he cleaned the scratch  across her breast, noting the automatic flinch of her flesh as he  pressed his fingers against the plush surface.

"I'm sorry, Jo. I don't mean to hurt you." And he didn't. With all his  heart, he wished he could take the pain he was inflicting on her and  make it his own.

"It's all right." Finally, her words were clear, and his gaze swept to  hers. Open and lucid, the blue eyes that looked at him were filled with  pleading. "I don't want you to look at me, Tate."