None of it mattered. Only keeping her alive mattered. I pressed harder against the wound. Then I lowered my forehead until it touched hers. And for the first time since burying Rose Coulter, I truly prayed.
Not for myself. I prayed for the Apache woman who had returned my courage to me just when I had become certain there was none left. I do not know how long I remained kneeling beside Nia. When a man is waiting for another person to draw one more breath, time is no longer measured in minutes. It is measured in heartbeats. The fire continued burning along the damaged roof.
Smoke drifted around us, but I no longer noticed it. My hands never left her wound while blood slowly soaked through my sleeves. Keep your eyes open, I whispered. She was barely breathing. Her lips had lost their color.
Every breath seemed like another battle she had to win. Listen to me, Nia. You can't leave yet. She did not answer. I talked about anything that might keep her awake.
I told her about my horses. I described the foul-tempered mule that always found a way to knock down a fence the morning after I repaired it. I told her about Eli Coulter and how I believed he would someday become a better man than his father. I even spoke about Rose Coulter, not about the fever, not about her death. I talked about her laughter because I finally understood that remembering a person's life mattered far more than remembering the pain of losing them.
Hours passed, or perhaps it was only a handful of minutes. I lost all sense of time. Then I heard horses approaching at a hard gallop. I raised my head. Jeb Mercer was returning beside a light wagon.
An older, thin man with a gray beard rode in it, clutching a weathered leather medical case against his chest. He jumped down before the wagon had fully stopped. Where is she? Here. He dropped to his knees beside us.
It was Doc Boon. I had heard stories about him for years. People claimed he always smelled of cheap whiskey, but possessed steadier hands than any physician in the territory. One look at Nia was enough for him to understand the severity of her wound. Get her inside right now.
The three of us carried Na to the kitchen table. Doc Boon opened his case. He removed a pair of forceps, surgical thread, and a bottle of ludinum. He wasted no time asking questions. Jeb, heat some water on it.
Wade, I need light. I lit the lamp as Doc Boon carefully cut away the fabric around Nia's wound. The bullet had entered through her side. Fortunately, it did not appear to have passed through. That gave her a chance.
It also meant she would endure more pain before this was over. Doc Boon prepared his instruments and looked at Nia. Girl, I don't know whether you can hear me. His voice softened slightly. But you'd better be as strong as everyone says you are.