Uprooted

Chapter 2

When they arrived at the cottage, the dark-haired boy asked, "Where do you want him?"
Out. Gone. Not here. There were two beds in the cottage. He was too large to be comfortable on the couch, and the debt still gnawed at her. She glanced at the closed door to the master bedroom. But there was really only one option. "Through here," she said, pointing toward the other door at the back of the house. They shuffled along until she was close enough to draw out the key from around her neck and fit it to the lock under the knob.
"You keep the room locked?"
"Most of the cottage is left open for patients. The private parts of the residence are... private." She pushed open the door.
He did not answer, and she glanced back to see him cataloguing the room's contents. She knew every inch of this space. The books on shelves and tables and in tidy piles on the floor. The murals left over from her childhood that her mother had painted, of forest flora and fauna. The drying herbs hanging upside-down from the roof-beams like sleeping bats. The jars of murky liquid on the desk.
But none of that was what they needed in this moment. "This way," she called, and he blinked, following her to the bed.
"What is this place?"
My space. Which is why neither of you should be in it. "My workshop," she said instead.
He raised an eyebrow, looking between the paper-strewn desk and the unmade bed.
"It's also... the guest room." She dared him to contradict her, and he shook his head but began to lift the patient onto her bed. The bed. She helped where she could, swinging his legs up to lay on the mattress. The boy in the bed stirred and mumbled something, but did not wake. That worried her. Perhaps he had hit his head when he fell. But wouldn't she have found other injuries when she'd healed him? Perhaps not, given how focused she had been on the immediate threat of his leg. For now, he was alive. Anything else would be fixable.
The other boy tucked the sheets around the blond, and they stood a moment watching the patient as he slept. A strange man was in her bed. It was unsettling to think about, to see him here among her things.
"He'll be alright." The dark-haired stranger did not look away from the blond, and his tone held enough of a question that she answered.
"Yes, I believe so. His leg will recover. I'll see to it."
"Good." He cleared his throat. "Good."
Silence stretched as she waited for him to do something. To leave, so she could get back to her life. He didn't, only watched the boy in the bed, his teeth worrying his lower lip.
"Thank you for your help getting back here... Sorry, I don't think I know your name. Are you new to town as well?"
His eyes darkened from grey to the purplish black of storm clouds. "No. I've lived here all my life. Cole Madden."
"I'm Estelle. It's strange that I haven't seen you before now, though. You must not get ill or injured very often, then."
He blinked and his expression cleared at her words. "No, I don't suppose I do."
"Good for you. That's one less patient for me to have to deal with. Feels like I see some of the others much too often if you get my meaning."
He made a noncommittal noise.
His hands twisted, and that was when she noticed his knuckles. They were scraped raw, the skin angry, red, swollen.
"Your hands! What happened?"
He jolted at the words, the hands in question fleeing behind his back. "N-nothing. It's fine."
"Nonsense. I'm a healer. Let me look at them."
He hesitated, but her steely expression must have convinced him. He sighed, and held out his hands.
They were the unusual pale gold of the rest of his skin, reminding her of the glowing tan her mother wore year-round, though his was several shades lighter. His hands were long- and slim-fingered, an artist's hands, making the torn skin look out of place. His knuckles belonged on a pugilist's paws, not on these delicate elegant instruments.
She blinked at the thought. It didn't matter if the injury matched his hands. It was her job to fix it, not to understand him.
"Come with me." She led him to the table where she had treated Skip and he lowered himself into the same chair. She got bandages, warm water, and salve, then set a chair facing him to work.
He winced as she cleaned the scabbing wounds. "It's a wonder you were able to carry the patient. Or drive! How could you hold the reins with your hands this swollen?"
"It was... difficult," he admitted.
"That must have hurt quite a bit."
His lips twisted into an odd little smile. "Some."
"And you did not think to visit a healer?"
"It's not necessary."
She gave him a look to show exactly what she thought of that idea.
"My family does not frequent healers," he said, in the tone of someone repeating what he has been told several times.
"Oh? And what do you do when you need medical attention?"
"We manage." His lips pressed together.
Stubborn males. "You shouldn't fight."
"What?" He started as if the words were shocking.
"Your hands. Using your fists is more trouble than it's worth. If people could discuss their differences like adults I wouldn't have to deal with situations like this."
His brows furrowed. "I did not ask you to help me."
"Nevertheless, it is my duty to ensure it's taken care of."
"Then I thank you for your kind sacrifice."
She narrowed her eyes, doubting the sincerity of his tone. Was he mocking her?
"You are welcome. Only don't make a habit of this."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"Good." She finished treating his hands in silence. He turned them in the air, inspecting from all angles and testing his range of motion.
"Better?" she asked, trying not to take the inspection as an insult to her qualifications.
"Much. Thank you." Again there was something flat about his tone, and she wondered if that was simply the way he spoke. She decided to ignore it.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The silence stretched. "Well, once again I thank you for your aid, Mr. Madden."
"Cole will do. I am not my father."
"Cole, then. If there is something that I can do for you, please let me know." Her eyes landed on the fruit Skip had left behind. "Would you like to take an apple for the trip?" "Oh, no, thank you. That's... kind of you, but I don't have too far to go. And I live on an orchard. These are probably my apples, in fact. Or, my father's, anyway."