A Scotsman's Promise

Chapter 12

Will bent over Calen to examine his wound. Blood flowed freely from a hole in his left shoulder almost an inch in diameter. Calen's pale blue shirt was quickly being stained crimson.

"Sit up," Will said, trying not to sound harsh, but knowing Calen was not one to accept sympathy. He helped Calen shrug out of his shirt. When his back was bare, it was as Will feared, there was no exit wound. The bullet was still inside Calen.

Calen gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as he leaned against the tree again.

"It didn't go through," Will said.

Calen concentrated on breathing, trying to clear his head so he could think past the pain. "You know what needs to be done, William."

Will nodded reluctantly. "I'll get the medicine pack."

Will left Calen and went to the canoes that were beached on the riverbank. Under the furs in the bow of Calen's canoe was a bundle of medicinal supplies that both of their Ma's had put together and insisted they take along on every trip in case one of them were hurt along the way. They had never had much need for it and Calen had almost taken it out this trip for some extra space in the canoe. Will was glad that he hadn't.

He took the pack and walked back up to camp. He glanced at Calen, who hadn't moved or opened his eyes, before laying the bundle down on the ground beside the fire and opening it. Bandages, herbal teas, a packet of needles and thread, and a bottle of whiskey met his eyes.

As he gathered the necessary supplies, Micara approached, looking pale as a ghost.

"Mr. Tuckett," she asked, "how may I help?"

Will wasn't sure he could trust her ability to aid in extracting the bullet from Calen's shoulder, but he did know it would help her recover from the incident if she could help Calen. He handed the bottle of whiskey to her.

"Give this to him. It will help with the pain."

She left and Will returned to preparing the roper supplies.

Micara went to Calen, clutching the bottle of liquor in both hands. She could tell from the expression on his face he was in immense pain. and she shuddered to think that she had caused it. She felt exceedingly nervous standing before the wounded shirtless Scotsman.

"Mr. Donelly," she said, the words barely squeezing through her constricted throat. He didn't respond.

She tried again, louder this time. "Calen?"

He opened his eyes. "Aye, lass."

She held out the bottle, offering no explanation.

Calen eyed it. "Bringing whiskey for me pain?" he asked, still able to joke despite his wound, "Lass, were ye not the one that shot me, tis an angel I would've mistaken ye for."

He took the bottle from her and pulled the cork from it using his teeth. He paused with the bottle halfway to his lips and said, "Do not worry, tis meself I blame, not ye."

He raised the bottle. "Slainte," (SLAwn-cheh : cheers) he said before tipping it back and swallowing a large mouthful. He coughed a little after it went down, but it didn't stop him from taking another lengthly swig.

Micara went back to Will by the fire. "What is to be done, Mr. Tuckett?" she asked.

Will sat back on his haunches and looked at her. "First, we wait till the liquor is in effect," he said, "Then we have to take the bullet out."

They didn't have to wait long, the alcohol acted quickly, relaxing Calen and taking the edge off of his pain. Will checked on him and took the bottle from him. He was somewhat surprised by the depleted level of the whiskey. Calen was not a drinking man, yet he had managed to down almost three quarters of the bottle.