Page 15 of The Mountain Man's Prize

"Put your arm around me," she says, moving to my side. "Let me help you back to the cabin."

"I can manage?—"

"Shut up," she cuts me off, voice firm. "Put your arm around me and lean on me, or so help me God, I will leave you out here for the wolves."

Despite the pain, a chuckle escapes me. "Yes, ma'am."

I drape my arm across her shoulders, allowing her to take some of my weight. She's small compared to me, but surprisingly strong, her body rigid with the effort of supporting me. We make our way slowly back to the cabin, my breathing harsh in the quiet morning air, her occasional whispered encouragement the only other sound.

Inside, she helps me to a chair, then kneels to examine the trap.

"We need to get this off," she says, fingers hovering over the mechanism. "And clean the wound before infection sets in."

"There's a toolbox under the sink," I tell her. "Pliers should help with the release lever."

She retrieves the toolbox, then gathers clean cloths, a basin of water, and the bottle of whiskey I keep for medicinal purposes. Her movements are efficient, focused. No wasted motion, no panic. Just calm competence that stirs something warm in my chest.

"This is going to hurt," she warns, positioning the pliers on the trap's lever.

"Already hurts," I grunt. "Just do it."

She nods, then applies steady pressure to the lever. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with a reluctant groan of metal, the trap begins to open. The release of pressure brings its own unique agony, blood flowing more freely as the teeth withdraw from flesh. I clench my jaw against a shout, sweat dripping into my eyes.

"Almost there," she murmurs, eyes fixed on her task. "Just a little more."

The trap finally springs open with a metallic snap. She carefully lifts it away from my leg, setting it aside with a look of disgust. Then she turns her attention to my boot, easing it off with gentle fingers that nonetheless send shards of pain through my leg.

"The sock too," she says, apologetic. "I need to see how bad it is."

I nod, bracing myself as she peels the blood-soaked fabric away from the wound. Her sharp intake of breath tells me it's not good before I even look down.

"Puncture wounds," she says, examining the damage. "Four of them, pretty deep. They need to be cleaned thoroughly."

She soaks a cloth in water, then begins the careful process of cleaning away the blood and dirt. Her touch is gentle but thorough, her concentration absolute. I watch her face as she works—the furrow between her brows, the way she catches her lower lip between her teeth, the steady resolve in her eyes.

"You're good at this," I observe, trying to distract myself from the pain.

"I worked as a nurse's aide during college," she says, not looking up from her task. "Just part-time, but I picked up a few things."

Another piece of her past, another facet of her life before me. I store it away, hungry for every detail she offers.

When the wound is clean, she reaches for the whiskey. "This is going to sting like hell," she warns.

"Not my first rodeo," I say, offering a tight smile. "Do what you need to do."

She pours the amber liquid directly onto the punctures. The burn is immediate and intense, drawing a harsh hiss through my clenched teeth. My hands grip the chair arms, knuckles white with strain.

"Sorry, sorry," she murmurs, though we both know it's necessary.

Once the wounds are disinfected, she bandages my ankle with careful precision, wrapping the gauze firmly but not too tight. Her fingers brush against my skin, cool and soothing compared to the fire in my ankle.

"There," she says, sitting back on her heels to survey her work. "Not hospital-quality, but it should hold until it starts to heal. You'll need to keep weight off it for a few days, though."

I nod, oddly touched by her concern, her care. Five years I've lived here, tending my own injuries, relying on no one. Now this slip of a woman is bandaging my wounds, telling me to rest, looking at me with eyes full of worry.

"Thank you," I say, voice rougher than intended.

She looks up, meets my gaze, and something passes between us—something deeper than desire, more complex than gratitude. Her hand rests on my knee, a simple point of contact that grounds me.

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