They each worked quietly as though a few more minutes of rest was what this house needed. A house that was feeling rather much like a home to Aven. Yet the pleasantness of it wilted when she glanced at the floorboards where droplets of blood reminded her of her mishap the night before. She went in search of a rag to wet.
Ida stopped her. “Them boards won’t be bothered to be forgotten awhile yet. Best we set a soak for Thor’s arm.” Her voice was kind and meant to tend to what needed fixing first. After hefting up the kettle, Ida filled a bowl with steaming water, then sprinkled in salts that turned the water milky. “Best we do it soon.”
“May I fetch him?”
“Please.”
Releasing a nervous sigh, Aven stepped into the great room. Thor was gone from his sleeping place. Instead, he stood at the front windows, staring up at the broken glass as if he lacked the strength to do anything else. He ran a hand over his thick beard, tugging at the dark whiskers in slow strokes. The moment Aven stepped nearer, his gaze fell her way. His dark hair was as mussed as ever, and he shoved it over the side of his head. Dried blood matted the bandage just above his elbow.
It felt strange—trusting that he could understand—but she spoke all the same. “Ida would like to check your arm. I’m so very sorry that I did this.”
His gaze on her lips, he wet his own. Forming a fist, he circled it around his heart the same moment he shook his head.
One of his words? “I . . . I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
He patted his empty chest pocket, then from the drawer of the desk he fetched a small notebook and stubby pencil. The hand that wrote was trembling. Aven tried not to think of the reason for that as he handed over what he’d written.
Don’t be sorry.
She touched the knobby shape of his letters, then looked up into his face. “I shouldn’t have been so untrusting. ’Twas unfair to you.”
His forehead scrunched as if he struggled to understand her. He withdrew the paper and began a straight line of text just below the first. His hand engulfed the notepad as he held it over. Me never so well matched.
Pursing her lips, she slanted a look his way. He was smiling gently.
But when he tucked the pad and pencil into his chest pocket, his hand shook so fiercely, there was no denying his need for something stronger than the coffee being brewed. The scent of it filling the air, she asked if she could fetch him a cup. He nodded, though his focus fell elsewhere. He touched the bandage binding his arm with its dried stains, then lifted her wrist. He slid her sleeve up her arm, exposing her skin where it bore the same crimson streaks.
Her pulse pounded beneath his thumb, but sensing this kind of touch was his usual way, she took care not to flinch. Aven observed his face. Was this what Ida had alluded to?
Brow plunged down, Thor made a scrubbing motion as if to ask her to wash his blood from her skin. His glance to her all but pleaded it.
She nodded, struck by his concern. “Yes.” Voice weak, she cleared her throat, and even as she spoke she realized he would have understood her all the same. “But first, let’s tend that arm of yours.”
Seated at the table, Thor watched as Cora peeled away the bloodstained bandage and discarded it. At her request, he unbuttoned the front of his shirt, then sat still as Ida gently tugged at his crusted sleeve. He set his jaw, determined not to let a sound emerge from his throat.
Ida eased the fabric away from his shoulder and down so his arm was bare. Then her sister wrung out a steamy rag and pressed it there. The warmth soothed but something within it stung. Salt?
With a plume of steam funneling from the kettle spout, Cora rose and quickly motioned for Aven to hold the rag in place. Aven did, her small hand applying the gentlest of pressure. Her light-brown eyes skimmed his face. Thor lowered his head.
He didn’t look up until Cora patted his knee. “I’m gonna have a look at this.” She pulled a chair in front of him and sat. He braved a glance at Aven, who had backed away. The woman seemed like she was going to cry. It stirred something in his chest. A desire to assure her, but just as strong was the pleasure it gave him. Of her caring for his distress. It was a warm feeling. One he could get accustomed to.
He winced when a wet sting hit his arm. Aunt Cora had poured brandy on it. Sinking deep into the gash, the liquor burned. Thor had to pin himself into the chair. A groan rose in his throat and must have released because everyone looked at him at once.
Chin trembling, Aven pressed a hand to her mouth.
Pain was lessening the appeal of her compassion. He hated this.
Near the door stood Haakon, and when Thor glanced over, his brother made the hand sign for drink. Thor shook his head. He didn’t want anything right now. But he—and everyone else in the room—couldn’t deny how bad he was shaking. Thor braced his muscles, trying to fight the tremor that was liquor needing more of itself.
Aven paced. She drew near as Cora cleaned the wound, then stepped away when Thor breathed in through his teeth. At one point he thought she was going to faint. When Haakon turned her toward a chair, she sat.
So the woman could listen.
Aunt Cora tapped him for his attention. With pinched fingers she made a sewing motion. Thor shook his head. He really didn’t want any part of him stitched. Cora turned away to speak to Aven. The redhead left and returned a moment later with a sewing basket. Her face was ashen.
Thor stood, tipping his chair back. Stepping forward, Jorgan restrained him by the shoulder. Thor shrugged him off.
But then Aven was right beside him. She dipped her head, eyes upraised, all but urging him to watch her. Forming a fist, she circled it around her chest as he had done. Sorry. Whenever spoken, Thor doubted that single word made much of an apology—he’d seen people say it carelessly many a time. But in his language it was different. Because the way Aven’s eyes were filled with wetness as she stood in a room with people she barely knew, using a word she’d remembered from him only minutes ago—it was an apology so sincere, so potent, his skin flushed.
The fight sapped from his body, and Jorgan pressed him back into the chair. Gaze still on Aven, Thor hardly noticed the way Cora unraveled a length of string and set it to boil alongside a needle. Jorgan placed the bottle of brandy closer and Thor tried to ignore it, but it was as hard to look away from as Aven.
Back at the stove, Cora plucked out the needle and thread, shaking her scorched fingers. Thor ignored the rest of the preparations, staring instead at the table. When Cora pressed on his arm, needle poised, he swallowed hard. The first prick was as bad as all the rest, which he counted for no other reason but to stay seated. She was up to six when vibrations in his throat told him he was making sound. Aven swiped a tear.
Finally, Cora knotted and cut the thread. He looked down at her handiwork—his red, puckered skin. Blowing out a breath, he watched Cora’s face as she instructed him and Ida how to care for it the next few days.
“I’ll be back to check on you,” Cora promised.
Touching fingers to his lips, he thanked her, then, to his surprise, she spoke something to Aven, motioning for the young woman to follow her out into the yard.
The memory of Thor’s groans still in her ears, it was all Aven could do to stand beside the pump as Cora hefted the handle up and down. Water splashed onto the ground as the good woman washed her hands. She spoke no words. Just took careful attention with the creases and lines of her skin—washing all the blood away. When she finished, Aven splashed water over her own skin, scrubbing furiously.
Cora watched, her brown skin as glossy as the chestnuts Ida kept in a sack in the pantry. “Whatever pain you bearin’, child, it ain’t gonna come off under that spout.”
Aven stilled but couldn’t lift her gaze past Cora’s hands as she dried them on the side of her skirt.
“Somethin’ troublin’ you and now’s the time to speak it. Lest I misunderstood my eyes and the cause of Thor needin’ to be stitched up.”