“I’ll Pay You Back When I Grow Up,” Girl Told Mountain Man — 15 Years Later, He Remembered
Chapter 9
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On the evening of the fourth day, the wind died down outside. A heavy, absolute silence settled over the high ridge.Clara was sitting in the armchair, her chin resting on her chest, dozing lightly. A sound pulled her awake. It wasn't the wind. It was breathing: deep, even, and steady.She opened her eyes and looked at the cot.Gideon was awake. His eyes were clear, the glassy, manic sheen of the fever completely gone. He was staring at the ceiling, taking slow, deliberate breaths, testing the fiery agony in his chest with every expansion of his lungs.He turned his head slowly, looking at her sitting by the fire with the rifle across her knees. He looked at the clean bandages wrapping his chest. He looked at the washbasin filled with bloody rags."You didn't cut off the arm," he rasped. His voice was incredibly weak, barely a whisper over the crackling logs."I considered it," Clara replied, keeping her voice even as she stood up and walked over to the cot. She poured a cup of water from a pitcher and held it to his lips. "But I figured you'd shoot me once you woke up if I did."Gideon drank the water slowly. It was the best thing he had ever tasted. He let his head fall back against the pillow."You're a doctor.""I am.""St. Louis?""Yes."He let out a long, slow breath. A faint ghost of a smile touched his face. "Told you to keep your boots dry, kid.""And I told you I would pay you back, Mr. Hayes. I consider the debt settled. Your life for mine."Gideon closed his eyes, the exhaustion pulling him back under. "Don't call me Mr. Hayes. Makes me sound like a banker. Name's Gideon.""Go to sleep, Gideon," Clara said quietly.She walked back to the chair, checked the action on the rifle, and sat back down. The immediate crisis was over. The man was going to live.But as she looked at the heavy, bullet-scarred door of the cabin, she knew the true danger hadn't even begun.Recovery was an ugly, humiliating process, and Gideon Hayes was a spectacularly terrible patient.As the first week bled into the second, his strength returned in agonizingly slow increments. He hated being confined to the cot. He hated the weakness that made his legs tremble when he tried to stand. Mostly, he hated relying on someone else. For two decades, he had answered to no one, depended on no one, and trusted no one. Now, a woman half his age was changing his bandages, brewing his coffee, and explicitly ordering him to sit back down whenever he tried to walk to the woodpile.