Calder Born, Calder Bred (Calder Saga 4)

Swaying slightly, he turned, seeking something to lean against before his legs gave way. The roar was still in his ears. There was a pervading numbness in his body that temporarily kept him from feeling any pain. Some small body latched itself to him. He started to push it away.

“Ty. Oh, my God, Ty, you’re hurt.” It was Tara’s sobbing voice that finally penetrated his haze. “Look at your poor face.”

Impatiently he brushed aside the small hand that touched at his cheek. “I’m all right.” His voice sounded harsh.

“You’re not all right. Just look at you,” she insisted.

He looked, rather stupidly, at his torn shirt, splattered with blood, but Ty didn’t know whether it was his blood or somebody else’s. He still felt a driving need for some kind of physical support. Suddenly, a voice took charge of his problem.

“Come on. Let’s get him out of here.” A strong arm went around his middle and a light caramel head ducked under his arm.

“Jessy?” He blinked, trying to see her through the filmy darkness that kept covering his left eye.

“It’s me,” she said.

It was a tired and wry laugh Ty released. “You always turn up when I need you,” he murmured without being conscious of what he’d admitted.

For an instant, Tara was too stunned by his bloodied and battered face to react when Jessy appeared and started leading Ty away. Recovering, she followed quickly in their wake, irritated at the way her position had been usurped.

With the fight broken up, there was a mild confusion in the place as o

fficers tried to separate the participants from the innocent onlookers. One of the policemen tried to stop them from leaving the scene, but Jessy firmly informed the officer Ty would be upstairs in the owner’s private quarters if he was needed. She had a way of making men back down. An ache was starting in his muscles, a painful throb, or Ty would have made a joke of her easy dismissal of the man.

He had a glimpse of Sally Brogan leading the way to the private staircase in the rear, but all his concentration was centered on making his legs work.

A light was switched on and he was led to a chair. He sat down heavily. After the first blows had hit him, he had stopped feeling them. Now his body was beginning to react to the punishment it had taken. He leaned against the chair and let his head fall back, closing his eyes as the throbbing washed over him. His arms were draped loosely on his legs. There was a sticky wetness on his face, and Ty reached up tiredly to wipe it away from his eyes, then looked at the coagulating blood on his fingers with exhausted recognition. Something was set on the table beside him. He shut his eyes again, wanting only to rest.

“I have to go downstairs,” Sally was saying. “If you need anything else, just help yourself.”

A door shut. Then a wet cloth was dabbing at his face, accomplishing little. He tried to turn away from it. “Ty, I’m sorry.” Tara was hovering beside him. “I know it must hurt terribly. You shouldn’t have gotten involved in that fight. How could you stoop to brawling like that?”

Her tone of impatience chased away some of the mists. “You don’t stand back and let someone else do your fighting for you.” And it had all started because of his sister. He tried to take the cloth from her and do it himself, but there didn’t seem to be enough strength in his hands or arms.

“If you don’t know what you’re doing”—Jessy’s voice came from the side—“get out of the way and let me clean up.”

“Hess my husband.”

“And at the rate you’re going, he’ll bleed to death.” She pushed her way in and commandeered the damp cloth, pressing it hard on the cut above his eye. Pain stabbed through his head. Ty flinched, sucking in air through his teeth and swearing. Jessy took his hand and made him hold the cloth against the cut and maintain the pressure.

He opened one eye and looked at Tara, standing to the side now and watching the ministrations with a pained expression. “Where’s Cathleen?” Ty questioned.

“I don’t know.” Tara shook her head blankly. “Downstairs, I guess.”

“Go find her and bring her up here.” He watched Tara hesitate, then reluctantly turn away to do as he asked. “The little troublemaker,” Ty muttered when Tara had gone. “I oughta take a belt to her.” Jessy had another cloth and was wiping the excess blood from his face, rinsing and wiping again. Then she lifted his hand and checked the cut.

“It’s probably a good thing your wife isn’t here,” she said calmly, her lips tight-pressed. “That cut needs some stitches.”

She made him apply pressure on the wound again and turned to the table to open a large first-aid kit. Ty glanced at her, things clearing up in his mind.

“You threw me that bottle, didn’t you?” he said.

“Yes.” She held a sterilized needle and suture in her hand when she turned back to him. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”

It was an understatement. Ty broke out in a nauseating cold sweat. No sound came from his throat except the loud, sighing breaths that forced their way through the tightly constricted muscles. Jessy worked swiftly and efficiently, mentally blocking out her emotions. It was a blessedly short cut, so she finished before the pain became unendurable for him. She watched the rigid tautness drain from him while she affixed a bandage to the sewed-up wound. Then she took the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one for him, placing it between his lips.

“Thanks.” He looked up at her gratefully, took a deep drag on the cigarette, then took it from his mouth, blowing smoke into the air.

“You’ve got a couple more scratches on your face,” she said and reached for a bottle out of the first-aid kit. “I’ll put some antiseptic on them.”