The heat of the cudlike herbal mass reminded him of the mustard plasters his mother had used on his chest when he was a boy. But the concoction smelled more like a mixture of swamp mud, skunk cabbage and cow manure. “What the devil’s in this stuff, Mary?” he muttered. The older woman had taken a seat in the nearby rocking chair. “Nothing that would hurt you. When Soren and I settled this land there were no doctors and none of the medicines you can buy now. An old Indian woman—a Ute, as I recall—showed me the plants her people used. I’ve kept a stock of them on hand ever since.” “Grandma’s shown me a few things for doctoring horses. But I’ll never be as good as she is.” Clara smoothed the edge of the poultice and covered it with a folded square of clean muslin. She had cut away the sleeve and shoulder of Jace’s shirt with Mary’s scissors. Through the haze of pain he felt the brush of her fingertips on his bare skin. She had small, almost childlike hands, the nails clipped short and the palms lightly callused.
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