Micah said, his voice hoarse. “I think it would be easier if I were doing something while I talked. Do you think you’re ready to try a little broth? It’s probably cold by now, but you need the nourishment.” Jocelyn heard the undertone of fear. “I have the constitution of a pair of draft horses. I’ll be fine, Micah. My leg scarcely hurts at all.” “Little liar. Heinrich fetched a bar of carbolic soap from his mother. While you were unconscious, he stood watch so I could light a candle. I cleaned the gash, and bound it with the last of your petticoats. I know what I saw. Don’t think you can fool a Secret Service operative.” “Perhaps you should have been a physician. It aches some, Micah. But truly, I feel much better. Some broth would be wonderful.” She’d eat snake soup if it would help ease his worry. If only wounded souls could be washed out with carbolic soap to keep them from festering. If only… Her internal struggle against inadequacy stirred. But despite her physical enervation, Jocelyn flung the self-flagellant’s whip aside, astonished when it disappeared without a flick of protest.Micah had taught her how it felt to be loved, to be cherished regardless of glaring personal flaws.
