She took the offered hand and pressed it gently. “Yes, but now you must rest. You’ve been sick.”
“A Boche got me.” His wandering subconscious thoughts flowed into other memories. “Zero hour, boys. Over the top and give ’em hell.” Then, without any apparent break from one theme to another, his thick voice fell to a cunning whisper. “There’s a joint on South Clark Street where I can get it.”
Into his disjointed mutterings her name came at times, spoken always with a respect that was almost reverence. And perhaps a moment later his voice would ring out clear and crisp in directions to the men working under him. Subjects merged into each other inconsequently—long-forgotten episodes of school days, college larks, murmured endearments to the mother who had died many years since. Listening to him, Betty knew that she was hearing revelations of a soul masculine but essentially clean.
A sound startled her, the click of the latch. She turned her head swiftly as the door opened. Fear drenched her heart. The man on the threshold was Prowers. He had come out of a strong white light and at first could see nothing in the dark cabin.
Betty watched him as he stood there, his bleached blue eyes blinking while they adjusted themselves to another focus.
“What do you want?” she asked sharply, the accent of alarm in her voice.
“A woman, by jiminy by jinks!” The surprise in his squeaky voice was pronounced. He moved forward to the bed. “Clint Reed’s girl. Where you come from? How’d you get here?”
She had drawn back to the wall at the head of the bed in order to keep a space between them. Her heart was racing furiously. His cold eyes, with the knife-edge stab in them, held hers fast.
“I came in over the snow to nurse him.”
“Alone?”