Rapture's Betrayal Read Online Free Page B

abandonment of the mill. A few steps led down to the old entry. The dilapidated look of the entire structure made the whole mill seem unsafe, keeping away unwanted intruders. An ideal place, Kirsten thought, for my Continental soldier.
    The makeshift door she’d wedged in the cellar opening refused to budge until she gave it a good swift kick, jarring the nailed-together boards loose so she could pry them away. Kirsten allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark room, her heart picking up its pace when she spied the wounded man lying against the far wall.
    Is he dead? The hairs rose at the back of her neck as she crawled inside to feel the man’s brow. Her patient was burning with fever. If she didn’t work fast to bring his temperature down, he could die within days . . . perhaps hours.
    She left the cellar room to rummage through her satchel until she found the tinder box. She needed light and a fire to heat the man’s poultice. When the flint struck steel, it produced a spark which Kirsten fanned to flame amid the dried grass and bits of wood she’d brought along. She then pulled a candle from her sack, held its wick to the fire, and set the lighted taper near her patient.
    To her delight, she found items left in the cellar from her days of play there. She and Miles had come to the mill and had fished in the stream whenever they had finished their chores early. They had cooked their catch over an open fire in an old iron skillet provided by Aunt Catherine, Miles’s mother. They had also heated water in a kettle Aunt Catherine had given them so they could make tea while they shared their fish feast.
    Kirsten found the kettle where she’d hidden it years ago, beneath the bottom steps of the old staircase leading up to the main floor of the mill. Made of pig iron, the kettle was rust free.
    She washed the kettle in the stream by the mill’s waterwheel, and then poured the milk she’d brought in a small jar into it, and set the kettle over the fire she’d made. When the milk boiled, she added a few crumbs of bread. While the concoction simmered, she took a piece of linen from her satchel, as well as a container filled with lard. She coated the fabric with the lard, then waited for the bread-milk mixture to cool a bit before dipping the cloth into the milk until it was saturated.
    The man lay as still as death, moaning only once when she carefully unbound his bloody bandages. Kirsten gasped; the wound had begun to fester and she had to cut away the crusty part of the bandage with the knife she’d brought. Next, she lowered the hot compress gingerly over the infection before returning to the fire to prepare a poultice for his arm.
    Her patient was filthy. Her main concern, however, was not bathing him but saving him.
    With the second compress in place, she rinsed out the kettle and drew fresh water from the stream. Then she doused the fire. Her lips twisted as she eyed the bottom of her shirt. It would be difficult enough to explain one of her father’s shirts missing—but two? She cut through the cloth with one clean swipe of her knife.
    She knew only one way to bring his fever down. She began to bathe his brow with the cool water from the stream. As the taper burned low, she lit another. Her vigil over the wounded man continued until, exhausted, Kirsten fell asleep.
    Hours later, when the night was quiet, she awoke with a start. She blinked and focused on her surroundings. The taper had burned low, and the cellar air was rife with the scent of tallow. As she inspected her patient, she recalled that earlier he’d thrashed wildly in the throes of fever. It had taken all of her strength to keep him still so he wouldn’t hurt himself further. Finally, exhausted by his struggles, he’d slept. She had continued to bathe him with the water.
    Butterflies fluttered in the pit of Kirsten’s stomach as she studied him. The newly washed male features displayed character and an