"Sorry," he whispered, shaken more by the look in her eyes than by the pain. "Just busted a rib, is all." Charlie tilted her face up when she tried to hide against his shirt. Her eyes were dark, wet emeralds in a waxen face. Her lips trembled. Charlie wiped her cheeks with his fingertips. She tried to smile, but her lips were quivering too badly.
"Are you okay?" Charlie asked. He looked for signs of burns, found none. Another coil of tension unwound in his belly and drained away.
"Yes. I'm a little bruised and sore, but I'll be fine. You? Besides the rib?"
"In one piece, sort of."
"And—"
"Lucky's asleep in the next room."
Sibyl closed her eyes and started crying again. "Thank God... Thank God... Charlie, I thought you were both dead." She looked up.
"How—" they began simultaneously.
They halted and stared at one another. Then Sibyl beat him by a half-second with a glare in her eyes and a strangled, "Don't you ever die on me again, Charlie Flynn!"
From somewhere behind them, McKee's voice intruded.
"Flynn? Your name! At last!"
He glared at the lunatic. McKee was chuckling. "Should've known you were Irish," he said, shepherding them out of the sickroom. "With that hair and temper, what else could you be? Are you going to stand there all night, Mr. Flynn, or will you please enlighten me as to this young lady's name?"
He glanced with pointed interest toward Sibyl.
"My name's Sibyl Johnson," she answered for herself. "Who the hell are you?"
Charlie found himself grinning. That was what he liked about her.
"Logan Pfeiffer McKee, Ms. Johnson." He shook her hand formally.
She studied McKee. "So... were you the one who found Charlie?"
McKee rubbed the back of his head ruefully. "It was a little more the other way around."
"I hit him over the head with a rock and tried to shoot him," Charlie muttered. "Things were a little confused."
Dan Collins' voice came from the infirmary doorway. "I'm still confused."
Charlie glanced up. Collins and his son stood in the doorway. The colonel had aged ten years. He looked haggard in the harsh fluorescent light. The arm he'd wrapped around his son looked like a permanent fixture. He glanced from Charlie to Sibyl.
"You two obviously know each other. I take it this is the 'other Carreras victim' you thought had died at Herculaneum?"
Charlie just nodded.
"Hungry?"
Charlie's smile widened a little. "Hell, Collins, if it's not moving, I'll eat it. Even if it is moving, I might eat it."
"Good. There's plenty of it."
Charlie glanced down at Sibyl, asking with his eyes if she'd join him. The way her eyes lit up lifted a load that felt like the weight of the entire earth off his shoulders. For the first time in how long he couldn't even recall, Charlie Flynn felt happy. Just plain and simple, happy.
Sibyl grinned and said a little too brightly, "Good. I think you could use some fattening up," she said, taking in the toughened scarecrow he'd become over four murderously tough years.
Sibyl spent the rest of the night on the floor, wrapped in blankets and Charlie Flynn's arms. She didn't sleep much. Charlie did, despite the fact that Logan McKee snored like a trumpeting mammoth. Despite the trickle of light coming from the bathroom, around the edges of the blanket they'd rigged for privacy. Despite worry for his little girl. Lucky slept nestled in blankets on the floor beside Sibyl's ear, looking utterly angelic. Janet Firelli, recovering some of her strength, had cooed over the little girl.
Danny had just rolled his eyes, earning Charlie's rusty laughter. Now Charlie slept so deeply she wasn't sure he'd ever awaken again. Despite everything they had yet to face, a smile tugged at the corners of Sibyl's lips. He'd looked so stunned when she'd invited him under the blankets with her. His weight and warmth felt good against her back. The arm he'd tucked around her waist hadn't moved even an inch. She wasn't sure which of them had needed the intimate contact more.
Right before supper, they'd managed to pry the slave's collar off his neck. His look as he'd hurled it outside had sent chills through her. Sibyl found herself almost pitying Carreras. She hoped he died as hard as Tony Bartlett had.
All during supper, he remained extremely withdrawn. He made certain Lucania had mashed up food she could eat and even managed to play airplanes with the spoon, drawing Lucania's giggles, but he avoided meeting anyone's eye. He flatly refused McKee's offer of first-aid attention after they finished eating.
So Sibyl took matters into her own hands. "Charlie, let me look at your back."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not. You're white around the lips and swaying on your feet. Sit down. Now!"
He sat. Very gingerly, Sibyl eased off his shirt. Someone had wrapped cloth tightly around his ribs. It looked to Sibyl like a woman's stola—a cheap one.
"Who wrapped your ribs?"
"A fisherman's wife. We got out just—" He stiffened and made a ghastly sound.
Sibyl gulped. "I'm sorry. It's stuck to dried blood. Hold tight. I'll be right back... ."
She brought a pan of warm water from the kitchen and soaked the stuff loose with a wet cloth. If I keep him talking, maybe this won't hurt so much. "You were saying?"
He told her about the flight from Herculaneum, between little gasps and several sharp grunts. But the cloth came loose. His back was a mass of bruises, criss-crossed welts, swollen bands and lumps...
McKee, stepping past the sickroom, glanced in just as she finished unwrapping it.
"Holy Loving Jesus..."
Charlie snarled something under his breath.
"The way you've been moving, I knew it'd be bad under those bandages, but..." McKee's voice trailed off. "Sibyl, do you need any help?"
"No," Charlie grated. "We don't."
McKee shrugged and moved on toward the bathroom. Across the room, Dan Collins glanced up, but said nothing.
Very, very carefully, Sibyl washed Charlie's injuries. By the time she was done with the left shoulder, he was trembling. Quietly, Sibyl filled a hypo with a couple of cc's of Demerol. Without a little help, he'd pass out before she was done.
"Lean forward a little. That's good. Hold still."
He tried to crane around.
"I said, hold still! This is going to sting."
She jabbed the fleshy muscle and injected him.
He didn't flinch, but he did demand, a little sourly, "What the hell was that?"
"Synthetic morphine. Don't argue. Just lie down and let me deal with this."
Dan Collins glanced up from his own bedside vigil and tried to smile. "Take my advice. Don't argue. You'll be a happier man."
Charlie blinked, then swallowed sharply. "Okay."
Sibyl wanted to comfort the army colonel, too, but she couldn't lie to him and say, "Lucille will be fine." Lucille Collins' life was still very much in danger. At least Charlie had begun to relax under the influence of the medicine. By the time she finished washing grit and sand out of the welts, he was very drowsy and much more comfortable.
"Forgot how nice it is not to hurt," he mumbled into the army cot.
Sibyl turned aside, searching for the surgeon's medical kit. She found it on the floor and rummaged.
"What do you need?"
She glanced up. Francisco Valdez was awake. He looked a little pale.
"Something to prevent infection, something to deal with existing infection, and something for a broken rib."
Francisco eased up to a sitting position. "Let me see."
Sibyl helped the surgeon wobble over to Charlie's cot. Francisco's brows drew down sharply. He prodded cautiously, drawing a sharp yelp from Charlie.
"That needs to be set. It's out of proper alignment." He glanced around. "Where's that big lunatic, McKee?"