Devils Unto Dust(37)

“It’s not broken,” he says, standing back up.

“Are you sure?”

“’Course I am.” He pats me on the shoulder awkwardly, and just like that, he switches back into the Sam I know.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“What about you?” he asks Micah.

“I reckon just a bruise where I fell,” Micah says, scowling. “I only got in one good punch before I got knocked over.”

“You sure? I better go check on Dollarhide and the others.”

“What?” I’m sure I misheard him.

“Why?” Ben asks.

“Sam,” Micah says angrily. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m a doctor,” Sam says, like that explains anything at all. “Or, almost one. I don’t get to pick who I help.”

“He’s the one who started it,” Micah tells him while Sam gets his bag from his own bed. “He attacked my sister.”

“I know. But Willie’s gonna be fine, and I think he’s got a cracked rib.”

“Good,” Micah says, harshly. “I hope it hurts.”

“Pinch your nose and lean forward until the bleeding stops,” Sam tells me, and then he’s off.

Curtis sighs while I hold my nose and tilt my head down.

“I better go after him,” he says. “Dollarhide won’t take kindly to being poked at.”

“Serves him right,” Micah says. “Maybe when he gets a black eye for his troubles, the good doctor will come to his senses.”

The anger is coming off of Micah in waves. I’m touched, that he would care so much.

“Thanks,” I say to him quietly, and I hold out my free hand to him. “For coming to help. It was good of you.”

Micah shakes his head unhappily. “Why you always gotta go looking for trouble, Willie?”

“I don’t go looking for it. Trouble just finds me, is all.” I give Micah a reassuring smile. “Go with Curtis. Tell Sam you’re sorry for hassling him.”

“I’m not sorry,” Micah says.

“Yes you are. Go on now.”

I’m shook up from the fight some, my ears still ringing, and I welcome the silence when they leave. I slowly release my nose and wait for a moment, but I think it’s done bleeding.

“Here,” Ben says, startling me; I forgot he was here. He holds out a yellowed handkerchief folded into a fat square, eyeing my ripped shirt with a frown. I’m upset about it, too; I only brought the one extra.

“You’re not gonna start fussing at me, are you?” I ask him.

“Not me,” he says. “Take it.”

“Thanks.” I shake the cloth out and wipe my face with it, scrubbing my wet cheeks. Ben makes a strangled noise and I stop to look at him. “What?”

“Nothing, just—you’re gettin blood all over,” he says, his expression pained.

“Oh.”

“Give it here,” he says, and takes the cloth from me and dips a clean corner in one of the water pitchers. Before I can object, he turns my chin up and wipes my face, not gently but thoroughly. He’s careful of my nose, though I can’t help wincing when his hand bumps it.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Does it hurt?”

“Naw. My baby brother hits harder ’n him. How ’bout yours?”

“Barely feel it. He shouldn’t have hit you. Ain’t right.”

“I thought you weren’t gonna fuss,” I remind him.

Ben shrugs. I study his face as he cleans mine, trying to see what’s beneath the beard. The eye that’s not bruised and closed is bright and sharp, the light amber of thick honey. Up close I can tell he’s young, younger than I thought; probably not much older than me. The beard, the scowl; I get it now, it’s all to make him seem older, more confident. It’s only artifice, a way to hide that he’s shy and uncertain, just like the rest of us.

“There,” Ben says, sitting back. “It’s gonna look like hell tomorrow, but you’re clean.”

“Thanks, Ben.”

“You’re welcome . . .” He pauses.

“Willie,” I say firmly.

“Not Daisy?”

I throw the bloody handkerchief at him. “No, not rotten Daisy. I’m gonna skin Sam.”

“It don’t suit you anyhows,” Ben says.

“You think so?”

“I never knew a Daisy as could take a punch.”

It hurts my bruised face, but I smile. “Is that all it takes to get on your good side? You shoulda told me that from the beginning.”

Ben ducks his head down. “I reckon I owe you an apology.”

Now that he’s finally offering, I find I don’t want it. “Not necessary. And I’d hate to put you out, especially since I would feel the need to reciprocate.”

“I’m not—I’m not so good at talking to people.”

“Me neither. Ma always said my mouth runs when it should shut and bites when it should smile. Let’s just call it quits and start over.” I hold my hand out. “Hi. I’m Daisy Wilcox, but you better call me Willie if you value your life.”

Ben smiles, the first real smile I’ve seen. It’s crooked and shy, and it makes him look younger, and almost sweet. I can see why he doesn’t do it very often.