Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [525]
“You think I’d trouble a woman who didn’t want me?”
A rather awkward question, given that Jamie had beaten him to pulp under precisely that mistaken assumption. Roger put a hand on Jamie’s and shoved the dirk point-first into the table. He pushed back his stool abruptly and stood up, turned on his heel, and left.
Just as quickly, Jamie stood and went after him, sheathing his dirk as he went.
Brianna looked at me helplessly.
“What do you think he’ll—”
She was interrupted by a loud thud and an equally loud grunt, as a heavy body struck the wall outside.
“Treat her badly and I’ll rip your balls off and cram them down your throat,” Jamie’s voice said softly, in Gaelic.
I glanced at Brianna, and saw that her mastery of Gaelic was sufficient to have appreciated the gist of this. Her mouth opened, but she didn’t get a word out.
There was the sound of a quick scuffle outside, ending in an even louder thump, as of a head striking logs.
Roger didn’t have Jamie’s air of quiet menace, but his voice rang with sincerity. “Lay hands on me once more, you fucking sod, and I’ll stuff your head back up your arse where it came from!”
There was a moment’s silence, and then the sound of feet moving off. A moment later, Jamie made a Scottish noise deep in his throat, and moved off too.
Brianna’s eyes were round as she looked at me.
“Testosterone poisoning,” I said, with a shrug.
“Can you do anything about it?” she asked. The corner of her mouth twitched, though I couldn’t tell whether with laughter or incipient hysteria.
I pushed a hand through my hair, considering.
“Well,” I said finally, “there are only two things they do with it, and one of them is try to kill each other.”
Brianna rubbed her nose.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “And the other …” Our eyes met with a perfect understanding.
“I’ll take care of your father,” I said. “But Roger’s up to you.”
Life on the mountain was a trifle tense, with Brianna and Roger behaving respectively like a trapped hare and a cornered badger, Jamie fixing Roger with brooding looks of Gaelic disapproval over the supper table, Lizzie falling over her feet to apologize to everyone in sight, and the baby deciding that the time was ripe to have nightly attacks of screaming colic.
It was probably the colic that spurred Jamie into a frenzy of activity on the new house. Fergus and some of the tenants had kindly put in a small planting for us, so that while we would have no extra corn this year to sell, at least we would eat. Freed of the need to tend a large acreage, Jamie instead spent every free moment on the ridge, hammering and sawing.
Roger was doing his best to assist with the other farm chores, though hampered by his lame foot. He had several times brushed off my attempts to treat it, but now I refused to be put off any longer. A few days after his arrival, I made my preparations and informed him firmly that I meant to deal with it first thing in the morning.
The time come, I made him lie down, and unwrapped the layers of rags wound around his foot. The sweet-rotten smell of deep infection tickled my nose, but I thanked God to see neither the red streaks of blood poisoning nor the black tinges of incipient gangrene. It was bad enough, for all that.
“You’ve got chronic abscesses, deep in the tissue,” I said, probing firmly with my thumbs. I could feel the squishy yielding of pockets of pus, and as I squeezed harder, the half-healed wounds broke open and a nasty yellow-gray slime oozed from an inflamed crack at the edge of the sole.
Roger went white under his tan, and his hands clenched on the wooden frame of the bed, but he didn’t make a sound.
“You’re lucky,” I said, still working his foot back and forth, flexing the tiny joints of the metacarpals. “You’ve been breaking open the abscesses and partially draining them by walking on it. They re-form, of course, but the movement’s kept the infection from moving much deeper, and it’s kept your foot flexible.”