“Susannah?”
The stranger turned her head. It wasn’t my wife’s face, and the disappointment hurt almost as fiercely as my arm. Then she saw me and bent low over the horse’s neck.
“Sir! Are you injured?”
She dismounted before the mare had stopped completely. She was perhaps twenty-eight, with a narrow, resolute face, gray-green eyes, and the sort of steadiness that made a person feel she would finish whatever she’d begun. She crouched in the dust without pausing to save her skirts.
“Snake,” I managed. “Under the step. Right wrist.”
Her gaze moved to the swelling, then the space beneath the porch. She pulled me a little farther from the steps without letting me struggle to my feet.
“How long ago?”
“Minutes. Maybe.”
“Any trouble breathing?”
“Only when I think about it.”
