Page 32 of Old Money, Deadly Secrets

“GODDAMMIT!” The curse tore from Dog’s throat, raw and involuntary, laced with pain that bordered on nausea. His good leg buckled beneath him, and he hit the ground hard, leaves crunching beneath his bulk. His head struck a root, stars exploding behind his eyes, but the jolt did not dull the vise clenched tight around his leg.

A bear trap. A goddamn, rusty bear trap. Hidden beneath the beautiful, deceptive tapestry of autumn leaves. In Maine. In freaking October. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth, mingling with the coppery tang of what he knew was already a serious bleed.

Rage, hot and blinding, flared through him. Not at the trap, not at the anonymous idiot who’d left it, but at himself. Him. Barkley Emerson Berkshire the Fourth. Navy SEAL. Special Operations Medic. Years of training, countless deployments, living and breathing situational awareness, always scanning, always alert, always ahead. And he’d just walked into a goddamn relic of frontier trapping like a rookie recruit. What the hell happened? His guard was down. His focus had been on Margaret, on the peacefulness of the meadow, on the quiet intimacy of their conversation. He’d let himself relax, just for a moment, and now this. He was supposed to protect her. To be her shield. And here he was, flat on his ass, his leg clamped in iron, likely useless.

“Emery?” Margaret’s voice, soft and trembling, cut through his pain-hazed thoughts. It sounded so close, so fragile. She didn’t know what had happened. She just heard the crash, his curse. Her fear was a fresh stab of regret.

Panic, cold and sharp, tried to seep in, but he slammed the mental door on it. Medic first. Always.

His hands, slick with blood, fumbled desperately for the trap mechanism, but it was buried deep, twisted into the earth and embedded in his injured leg. The serrated teeth had torn into muscle and possibly bone.

The searing agony in his already damaged leg was unbearable. Waves of nausea rolled over him as pain radiated through the fragile tissues he had been painstakingly nursing.

This was no ordinary wound. It was catastrophic. A rusty trap meant a high risk of tetanus and aggressive infection. The deep crushing damage threatened nerves and blood vessels alike.

He knew with cold certainty gathering in his gut that he might lose his foot.

“Margaret,” his voice was rough and strained, but he forced calm into it. “Grab my back pack and come around the tree, just be careful where you step.”

He heard her sharp inhale before she froze. Her eyes widened, and her face paled as she whispered, “What happened? That’s blood!”

For a moment, it seemed as if fear might overwhelm her. His gaze caught the slight tremble in her hands and the way her shoulders tensed as if struggling to steady herself. Then she squared her posture and set her jaw firmly, and he could almost feel the instant she realized she had to be the one to help.

“Yeah,” he gritted out, the effort of speaking almost too much. “Yeah, I’m hurt. Stepped in a trap. A big one.” He tried to push up, to brace himself, but the world swam. His leg, now throbbing like a separate, malevolent entity, refused to support him. He couldn’t get up. He needed her, but he needed her to be smart.

“Listen to me, Margaret.” His medic training, honed over years, took over, pushing aside the pain, pushing aside the self-recrimination. “I need you to get the backpack. Find the first-aid kit. It’s a small black pouch.”

His eyes scanned the immediate area. No movement in the trees, but the image of being hunted flashed through his mind. They were sitting ducks. Both of them.

Margaret appeared, the canvas backpack clutched in her hands, her face ashen as her gaze dropped to his leg. Her eyes widened in horror, fixed on the archaic steel jaws clamped around his calf, the glint of rusty teeth, and the dark, rapidly spreading stain on his pant leg. A soft, choked cry escaped her.

“Oh my God, Emery,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What is that? You’re,” she swallows hard, shocked at the sight, “you’re bleeding so much.”

“I know,” he ground out, fighting the urge to black out. The pain was like a white-hot poker twisting in his flesh. “Listen to me. Don’t panic. I need you to pull out the first aid kit.”

Her hands fumbled, but she managed to unzip the main compartment of the backpack, pulling out the small black pouch he’d described. “Okay, I have it. What now?”

“Good. Open it,” he instructed, trying to keep his voice steady despite the nausea clawing at his throat. “There should be a tourniquet inside. It’s a black strap, with a plastic windlass and a buckle.”

Margaret’s fingers flew, pulling out a compact black strap. “This one?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

Dog’s face tightened with pain, but his voice remained steady as he explained what he was doing. “I’m going to put this tourniquet on now. First, I need to place it as high as possible on my thigh, right near the groin.” His hand shook slightly, but his movements were deliberate as he wrapped the strap tightly around his upper leg. “It has to be really tight to stop the bleeding. I’m pulling it snug now.”

He grabbed the small plastic rod called the windlass and began twisting it slowly. Each turn sent a sharp jab of pain through his leg. “This part hurts, but it’s what tightens the strap enough to slow the bleeding. Keep watching me.”

A single tear rolled down Margaret’s cheek, but her gaze never wavered from him.

The bleeding slowed, and a faint shudder passed through him as the pressure took hold. He glanced at Margaret, who was pale but watching intently.

“Good. That’s the tourniquet doing its job. Now, I need you to grab my phone from the side pocket of the backpack, alright?”

She moved quickly, fingers fumbling at first before pulling out the rugged satellite phone.

“Got it,” she said, looking at him.

Dog’s voice was firm but calm. “Hand it here, please.”