Disclaimer: This story uses characters appearing on The Queen of Swords television series. No infringement of copyright is intended.
Feedback: Constructive please. Flames are mean spirited.
Acknowledgements: To all my fine betas.
Warnings: Spoilers for "The Witness".

Dr. Helm frowned. "Where else would I be?" He turned his back on the interruption, lifting the waiting patient's arm to examine a rather colorful burn.

"Oh, Black, that burn is worse than the last," Marta said, ignoring the doctor to set her load down on the work table: two earthen jars with fitted wooden lids. Helm's brow rose as his lip thinned.

"Marta, Marta," the blacksmith said, his smile large as he tried to minimize the injury. "It is a hazard of my profession."

Marta tsked and grabbed the big, beefy wrist to examine the burned flesh on the inside of the man's forearm. "You spend so much time talking, you get careless." She pushed the lid off of one of the jars, dipping her hand into the mixture.

The man's smile could only be characterized as sappy. Dr. Helm could stand no more. "And, what, may I ask, is that?"

Marta smiled up at him. "It is salve."

Helm's nostrils flared. "I can see that. What is it made of?"

"Herbs from the arroyo." Her fingers gently worked the ointment onto the damaged surface of the blacksmith's arm.

That explained nothing. "Which herbs?"

Marta tilted her head, examining her work, not answering immediately. The doctor stood close at her back; she could feel his breath on her neck. "Chickweed. Calendula. A recipe I was told years ago."

"It works, too, Doctor," the blacksmith supplied, his eyes bright. "If I had had some of Marta's salve, I would not have needed you."

She picked up a clean roll of gauze from the doctor's bench after she had applied the salve, looking at him for permission. He shrugged; she would use the cloth anyway. Wrapping it loosely around the treated burn, she tied the bandage off at the wrist. "Here, you are done." Slapping the big man's shoulder, she said, "Enough relaxation for one day. Get back to work."

It was with good humor that the man rose and moved toward the door. "Ah, Black, not so fast," Marta called him back.

"Si?" he asked, a frown forming.

"You forgot to leave a coin for the doctor."

The frown deepened. "But, my dove, you did the work."

Marta shook her head. That would not please the doctor. "But he is a busy man and you took his time."

The blacksmith looked at the empty office chairs, his deepening frown bringing a smile of indulgence to Marta's face. "Perhaps I can replace the shoes on the doctor's horse?"

Marta's head shook, and her smile deepened. "The soldiers pay you well. Leave a coin."

Helm did not continue to watch this scene. Marta rolled her eyes at the blacksmith when the taciturn man disappeared into the private portion of his office. Anglos were different. A silver coin came out of a watch pocket of the blacksmith's vest. "I was saving this for the cantina," he said. Marta couldn't believe the man was actually pouting.

"Poor thing," she comforted him. "Here, I made this for you." She lifted one of the crocks she had brought.

"My dove, you are too good to me." He tried to grab her up into his arms, but she was having none of it.

"I am. Now let me go, and get out of here."

With a smile, she watched the bear of a man lumber out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Then, scratching her head, she turned to look for the doctor.

Curious, she peeked behind the curtain he had drawn. The room was plain, like his office. A small iron stove, a wash basin on a chest of drawers, a small table with two plain chairs, a small bed neatly made. The doctor stood at the table, putting black tea into an infuser.

Marta could see the tension around his mouth; it was a familiar look on his face. Slipping the tea ball into the redware pot, he moved to the stove to check the kettle. Even though her presence was not acknowledged, he pulled two cups and saucers from a shelf by the stove and placed a set before each chair. They were plain white ironstone, one cup was chipped. From a box on the shelf he pulled half a loaf of round bread and a bowl of butter. These were placed in the middle of the table with a sharp knife. Watching him prepare the tea felt intimate to Marta.

Without a look at her or a word uttered, he pulled his chair out and sat. Picking up the teapot, he poured the cup at her place first. She took her seat when he raised his eyes in invitation.

"I'm sorry, I have no milk or sugar." He was now pouring his own cup.

Marta sipped at the brew. It was not unpleasant, something strong had been added for flavor. Lavender? Bergamot? Still silent, he began to slice the bread on the plate. He offered her the dish of butter.

Sitting to tea with the doctor was the last thing she had expected when she'd pushed open his door this morning. His quiet ways spoke of good manners, but he was a very troubled man.

Very troubled.

"I understand there was some excitement while I was in San Diego."

Some excitement? "We had a few interesting days." It was a struggle to keep her voice blasé.

"Mary Rose would certainly make it interesting."

What? Marta leaned forward, eyes on the sharp profile. "You know the Pirate Queen?"

"Our paths have crossed."

"You were a pirate?" She could not keep the incredulity from her voice.

Helm sipped his tea. "I was in His Majesty's Service."

"As a pirate?"

He looked at her then, an enigmatic look with the touch of a smile in his eyes. "As a liaison."

Bah. The man was exasperating. "She is a beautiful woman, if you like them manly." Marta took a large bite of the crusty bread, chewing to hide her curiosity.

His jaw rolled to say something, she could see it plainly. But he only said, "Really? Manly? That never occurred to me."

Marta arched a brow. Really? Never occurred to him. She had better leave this subject. "I brought you a jar of salve, as well."

His face softened, and he smiled at her. "Of what use do you think your salve will be for me?"

Marta smiled back. "Many people use it for healing burns or cuts. I have made it for many years." The doctor continued to chew. "I needed to make more when I burned myself. It is as easy to make a large pot as a small."

"You burned yourself?" he asked. He looked at her sharply.

"It is nothing."

He frowned and grasped her wrist, twisting it to see. Nothing. He looked for her other hand, but it was on her lap. He didn't relinquish the arm he had captured, until she raised the other one for his inspection. Exchanging one arm for the other, Helm examined the nasty burn. "So, the blacksmith wasn't exaggerating about your exploits with Mary Rose."

Marta wanted to pull her arm from his scrutiny. Black was a terrible gossip. "The pirate's men were most persuasive."

Helm prodded at the edges of the burn with his thumb. Some of the skin was pink, but none looked particularly inflamed. "I hear there were twenty vaqueros."

"That is an exaggeration, Doctor. Perhaps there were six."

"He said you fought valiantly before you were struck down." The familiar disdain was in his voice, but she could see none of it on his face as he examined her wound.

"I was not struck down." She was indignant.

"No?"

"The pirate held a sword to my throat." Why was he holding her wrist like that? He lifted it for a closer look. Then he took the other. His thumbs were caressing both wrists at the bone. Ah. The burns from the rope Mary Rose had used to tie her. Dios mio. The marks were almost gone, only the yellow of faded bruises and the shallow scabs from the scrape of rough hemp.

Knowing she would try to pull away, the doctor tightened his grip on her. "Mary Rose did not hurt you?"

"I am fine." Marta could not look at him, instead examining a scar on the table top. The question was simple. Yes or no, the answer. But something about his tone somehow embarrassed her, made her want to explain exactly what had happened during her captivity. "Mary Rose loves her son very much."

The grip eased, but he did not release her wrists. He did not look at her. "The boy means everything to her."

"Si. That is so. Much like my Tessa does to me."

Now he did look at her, wry amusement battling with another emotion. Was it sadness? "Children mean much to women."

What an odd statement. "Children should mean much to everyone."

There was something different about the doctor's face now. A hardness was returning, but he raised her wrists to his lips, pressing against them one by one. Marta took a gasping breath when he finally released her, staring first at her wrists, then into his strange eyes.

Standing, Helm began to clear the table and set the tea things near the basin for later washing. Marta sat a moment, stunned and confused, but the grim lines of the doctor's face told her she would gather no more insight from him today.

What a strange and difficult man, yet so intriguing. The glimpses of the soft underbelly were worth all the sparring with the prickly exterior. Slapping her hands on the table, she rose to follow him into his outer office.

"Your burn is healing nicely," he spoke in his most clinical tone. "To what magical ingredient do you attribute your progress?" Lifting the lid on the crock of salve, he took a tentative smell. His face wrinkled most expressively. "Besides lavender."

She could not help the smile. Moving beside him, she scooped a helping out of the jar with her fingers. "Chickweed. Calendula. Comfrey." He watched her coat her injury with a thin layer of the mixture.

"Ah, comfrey. Excellent. Do you have a local source?"

"My garden. It is too dry in the desert for it to grow wild."

He nodded. "Will you give me the recipe?"

Marta gazed up at him, once again too close. He smelled of chemicals and bread, and the want of a bath. A smile slowly curved her lips as she moved toward the door. She paused on the threshold. "Only after I know you better."