she devoutly wished that she’d run the other way.
A young, fair-haired man sat at the table, his right hand pinioned to the surface with a pearl-handled knife. His face was pale with shock and pain, and spittlegathered at the corners of his mouth. His eyes rose to Adam’s face, imploring, but he couldn’t seem to manage a word.
“Jesus,” Adam breathed. And then he grabbed the hilt of the knife with both hands and drew it out in a quick, clean motion.
As blood spouted from the narrow slit in his hand, the young man fell forward in a faint.
At last, the spectators moved back, away from the table, mumbling among themselves. Banner took bandages and alcohol from her bag as Adam used the bloody knife to cut away the young man’s coat sleeve. He was applying a tourniquet when she began cleaning and binding the wound.
Adam gave the rapidly saturated bandage a skeptical glance. “He’ll need stitches,” he said.
“I know that,” Banner retorted, though the truth was that she’d been so overwhelmed by the horror and brutality of the situation that she’d forgotten.
“Give him something for the pain,” Adam ordered, as he edged Banner aside and began unwrapping the wound. The boy was stirring now, moaning, low in his throat, like an injured animal.
Stricken, not so sure of herself as she had been, Banner stared at the half-conscious boy and the doctor who tended him. “Laudenum?”
“Morphine, O’Brien. He’s going to need stitches on both sides of his hand, and the wound probably hurts like hell as it is.”
Chagrined, Banner helped herself to a syringe and vial from Adam’s bag, as she had no such items in her own. Her hands trembled as she filled the syringe and held it to the lamplight, pressing the bubbles out of the fluid with a pumping motion.
Satisfied, apparently, with the decreased blood flow, Adam was loosening the tourniquet. “Alcohol first, Banner,” he said.
Banner colored at the reminder of something so elemental. Then, holding the syringe in one hand, she struggled to cleanse the boy’s inside forearm with the other.
Adam made an exasperated sound and wrenched the cotton out of her hand, soaking it thoroughly in alcohol before wiping a space over the protruding veins just under the patient’s elbow. That done, he claimed the morphine and administered the injection.
Adam’s indigo eyes were ruthless as they shot to Banner’s face. “I trust you’re capable of sterilizing a needle?” he growled.
Banner battled tears of humiliation and nodded, but she found the required needle, cleaned it with carbolic acid, threaded it with catgut, and handed it to Adam.
“What the hell happened here?” he demanded of the general populace as he sutured the wound with deft, practiced flashes of the needle.
No one answered, and it was obvious that no one was going to own up to the deed, either. Or point out the culprit.
Adam tied off the stitches on one side of the hand and turned it over to close the gash in the other. The boy awakened, stared at the needle, and fainted again.
Finally, Adam was finished. He put aside the needle, cleaned both wounds once more, and applied a thick bandage.
The mood in the saloon was suddenly vocal again; it was as though everyone had let out their breath at once.
“Who’s the pretty lady, Doc?” one man wanted to know.
“She your new nurse?” demanded another.
A third man assessed Banner’s womanly bosom with infuriating dispatch. “I’d like her to nurse me,” he said, and everyone in that place of degradation and ugliness laughed except Adam and Banner herself.
Adam straightened, his work finished, and swung his eyes from one grizzled, dissolute face to another.
A new silence fell.
“We was just funnin’, Doc,” drawled a middle-aged sailor who was lounging against the bar and looking anything but contrite.
Adam caught Banner’s elbow in one hand and thrust her toward the saloon’s swinging wooden doors. “Wait in the rig,” he
A young, fair-haired man sat at the table, his right hand pinioned to the surface with a pearl-handled knife. His face was pale with shock and pain, and spittlegathered at the corners of his mouth. His eyes rose to Adam’s face, imploring, but he couldn’t seem to manage a word.
“Jesus,” Adam breathed. And then he grabbed the hilt of the knife with both hands and drew it out in a quick, clean motion.
As blood spouted from the narrow slit in his hand, the young man fell forward in a faint.
At last, the spectators moved back, away from the table, mumbling among themselves. Banner took bandages and alcohol from her bag as Adam used the bloody knife to cut away the young man’s coat sleeve. He was applying a tourniquet when she began cleaning and binding the wound.
Adam gave the rapidly saturated bandage a skeptical glance. “He’ll need stitches,” he said.
“I know that,” Banner retorted, though the truth was that she’d been so overwhelmed by the horror and brutality of the situation that she’d forgotten.
“Give him something for the pain,” Adam ordered, as he edged Banner aside and began unwrapping the wound. The boy was stirring now, moaning, low in his throat, like an injured animal.
Stricken, not so sure of herself as she had been, Banner stared at the half-conscious boy and the doctor who tended him. “Laudenum?”
“Morphine, O’Brien. He’s going to need stitches on both sides of his hand, and the wound probably hurts like hell as it is.”
Chagrined, Banner helped herself to a syringe and vial from Adam’s bag, as she had no such items in her own. Her hands trembled as she filled the syringe and held it to the lamplight, pressing the bubbles out of the fluid with a pumping motion.
Satisfied, apparently, with the decreased blood flow, Adam was loosening the tourniquet. “Alcohol first, Banner,” he said.
Banner colored at the reminder of something so elemental. Then, holding the syringe in one hand, she struggled to cleanse the boy’s inside forearm with the other.
Adam made an exasperated sound and wrenched the cotton out of her hand, soaking it thoroughly in alcohol before wiping a space over the protruding veins just under the patient’s elbow. That done, he claimed the morphine and administered the injection.
Adam’s indigo eyes were ruthless as they shot to Banner’s face. “I trust you’re capable of sterilizing a needle?” he growled.
Banner battled tears of humiliation and nodded, but she found the required needle, cleaned it with carbolic acid, threaded it with catgut, and handed it to Adam.
“What the hell happened here?” he demanded of the general populace as he sutured the wound with deft, practiced flashes of the needle.
No one answered, and it was obvious that no one was going to own up to the deed, either. Or point out the culprit.
Adam tied off the stitches on one side of the hand and turned it over to close the gash in the other. The boy awakened, stared at the needle, and fainted again.
Finally, Adam was finished. He put aside the needle, cleaned both wounds once more, and applied a thick bandage.
The mood in the saloon was suddenly vocal again; it was as though everyone had let out their breath at once.
“Who’s the pretty lady, Doc?” one man wanted to know.
“She your new nurse?” demanded another.
A third man assessed Banner’s womanly bosom with infuriating dispatch. “I’d like her to nurse me,” he said, and everyone in that place of degradation and ugliness laughed except Adam and Banner herself.
Adam straightened, his work finished, and swung his eyes from one grizzled, dissolute face to another.
A new silence fell.
“We was just funnin’, Doc,” drawled a middle-aged sailor who was lounging against the bar and looking anything but contrite.
Adam caught Banner’s elbow in one hand and thrust her toward the saloon’s swinging wooden doors. “Wait in the rig,” he
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