after a moment, dropped his hand and straightened. “When Hank wakes up—which for your sake he better—you’ll have to answer to him for what you’ve done. And he’s not as nice as me.”
A horrifying thought.
“Meanwhile I’ll be watching you, so stay away from my brother.”
Suddenly she felt ill. Unclean. If this conversation didn’t end soon, she feared she would vomit all over his boots. But when she saw him start for the door, she remembered something else. “One more thing . . .”
He stopped. His wide shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath. When he turned to face her, his expression showed he was as sickened by all this as she was.
“I’m worried your brother is getting too much laudanum. I know he needs it for pain, but too much might prevent him from coming awake. Perhaps if you spoke to the doctor. I would, but . . . well . . . it might be more effective coming from you.”
Wilkins laughed, a bitter sound without joy or mirth. “Don’t underestimate yourself, lady.” He yanked open the door. “You just married Hank Wilkins, the biggest, meanest, most elusive man in the territory. I’m sure you can handle one scrawny doctor.”
Molly flinched as the door slammed behind him. Biggest and meanest? Dear God, what had she gotten herself into?
Strength left her, and she slumped back in the chair. Her head ached, her throat burned, and her stomach felt like it was filled with broken glass. But it was done. She would get her money. Then she would grab the children and run as far from this day and this place as she could.
Numbly she watched dust motes cast tiny sparkles in a shaft of sunlight. Do dust motes ever settle? Or like shame, do they linger in the air forever waiting to be exposed by the sun? Wearily she rose from the chair. By the time this was over, she would surely know.
WHEN SHE ENTERED THE INFIRMARY, MOLLY SAW MURRAY standing over Henry, scalpel in hand. Horrified that he had already begun the amputation, she rushed toward him then saw that although the arm was prepared for surgery, no incision had been made.
Relieved, she stepped to Henry’s right side, ready to assist if needed.
Murray neither moved, nor spoke. He wore an expression she’d seen at Andersonville. Empty. Defeated. Gone. It sent a prickle up her spine. “Doctor?”
“I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, still staring down at the exposed arm. “I thought I could, but I can’t.” Lifting his head, he gave her an unnatural, almost- grisly smile. “Do you know how many amputations I’ve performed? Hundreds. And for what?” The smile became a grimace. He threw the scalpel onto the implement tray so hard it bounced off and onto the floor. “I’m sick of it. The blood—the dying—sick of it!” With every word, his voice grew more frantic. He began to yank at the ties on his apron. “I won’t do it anymore. I can’t.”
Suddenly the door opened, and Brady Wilkins stomped into the room. When he saw Molly, his scowl deepened. “Why are you here?” he demanded angrily.
She ignored him. “We can set it, Doctor. We needn’t cut—”
“Aren’t you listening? It doesn’t matter!” Jerking the apron free, he threw it to the floor. “He’ll die anyway! They all die! There’s nothing we can do.”
“My brother’s going to die?”
“We have to try,” Molly insisted, pushing Wilkins aside.
Murray rounded on her. “You try! You say you have experience. You do it. Unless you want these cutting on your husband.” He thrust his hands into her face. They were shaking. His whole body was shaking. Sweat ran down his face. Or was it tears?
“She’s not cutting on my brother,” Wilkins argued, glaring from the doctor to Molly.
“Well, I’m not doing it!” Murray shouted, starting toward the door.
Wilkins thrust out an arm to stop him. “You have to.”
“I can’t! I won’t!” Dodging the bigger man, he stumbled from the room.
“You sonofabitch!” Wilkins shouted after
A horrifying thought.
“Meanwhile I’ll be watching you, so stay away from my brother.”
Suddenly she felt ill. Unclean. If this conversation didn’t end soon, she feared she would vomit all over his boots. But when she saw him start for the door, she remembered something else. “One more thing . . .”
He stopped. His wide shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath. When he turned to face her, his expression showed he was as sickened by all this as she was.
“I’m worried your brother is getting too much laudanum. I know he needs it for pain, but too much might prevent him from coming awake. Perhaps if you spoke to the doctor. I would, but . . . well . . . it might be more effective coming from you.”
Wilkins laughed, a bitter sound without joy or mirth. “Don’t underestimate yourself, lady.” He yanked open the door. “You just married Hank Wilkins, the biggest, meanest, most elusive man in the territory. I’m sure you can handle one scrawny doctor.”
Molly flinched as the door slammed behind him. Biggest and meanest? Dear God, what had she gotten herself into?
Strength left her, and she slumped back in the chair. Her head ached, her throat burned, and her stomach felt like it was filled with broken glass. But it was done. She would get her money. Then she would grab the children and run as far from this day and this place as she could.
Numbly she watched dust motes cast tiny sparkles in a shaft of sunlight. Do dust motes ever settle? Or like shame, do they linger in the air forever waiting to be exposed by the sun? Wearily she rose from the chair. By the time this was over, she would surely know.
WHEN SHE ENTERED THE INFIRMARY, MOLLY SAW MURRAY standing over Henry, scalpel in hand. Horrified that he had already begun the amputation, she rushed toward him then saw that although the arm was prepared for surgery, no incision had been made.
Relieved, she stepped to Henry’s right side, ready to assist if needed.
Murray neither moved, nor spoke. He wore an expression she’d seen at Andersonville. Empty. Defeated. Gone. It sent a prickle up her spine. “Doctor?”
“I can’t do this anymore,” he muttered, still staring down at the exposed arm. “I thought I could, but I can’t.” Lifting his head, he gave her an unnatural, almost- grisly smile. “Do you know how many amputations I’ve performed? Hundreds. And for what?” The smile became a grimace. He threw the scalpel onto the implement tray so hard it bounced off and onto the floor. “I’m sick of it. The blood—the dying—sick of it!” With every word, his voice grew more frantic. He began to yank at the ties on his apron. “I won’t do it anymore. I can’t.”
Suddenly the door opened, and Brady Wilkins stomped into the room. When he saw Molly, his scowl deepened. “Why are you here?” he demanded angrily.
She ignored him. “We can set it, Doctor. We needn’t cut—”
“Aren’t you listening? It doesn’t matter!” Jerking the apron free, he threw it to the floor. “He’ll die anyway! They all die! There’s nothing we can do.”
“My brother’s going to die?”
“We have to try,” Molly insisted, pushing Wilkins aside.
Murray rounded on her. “You try! You say you have experience. You do it. Unless you want these cutting on your husband.” He thrust his hands into her face. They were shaking. His whole body was shaking. Sweat ran down his face. Or was it tears?
“She’s not cutting on my brother,” Wilkins argued, glaring from the doctor to Molly.
“Well, I’m not doing it!” Murray shouted, starting toward the door.
Wilkins thrust out an arm to stop him. “You have to.”
“I can’t! I won’t!” Dodging the bigger man, he stumbled from the room.
“You sonofabitch!” Wilkins shouted after
Similar Books
