him. “You get back in here!”
When it was apparent Murray wasn’t returning, Wilkins turned his fury on Molly. “Damnit, I told you to stay away from my brother.”
“Oh, hush,” she muttered, trying to think. “We’ll need more light. Towels.” She glanced around the room, trying to quell her panic and decide how to proceed. “And chloroform, just in case.”
“Chloroform? Christamighty! If you think I’m letting you cut on my—”
Anger sent her spinning toward him. “Do you want him to lose his arm?”
He took a step back. “No, but—”
“Then get out of my way or do what I tell you.” Pushing past him, she flung open the door. “Find clean toweling.”
“Where are you going?”
“To wash my hands and get a smock. Find a lamp.”
“You’re not cutting on my brother!” he called as she ducked down the hall.
When she returned, wearing a clean smock over her dress and a kerchief over her hair, he was waiting with two lamps, a stack of clean toweling, and a bottle of whiskey. He thrust the latter toward her.
“I don’t take spirits. Besides, I just washed my hands.”
“Suit yourself.” He took a deep swallow, coughed, and dragged a sleeve across his watering eyes. He gave her a grim look. “You better know what you’re doing.”
“Or you’ll snap my neck, I suppose,” she muttered as she sprayed carbolic solution over the implement tray.
“Damn right.” He lifted the bottle again.
“If you intend to help, put that away.”
He stopped, the bottle poised above his mouth. Slowly, he lowered it. “Help?”
His face had gone pale. His eyes were as blue and round as robin eggs.
“I can’t do this alone, Mr. Wilkins.”
He took a step back. “You want me to help you hack off my brother’s arm?”
Good Lord , did he think she intended to go at the poor man with an ax? “I want you to hold the lamp while I repair his arm. Surely you can do that?” You nitwit.
“I, ah . . .”
“Or would you prefer to do nothing and just let him die?”
The harsh question jerked him from his frozen state. “I’ll help.” As he put the bottle aside, Molly saw that his hand was shaking, but she had no time for sympathy. Even now it might be too late—Henry might have already gone too long without proper attention.
He gave her a sideways glance. “You’ve done this before, I hope?”
“More or less.” Lifting the atomizer, she sprayed antiseptic solution over her hands and the wound. “I assisted my father many times.”
“Assisted. Oh, Christ.” Retreating into bluster, he gave her a menacing glare. “Then you better do this right. I can still snap your neck.”
“With encouragement like that, how can I fail?”
Setting the chloroform near in case Henry revived, she selected a scalpel and took a deep breath. “I hope you’re a praying man, Mr. Wilkins,” she muttered as she pressed the blade into Henry’s arm and the blood began to flow.
“I sure as hell am now.”
The injury wasn’t as bad as Molly had anticipated. The ulna had a single clean break four inches above the wrist. With Wilkins pulling the arm straight, she was able to slip the broken ends back into position without too much difficulty.
The radius was another matter. Shattered in several places, it took almost an hour to fit the pieces back together. By the time she had finished, her back ached and her hands trembled with fatigue. “The hard part is done.”
“Jesus, I hope so.” He stared at his brother’s arm. “Looks like a gutted fish.”
The man was definitely odd. Maybe he’d been raised by badgers. Eyeing his wedding band, Molly wondered what kind of woman would align herself with such a volatile, rough-speaking man. A deaf-mute, perhaps. Or one that was insane.
Nonetheless, she sensed a subtle change had come about during the hours they had battled to save Henry Wilkins’s arm. It was almost as if an unspoken truce had formed—not one based on trust, of course—he still thought
When it was apparent Murray wasn’t returning, Wilkins turned his fury on Molly. “Damnit, I told you to stay away from my brother.”
“Oh, hush,” she muttered, trying to think. “We’ll need more light. Towels.” She glanced around the room, trying to quell her panic and decide how to proceed. “And chloroform, just in case.”
“Chloroform? Christamighty! If you think I’m letting you cut on my—”
Anger sent her spinning toward him. “Do you want him to lose his arm?”
He took a step back. “No, but—”
“Then get out of my way or do what I tell you.” Pushing past him, she flung open the door. “Find clean toweling.”
“Where are you going?”
“To wash my hands and get a smock. Find a lamp.”
“You’re not cutting on my brother!” he called as she ducked down the hall.
When she returned, wearing a clean smock over her dress and a kerchief over her hair, he was waiting with two lamps, a stack of clean toweling, and a bottle of whiskey. He thrust the latter toward her.
“I don’t take spirits. Besides, I just washed my hands.”
“Suit yourself.” He took a deep swallow, coughed, and dragged a sleeve across his watering eyes. He gave her a grim look. “You better know what you’re doing.”
“Or you’ll snap my neck, I suppose,” she muttered as she sprayed carbolic solution over the implement tray.
“Damn right.” He lifted the bottle again.
“If you intend to help, put that away.”
He stopped, the bottle poised above his mouth. Slowly, he lowered it. “Help?”
His face had gone pale. His eyes were as blue and round as robin eggs.
“I can’t do this alone, Mr. Wilkins.”
He took a step back. “You want me to help you hack off my brother’s arm?”
Good Lord , did he think she intended to go at the poor man with an ax? “I want you to hold the lamp while I repair his arm. Surely you can do that?” You nitwit.
“I, ah . . .”
“Or would you prefer to do nothing and just let him die?”
The harsh question jerked him from his frozen state. “I’ll help.” As he put the bottle aside, Molly saw that his hand was shaking, but she had no time for sympathy. Even now it might be too late—Henry might have already gone too long without proper attention.
He gave her a sideways glance. “You’ve done this before, I hope?”
“More or less.” Lifting the atomizer, she sprayed antiseptic solution over her hands and the wound. “I assisted my father many times.”
“Assisted. Oh, Christ.” Retreating into bluster, he gave her a menacing glare. “Then you better do this right. I can still snap your neck.”
“With encouragement like that, how can I fail?”
Setting the chloroform near in case Henry revived, she selected a scalpel and took a deep breath. “I hope you’re a praying man, Mr. Wilkins,” she muttered as she pressed the blade into Henry’s arm and the blood began to flow.
“I sure as hell am now.”
The injury wasn’t as bad as Molly had anticipated. The ulna had a single clean break four inches above the wrist. With Wilkins pulling the arm straight, she was able to slip the broken ends back into position without too much difficulty.
The radius was another matter. Shattered in several places, it took almost an hour to fit the pieces back together. By the time she had finished, her back ached and her hands trembled with fatigue. “The hard part is done.”
“Jesus, I hope so.” He stared at his brother’s arm. “Looks like a gutted fish.”
The man was definitely odd. Maybe he’d been raised by badgers. Eyeing his wedding band, Molly wondered what kind of woman would align herself with such a volatile, rough-speaking man. A deaf-mute, perhaps. Or one that was insane.
Nonetheless, she sensed a subtle change had come about during the hours they had battled to save Henry Wilkins’s arm. It was almost as if an unspoken truce had formed—not one based on trust, of course—he still thought
Similar Books
